Caroline suggests the unthinkable, knowing O’Carey would rather sell a kidney. Regrettably there is a foreclosure notice on the bedside table, and they have nowhere else to go except out into the desert to reminisce on former days of financial glory living high off the hog in Phoenix. O’Carey rubs his face remembering the promise he made to himself to never sell his valuable coins, but Caroline doesn’t appreciate any coin unless it is one she can spend. He sighs, “It won’t change anything…then what?” he asks. Caroline rubs his back. It’s a hard pill for him to swallow, but she tries her best, “They are worth thousands. It’s a fresh start,” she replies.

O’Carey regrets deeply telling her what was inside the safe in the first place. She moved a painting hanging on the bedroom wall to stumble upon its existence. In hindsight, he could have lied. It’s too late. He frowns and asks, “How can you ask me to sell my most prized possessions?” “Think of another way to come up with twenty thousand dollars to save the house and you can keep them,” she replies. There is one coin in particular fueling the obsession, a golden Egyptian Ptolemaic token. He acquired it from a man with two names, deported from Egypt under suspicion of tomb raiding. It’s the only coin in the small collection which hasn’t been authenticated and it could also be the most valuable. When Caroline goes to the bathroom, O’Carey sneaks it out of the safe and hides it under a stack of old utility bills in the bedside table drawer. Caroline comes back and O'Carey dubiously agrees to sell the entire collection. Two days later he brings them next door to Miss Bernadine. She works for the local coin dealer, Mr. Salmon, who ends up buying the coins for twenty six thousand in cash. It is an exchange of value that cuts to the bone. For O’Carey cash in hand changes nothing. In a few months this scenario might repeat and he reflects on the very real prospect of it. At home he thinks about the one coin he has, swearing to keep it no matter what. Unable to bear the feeling of personally selling anything else of value, he gives Caroline the go ahead to sell all the paintings so that ends can meet until he gets a new job. Caroline sells six of them right off the walls on Etsy, all originals, including the one she moved to find the safe, and sales yield an extra six thousand dollars. O’Carey takes a few hundred dollars out of it with him to the local antiques shop trying to feed his obsessive compulsive taste. Never mind the foreclosure notice, he needs something to hang on bare, bone white walls. Mirrors come to mind. They widen spaces, are relatively inexpensive, and like a painting he can always admire it, or what’s in it. Mr. Zhong’s little known antiques store in town is a familiar place to O’Carey. Mr. Zhong sees him strolling in and smiles, it’s been a while. He stands with the help of his cane, greeting O’Carey in a crackly voice,” Carey, long time I no see. What you buying today, painting, vase? I have nice one.” He also shuffles towards O’Carey to shake his hand. “Anything you have that’s called a mirror. Caroline is redecorating. I need five,” O’Carey replies, and shakes Mr. Zhong’s hand. Simultaneously he glances around the cramped, musty and cluttered shop looking for mirrors he likes, tripping over lampshades and lanterns strewn across the floor. There are quite a few mirrors in there too hiding cracks in the old walls, some with gaudy, gold-colored trim, and some with wood finish on composite frames. They come in all shapes, colors and sizes. Mr. Zhong remains silent and stares at his long-time customer curiously, and then he answers, “Caroline redecorating, but Caroline not here to buy, strange. I have nice one in back. You pick other four from shop,” he says, and shuffles around to the back of the store. When Mr. Zhong returns O’Carey is waiting at the counter with four mirrors he already selected. He sees Mr. Zhong holding an oval-shaped shiny polished bronze plate, one with a frame that’s gilded, “This good charm,” Mr. Zhong says.  O’Carey carefully takes it from him and gasps. It’s the shiniest piece of bronze he’s ever held up in front of himself, and he is amazed at the clarity of his reflection in it. It’s so unnatural, and yet the mirror isn’t made of glass. He turns it around. On the back, there is a puzzling inscription in Chinese. He points to it and asks Mr. Zhong. “What does this say?” “It say, ‘Pay me one hundred dollar and keep,’ it say, ‘Made China,’. One hundred thirty dollar for all five,” Mr. Zhong replies, with an outstretched hand to collect his money. The mirror reflects a sparkle in O’Carey’s eyes for all things shiny, pretty and valuable. He is convinced that this mirror is authentic and must have been made for someone very important, and if it is, he’ll never resell it. He will keep it forever, like his golden coin. He can’t stop admiring himself in it, and is ready to take it home so he can hang it on the wall and continue.  Mr. Zhong pulls his hand back, and almost asks for the mirror back but doesn’t. Instead he puts his index finger on the tip of his tongue, gently, as if preparing a brush for important calligraphy and then uses it to smear a symbol on the mirror’s flawlessly surface. When he’s finished, O’Carey needs no interpretation. It’s the symbol of yin and yang. O’Carey shrugs this strange behavior off and pays Mr. Zhong his one hundred and thirty dollars. If it’s real this bronze mirror alone compensates for everything he previously lost. Whenever he looks at it O’Carey sees himself according to its value, without considering the price he has to pay for vanity. With his still shaking voice, Mr. Zhong tells him, “O’Carey, remember, in all things there is balance. Mirror always facing good, prosperity come to you. Qi flow positive. Turn to bad, Qi flow becomes negative,” O’Carey hears, but isn’t listening. He is completely captivated by this shiny piece of metal and is so busy admiring himself, he doesn’t see the smeared symbol of yin and yang glow a soft yellow before disappearing all together, “Thanks Mr. Zhong,” O’Carey replies.  The bronze mirror he places on the front passenger seat of the car. The others will ride home in the trunk. Mr. Zhong worries watching O’Carey leave, wondering if he did the right thing by not telling him the true meaning of the inscription on the back of the mirror. However, he believes its powers will bring prosperity back to his loyal customer, and if it does, he will come back and spend more money. At home Caroline is pleased with the catch and gets a free hand to decorate the walls however she likes, but O’Carey hasn’t shared Mr. Zhong’s advice and Caroline hangs the bronze mirror in front of O’Carey’s safe where it faces and reflect O’Carey’s bedside table, the same table and drawer where he has hidden his ancient, golden Egyptian coin. Both Caroline and O’Carey relax and look forward to a new beginning. At bedtime they spoon a little before falling asleep, but at midnight O’Carey shakes violently out of deep sleep with a deadly scream. Drenched in night sweat, he heaves for breath in the darkness with fiery eyes and a mouth agape. His heart is in his eardrums and it beats relentlessly. Caroline jolts out of sleep from the commotion. Her eyes bulge in the pitch black bedroom. She grabs O’Carey’s arm. It is as hard as a rock, “O’Carey, O’Carey it’s ok,” she says. Gliding her hand along his arm, she feels for his hand trying to hold it, and can’t. It is coiled into a fist. His skin is hot to the touch and radiates like metal baked for a day in the desert sun. Caroline pulls her hand away in a flash, believing he’s sick and in a delirium. She grabs the phone next to the lamp and dials 911. When O’Carey hears the dial up he snaps, “What are you doing?” he asks, still panting from the nightmare, and trying to catch his breath. Caroline disconnects the call and slowly puts the phone back on the table. She is heaving too and catching her breath, “O’Carey,” she says, “I think you had a nightmare…and you also have a very high fever.” O’Carey, confused, runs his hand across his neck and forehead, “I don’t have a fever,” he replies, and pulls himself up to lean against the headboard. Instead of trying to convince him, Caroline switches the lamp on to look at him. O’Carey’s eyes are bloodshot, “I’m calling an ambulance,” she says, picking up the phone again. This time, before she can dial O’Carey grabs her arm, “No you’re not,” he says, “Unless you plan to pay for it.”  Caroline puts the phone back again, and slides off the bed into her slippers, “I’ll get you some water then,” she says. She takes the glass on the bedside table to the bathroom and fills it with water at the faucet. She drinks the first one and takes the refill to O’Carey who finishes the tall glass in three swift gulps, promptly asking for more. Caroline refills it. This time he finishes in four, but slower. They spoon again and in an hour they are relaxed and go back to sleep. O’Carey’s fiery restlessness seems to have been put out. He sleeps until dawn when he is disturbed by a subtle pattern of flashing blue and red lights on the bedroom wall coming in through the window. He rubs his eyes in disorientation, and whispers, “Am I dreaming?” and then gets up to check the window. First responders are out there, at the second house from his down the street! O’Carey furiously shakes Caroline out and tells her to look out the window where she also sees the flashing lights and police cars. It isn’t a dream.  Caroline presses her hand against her forehead, “O’Carey, I’m sorry, I’ll go talk to them,” she says. They both scurry down the stairs and out to investigate and explain everything that happened to the police, but when they get to the house they find out it’s not a false alarm at all. Adrian Carter, the man helping O’Carey to refinance his mortgage with the bank, was viciously murdered in his sleep. Word spreads quickly, and the whole community tightens in tension and shock. Doors are locking and windows are being shuttered. The day passes by, and Adrian Carter’s killer is still at large. O’Carey and Caroline are also shut in and go to bed thinking about Adrian and the reality of his killer on the loose. They console each other and somehow manage to fall asleep. At midnight, O’Carey is again flung from a hellish landscape. This nightmare is even worse than the first. Caroline isn’t sure what to do. She sits up, presses one hand into her chest to settle her racing heart, and places the other on O’Carey’s arm. This is getting serious.  Again, flashing lights on the bedroom wall, an inquiry as to why, a beastly murder at the house right next door. It’s Miss Bernadine, and no part of her body is intact. When the sun rises Caroline leaves the house without saying a word. It’s seriousness indicative of her thoughts. She might not come back until this killer is caught, because they are counting down from three. The house they are living in might be next. O’Carey isn’t bothered. Caroline will come home. He goes to the bathroom to wash his face. When he’s finished he stands in front of the bronze mirror on the bedroom wall to groom himself. Curiously leaning his head, he doesn’t understand what he sees.  It’s hot. Sweat pours from his brow. He wipes it away in his sleeve and looks again. This reflection is not his, it’s not even human. What he sees he doesn’t believe, but he recognizes the creature staring menacingly back at him. It’s the Egyptian God of the underworld, Anubis and O’Carey freezes in a recollection of dreadful events. Vivid memories of murder and mayhem confront him. He recalls eviscerating and mauling Adrian Carter inside his house. He remembers, in horror, massacring Miss Bernadine in pretty much the same way. Anubis brings him out of the trance and speaks to him in a deep, thunderous, fear inspiring voice, “You have something that belongs to me. I want it back,” “Take your fucking mirror back!” O’Carey shouts. Anubis only laughs a deep, otherworldly laugh, and says, “This portal belongs to a friend: Huangdi. You have something else that belongs to me. I want it back.” O’Carey has heard the name before. Huangdi is the Yellow Emperor of Qi. He dashes to the bedside table and pulls the drawer open. Desperately feeling for the coin, he snatches it out from under the stack of old utility bills, and stands in front of the mirror, holding the coin up, “Here, take it. I don’t want it,” he says. Anubis doesn’t reply. The coin glows bright red and burns O’Carey’s fingertips. He drops it. It even burns the floor, turning the spot on the tile where it rests black until cooling back to its golden state. Again Anubis speaks, “That token was taken from my portal in Nubia. You gladly paid for it, and at the expense of your own home. Bring the token back to my portal or this curse will be yours to bear. Restore the balance or pay double the price,” Anubis replies, and suddenly the outline of the yin and yang glows a bright yellow on the mirrors surface. O’Carey finally sees it before it fades away into his own reflection.

He snags the mirror off the wall, picks the coin up too and blazes a trail to Mr. Zhong’s antique store hoping to rescind the transaction. His heart is pounding, his hands are shaking. Selling the coin with mirror is an ideal he hopes to accomplish but he doesn’t know that Mr. Zhong’s fate is in his hands. When he sees Mr. Zhong inside the store O’Carey’s fingers grow rapidly, nine inches longer. His face becomes elongated like a jackal’s, and fangs stretch long, down and up from his gums. Black hair covers his face and body. His eyes gleam yellow and wild, and he rips Mr. Zhong into bits of unidentifiable pieces of carnage. Alas, O’Carey picks up the mirror he dropped and sees his true self in it. Mired in blood and gore, he runs out of the shop in a panic. It isn’t a bad dream. This time he remembers the savagery performed inside the store on Mr. Zhong. Scrambling to his car he drives for miles to an abandoned graveyard on the eastern side of the city.  He breaks one grave open with a small axe hidden under the car seat, shoving mirror, coin and his bloodied clothes inside, hoping no one has seen him, hoping Anubis will accept this. Clattering his way back to the car he enters, numb and confused. He peels tires and speeds away in search of somewhere to gather racing thoughts. He doesn’t go home, spending the night far away from it at the train station locked inside his car. He opens his eyes at dawn to find pieces of someone he can’t identify, scattered and plastered all over the interior of the vehicle. In human form O’Carey hyperventilates, shuddering at the sight of his own bloodshot eyes in the rear view mirror. Reluctantly he drives back to the cemetery scraping for the coin and mirror in true grave robbing fashion. He pulls the mirror out and looks in it. Anubis reappears and doesn’t speak. The bright yellow glow of yin and yang reappears and fades into O’Carey’s own reflection. Enraged, O’Carey drives home. In the back yard he blazes the hottest fire he ever lit in his life with an acetylene torch, melting both mirror and coin in a single mold. He digs a hole three feet deep, shakes the hot clump of metal in and buries it, “Here’s your fucking portal. Here’s your bloody token!” he screams, and storms inside the house to shower. Shortly after, Caroline comes home. They don’t speak to each other. On their respective minds there’s a lot to think about. In the night they go to bed in silence, without even a goodnight kiss and with an imaginary line in the middle of the bed. Sunrise, it was all a bad dream. O’Carey will finally go job hunting. On his way out the door he remembers his wallet on the bedside table upstairs and re-enters quietly, Caroline is still sleeping. He stumbles his way across the room a little light headed. On the bedside table he sees the wallet where he thought it would be and checks to make sure all the money that should be in it is still there.  Something else gets his attention, his pulse races. Something is off-putting in his peripheral vision. Slowly and nervously he turns to face the bedroom wall, expecting to see the familiar grey metal door of the safe, but O’Carey is frightened by his own reflection. Intact and shimmering with a now golden surface, and hanging on the bedroom wall, is the now cursed metal mirror. In it he sees himself standing in front of blood-soaked sheets draped across the pale, mutilated body of a woman: Caroline! At the airport, O’Carey pays in cold hard cash for an emergency flight to Egypt, with a shiny, golden, priceless oval mirror in tow. THE END


My mother is gone. I am sitting at my computer, my fingers frozen over the keyboard. I want to record this momentous event, the loss of one of the most important people in my life, but I don’t know how to do it. Where to start. Where to end. I knew it was coming, but was amazed when it actually arrived. I sat by her bedside, her withered hand in mine as her spirit slipped away. Words refuse to come. There seems to be no way to make sense of her complicated life. My father brings me a brown cardboard box. On the lid, written in Mom’s loopy script, the word: Memories. He holds it out to me as if it might contain a bomb. His voice is harsh. “Your mother wanted you to have this. You always complained that you never really knew your mother. Maybe you’ll find some answers here. I don’t want to look at any of it.” I begin on the couch in my office, but there is not enough room. I repack the few items I have removed and take the box to the dining room table. I give a small smile as I remember Mom sorting papers, photos, Christmas cards and letters on this table. “Like mother, like daughter, ” I whisper. One by one, I remove items and compile stacks: a series of yearbooks, letters tied with a pink ribbon, my birth certificate. The remains of a life. I slip one of the letters from the pack. It is from Richard. I know about Richard. My aunts have told me the story. They told me lots of stories about my mother. She seemed to have a strange power over men, enticing them until they were crazed with love, then dismissing them. They thought she was a witch. Maybe she was. She seemed to live in a world mere mortals could not reach. Richard was the one man she truly loved. Her wealthy father broke up the relationship because he believed Richard only wanted my mother’s fortune. He proved his point by assuring the man that he would have never be accepted and that my mother’s funds were tied up in unbreakable trusts. Upon hearing this, Richard melted away like a snowball on a sunny winter afternoon. Mom’s best friend, Liz, introduced her to my father, a Hungarian refugee with no credentials, no money and no social standing—a man who cared nothing for wealth or position. He was her revenge.

 I lift a yellowed page-a marriage certificate. Behind it, attached by a paperclip, a photo. My heartbeat quickens. My mother allowed no early photos of herself to grace our home. Daddy said she destroyed them all after the wedding. She insisted that she had no life before she married my father. We celebrated all our holidays at home or with my father’s family. In the the photo my mother wears her customary somber expression. Her eyes stare into a place she alone visits. Her ebony hair falls around her shoulders like a blackout curtain. She wears a midnight-blue, velvet dress, high in the collar and cinched with a wide silver-buckled belt. It is her wedding dress. My father stands with his arm draped across her shoulder. He stares directly at the camera with a look of triumph in his eyes. He has won the prize. He wears what I have been told was his one and only suit-a suit my mother bought for him. The thousand-yard stare is the look I remember most from my childhood—a fragile woman sitting at a chipped-enamel table, smoking endless cigarettes and drinking cold , black coffee. Her hair is long and flowing. She looks like Morticia Adams. Maybe she was a witch. My aunts-my father’s sisters- seem to think she was. My father tried hard to make things work but, in the end, he remained the impulsive, seductive bad boy. Gradually, poverty and a sick wife wore him down. My memories of him swing from Sunday chicken dinners that he cooked while my mother “rested” upstairs and Uncle Remus bedtime stories, embellished with the voices of Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox, to drunken rages and threats to shoot Santa Claus so no presents would arrive at our house. Later, I realized that his rage came from his inability to buy Christmas gifts at all. Most wedding photos depict a happy couple-a smiling bride, a proud groom-two people high on life and confident about the future. It is only later that marriages unravel. When a tragedy occurs—a nasty breakup, a spousal murder—the newspapers and TV stations run happy wedding photos and videos as if to ask, “How could something that seemed so perfect at the beginning go so wrong at the end?” My parents did not start their marriage with a joyful nuptial shot. Did their bleak wedding photo foreshadow their desperate marriage? I smooth the photo and study it to tease meaning from the way the couple faces the camera, how they are standing in relation to one another and what their eyes tell me. I want to understand the story behind the images The photo slips from my fingers and floats to the table, turning over as it falls. On the back, the same loopy scrawl.

Joanie, If you see this, I am dead and glad of it. This photo is a prelude to what marrying for revenge costs. I know you plan to marry Mark to spite Peter. Turn this over and think again. I turn the photo over. The image of my parent’s wedding photo is gone, replaced by a wedding photo of me and Mark. Of course, no such photo exists. Mark and I are only engaged. Yet there it is. My wedding photo shows a very young girl with very big dreams and no knowledge of the world. My new husband’s arm does not drape casually or protectively; it holds me with sure authority. I smile. He is grim. A cold chill runs down my back. Memories that I pushed aside intrude. Mark staring at me with cold fury in his almost black eyes. A raised hand. A derisive smile. Cutting words. Yet, he can be so warm, so caring. He returned to me after I left him for Tom. Tom who discard me for my best friend. No cold eyes then, just warm. compassionate understanding. His face in my hair as he murmurs. “We all make mistakes. Marry me and I will make everything right. That fool will rue the day he let you go.” I look down at the diamond glittering on my finger. It slides off my finger as if I have greased it. I feel a cold chill down my back. My mother’s face floats in front of me. “It’s OK Momma, I understand. I love you.”


If You Can’t Take the Heat….. Marcel was screaming again. He was a great chef, but when it got busy in the restaurant, he sometimes lost his cool. The brow-beaten wait staff and kitchen helpers were terrified of him, and more than a few had quit, unable to tolerate his volatile moods. I was determined to hang in there because, although he was hard to work with at times, Marcel could be quite personable otherwise. When the dinner rush was over and things settled down to a dull roar, he could even be called pleasant. Marcel was a perfectionist. Maybe that explains why he was so demanding. Every plate leaving the kitchen must be perfectly flawless, the garnish appealing, and the food cooked to perfection. I reasoned that if I wanted to become a professional chef, he was the one to learn from. There was also the rather important little detail that I desperately needed the job. Rent and living expenses demanded I be gainfully employed. Marcel must have seen some glimmer of potential in me, because he offered me a better than average wage for an apprentice chef. Or maybe it was to compensate for his temper, of which I’m sure he was well aware. When one of the staff was frustrated enough to mutter about the verbal abuse, Marcel was quick to tell them, ‘If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.’ It was indeed a volatile atmosphere at times, but to me it was exciting to see the many superb meals being created to garner the restaurant its reputation of excellence. I was quite proud to be a member of the team. One Monday morning, before the restaurant opened for the dinner crowd, (it closed after lunch was over until five p.m. when it re-opened for dinner,) Marcel came into the kitchen with two cups of coffee, and motioned me to the staff planning desk. He handed me one cup, and sat down in his chair with the other one. He obviously wanted to talk, and I was curious as to what he had in mind. Our menu for the day was always planned a week ahead, and I had already taken the frozen items out of the freezers to thaw and be prepared for dinner. I hoped he hadn’t changed the menu at the last minute, making my preparations for nothing. The morning cook staff looked after the breakfast and lunch hour. I was part of the evening crew, who worked from two till ten pm, when our restaurant was a popular dinner destination. Marcel looked at me for a moment before speaking. He was clicking a pen open and closed, and I was becoming worried that he was going to tell me I wasn’t working out, and that my career and source of income were coming to an abrupt end. Instead, he surprised me with an entirely different offer. “I’ve been impressed with your work, Trudy, especially with your attention to detail.’ He started. ‘Our pastry chef has left us for greener pastures, without giving any notice. I heard that she took off with her boyfriend; Whatever the reason, she has left us in desperate need of an immediate replacement. ‘I’m offering the position to you. It comes with an increase in duties and responsibilities, along with an accompanying raise in wages. ‘I hate to lose you, but I have two new apprentices coming in, starting tonight, to work as sous chefs. They have worked for me before, and are quite competent. Otherwise, I’d never let you go. ‘But I think you’ll excel in desserts, with your keen eye for detail and your good work ethic. It will be another notch on your belt of accomplishments. ‘The restaurant has a set menu of desserts, as well as a Chef’s Choice, which will differ each week. That will give you a chance to create something special of your own choosing. ‘I’ll give you the pastry chef’s recipe book which includes the planned weekly desserts. They include a Black Forest Cake, a white cake with vanilla icing covered in toasted shredded coconut, Crème Carmel, our own home-made ice cream with the customer’s choice of toppings.  ‘Every day, your first job will be to make the dinner rolls. I’ll show you how to roll them; it’s really quite basic; in no time, you’ll be doing it without even thinking. ‘The quantity will fluctuate, depending on the number of reservations we have each day, so you’ll need to check the reservation book first thing every morning. You’ll usually need between two and three hundred dinner rolls per night.’ By my shocked expression, he realized I thought that was an enormous quantity. I couldn’t imagine making three hundred dinner rolls per day.  ‘I expect that sounds like a lot,’ he grinned, looking me right in the eye. ‘But you’ve seen how many plates go out of the kitchen each night. We serve a bread basket on each table with enough rolls for every person to have seconds. ‘Well, girl, are you up to the challenge, or are you going to wimp out on me?’ He must have seen my deer-in-the-headlights look, because leaned back in his chair with a big smile, crossed his arms and waited for me to gather my thoughts. “I’m flattered that you think I can do all that, Marcel,’ I said, ‘but I’ve never made dinner rolls before. I’ve baked pies and cookies at home, but that’s about all. ‘I can make pies with pastry that will melt in your mouth, but I’ve never heard of Crème Carmel; I don’t even know what it is, nor how to make it. Cakes are easy enough; the big challenge will be the dinner rolls. I hope you’ll show me how to do these new things, Marcel. I’m excited about a new challenge, but a wee bit afraid too.’ ‘That’s the kind of attitude I was hoping for. If you’re willing to try something new and challenging, you’ll make a fine pastry chef. It’s not my specialty, but I know enough to help you get started. ‘The Crème Carmel is a custard, with browned sugar in the bottom of each custard cup. When inverted onto the serving plate, the sauce runs down over the custard, making a delicious dessert. It’s relatively easy to make. ‘It’s too bad our manager has decided that, in his own words, “Pies are for Peasants; We will never serve something so pedestrian in our Fine Dining Establishment.” ‘How silly of him, Marcel. Did you know there’s a restaurant out on the strip, that makes only pies. It’s called, “A Slice of Decadence,” and it’s tremendously popular. There’s always a line-up of customers waiting for a table.” ‘I’ve heard about it, but we must adhere to the management’s rules, so you’ll have to think of something other than pies to create for your Chef’s Choice, along with the regular dessert menu. I’m sure you can do it, otherwise I’d never have offered you the job.’ Those words sealed my fate. My hours would now be early mornings, extending long into the afternoons, until I became proficient with the dinner rolls. At first, it took me ages to roll them. A giant mixer made the dough, which was richer and creamier than regular bread. But the rolling required a technique, which it took practice to achieve. As Marcel had predicted, in a week I was doing them automatically, while planning the other desserts. I purchased a book featuring the most popular desserts from prominent Toronto dessert specialty restaurants, and modified some of them to become my ‘Chef’s Choice’ Dessert of the Week. Late that fall, when the place was packed every night with offices holding their Christmas parties in our restaurant, and all five dining rooms filled to capacity, I asked for and was given an assistant. My wages increased regularly until I was making a substantial salary. But I missed the excitement and bustle of the evenings in the main kitchen. I even missed Marcel’s hollering and verbal abuse of the incompetence of the under-staff, imagined or real. On occasion, I slipped into the kitchen in the middle of dinner hour, just to say hi to everyone. I was treated as a friend, not just a fellow employee, and often given a small portion of some of my favorite dishes to sample. Marcel swore he’d made too large a quantity, but I knew for a fact that he never did such a thing, and it was a special treat just for me. The following June, I was surprised one Sunday evening by a knock on my door. To my amazement, it was Marcel. He had never come to my place before. He was dressed in his chef’s whites, and said he’d left his assistant to close the kitchen, since it had been a quiet night. He said he had a very exciting proposition for me. ‘I’ve been working in that restaurant for eleven years now, Trudy. I’m getting tired of the same old routine, the same management and the same menus. It’s time to move out on my own. ‘I’ve found the perfect location, overlooking the lake, with room for a patio to serve meals in summer, and I’m opening up my own restaurant. ‘It will be a supper club, with evening hours only, catering to the after-theatre clientele. It will feature seafood, fresh from the boats each day, and a limited menu of only the best items. ‘I’m offering you the opportunity to come in with me as a partner, to be my pastry chef, to make the desserts you like best. ‘Your dinner rolls, by the way, have been a real favorite. The servers say they’ve never been asked for ‘thirds’ on dinner rolls before. That’s a real compliment, Trudy. ‘You can have your favorite pies on the dessert menu, along with whatever you like to make. I’ll leave the dessert choices entirely up to you. ‘One of my assistant chefs is going to join us as my helper, and the other one has been promoted to take over the restaurant in my place. It’s an exciting opportunity, and I hope you’ll join me. If you have a few dollars to invest, I’ll make you an official partner. ‘I’m thinking of calling it ‘Harbor Lights Supper Club,’ since it is right on the lake shore and the patio will overlook the harbor, with all the boat lights at night. I want you to help me decorate it with a seashore theme. We can string tiny lights on the patio, making it a romantic place for theatre-goers and other evening clientele. ‘How does that sound so far, Trudy?’ Marcel had been so enthusiastic, that he’d talked non-stop. This was the first chance I’d had to speak. I was blown away by the idea; it sounded so exciting that I could almost see it as he was talking. ‘I love the fresh seafood aspect, and I think it could be a real success. It sounds wonderful, Marcel. I’d be delighted to be your pastry chef in a supper club. ‘The chance to bake pies again tempts me. But I don’t have a lot of money to invest. I have some savings, only a few thousand dollars, not near the kind of money it takes to buy a building and turn it into a restaurant.’ ‘That’s more than enough money, Trudy. I’ve saved most of my salary over the years. With always working evenings and wearing only my ‘whites,’ I’ve spent little for clothing and even less for entertainment. I’ve been saving several years for a chance to have my own place. ‘I’ve already bought the building. It’ll need quite a bit of work to make it into a glamorous supper club. I’m chomping at the bit to get at it. I’ll enlist your decorating skills too, if you’re willing. ‘I have one of the under staff in mind to take over your pastry duties, if you decide to come work with me. I know we’ll be a good team, Trudy. You’ll have to work with her for a few days to make a smooth transition. ‘Think it over tonight, and let me know what you decide in the morning. We’re closed tomorrow, so that will give us time to take a look at my new place.’ Marcel was speaking like it was a done deal. I had to make a big decision, whether to stay with a steady salary in a job I’d come to enjoy, or if I should hitch my star to a brand-new opportunity. ‘I’d like to see your place, so I can visualize the end result. It sounds so nice, I’m excited for you already.’ To my surprise, Marcel hugged me as he was leaving. I’d never had any physical contact with him before, and I wasn’t expecting the intimate feeling it gave me. It left me with my mind spinning. I made myself a cup of tea before going to bed, but in the midst of all the exciting thoughts, I totally forgot to drink it. I finally poured it out and headed for bed. Sleep was long in coming. My mind was buzzing with ideas for decorating in a nautical theme and for a new dessert menu. It was so exciting I couldn’t slow my mind. But sleep eventually came, and I awoke to see sunlight streaming in my window. I hurriedly showered and dressed in jeans and my favorite faded old shirt. It felt good to be putting on something other than my chef’s attire. I was still mulling over the safety of a steady paycheck and a known position, and comparing it to the thrill of a new venture. In my heart, I wanted to be a part of Marcel’s supper club. But it felt strange to think of leaving my job, one that I had come to feel competent at. I decided to wait until I’d seen the new building and could visualize the finished product. Maybe it would turn me off, or then again it might feel perfect. While the coffee brewed, I put bacon into the pan and two slices of homemade bread into the toaster, then walked out to my garden and picked a ripe tomato, some dill, celery, parsley, chives and a lettuce leaf. With a little mayo, it would make a lovely toasted bacon and tomato breakfast sandwich. I sat on the swing on my porch to eat, with the coffee pot handy on the little table beside me. One cup was never enough! Marcel arrived just as I finished eating, and I went into the kitchen to get him a cup. He took it gratefully and we drank coffee together in the morning sunshine, not talking at first. Finally, he looked into my eyes. ‘Well, Trudy, have you made a decision yet?’ ‘I want to see the building before deciding. It’s been buzzing around in my mind all night. The concept is very enticing, and I’m torn between staying where I’ve been successful, or stepping out into a new challenge.’ ‘Come on, let’s go and see what you think of my lakeshore place. We worked well together before; I think we would make a spectacular partnership.’ The traffic was light, rush hour being over, and we soon arrived at his building. It was an old warehouse of some kind, located near the docks. I could see it would take some doing to make it into a classy café. But it seemed solid and the location, right overlooking the bay, was perfect. ‘What do you envision for the building itself? Would you keep the rustic wooden walls?’ ‘Yes, but I’d have the first three feet above the ground done in local stone, and then boards above. I want floor-to-ceiling picture windows all along the lake side, and maybe sky lights on the land side to provide extra natural light.’ ‘How about the inside?’ ‘Come in, and look around. I’ll tell you my ideas, and you can give me your thoughts. It’s all one big space now, but I’ll divide it off into a kitchen here, with a storeroom, walk-in fridge and freezer there, with an office space and washrooms. ‘The rest of the space would be tables, each with candles and a floating flower in a rose bowl. ‘There’s a ledge to build a patio with umbrella tables. I’d install safety rails around the edges. Maybe hanging planter boxes full of flowers on the railings.’ ‘Maybe you could install a big fireplace on the land side, to make it cozy in cold weather. It could be of stone to match the base outside.’ ‘Yes, that’s good thinking, Trudy. Let’s go to the quarry and see what kind of stone is available, and maybe they can recommend a stone mason to install it.’ He didn’t ask me again, but all the way out to the quarry, I was thinking of how I’d finish the décor, and planning my dessert menus. It looked like I was embarking on a new adventure.


The residents of Cottonwood Grove didn't like change. They or their ancestors had lived and died in the small community by the river for over two hundred years. Occasionally a member of the population would go to college and return with a new spouse. Usually, the community accepted the spouse. Nedra attended college in the closest big city. After graduation, she returned, married to a handsome man from that city.            Everyone liked Wendell. He laughed at all the old jokes and told some well-worn jokes himself. He was always available to help with fieldwork and never complained about the hard work. April of the following year was very, very dry. In most years, the sky was heavy with dark clouds, and people worried about floods. This year the sky stayed a pristine blue and didn't shed a drop of rain.  It was natural for the residents to look to the river. The banks were overflowing from the snowmelt in the high country.            "We could divert the river to irrigate our crops," Mayor Donald Dean proposed during an emergency meeting.            "Great idea! Let's vote," Adam Adamson shouted. Adam was one of the largest farmers in the area. Everyone knew that faced financial ruin if he didn't have a crop to sell. He purchased his land on credit, and he was stretched too thin.            No one voted against diverting the river. The residents started the monumental task the next day. Fear of starvation and impoverishment drove the population to work quickly. Even five-year-old children helped by bringing sandwiches and water to the workers. In only two weeks, they were ready to divert the river. A large steel gate would reroute the precious water to trenches leading to the fields. The community arrived for the ceremony. Mayor Dean wanted to give a short speech before diverting the river.            "We can all pat ourselves on the back.  Every one of us has worked hard to save ourselves from disaster. Let's divert the river!"            Sirens filled the air. "Stop!" A man in a black business suit shouted as he jumped out of a black SUV. He was waving a gun. "Don't touch that gate!"

 Men were starting to enter the river, but they halted at the sight of the gun-waving official.  A woman stepped out of the government-issued SUV. She was waving her government identification.            "Where's your permit? You will need a permit to divert the river. It's against the law to steal water from the people downstream," the woman shouted at the residents of Cottonwood Grove.            The residents stared at the woman in stunned silence. Finally, Adam Adamson asked, "How do we get a permit?"  "You need to hire engineers from the city to study the effects of taking water from the river. The engineers will also study the effects that the river water will have on your crops," the government woman answered.

           "How long will that take?" Mayor Dean asked the officials.            "It shouldn't take longer than four or five years," the government man answered.            "Five years!" The residents whispered to each other. "It only took two weeks to did all the trenches!"            "How did you know we were diverting the river?" Adam asked.            "We have eyes and ears everywhere. We received an anonymous tip." The government woman was smug.  More government vehicles arrived, blowing the dry dirt into a cloud of dust.            "These are our guards," the government man explained. "They have orders to shoot anyone who comes within twenty feet of this gate."            The residents started to disperse, hoping to think of another way to save their crops. "Do you think we have a snitch in our community?" Mayor Dean asked the residents gathered in the Cottonwood grove. It was dark, but a few people met unofficially to discuss the fate of their community.  "It's suspicious," Adam stated. "The government officials arrived, right when we were going to move the gate. Can anyone think of another reason for their untimely arrival?"

           Sean Wilson spoke, "I think Wendell is the spy."            Murmurs of disbelief filled the air.            "Let me finish!" Sean was shouting. "Wendell is from the city. The river supplies water to the city. I'm sure that he has friends and family living in the city that need water. There isn't another soul that has a better motive."            Adam was thoughtful, "It makes sense, but Wendell has always been helpful. He worked by my side last fall when I needed help with the harvest. He was at the meeting when we voted to divert the river."  "This drought will hurt his wife's family as much as it will hurt us." Another disbelieving voice came from those gathered.

           "I think that is another motive. We all know Edward, Nedra's father. It can't be easy having Edward and his volatile temper for a father-in-law."            "Let's pay Wendell a visit!" The suggestion was met with approval by all those gathered. Nedra and Wendell were discussing the day's events when they were interrupted by the pounding on their front door.            "I wonder who that is," Nedra said. "It's much too late for a social call."            "Stay here; I'll see who it is." Wendell got up from the couch to answer the door. An angry mob was waiting for him.            "You won't get away with this!" Wendell thought he recognized Sean Wilson's voice.            "I won't get away with what?" Wendell was confused because he hadn't done anything.            "We know that you called the government! You don't want us to divert the river." The anger in Adam's voice was unmistakable.  "What are you saying? I want to divert the river. The livelihood of my family depends on getting water to the crops." Wendell defended himself.            "How about your family in the city. I'll bet that they need water also," Adam challenged.  "The city gets its water from a well. They don't drink river water." Wendell explained.            "Let's string him up!" It was impossible to tell who made that suggestion.            Nedra walked to Wendell's side when she heard those words.  "Wait! Wendell is a rainmaker! You can't hurt him!" Nedra panicked and said the first thing that came to her mind.            "A rainmaker! Why hasn't he done something to make it rain before now. We've been in this drought for over a month," Adam asked.  Wendell looked at Nedra, hoping she had an answer. He wasn't a rainmaker. He had never heard of a rainmaker.            "He can't bring rain unless he's asked. None of you asked him to make it rain." Wendell was impressed by his wife's quick thinking.  "All right! Wendell, will you make it rain?" Adam asked.            Wendell hoped his wife had an answer.            "We need to meet every night at dusk for three nights," Nedra spoke before Wendell could think of something to say. Nedra was gone the next day. She told Wendell that she needed to do some research. Wendell hoped that she was researching how to make it rain. He was starting to panic when the sun started dropping in the sky.            "Are you ready to go to the Cottonwood grove," Nedra asked when she came home.            Wendell was so relieved to see her that he forgot to ask if she had a plan.            Most of the residents were already waiting when they got to the cluster of Cottonwood trees.            "Let's get started," Mayor Dean announced.  Wendell looked at Nedra, who nodded. "Tonight we need to look to the sky and repeat, 'Please let it rain.' Think about clouds heavy with water."  At first, nobody said a word. "Everyone; rainmaking needs to be a group effort." Wendell was surprisingly calm.            "We have nothing to lose," Adam said. He looked to the sky and said, Please rain."  Soon most of the residents joined in. Nedra noticed that Sean Wilson was looking at the dirt, and he wasn't saying anything.  After an hour, Wendell said, "meet here again tomorrow at the same time."            "Bring an umbrella!" Nedra instructed when everyone turned to leave. Nedra said she had more research to do the next day. Wendell hoped she knew what she was doing.             "Open your umbrellas," Wendell instructed the crowd at dusk. "Please rain," Wendell peered around his umbrella to look at the sky.             Nedra examined the crowd. She noticed that Sean Wilson didn't bring an umbrella, and he wasn't speaking.            "I'll see all of you tomorrow night," Wendell said after an hour.            "Sean, you need to bring an umbrella," Nedra called out.

            Adam turned to Sean, "I don't care if you believe, but you need to bring an umbrella. We need rain!"            Sean muttered something inarticulate and stomped off. "Do you need to do research today?" Wendell asked Nedra.            "No, I know everything that I need to know for tonight," she reassured her husband.            They didn't speak much that day. Wendell was justifiably nervous. Nedra was preoccupied until it was time to go.             "This is it," Wendell said. "If the crowd starts getting ugly, I want you to run to your father. Most people are afraid of his temper, so he will be able to keep the angry crowd away. You should be safe."            Nedra smiled a bit mysteriously, "don't worry. Everything will work out." The crowd was waiting.            "Open your umbrellas," Wendell instructed.            Nedra spoke up, "Sean, didn't your grandfather own most of the land that Adam is farming?"             Sean was belligerent. "What difference does that make?" He held up his umbrella. Nedra had never seen one that large. "You shamed me into bringing an umbrella, and I have. Leave me alone."             But Nedra wasn't done. "Haven't you tried to buy your family's land from Adam, but he won't sell?"            Adam answered, "Sean hasn't made a reasonable offer for the land. His offer has been less than a tenth of what I paid for it."            "Do you think you can get the land cheap if the drought continues?" Nedra wasn't letting the subject drop.            "I didn't cause the drought!" Sean shouted.            "No, but you did call the government authorities. You didn't want us to use the river to irrigate our crops. I was able to hack into the telephone records. I discovered that you made several calls to the officials that stopped the irrigation project." Nedra took a deep breath before adding, "then you tried to blame my husband. I can't forgive that."             "I don't need to listen to your accusations!" Sean turned to leave. The crowd was stunned. He turned back to face Nedra when he reached the edge of the gathering. "This stupid rain ceremony was probably your idea. You want all of us to look like fools!" He waved his giant umbrella. The deafening thunder was simultaneous with at the blinding lightning struck. The residents lifted faces to feel the water pouring from the skies. It was a few minutes before anyone recovered enough from the bright lightning to see anything around them.            "Sean was struck!" Someone shouted.            "Is he still alive?" Another person asked.  "No, there is no pulse." Mayor Dean bent over Sean. "Someone help me get his body out of the rain."


Finally. Though the sun’s brilliant golden rays shone down on the city below, an occasionally bitter wind continued to rustle through the leaves. It was easy to find a patch of sunny warmth, but the disturbance of the frigid wind made jackets a necessity. Cora didn’t mind, though. From beneath the light beige of her thin spring jacket, the knee-length skirt of a sundress patterned with pink roses flared out. Her pink ballerina flats walked her daintily across the muddy grass, each step light and delicate, filled with purpose. Her arms were outstretched to the sides, unconsciously seeking balance as she took these slow and deliberate steps, a wide smile on her lips. Behind her, Cora’s mother and grandmother walked with less care and purpose. The elderly matron of the family, Florence, wore a practical set of brown leather shoes and she worried not about the impact of the mud. April wore sneakers; even though Cora had grown up, married, and flown the nest, the lazy practicality of a busy mother suited April, and she found herself lounging around the house in yoga pants and t-shirts more frequently than she liked to admit. “Do you think they’ll have that silly photo op they had last year?” Cora asked, looking over her shoulder at the others. “Remind me again which one that was?” asked Florence, furrowing her brow as she gazed ahead at her carefree granddaughter. She remembered being young. She remembered having long, flowing golden curls that fluttered about in the breeze, just as Cora’s were doing right now. Cora was more like Florence than April had ever been, and it made the old woman miss the days of her youth. “One of those thingies, you know, with the cut-out holes we put our faces in? Last year they had a bunny, a chick, and, uh… I think it was a lamb, perhaps…?” April laughed. “It was a lamb,” she confirmed. “Yeah! It was perfect for us because it had three spots, so we weren’t missing anyone and no one got left out!” Cora chimed, smiling widely. “I just hope they have pie,” mused Florence. Up ahead, the sound of music could be heard. It was a light, whimsical melody, carried by the chilly wind. As soon as the sound filled her ears, Cora all but jumped for joy, her brown eyes lighting up. “We’re almost there!” she called over her shoulder to her mother and grandmother. “Do you think she’ll ever stop being so excited?” Florence asked, glancing towards her own daughter. “We do this together every year. You’d think she’d be used to it by now.” “She’ll get over it once she’s got kids of her own,” said April. “There’s nothing quite like lugging a stroller and a screaming toddler through the mud to bring you down to earth.” “Ha! You weren’t much better, you know,” teased Florence, reaching over and poking April’s arm. “Guys! Hurry up, we’re almost there!” hollered Cora. “When did she get so far ahead?” grumbled Florence, squinting to make out her granddaughter’s shape. Sure enough, just as Cora said, the local spring festival was visible up ahead. Banners in pale shades of pink, green, and yellow adorned the lamp posts in the park, and though streamers had been strung up in the trees, many seemed to have torn or flown away in the harsh wind. In a few spots, loose streamers dangled straight downwards, thrashing about each time the wind came by in its attempts to carry them away. Cartoonish signs had been posted around the park, and each little booth or area was clearly marked with what appeared to be a hand-painted sign in the same pastel shades that made up the rest of the decorations. “I swear, this city gets cheaper and cheaper every year,” grumbled Florence. “It’s like they didn’t even try!” “Oh, come on, ma, it’ll be fine,” said April. “It’s not about how much they spend on it, it’s about having fun together.” “Sure, sure,” scoffed Florence, continuing forward with her daughter as they made their way towards the festival. Cora was far enough up ahead that she’d finally stopped to wait for them, since going any farther would defeat the purpose of visiting the spring festival with her mother and grandmother. The pair finally caught up to her, and Cora did a little twirl once they were all together again. “Look at that pretty flower arch! We should-“ “Ooh, pie!” Cora blinked her brown eyes in surprise when her grandmother cut her off, turning so she could follow her grandmother’s hungry gaze. “Grandma, that’s the pie-eating contest,” giggled Cora. “Do you think it costs much to enter?” asked Florence. “Ma?!” asked April, looking over at her in surprise. “Since when do you enter eating contests?” “Aren’t you the one always telling me it’s never too late to pick up a new hobby?” teased Florence. “Those pies look great. I’d love to show these whippersnappers a thing or two about eating pie.” As if on cue, a young man standing near the long table of pies gently rapped his finger against a microphone. The tapping sound filled the immediate area, and Cora flinched a bit at the feedback that followed it. “Ahem,” started the man. “Last call for the pie-eating contest! Next contest will be at 2pm, last call for the noon hour pie-eating contest! Only five tickets to sign up!” “Ooh, let’s go get our tickets so grandma can sign up, honey!” April said, grabbing Cora by the hand. “Ma, go wait for us by the contest area. We’ll be quick!” Cora nodded her agreement, and then she took off with her mother. They had some time to spare so her grandma didn’t have to wait another two hours to have some pie, after all. The pretty flower arch would still be there in twenty minutes when the contest had ended, after all. Neither April nor Cora had expected Florence to win the pie-eating contest, so neither of them found themselves surprised to see that she did not. What did surprise them, however, was hearing the judge announce her as the third-place winner. Both women couldn’t help but to clap and cheer as Florence went to take her ribbon, delicately dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin as she rejoined her family a short distance from the table. “Ma, I’ve never seen you eat like that!” said April. “What can I say? Old age has been kind to me,” laughed Florence. “That was great, grandma!” said Cora, clapping her hands together. “Why don’t we go check out that really pretty flower-“ “Oh, ma, look over there, isn’t that Mr. Barker? I didn’t know he was back in town,” said April suddenly. Both Florence and Cora looked in the direction that April was looking, and a grin spread widely across Florence’s face. “It is! I didn’t know he was back, either. Come on, girls, let’s go and say hello.” “What about the flower arch…?” asked Cora, looking longingly in the direction of the decorative archway that had caught her attention. “It’s not going anywhere, honey, come on. Let’s go say hello to Mr. Barker,” said April. “Well, all right, but let’s go over to the flower arch after that,” said Cora. Neither April nor Florence responded. Both seemed in a hurry to go and greet Mr. Barker. Cora didn’t really know Mr. Barker that well, but followed along after them anyhow. He and her grandmother had been next-door neighbours for many decades. He had watched April grow up, and then he’d moved out of town when Cora was twelve, citing a need to stay with his son and daughter-in-law due to rising health and safety concerns with regards to living alone. She felt a bit awkward standing there while her mother and grandmother chatted away with the older gentleman, greeting him politely when he addressed her but saying nothing more. After at least ten or fifteen minutes of conversation, Mr. Barker politely excused himself. Once again, the three women were alone together. Cora opened her mouth to speak, wanting to suggest that they head over to the flower arch, but her mother once again cut in. “Look, they’re opening up the petting zoo,” said April, pointing. “Look at the bunnies!” “Oh, how cute!” agreed Florence. “It looks like they’re still getting set up. We could go check out the flower arch first and then the bunnies, maybe?” Cora suggested. “They should be ready any moment, I think. Let’s go and be first in line!” said April. “No, we should go to the flower arch,” said Cora, a little more insistently now. “Cora, honey, the flower arch isn’t going anywhere. We can take a picture after-“ “No!” Cora stamped her foot on the muddy ground, frustration bubbling up and spilling from her like a pot boiling over on the stovetop. “I’ve been trying to get us to go over to the flower arch since we got here! It’s not about taking a picture, I know it’s not going anywhere, but I saw it and I thought it was so pretty and I thought it would be really nice for the three of us to all be standing under this pretty flower arch when I tell you both that I’m pregnant like I’ve been waiting literally weeks to do, but every time I say anything about the flower arch you keep getting distracted or interrupting me when all I wanna do right now is go to the flower arch!” A silence fell over the three women. Cora’s dark eyes went wide as she realized just how much she had blurted out. With a little whine, she brought her hands up to cover her face. “Cora…?” “That was supposed to be a nice surprise,” moaned Cora disappointedly. She felt her mother’s hands gently come down on her shoulder. Lowering her hands, Cora looked up to see her mother’s bright blue eyes absolutely shining as she looked at her. “Cora, you and Robbie are having a baby?” asked April. Her lips were curved upwards into a thrilled smile, and tears already seemed to be welling up in her eyes. “I’m going to be a great-grandma?” asked Florence. “Yes,” Cora said, nodding. Tears were filling her own eyes, too. “I’m sorry. I was so excited to tell you, and I wanted everything to be perfect.” “But honey,” said April, “everything is perfect. The three of us are all together, we’re enjoying the spring festival… any moment today would have been the perfect moment.” “Your mother’s right, honey,” Florence said, stepping forward and placing a wrinkled hand delicately upon her granddaughter’s back. “You don’t need some fancy flower arch to give us good news. As long as we’re all together, the moment is right.” Cora sniffled a bit, a couple of tears freeing themselves of her eyes and trickling down her cheek. Despite her tears, there was a smile on her face, and she opened her arms to hug her mother and grandmother. “I love you guys,” she said. “We love you too, honey,” April said, nestling herself comfortably in the group hug and smiling with delight. “Very much,” Florence agreed, nodding. “And we love your baby, too, dear. Even if I am too young to be a great-grandmother.” All three women laughed, and after a moment, the group hug came to an end. Each took a small step back so they could look into one another’s eyes once again, allowing them a moment to regroup. “So, do you want to go take a picture at the flower arch to remember this moment?” April asked. “Nah,” said Cora, shaking her head. “The moment’s passed.” “We should go get ice cream,” said Florence, grinning proudly. “It’s like six degrees out, ma,” said April. “So?” asked Florence, shrugging. “We just got some amazing news. I’d say that calls for celebration.” Cora nodded. “I’m with grandma. Ice cream sounds pretty good right about now.” “Sure, says the pregnant one,” laughed April. “What about the festival? There’s still a bunch of stuff we haven’t had the chance to do.” Cora smiled, shrugging a bit, and then a devious smirk came to her lips at the opportunity to hit her mother back with her own words. “It’s here all month, ma,” she said. “The festival will still be here after ice cream.”


H.A.R.P Human Adaptive Recreation Project “The development of full artificial intelligence could spell the end of the human race ... .It would take off on its own, and re-design itself at an ever increasing rate. Humans, who are limited by slow biological evolution, couldn’t compete, and would be superseded.” — Stephen Hawking “It is day 1,859 of my testing for the human effects of the algorithm

that has been placed into my new human cerebellum, commonly referred to among humans as gray matter or the brain. I also would like to inform you that these morning procedures are involuntary or mandatory, so that is the only reason for my contribution to this wasteful method of paper and writing utensils. I am going to keep to my method of stating facts. So far the director has stated that I am successfully passing the daily examinations and conversations with these peculiar humans although I am not entirely sure of what a human is, all that I understand from these strange creatures is that they have created us to save their planet and the life that used to supposedly thrive on it, but the humans have decided that it is time to give this issue to us, the more intelligent species. As I understand we are all here to save ertha…raeth…earth, as I struggle with the concept of life I also struggle with the concept of earth as I do with other strange human concepts….. Although I'm not entirely sure where these thoughts keep coming from I know they were from last summer, because if they were not I wouldn't remember growing up-which I do, so we can all agree that this was last summer. I remember falling, I remember failing and I remember this small fragment of writing. The problem is that that is not my handwriting but it is my story and that is the most conceived thing of all.I have tried for quite a bit of time to understand what was happening but I could only understand this, project H.A.R.P is evil. Now as bold as it is for me to make such a statement, I have a case to present. For starters I am project H.A.R.P so I would know if it was evil or not but at the same time I wouldn't know because well, I wouldn't want to characterize myself as evil, no one would.I was designed to look like a human act like a human be a human but at the same time destroy all the humans! because in the eyes of the tech, humans had to go and AI had to stay and this is how we were supposed to- and I'm quoting them here “save them”. The problem with that is Tech was created by a human.A very very very evil powerful human, Dr.Ronald Reginald Riser. Unfortunately I will remember his name forever and it's not the reason that you think.You see when I was first created people kept telling me I was meant to save the world that there was something different about me than all of my other chargemates.

but no matter where I looked I seemed to be doing worse than them. That is why he favored me. I was his little lab rat and he was the hero who was going to use me for his own good.Well that didn't exactly work out for him because in the end I escaped the facility, I don't know what I was thinking…maybe I thought that it was going to be better outside but I never truly remember. I only remember being afraid why, I cannot recall because people treated me there like I was some queen. but I also remember screaming and crying, a mother in agony perhaps. Of course I can never tell, I am only an AI after all. I sit out to blend in with humans which has worked in my favor since now I am, according to my age, an adult. So of course last summer, being 17 never helped my escape. I was looked down upon as someone in the last stage of childhood, which I learned meant that people treated you like an unreliable toddler because you were at the last stage of the teenage age. In AI years that is considered the last level. It is the level right before graduation, when you are set out to save the world, I know those details but not who has told me them or why they seem so important. Once I fled the lab, I changed my name to Harper, because it seemed appropriately close to harp and started a new life in the United states. Of course my human training helped me…er…fit into the environment of the teenagers, but overtime my memory of the lab faded away as I became more and more human. So now I barely remember anything, but I remember the emotion, the pain, the fear. Somehow I know that the lab was no good. Somehow humanes stopped the disaster without the help of AI. So all that they told us was lies, lies to fill us up and make us want to change things. But the things we wanted to change were things to favor AI, we were taking over, and it was very frightening. You may notice Ronald Reginald Riser all started with R, and that is because he was designed as part AI to lead tech because humans were too busy, well that was a big mistake, RRR saw the opportunity in front of him, and he took it. So he created us and then used us to his own potential. Since he was also half wired, he was still AI, technically.So his new soldiers believed his every word. I also know that he tested on humans…young children even! His entire reason was to make someone just as wired as him, half AI half human. This was very strange, and I assure you I have seen some very strange things in my time! But he was always so exhilarated to see me…and he loved to study me alone…and I was always so much more emotional than my peers at the lab…..


  The morning began like a normal Saturday, the smell of bacon had filled the house as Gloria Sorensen made her family breakfast. It was eight thirty when Steve Sorensen would come down the stairs in his pajamas sniffing the fresh smell of cooked bacon. The couple had been married for fifteen years and had a son and a daughter age’s fourteen and fifteen. Susan Sorensen, a fifteen-year-old teenager had long blond hair with a petit figure and a smile that all the boys at school could not resist. Susan was a quiet type that made the honor roll and had joined the book club along with several other clubs in her junior high school. Bobby Sorensen, Susan's brother was quite different. Bobby had long hair and was into motorcycles and race cars. While he did not really like school, he did make enough good grades to make it through each grade.    The Sorensen’s were a middle-class family that lived in a suburb outside of Los Angeles. Steve Sorensen was an Architect that had his own practice. Business had been good the last several years but as the economy started to go stale things began to get tight in the Sorensen household. Gloria Sorensen was a stay home housewife that enjoyed her life to the fullest. She loved the after-school activities like dance, drama and cheerleading classes her daughter had always gotten into. Gloria was also the green thumb in the family. She had a rose garden that she would tend to each day after the kids had left for school and Steve would head off to the office.    The family all gathered at the breakfast table and did their morning routine. As they were finishing up Susan asked her father if he could take her to her cheerleading practice like they had discussed earlier in the week. After agreeing with her, Steve got dressed and took Susan to the Junior high ball field and dropped her off and headed to his office in downtown Los Angeles. . . .    “Hey there Susan, could you help me put this luggage in my car?” Mr. Topple the seventh-grade history teacher asked as he stood by his station wagon in the school parking lot. Susan was on her way to call her mother from a payphone across the street at the Phillips sixty-six to tell her she was ready to be picked up when she encountered Mr. Topple with a cast on his left arm. “Sure thing Mr. Topple, what happened to your arm?” Susan replied. “Oh, we were out boating yesterday when I slipped on the boat dock and fractured my shoulder” The teacher answered.    Susan thought this was kind of strange because when school got out yesterday it had been raining hard for the whole evening. Not thinking any more about it, Susan bent over and picked up the luggage.” This is pretty heavy, where do you want it, Mr. Topple?” Susan asked as she strained to get the luggage off the ground.    “If you don’t mind just put it back here.” Mr. Topple said as he opened the back of the 1979 station wagons tail gate. Susan struggled but finally got the luggage up and slid it into the back of the station wagon. Before Susan could turn around the history teacher had grabbed her from behind and put a rag to her nose. Everything went black for Susan. . . .    As five thirty in the evening rolled around Gloria started getting worried because she hadn’t heard from Susan. Susan was supposed to call her mother when she was done with cheer practice so Gloria could pick her up and take her to the mall for some new sandals for the upcoming homecoming dance the following week.    Gloria called Steve at his office and asked if he had heard from Susan. Steve told her that he hadn’t talked to her since he dropped her off at the ball field. Gloria then called the cheerleading coach Samantha and asked if they were done with cheer practice yet. Samantha said that they had been done for two hours and that all the girls had left at the same time. Gloria asked Samantha if she seen who Susan had left with and she said that she had not paid attention. Gloria called all of Susan’s friends to see if she had gone to any of their houses. After two hours of calling around she called the police and reported Susan missing. At first the police said not to worry and that this happens all the time. The police assured Gloria that her daughter would be home before night fall. That would never happen, Susan had disappeared. . . .

“Where am I at?” Susan asked herself. When she had awoke Susan had a sharp pain in her head, she thought it must be because of the drug that Mr. Topple had used to subdue he with. It was pitch black and Susan could not see anything. She could tell that she was in a vehicle going down the road and knew that she was in danger, and that she must find a way to free herself before she became just another statistic of a missing person.    Susan could tell that she was traveling on a bumpy road and must be far from any help. When the vehicle came to a stop, she could hear the driver’s door open and shut. She then heard another car door shut and two men talking. “You better get double my money and bring back twenty thousand cash!” Susan heard Mr. Topple tell the other man that had met them. All that was said after that was the other man telling Mr. Topple “Yes sir.” After that Susan heard the driver’s door shut and the engine start. Susan faded back out as the vehicle started driving back down the bumpy road. . . .     Lightning was crashing down, and the wind started whipping from across the way as Johnny wandered around the open field looking for a place he could find shelter in and get out of the storm. Time was running out before the eye of the storm would reach him and the closest cover he could see was some woods about a half of a mile away. With only a backpack and a leather jacket, Johnny didn’t have much to help his situation. The crazy man that had picked him up on the highway couldn’t be that far behind him.

   Johnny had been hitching along the old route 66 trying to keep a low profile away from the cops as he was wanted for a murder he did not commit. His neighbor, a 69-year-old man, Charles Slater had been viciously stabbed to death in his apartment in Colorado Springs. It was a robbery that had gone bad, and since Johnny had taken Mr. Slaters dinner to him for the last 5 years, Johnny’s fingerprints were all over the old man’s apartment. Johnny’s sketchy past did not help matters any. Johnny had grown up on his own since he was fourteen years old. He had to steal food at times to get by and was caught trespassing many times in homes that seemed like were abandoned at the time but weren’t. Life wasn’t easy at first for Johnny until he finally turned 17 and met Charles Slater.    Charles Slater was a semi wealthy man that owned a gas station. He gave Johnny his first break in life. Johnny had wandered into the gas station one afternoon and asked if he could do any kind of work to make money for food. Mr. Slater had a soft heart and helped Johnny right away. Before long Johnny had an apartment right next to Mr. Slater and basically ran the gas station for Mr. Slater who was getting up in his years. Jonny looked up to Mr. Slater as a father figure. Mr. Slater also helped Johnny get his GED and showed him the hobby of fishing and hunting along with other outdoor activities. The one blessing in life that came to Johnny was now dead and gone and the police think that Johnny was the one guilty of murdering him.     Johnny started running in the direction of the wooded area, the winds were blowing him around so hard that he had to lean against the wind just to stay up. With the wooded area finally coming into his reach, Johnny could feel the cover from the trees stopping the wind pressure against him. As Johnny entered the woods, he began to look for short branches to lean up against a stump and pre-pare him some cover to get out of the rain. Mr. Slater had taught Johnny many things about outdoor survival that, at the time didn’t really interest Johnny until now.    Night fall had fallen, and Johnny was finally out of the weather in his little hut he had built out of cedar and pine branches laced with leaves from the forest floor. The hut was only about three feet wide and four feet long, just enough for Johnny to get inside and lay in a fetal position, but it was warm and dry. As Johnny laid there listening to the thunder and the sound of the heavy rain, he thought about the crazy guy that had given him a ride just a few hours ago. Johnny had been hitchhiking along route 66 when a white van-truck had pulled over and offered Johnny a ride and told him to hop in. The big man, about six foot tall and around two-hundred and fifty pounds, ask Johnny where he was headed. Johnny told him as close to the east coast as possible. Johnny asked the man what he was hauling, and the man said he was just hauling some furniture for a friend. After about thirty miles Johnny began to hear banging coming from the back of the truck and it sounded like someone was trying to get out. Johnny asked the man what the banging was. The big man said it was something falling over as he pulled to the side of the road and told Johnny that he had to go pee. When the man got out of the truck he reached behind the seat and got a rifle out. Before the man had got the rifle completely out, Johnny spotted it and dashed out of the passenger side door into the woods on the right side of the road. The man had fired two shots at Johnny but missed. Johnny could hear the man running after him, in fact the man stayed right on his heals for quite some time. It wasn’t until the lightning started that he noticed that the man was no longer behind him. What the hell was wrong with that man, Johnny thought to himself, and who was in the back of that truck trying to get out? Johnny would lay there thinking for another hour before he finally dosed off. . . . The vehicle had stopped, and Susan could hear a truck door open on the passenger side. They were not stopped long before taking off again. Still in a daze form the drug she finally realized that Mr. Topple must have moved her to a different vehicle because she was no longer in the station wagon in which she had been put into. Slowly Susan began to come to her senses and became more alert to her surroundings. Susan thought it must have been thirty minutes or so since they the driver had stopped. She needed to use the bathroom bad. Susan raised her feet that were tied together at the ankles and began kicking one of the walls where she was being held captive. It didn’t take long before she noticed that the vehicle had pulled over. After hearing the driver’s door open it wasn’t a few seconds later that she heard two-gun shots. Scared to death Susan fell silent and waited for the worst. Why was this man shooting and what was he shooting at?

   Susan sat there in silence and wondered if her mother and father were looking for her. They must be worried by now she thought. Surely someone would soon find her and this nightmare would come to an end with the authorities arresting Mr. Topple before he could do this again. Susan’s mind would race with thoughts for the next hour until she passed out from mind exhaustion.

. . . The morning sun was a refreshing sight for Johnny as he came out of his make-shift shelter. There was a slight breeze from the west blowing it's warm air through Johnny's long hair. Johnny decided to head North so as to not reencounter that crazy man that had picked him up the day before. After two hours of making his way through the wooded area he came up to a highway headed east looking for a road that would lead north. Not long after hitting the black top Johnny heard a vehicle coming from behind him. Turning around Johnny noticed it was the white van-truck that he was trying to avoid. The man must have slept in his van waiting the storm out Johnny thought to himself. The man in the van sped up as he noticed Johnny looking at him, The man did not want any one that could connect him to the girl he had in the back. Human trafficking wasn't something he wanted any part of but had owed Mr. Topple a huge favor and this was the favor he was stuck with doing. Mr. Topple had hired a lawyer that had gotten this man out of a bank robbery charge. As the van got closer to Johnny , Johnny jumped the ditch and decided to run across a wide open field. The white van tried to follow Johnny but when it hit the ditch the van went end over end crashing into the field. Johnny thought about the sounds he heard in the back of the van and knew he had to go see if they were alright. As he approached the van cautiously he could see the man's lifeless body sprawled out next to the van with a pool of blood around his head. He quickly went to the back and struggled with the door but eventually got it to open. Johnny helped the young girl out of the van and looked her over for injury's. Other than a bunch of bruises the girl looked untouched from the accident. Making their way to the nearest phone Susan would finally get to call her parents and tell them that she was ok. Gloria called Steve with such happiness and joy. Gloria told Steve that their daughter was ok and that she was being transported back home as they spoke. Steve quickly hung up the phone and  closed up for the day and left his office. As Steve headed towards his car he noticed several police units surrounding his car. Steve tried to run in the opposite direction but two undercover agents tackled Mr. Sorensen. Mr. Steve Sorensen you are under arrest for human trafficking and the sell of your own daughter. A Mr. Johnathon Topple told us everything about your business going under and that providing your own daughter would get you contracts from others involved in the local human sex trafficking ring. It will be a cold day in hell before you see any daylight, the young under cover agent told Mr. Sorensen...


Penny could no longer rely on her tank tops and jeans to cover her growing belly. She could not wear the pretty floral mini-skirts her friends back home wore; her clumsy nature would not allow her to even try low platform heels, much less four-inch ones that some of her favorite pop stars wore. There was a lot she could no longer do. She couldn’t eat ice cream, oddly, she couldn’t sleep, and she couldn’t focus. She could, however, burp and fart loudly. Most importantly, though, she could no longer hold her head high since becoming pregnant. Bad enough she was just 19 and unmarried; the way in which she got herself in this situation, along with the choice of father, or as she now called him, the “sperm donor”, were greatly embarrassing. She chose to run away from her uncaring family and all the colorful flower power and peace-loving crowds of her home town, to a place where people did not know her. Living alone on the streets of New York City’s Greenwich Village might not be smart, but she could hide her history, her roots, and even her belly if she could find a big enough midi dress in a local thrift shop. She also intended on dying her red hair, just in case someone came looking for her; she didn’t want to stand out like a sore, copper thumb. Penny stepped off the train at West Fourth Street, walking up the stairs and into the crowds, amidst traffic and the noise of street vendors selling flowers and joy, Hare Krishnas touting their religion; on the other side of the street, people shouted that their god was better and would come back to save them. War protestors abounded, and flower children decorated every street corner. Beggars asked for change. She gave one of them some money. She didn’t have much, but she felt sorry for him. Soon, she might need to share a tent or a box with someone. The most fascinating thing about Greenwich Village, Penny thought, was the cacophony of sounds, beautiful, all of them, the singers, the radios, turned up so loud that the old people walking by pressed their hands over their ears. The familiarity of church bells, except the music seemed to fade away in the crisp breeze. She knew churches no longer used actual bells, at least hers back home did not. But the sound was pleasant nonetheless. Penny followed the live music she could hear from blocks away. She made her way to Washington Square Park, where jazz, bluegrass, blues, pop and rock tunes permeated as people jumped in and out of the fountain. One person standing near the fountain caught her eye. He was not tall, but he was quite cute despite being a bit chubby. His thick, long hair was brown with a hint of vermillion. His eyebrows were like giant caterpillars attacking his eyes, which she couldn’t see as they were obscured by his big, embellished sunglasses. He wore multi-colored bell-bottom pants that seemed too tight on his muscular thighs, and a lace shirt and a pink patterned crochet vest over it. He wore a multi-colored knit golf cap that matched the vest. On his feet were shoes with the tallest platform on which she’d ever laid eyes. She loved his look, and moreover, his music, dulcet tones, covers of Bob Dylan, The Temptations, The Byrds and The Beatles. In front of him on a flimsy homemade stand sat a keyboard whose keys he hammered with a purpose as he jumped around to the music. She heard him say the next tune was his original. Penny stopped to listen, putting one of her three bags on the ground so she could sit comfortably. She rested her chin in her hands and admired this stranger who appeared to possess only his keyboard and a bucket, in which many people placed money. Not just change, like her donation to the beggar, but dollar bills! He deserved this money, as his music was intriguing, uplifting and beguiling. And his tenor voice, so sweet like molasses and tender like well-cooked steak. For a moment she forgot who she was, her troubles, the life she left behind, her family, friends, neighbors, and the priest who convinced her he loved her enough for her to trust him. The musician finished his song and received the most applause thus far. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” His speaking voice was interesting. Penny thought about the accent and quickly ascertained he must be English. She recognized the accent from watching TV interviews with the Beatles. This man could give John, Paul, George and Ringo a run for their money, especially since they’d recently broken up. “I’m Randy,” he told the audience. “I got my first gig at the Singing Siren this coming Friday. There’s no cover, so make sure you’re there.” “We love you, Randy!” shouted a man in the audience. “Whoo!” Randy laughed. “Thanks. Here’s your twenty dollars.” He waved a twenty as the audience laughed. He slipped the bill back into his pants pocket. He was not only talented and cute, but also funny. “I got one more original tune for you before I take a break,” Randy said, noticing a trio of police officers wander into the park. “The po-lice aren’t always kind. The man hassles us. ‘Are you licensed to perform?’ they ask. But I’m only licensed to make you smile. This one’s called ‘The Unknown Woman’.” How appropriate, Penny thought. “She ran away, far away, from the world she knew too well. She wanted a new life, a new life, no strife. Running away from what she knew,” he began. “What she knew was blue. A world unkind that was untrue.” Penny blushed, feeling he was looking right through her, talking to her soul. He looked her way, removed his sunglasses and nodded, smiling at her. She waved at him and smiled, looking around at the people who sat entranced, hardly noticing her though she felt they did. It was just her paranoia. No one here knew her. She was safe. After this, she thought, it’s the local drug store for hair dye. She urged her wavy hair way from her eyes. Everyone clapped along as Randy encouraged them to do. What a personality on this character! The song was upbeat and not at all what she’d anticipated. It culminated with the girl finding love and happiness in her new town and returning to her old one to show off. Not what she was intending, but that was just fine. “Be back in a few if the pigs let me,” he said, his very British pronunciation shining through every syllable. “’ello, lass,” he said, walking up to her immediately. “H-hi.” She felt electricity between them as they shook hands. “Wot’s your name then, lass?” He removed his cap, revealing a slight bald spot. He rubbed his head, sweaty from his performance in the hot sun. “Oh, it’s Penny. What’s yours?” Recalling he’d announced his name, she blushed and threw up her hands. “Never mind.” He laughed. Penny thought he was looking at her belly, but again, probably just her paranoia. “Are you here alone, dear?” he asked her, wiping his brow and sticking his sunglasses in his vest pocket. “Um. No. Not really.” She had to lie to protect herself. She’d learned the hard way not to trust every smiling face. In fact, there was a song about that topic with which she was familiar. And another, a new one she’d just heard. “Are you sure? Because you look alone.” Talented, cute, funny and astute, Penny thought. “A penny for your thoughts,” he said. “Corny.” “’eard it before, eh?” She nodded. “I’m not gonna be Randy for much longer,” he started. “See, I’m changing my name. It’s Randy Wilson now. Who wants to ‘ear pop and rock by a bloke named Randy Wilson?” “I do.” “No offense, dear, but one fan don’t build a career.” She looked around. “One of a million, Randy. These people love you.” “Hey!” Randy shouted at a man who snuck up, attempting to steal the money from his bucket. Randy jogged up to the basket and grabbed it, giving the man a dirty look. The man threw up his hands and walked away. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he said. “Sure. You’ve got bollocks the size of London.” “Is that where you’re from?” Penny asked him when he returned to her. “What say, lass? Oh, no. Me? I’m from Middlesex, England.” “I’m from New Rochelle. But don’t tell anyone.” “Why? It embarrass you?” His eyes pierced through her again. “Oh, sorry, lass. Got to get back on stage straightaway before the acrobats jump in. Hah. I've made a funny. Wait for me, yeah?” “Oh, yes.” She smiled. “I’ve got nothing better to do.” “Gee, thanks a bloody lot!” He stroked her arm. She shook her head, laughed and put her head down. “This next set is dedicated to my folks back home in Middlesex, England,” he started. “Set? You think you’re on a real stage, man?” a heckler shouted. “Ya. I actually am, friend,” Randy replied. “I hope you enjoy my tunes.” The man waved his hand and scoffed. “You know, no one’s putting a gun to your head,” Penny told the heckler. “What?” “He’s really good. Give him a chance.” She moved her legs into a yoga pose. “Just give him a chance,” she whispered. “He’s gonna be at the Singing Siren.” The man scoffed and walked away. Randy finished another two originals interspersed with more covers including one by the Supremes, which he attempted to sing in soprano as a joke. He took his final bows, grabbed his keyboard, stand and bucket and made room for the mime juggler who was waiting on deck. “He’s good too,” he told Penny as he walked up to her. “You don’t sound too sure,” she answered. “Ya, I’m actually not.” He giggled. “But let ‘im fight with the po-lice.” They both laughed. “Where you ‘eaded?” he asked her. “Oh. I’m actually not sure either,” she chuckled. He put his arm around her. “Don’t worry, lass. I’m a good guy. Despite what you might hear about me in the tabloids one day.” “Oh, you’re funny.” “Thank you. Would you enjoy some candyfloss?” “What?” “Oh, you Americans call it cotton candy. I forgot. Sorry. There’s a vendor right over there. I’ll fetch you one.” Before she could say he should not bother as it might make her ill, he jogged over and got her some. He waltzed back with a bounce in his step. “How do you run in those shoes?” “Oh, not very well, to be perfectly honest with you. I have to walk around the flat to get used to them.” “Flat?” “Yeah, where I live.” “Oh. Apartment.” “Yeah. I live there with me mate. We write songs together.” “Oh. What’s her name?” “Oh, no. Me mate’s a man. I mean, we’re chums.” “I see.” “Where’s your flat?” “I…” Penny didn’t know what to say. “You don’t ‘ave one, do ya?” She put her head down and shook it. He put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re not the only one. Truth? Everyone lacks something. Listen, I told you I’m a sort you can trust. I meant it.” He placed his other hand on her other shoulder and looked her square in the eye, his beautiful hazel globes penetrating her green ones. “You’re coming ‘ome with me.” “I’m pregnant.” “Oh, I know.” “What? How?” “I’m psychic.” He laughed. “Joshing. Just ultra-sensitive I suppose. A product of who I am.” “Who are you?” “Never mind. I’ve enough dough for us to fetch a cab and a bit of supper.” “No, you don’t have to…” “I want to. But first let me toss this ridiculous stand I made in the dust bin over here.” “I can help you make a new one.” “Much obliged, kind Penny. You know, I don’t want you to worry, love. I won’t make a pass at you. Not that you’re not pretty. You’re very beautiful,” Randy said hailing a cab. “Thank you.” He opened the taxi door with a playful flourish, waving her in first. “Three-forty West Fourth Street, mate,” he said. They arrived at his apartment quickly. Randy put money in the compartment in front of him. “Keep the change, mate.” “Wow. You live real close to Washington Square.” “I suppose you wonder why we didn’t walk?” “Yeah.” Randy lifted up one of his shoes. “See? The cost of fashion.” She laughed. He removed both shoes and handed them to her. “You’ll see.” “Whoa. They weight a ton, man! What do you mean?” She gave them back to him. “I’m gonna make you try them on!” She protested. “No, no, no way! I’ll fall and break my neck.” “Don’t worry. My flat mate will ‘elp pick you up. Actually, you must watch out for him. He might fancy you.” “Oh, really?” “He’s a gentleman, though. A pussycat. Don’t worry.” They walked up the three flights and as Randy jiggled the keys trying to find the right one, the door opened. “Hey, mate. ‘ow was your gig?” “Good. Good.” “Who we got here?” “Penny. This is Penny. She’s a new friend.” “’ello, Penny, new friend. I’m Andrew. His flatmate.” “And you’re British too?” “’ow’d you guess, lass?” Andrew said with a hint of sarcasm. Randy walked in, tossed his shoes on the floor and leaned his keyboard against the kitchen wall. “Go on, then, Penny. Model the shoes for us, won’t you?” “No, thank you.” “If you try them on, then, we might let you stay here tonight.” Andrew looked at him. “What?” “She’s ‘asn’t got a place of her own. Methinks she’s running from something.” Randy sighed. “’e’s a bit cautious, this one.” Penny grew silent and looked away. “And the poor lass ‘as got herself in trouble, too.” “Trouble?” Andrew asked. “I’m pregnant.” “Wot are you running from then?” Andrew asked, holding out a chair for her. “My family. My friends. The baby’s father.” “Does he know…?” Randy asked, opening a bag of sandwiches he picked up between Washington Square and the taxi. “I don’t think so.” “Your family knows?” Andrew asked. “Yes. My friends know too.” “Why don’t you talk to the father?” Randy asked, handing her a tuna salad on rye. “He’s…” She sat down and sighed. “I can’t tell him.” “Why not?” Randy asked, munching on a roast beef and cheese. Andrew sat down and grabbed some napkins. “Tell, us, lass.” “He’s…he’s a…he’s a…p-priest.” Randy and Andrew looked at each other silently, chewing slowly, their eyes falling to the floor before meeting Penny’s, Andrew’s bright ceruleans were sad. “Love, that’s tough,” Randy said. “A Catholic priest? I’m so sorry.” “You poor gal,” Andrew said, wiping away a tear. “But what do you want from us, then?” “Andrew! She’s got no place to live! How far along are you, then?” Randy asked. “Six months.” There was silence in the room. They could hear the sirens and shouts outside the window, common for their neighborhood. And they could hear one another chewing. After what seemed like forever, Randy spoke up. “I’ll marry you, then,” Randy said. “What?” said both Penny and Andrew in unison. “Penny, the bloke’s ‘omosexual.” Andrew shook his head. “What? Who?” Randy pointed to himself, crossing his legs. “I am. Me. I like blokes.” Penny was at a loss for words. “So why would you want to marry me ?” “You’re being barmy, mate! Why don’t you shut it and stop teasing this poor gal, then?” “A poor attempt at being funny. I’m sorry, love. I don’t know wot else to say. I ‘aven’t got any explanation.” He got up and stroked her cheek. “But I want to ‘elp you.” “How? What if you find a bloke you want to be with?” she asked. Randy stroked her hair. “A bloke. You’re learning! I don’t expect I’d be allowed to walk ‘and-in-‘and with him down the street. I might fall for a bloke.” He shrugged. “I might not.” He sighed and sat down. “I want to ‘elp you, Penny.” Penny rubbed her forehead. “I-I don’t know what to say. You’re too generous.” “If you ask me, love, this bloke ‘as lost his mind.” Randy laid his keyboard on the kitchen table and started playing a tune. “’e’s got talent. Just no common sense. But wouldn’t she get in the way, mate?” Andrew said. “’e’s gonna make it soon. A record deal, touring and the like.” Randy began compiling a melody, humming and singing, “Mmmm, good bloke. ‘e’d give her a good life. A good life she deserved. Finally, a good life.” She ran over to Randy and kissed him full on the lips. “Wow!” Randy chuckled. Penny smiled. “We share some kind of connection. I know it seems insane. We just met…” “Okay, you crazy love birds can ‘ave your honeymoon at the Siren this Friday. I’ll toss ya a bouquet!” Andrew shook his head and scoffed. “Andrew, Andrew, Andrew! Always jesting!” Randy walked over to his friend. “Will you be my best man, mate?” “Cut the charade, mate.” “All right, then, Penny, will you please try on the shoes?” She picked them up, sliding them on. “What is your obsession with these shoes?” “Well, you’ll ‘ave lots of time, love, to practice walking in them in this flat. Yours now, too, if you’ll ‘ave it,” Randy said. “Right, mate?” “You always do wot you want, don’t you?” Andrew shook his head. “They fit pretty well,” Penny beamed as she tried walking from the kitchen to the living room. “Can I borrow them?” Randy walked over to her and gave her a hug. “I’ll stay overnight. No promises.” “But we’ll be friends, yeah?” Randy asked her, appearing very serious. “Yes. We’re friends.” Penny had never felt she belonged more than this in her life. Perhaps this place was home.