Warning: Anti-Asian racism. Some strong language. Diary entry: December 23, 2019: At Kirk’s cabin in North Carolina. I think Alex takes after my brother. They’re both wiry but my mother disagrees. She thinks he looks like my grandmother. Anyway, Alex made me coffee. It’s bitter but I drink it anyway. Kirk’s in-laws are here with their grandkids and everyone’s talking. Outside the trees are bare, branches like veins against a gray sky. I’m just thinking of a poem when Carol says something about a new virus in China. I was about to say hopefully it doesn’t come here but Maddie jumped into my lap. Her long hair brushes against my face. “Watch my coffee!” I say. Maddie ignores me. “Aunt Michele, there are deer outside! Come look.” ……….. February 20, 2020. Diary entry: Some scout moms aren't going to the St. Lucie County Fair. They're worried about the Covid. We went, and Alex bought a weird anime mask. It's made of cloth and plastic. The bottom part looks like a skull's jaw and it lights up when he speaks. Well, it's his money. We went on the Ferris wheel and ate arepas. Nice night. ........... March 1, 2020 News report: Florida becomes the tenth state to confirm its first COVID-19 cases: one in Manatee County, and one in Hillsborough County with a woman who had recently returned from Italy. …… Text to Andrew, March 9, 2020: Grandma is crazy. Everyone's freaking out and she says buy my couch now. Says there'll be good sales! I hope college is going well for you. Love Mom ………. Email: March 13, 2020 Hi Mom the kids seem to be handling everything well, thanks for asking. Yes, they’ve canceled all the scout activities. They extended Alex's spring break and Drew’s college went online. People still need prosthetics and braces, so we're essential. Beaches are closed but we've been able to rent kayaks. We went to one of the spoil islands in the inlet. Saw a manatee and a stingray. Are the city docks open in Palatka? Funny that you mention the shortages. You know what I can't find at Publix? Garlic! I mentioned this to my boss. He reached into a pocket and handed me a clove. He said. “I’ll get you more.” You might ask why he's carrying it. Apparently, it wards off the evil eye. I’ll admit I have some in my pocket now. We need all the help we can get. I bought a light-up mask like Alex's and I wear it to work. The children like it. Anything to make them more comfortable. I put a coffee filter into it for more protection. Alex said people at his high school were scared. "Even if they have junior prom," he said, "a lot of people aren't going." “I don’t see panicking,” I answered. “This isn’t polio. We’re not going to be paralyzed and end up in an iron lung.” "An iron lung?" he answered. "I don't think one can put that in a person, Mom." I hope you got a laugh out of this. Love Michele ………. Email March 25, 2020: Dear Mom. I’m sorry we weren't able to see you but we had to get Drew out of the dorms. He asked his roommate for a ride at least to Melbourne, but Todd didn't have room in his car. Plus his mom didn't want him driving with another kid. Like they haven't been sharing a room the size of my big toenail but whatever. Yes I know Dad could've gone but the last thing he needs is to get sick. I do appreciate you offering a room but I don't know how long the dorms will be closed. Tell you what the place was a tomb. Our voices echoed like it was an old cathedral, not a modern building. All that remained was the undead guardian at the front desk. Okay, it was a bored student in a cloth mask but he didn't look too lively to tell the truth. I'm tired too. Anyway, We loaded up Drew’s stuff in the car. He left the refrigerator and hopefully, no one steals it. On the way out we stopped at a Taco Hell. Of course, only the drive-through was open. As I pulled in, a homeless guy walked up and asked for money. He was pale and smelled like stale beer. His eyes were red and he had tangled black dreads. I told him if he was hungry I’d buy him a taco. He cursed at me and stomped off. Some things never change in good old Jacksonville. I watched him cross the parking lot to Freddie's Diner. He began searching the trash bin for cans I assume. I didn't think he'd bother us so we sat in the car and ate our food. At least the kids did. I decided to sit in the grass. Bad idea. I stepped right into a fire ant hill. And of course, they swarmed me. I danced around cursing. Someone laughed from the empty lot next door. I ripped my shoes off, flung them at the car, then poured my soda on my feet. I wanted to cry-well never mind, we won’t go there. Anyway, I grabbed the wrappers, threw them into a garbage can, and stomped back to the car. Alex saw me and got out, glaring at the homeless guy. The man continued laughing. "Deserved," he called to me. "Hey, you-" Alex began but I pulled him away. "Forget it," I said. "It's not worth it. Let's go. I’ll get something to drink from the gas station down the street.” “Let me drive home, Mom,” Drew said, taking the keys from me. Anyway, we made it home alive and tomorrow is a new day. Love Michele …….. Email to Dad: April 2, 2020: Hi Dad, See what you think of this poem. If I win I’ll get 100 dollars, although I’ll just be happy to see it printed. How are your students doing? Zoom sucks I'm sure. Love Michele. I should have known, I should have when I had to take that thyroid medicine. Get it fixed. It will be all right nothing to it or was there? I should have known, the day my children’s father died (Not even fifty yet!) It was just an inkling Nothing I couldn’t handle See a doctor, change my diet (take these stupid pills) fix my blood pressure. We’re fine, we’re fine. Even as another uncle died young. (It only happens to other people.) Climate change, the Amazon is Burning. I donate every month. A light at the end of the tunnel I see it bright and glowing. I should have known what that was. Someone ate a bat in China or maybe they just sold it and Now I sit at home and play Monopoly with My sons. My oldest is home from college. And my hands itch. The alcohol on them, I guess. I drink it, I wash in it. (Liquor stores are considered essential, are they not?) We can’t stay away from alcohol. Three million unemployed. One of our workers laid off I may be next if We have to shelter. I'm carrying garlic. It wards off the evil eye. Superstition fighting an illusion. My youngest sneezes and sneezes. “It must be the cat, she’s shedding.” But I know now the light in that tunnel might be an oncoming train. On social media (it’s all I have left.) I do not know what is true or not. But I can’t stand to look. I should have known, I should have Known my security My sons' very health and Mine might be illusions. Or they’re real. And illusions shatter. Then there's another. I no longer know reality. I no longer can tell what is illusion anymore. Yeah it’s sad, what else is new? Love Michele ……. Email April 7, 2020: Dear Mom and Dad: It’s all the Democrats' fault. They’re inflating the number of Covid cases because they don’t want to see Trump re-elected. At least that’s what my patient says. I asked her if she really thinks anyone wants to shut the economy down and go broke just because they think our president is a tad useless. “They'll do anything,” she said. One thing that's useless is arguing with people. I shrugged and got on with measuring her for her back brace. At least she wasn’t as bad as the man who came in. He was a Korean War vet with a fractured wrist and a bone to pick. Many of the veterans do and who can blame them? They're dealing with a society that just doesn't understand. Anyway, I asked him how he was managing in these trying times. He said something about his wife having Covid but was doing better now. To be honest, I was distracted. I wanted to make certain my measurements were correct, so I was only half listening to him. His next words changed all that. “It’s the Chinese,” he said. “They caused this virus. They wanted to hurt us.” I stopped charting and stared at this man sitting in my chair. He was as thin as Alex, with gray thinning shoulder-length hair, worn jeans, and black sneakers. He could be anyone’s grandfather, except for what he just said. I asked him to repeat himself. “You heard me,” he said, leaning back. “And it’s true.” I’ve said it’s useless arguing but sometimes one has to try. Especially these days. There’s a plague out that's many times worse than Covid; something that no PPE can protect against. I call it Stupifear. It's fear mixed with fake news. This disorder makes people stupid and nothing can stop it. But I was going to try. I put down my measuring tape, rubbed my eyes, and sighed. “Think about this,” I said. “Why would they hurt their own people? Their own economy? In fact,” I shook my head. “If I was going to release a virus I’d drop it anywhere else than my own country.” I’ve learned you can’t use logic with people. The man leaned forward as if I had to understand. “I’ve seen things in that war.” “What things?” “They used their own people,” he said in his raspy voice. "As targets . In order to trap us." The man shook his head as if to dislodge a long-ago memory. His breath was heavy with tobacco. "They didn't care who died. And they don't care now.” “That sounds horrible,” I said, because what the hell else could I do? I’d like to say I told him to get out, that I was angry and outraged. But I didn’t and I wasn’t. I just felt very sad. Sad that a war from sixty-plus years ago had stuck its claws into a man’s heart and had scarred it so very deeply that he saw evil from simple natural causes. And such a wound would never heal. Or worse, he couldn’t let that hatred go. None of this was an excuse. I knew that. But I felt helpless to change his mind. I didn't even know how. I’m stopping at the bar next to my office tonight for happy hour. I need a drink. Love Michele ……… Email: June 10, 2020: Hi Mom, well you said we all have a straw that will break us. Apparently, mine are goddamned summer activities. Or lack thereof. Yep, the BSA council canceled Alex's scout camp. Because there’s an outbreak in Miami Dade County. They couldn’t take the risk. He was upset of course, but in the end, shrugged it off. I didn't take it well. My boss told me that there were worse things. And he's right. Take Sara’s mother who died from Covid. I think I mentioned it, didn’t I? And what did our meetup group do, you ask? I’ll tell you. We drove past her house in our stupid cars and waved at her. Watch her cry as fifteen of us went by on a day that had no business being this sunny. It should have rained. Hell, the heavens should’ve opened with tears. It didn’t. If any angels wept I know nothing about it. End of April my friend David’s wife broke her hip. I told you about that also. I just didn’t mention that he cried because he couldn’t see her in the hospital. The kayaking group comforted him via Zoom and hoped it would be enough. Because he’s got cancer and quarantined himself. And I held up. I took the boys to Walmart along with half of the city just to do something. We hiked in the woods until we knew them by heart; until the beaches reopened. Who the hell closes the beaches and leaves Walmart open anyway? We're packed in there like sardines because there's no place else to go. How much worse can it be? Sometimes I wonder if DeSantis knows his ass from his-well never mind. When I heard about the camp, I started crying. Drew saw me and ran into his bedroom. I shouted coward at his closed door. He didn't respond. Honestly, I can't blame him. Alex said it wasn't a big deal, but I couldn't stop crying. I locked my bedroom door and texted my friend Sharon. I told her all I had wanted was something normal for Alex. Then apologized. I wrote I’m such an idiot. People are crippled by this. Crippled . We haven't gotten sick at all. I should be counting my lucky stars, not whining . It’s okay to cry, Sharon wrote back. We’re all under a lot of stress. That’s definitely the word for this. Well, no need to worry. We’re all fine, really. I’m working. Drew is doing well in his classes and teaching on Zoom. Alex passed his junior year at least. We might even get another stimulus soon. And I have tequila at home. We’ll all be okay. Love Michele. ……. Email to Mom September 9, 2020: Hi Mom and Dad: Which odds would you gamble? Long Covid or Long mental illness? Which one if both can cripple you? Alex has to go back to school. Virtual isn't cutting it. I'll take my chances. He isn't showering. He wears the same clothes for days on end. He sleeps half the day and is up all night. Brain fog via Covid? Try brain fog via depression. Well, Alex agreed to go back so hopefully it will help. And he has scouts again. He's got an extension for his Eagle rank. He's working on it. Drew settled fine in the dorms. But funny you say he doesn't email you; he texts me almost every day. Mostly it's to ask silly questions. "What's my social security number?" Like I didn't give him his card before he left. Drew also said the dorms had special rooms if he got sick. "Isolation rooms," I answered. "That's good." "Yeah," he replied. "Except they probably drag you off and you're never seen again." Use humor when all else fails, I suppose. Anyway, I'm glad you're getting to see your friends again. Maybe we’ll get to see you for Thanksgiving this year. Love Michele. …… Diary entry, November 30, 2020 Funny how seeing family for Thanksgiving feels reckless. Fauci wouldn't approve. What does he know? Anyway, we all took Covid tests so it's all right. We stayed at a resort in Orlando. Even more reckless but in for a penny and all that. Kirk came with Carol and Maddie. They were kind enough to pick up Drew on their way from North Carolina. We took Maddie to Disney Springs. It’s all outdoors so we figured it would be all right. There were lines to get into many of the stores; Disney was limiting the number of people inside. Of course, we had to wear masks and get our temperatures taken. But at least we were together. ……. Email to Mom, December 20, 2020: We’re looking forward to seeing you for Christmas. We’re going to pick up Drew and then stop in St Augustine to see the lights before we come into Palatka. See you soon. By the way, wanted to let you know Alex is planning his Eagle project. He's going to do a couple of new signs for the county parks. So he's doing better. Love Michele. …… Diary entry: December 26, 2020 St. Augustine was crowded like everyone was sick of quarantine. Like if hell came for them so be it. But the lights on the trees were beautiful. Like strings of tiny stars stretched across the park. The bridges are bright pathways across the bay to the ocean. It was cold for Florida. I hoped it would be like the book The Plague by Camus where the cold signals the end to their disease. Unfortunately, Fauci says winter is the worse for Covid because everyone’s inside. Not tonight though. Tonight we’re all tired of four walls. …. Diary entry: January 5th, 2021: One of the women from our meetup group died today. She'd been in the hospital and they think she caught Covid from there. They had just gotten her off the ventilator. I didn't know her well, but she'll be missed. Her husband held a memorial service for her and I went. Where are the vaccines, Dr Fauci? ........ Email to Mom: February 20, 2021: Hi Mom I’m writing this while I wait in line at the fairgrounds. Today they’re vaccinating the health care workers, so here I am waiting in my car at 7:00 am. I wanted to get here early and I’m not the only one. There must be sixty cars here at least if not more. After this, I'll take Alex to his friend's house. They haven't seen each other in a while. I wonder if I'll be getting the Covid vaccine every year now like we do with the flu. We'll see I guess. Love Michele


Stuart Watson									about 2,100 words 607 Ridgeview Court Hood River, OR 97031 stu@watsonx2.com 541-386-8860 More Than It Can Hold by Stuart Watson We were gardening, pushing bulbs into the ground and hoping for flowers. I heard a car door slam, looked up, saw four young men carrying something really heavy toward the front door of the house across the street and two doors down. It’s painted red, but I couldn’t tell much about the thing they were carrying toward it. All I could tell was they were straining under its weight, spread out, struggling with their share of the load, but knees bent almost to the ground. One man went down and the others hurried to adjust, to keep their load from falling and crushing their friend. He sprung to his feet, quickly grabbed new purchase on the load and they resumed their trudge. Maybe it was the bright setting sun, but I couldn’t tell what this object was. It had corners and edges, where people could grab it and lift. It was longish, maybe the length of a rolled rug, but it wasn’t a rug. Or at least it wasn’t what I could identify as a rug. Frankly, I’m not sure if it was anything.

“New neighbors?” I said to Sylvia, tapping dirt from my trowel.

My wife looked up, a smear of dirt like a mustache above her lip.

“Looks like it,” Sylvia said. “House has been on the market so long. It will be nice having somebody in it.” “Will it? I love empty houses. New people are always odd people.” “Why?” “Because people are odd? No, seriously, they just move in and go about their lives and none of it matters. Why should I care? Why not let the house be empty? So we can live in peace. They’ll probably have a dog. And let it sit outside and bark. The noise will drive me nuts. I’ll want to go over with my noise vacuum and suck it up and the dog with it.” “What are they moving?” “Not a clue. Can you see anything?” She looked for a few seconds. “Nope,” she said. “But they sure look like they’re hauling huge stuff. Hey–” She got my attention. “--you think they’re mimes?” It was the same thing all week long. I grew despondent. Groups of two to five men, carrying large items that, at least to our eyes, were invisible, but appeared to have considerable heft. One day, a really long item, maybe an invisible girder? The next day, something that could have fit inside a small apartment, floor to ceiling, wall to wall.

“I’m guessing it’s a commercial laundry machine,” I said. “Dirty sheets in, gray sheets out.”

“You know how when you’re on the freeway and get stuck behind some huge piece of industrial machinery on a low-boy?” Sylvia said. “Things that sort rocks or make concrete or turn forests into toilet paper? Maybe they’re DIYers, making their own butt wipe?” “We should get them an Oversize Load banner. As a housewarming gift.” That got us giggling like little kids, and the next thing you know, we were in the rack. When we were done, Sylvia rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. I’ve always loved the way her breasts slumped sideways at moments like that.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” she began, “but when I was walking Oscar by their place earlier today, I heard … well, it sounded like the sound you hear when an elevator starts to move and picks up speed. Rollers. Rattling. Air rushing past. Hearts beating loudly, everybody hoping this isn’t the elevator that goes blooey.” “Did it go blooey?” “Nope, but I heard it ding and the doors open and suddenly a bunch of voices, like when you arrive at your floor and other people are waiting to get on and everybody stands back for the guy with the photocopy machine on a cart and maybe you know some of them. Somebody always says that line from the Aerosmith song. Good morning, Mr. Tyler. Going … down? ” “Maybe they’ve got a big elevator in there?” “It’s a one-story rancher, you idiot.” The day after they moved the big thing in, I noticed an aroma. It was a little like fresh-mown grass, with notes of strawberry and lime, backed by a somewhat yeasty base. I imagined it was what a kombucha bakery smelled like. If there was such a thing. I asked Sylvia if she noticed it, and she said it smelled nice, like a lotion she wouldn’t mind rubbing behind her knees. The aroma lasted for a day or two, then waned. In that time, the house swelled to twice its previous size, mostly upward but a little to the rear as well. Lights pulsed behind the windows. We hadn’t met the new residents, so we thought it might be nice to invite them over for dinner. Get to know them. Maybe satisfy our curiosities.

Lars and Wanda arrived at six with a bottle of screw-cap red. Chateau Oaky Hills something or other. I already had a beer, but poured three wines for them and Sylvia. She had made chicken with roast potatoes, onions and carrots. Very Middle America.

I toasted “to good neighbors,” hoping it wasn’t too direct. Then I offered my help, if they needed any, with moving their stuff in.

“It looks big,” I said. “And heavy. I didn’t know sounds … and shit like that, they took up so much space.” “Oh, you have no idea,” Lars said. “Big sounds, big space.” “Well, if you need a dolly or a come-along, let me know.” They thanked me. From there, it was pretty open-ended questions, hoping they would spill the beans. “Lotta stuff.” “Don’t you hate moving?” “Where did you come from?” “Are you among the lucky ones, remote workers?”

They weren’t. They came from Dubuque. Two kids, in elementary. He was a sonic archivist. He saw our uncomprehending looks.

“Like a sound engineer.” “Oh,” I said. Then, “All abooooard!” He looked at me like I was an idiot.

“You know? Trains?” “That would be the conductor,” he said. “No trains involved.” It was a pleasant evening. Social events drain us both. We crashed. I was deep in dreamspace when the sound of a huge crash jerked me awake. Sylvia was screaming. “What is it? What is it?” Our room was fine. I slipped into my sweatpants and hoody, closing the door behind me in case we had an intruder, who had accidentally tipped over the refrigerator. I flicked on the hall light and slowly made my way through the house. All was normal. Nobody jumped out from the behind a doorway with a knife.

So I went outside, out front, where activity lived. It was still dark. We had no street lights, by our choice, so I had to pick my way along our sidewalk. When you’re looking for a sound, or more precisely, the source of a sound, it can be challenging. Nothing presented itself. Across the street, I heard crunching and tinkling, like what you hear after a building has collapsed and the stuff on the top floor is just arriving at the bottom, all atomized and reduced to rubble inside a billowy cloud of concrete dust. Otherwise, nothing to see here. I turned back toward our house and that’s when I tripped, stumbling forward and down, onto our lawn. What was that? I crawled to my hands and knees and worked my way back, feeling the ground for the obstruction. I found nothing but flat, pebbly concrete. And then the voice. Ahh, that magic voice. Fred Parris. I’m old enough to remember when he first shone from the airwaves, he and his do-wop Satins. “In the Still of the Night” became the theme song to my lost innocence. Our lost virginity. But where? What was the source? I was lying on a sidewalk in the dark, no radio, no passing car, no lights from any window? The song’s lyrics trailed off, as if just passing through, which of course, any song does. Sylvia had the lights on when I returned, and told her about that magic moment. She smiled that smile, and wrapped her arms around my neck. Still the same. After the sun came up and everyone got after their yard chores, I could see the new neighbors – Lars and Wanda and two teenage boys – out picking up stuff from their yard. I couldn’t see what. Frankly, it looked like they were just going through the motions. There was nothing there, but they were bending over and reaching down and struggling to stand back up, whatever it was (or wasn’t) cradled in their arms. Then they would take it back into the house.

I couldn’t resist wandering over, casual as can be, with Roscoe on his leash. “Lend a hand?” I offered. Lars looked up, smiled. “Thanks, no,” he said. “Think we got it.” “Uh, it ?” I said. “Oh,” he said, looking around, almost as if it should have been obvious. “Our sound file tipped over in the night. Not sure why. But audio went everywhere. Still missing a few pieces. If you happen to come across The Still of the Night or Alley Oop , we’d love to get them back.” “Records?” He stared at me, geezer and dog. “No,” he said, finally. “Songs. The sound of voices and instruments. Gear on gear. Weather. Urbanity. Construction and transport. All for aural consumption. They’re beasts, these sound bites. And heavy. Especially the death metal. Cavernous” I must have looked confused. “Sorry if it woke you,” he said. “Moving is a bitch. We hadn’t organized everything yet. Our Tower-Crane-Toppling audio … well, it toppled – ironic, right? –

and knocked over the 747-Crashing, and that tumbled into the Walk-Off-Home-Run-Cheering and the Atomic-Bomb-Detonating and …” He looked at me, as if something on my face betrayed what, in fact, I felt – a mixture of confusion and incredulity and the sense that I was being fed a line of snake oil mumbo-jumbo. Or the jabber of a savant. So I jumped at the chance for clarity. “Isn’t sound just air? Invisible vibrations passing through? Like a pulse? Not much more than a feeling?” “Or like a stupid question,” Lars replied. “It’s not just air. Sound is … value-added air. It’s

the most valuable thing, the repository of words, emotions, speech, music, natural percussive echo and oral transmission of memory, the gospel rock of Sister Rosetta Tharp, bird journeys, exhalations swept away by atmospheric rivers, conversations in sidewalk cafes and the councils of government, where hate takes root, gains traction, where fear inhales and hides, where ...

“ “You’re stoned, right?” To his credit, Lars smiled. Took no offense. Figured Rubes like me would never get it, so why waste time and breath trying to explain. He invited us to come by later.

“This house is way too small for our collection,” he said. “Last night? Proof if ever we needed it: We’ve got far more than the house can hold. We’re having a yard sale later. You could find a bargain or two. I’ll give you a deal on a priceless Steam-Engines-Colliding.” I nodded. Priceless? As if anyone would pay for something as evanescent as a sound bite from the 19th century? I didn’t know what to say, but I’m sure that when our eyes met, Bart realized that I thought he was nuts.

“You could get a phone,” I said. “Upload all your noise. To the cloud ? And download it. E-z p-z.” Lars’s lips thinned out, tight, cinched into a grimace. It was like I’d insulted him and he didn’t want to get arrested for taking me to the ground and extinguishing my lights. Such as they are, my lights. Maybe I should’ve called it something other than noise, but it wasn’t exactly all music, was it? “We gotta lighten the load,” he said. “Got a cacophonous shipment of stuff coming down the river on a barge. Need to make room.”

On the way back to our house, I chastised myself for being too judgmental. Who was I to say that Bart and his clan were any different than some scruffy philatelist or presser of flowers between paper towels inside the pages of the Sears catalog, whatever that is? Was .

Sylvia was sipping coffee when I returned. Slurping it. Loudly. At the top of her lungs. Or lips, actually. She peered over the top of her cup, expectant. “News?” “Lars is an air collector.” “No shit? Where does he collect it?” “Anywhere and everywhere. Only thing is? They’ve got too much of it. It’s crashing down around their ears.” I suddenly felt the urge to capture Sylvia’s slurp, like a free-flying parakeet, and put it in a cage for future reference. To protect it, treasure it, appreciate it whenever I wanted. Then I realized that was unnecessary. It would always be there, every morning, until it wasn’t. Instead I told her about the yard sale.


He could hear voices. It was the first thing that he could sense as he slowly started to regain consciousness. One of them sounded familiar, but he could not quite make out what was being said. It felt as if there was water stuck in his ears and all the vibrations were being filtered before hitting his eardrums. The murmurs became louder and gradually, he could feel his other senses returning. He started to register the light entering his pupils through his eyelids, but everything felt too bright and he could not open them just yet. The sensations around his mouth came next and he could taste the disgusting stickiness of his dry mouth keeping his lips stuck where they were. He could tell that he was lying on a bed, with his torso raised slightly, but could not feel his arms or legs, which probably would have caused panic if it were not for the general haze surrounding all of his body. Lastly he began to smell the numbingly clean odor that was instantly recognizable as a hospital room. It entered his nostrils and further signaled his brain to wake up. The sounds became clearer and he could just make out a woman talking softly yet with conviction to someone else in the room, “yes, he should wake up in the next few hours. I would recommend getting yourself something to eat and drink at the shop now before he wakes up. It would be best for you to be here to talk with him once he does.” Before he could try and send a signal, a grunt, a wave, a shift in his body, to show that he was already awake, he heard the two sets of footsteps moving away. The sliding door lightly hit the frame and bounced open again, before someone made sure to seal it tight on their way out. The only sound now was the beeping of a vital signs monitor next to him. Disheartened, at being left alone, he gave himself a moment to sink into his skin. He couldn’t remember why he was in the hospital. In fact, it dawned on him that he couldn’t remember much of anything. Why was he here? Who were the people in the room with him just now? Where was this hospital? What was his name? A panic started to rise from his chest into his throat. How could he not remember his own name? He tried taking a deep breath to calm himself, and felt his lungs expand before a sharp pain in his left rib caused him to yelp. It helped to shift his attention momentarily away from the panic. The vital signs monitor once again became the only sound in the room. With the pain in his ribs screaming out at him, he tried his best to gain control over the rest of his body. He opened his eyes and saw a blurry image of the television in front of him, as well as the window to his right, the lights of nearby high-rises shining brightly in the night sky. His neck was still sore, and even with the rush of adrenaline he was unable to twist it beyond a few inches. He rolled his eyeballs as far to the left as he could and saw a light blue curtain dividing his side of the room with what he assumed was a second bed. As he took in his surroundings, the pain and panic he felt before subsided, but it was replaced instead by a feeling of utter solitude. He could not remember anyone. Not even himself. It was an absolute sense of loneliness that engulfed him inside this dreary hospital room. He longed for some company. “Must have been a pretty bad fall,” a sudden voice shocked him, causing a sharp intake of breath, forcing him to yelp in pain for a second time. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the voice sounded worried. His eyes darted around looking for a source. Oddly, he couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from, but he again saw the curtain to his left and deduced that it must be coming from the bed behind it. He wasn’t sure who was talking, but at least he could direct his attention now to a specific area. He tried to respond, but at first all that came out was a faint scratchy noise. After a couple of tries, he managed to clear his throat and produce a tiny amount of saliva to produce a few words. “Not great,” he managed to say. “That’s a shame,” the voice expressed disappointment and continued, “I thought maybe we could have a chat, but perhaps another day.” “No, no, please,” he urgently responded, grasping for company with his words. His vocal cords were starting to warm up. “Oh, well, sure, if you’re up for it,” the voice cheerily said. There was a pause. He couldn’t think of anything to talk about. After a moment, it was the voice that broke the ice. “Well, perhaps we can talk about something pleasant. How about we share our dreams? Let me tell you mine. Ever since I was a child, I dreamt of being a lion tamer. I saw one when the circus came through town and I was absolutely floored by his charisma. Able to control a beast with just the crack of a whip. What about you? What was your dream?” the voice asked. He thought this was an odd topic to chat about with a stranger, but decided to engage as he was appreciating the company. However, he realized that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t access any of his memories. He still couldn’t remember his name, let alone his dreams. “I... I can’t remember,” he said, slightly saddened and embarrassed. “Well, that’s alright. We forget our dreams all the time. And even if we remember them, they might not come true. That’s a disappointment we don’t want to face, right?” the voice chuckled. “How about something else? Something simpler. What about your favorite ice cream flavor? Or go-to movie? What are the simple pleasures in life you enjoy?” It was no use, as he could not remember any of these details about his own life. It began to irritate him that he was being asked all of this. The sense of emptiness only seemed to widen as he faced the fact that he was without all of these memories. “No, no, you need to stop asking me these questions. I can’t seem to remember anything. I can't even remember my name!” he cried out in frustration. “Well, perhaps that’s for the best,” the voice mumbled. Upon hearing those words, he felt an anger boil up from his gut. How could this stranger tell him that losing all of his memories was for the best? Was he somehow insinuating that his past was better forgotten? “What do you mean by that?” he growled. The rage was numbing the pain in his ribs and throat. He continued, “are you saying that I’m better off not remembering my name? Or the memories of loved ones, of who might be waiting for me outside those doors?” “Perhaps,” the voice seemed saddened by his anger. “So you’re saying that I’m better off this way? Alone and without a single memory? You’re telling me that you aren’t proud of your own name? That you’d happily give up all of your memories and be like me?” he was shouting louder with each sentence. He paused for a response, but there was none. As he waited, he listened to the steady beeping of the vital signs monitor which slowly brought him back to his natural state. The lights above him were illuminating the room in a bright artificial white. He was giving up on receiving a response when he heard the voice again. “Nico. That’s the name. I have a beautiful wife, Emily, and two young daughters, Jess and Kate. A few friends and neighbors that we celebrated birthdays and holidays with, and a steady job that paid the bills,” the voice recounted. “See, Nico, sounds like you have a pretty damn decent life you’d like to remember,” the anger had subsided enough, but he still felt the irritation. His hands twitched. “But every evening,” the voice ignored his response and kept going. “Every evening after dinner as Emily started on the dishes, I would open the wooden cabinet that was right above the fridge. I would pull out the bottle of vodka I had restocked that morning. And I’d pour a glass. I’d take it to the living room, sit on the loveseat in front of the TV while some bullshit show played in the background and I’d down that first one. Instant. Every time. Then I’d pour out the next, and take the second one slowly. Each burning sensation as it went down my throat telling me that another day was here, same as the last. Another one that I’d like to forget. I’d pour out the next and before long the bottle would be half empty. And that’s about when I’d start to lose control. I’d let whatever I was feeling take over. Some nights would be somber. I’d wake up the next day grasping the cushion in between my arms and I could feel that it was still wet from the tears. Other nights I’d just fall asleep. Those were the good nights. And the worst nights, I’d know because it would be Emily waking up later than me. She’d come into the kitchen, as I’m making coffee covered up in the robe, hiding her body. She was distant, and I knew I’d done something bad. But I never brought it up. Because I knew that the guilt would be too much for me to handle. And for some reason she never did too. Or maybe she did and I didn’t listen. Either way when morning came I’d put my head down and chugged along until the evening came back again.” The voice trailed off. Sitting in the bed and eyes fixated to the curtain on his left, all he could think of was what a fool he had been. He was about to muster up the courage to apologize when he felt a sharp pain run through the spot an inch above his left ear and behind his temple. It was the type of pain felt beneath the skin, like the blood vessels were contracting sharply. “Ow,” he let out in a stifled yell. “I told you, perhaps it was for the best that you forgot,” he heard the voice say. It did not sound like it was coming from behind the curtain. Suddenly another sharp pain hit, but this one made his body curl. “OW!” he screamed. It was as if a vein ruptured in his head. He felt dizzy. He was about to throw up and the world around him spun around. It was a feeling he remembered from the last time he was at the hospital. When was that? A familiar voice he knew called out from outside the door. “Honey, is that you? Are you alright?” The door rattled open and a woman rushed in. She grabbed him as he fell over to his left, grasping at his head. “Doctor! Doctor!” the woman called out frantically. A nurse heard the commotion and ran in, grabbing the light blue curtain and zipping it open to give the others rushing in more space. The bed behind them was empty. He felt his consciousness leaving just as he heard the woman who held his hands frantically speak to him. “Nico, are you alright? Can you hear me? It’s Emily! Nico, honey?”


⚠ Murder ⚠ 1938 I feel my hands on her throat, choking her. I stare into her eyes as she draws her last breath, searching her face for something to recognize, something to set her apart from the women I pass in the streets.

My hands let go of her throat and she stiffens before crumpling sideways to the floor, palms pressed together as if praying for the life she has just lost. I move to stand in front of her. If she prays, she will pray to me only. I wake up, the dream-image printed in my head, as it had been last night and the nights before. Each night, the dream gets more vivid. I smile. Soon, maybe as soon as tomorrow night, I will recognize the face of my victim. Soon, I would claim her life, and fill the aching hole in my heart. I've had a nightmare. I can't remember it, but I know it's the same one that I've had for the last few nights, that leaves me shivering all over every time I wake up. I used to think only children had nightmares, and now... I feel like a child again. Since last week it's haunted me, taunting by scaring me every night, then dissolving from my memory as the day comes. I rise from my bed to see sunlight brightening my closed curtains. The clock on my wall says 9:14. The morning routine must be attended to. My pale coat and bowler hat wait patiently for me beside the front door. I dress hurriedly then put them on, opening the door and wincing as full sunlight hits me for the first time today. My quick heartbeat drowns out the morning street noises, the shadow of my nightmare not yet banished. I walk along the streets until I reach my regular café. I'm not a social person, but the smell of sweet cinnamon and coffee that lingers around the entrance is always too good to resist, pulling in casual passers-by like mermaids, to be stuck there until either their money runs out or they fall asleep. I take a last glance around me for the woman of my dreams before being reluctantly pulled in by the beautiful, haunting smells. The waitress at my regular café smiles at me as I walk in and take a seat by the window. She takes my order then disappears, fading through the crowd.

When she comes back, she holds a steaming cup of coffee. I thank her and look out of the window as she places it on my table.

With each dream, the aching grows. The yearning for power, power over life and death, hurts, but I wouldn't give it up if I could. I've come to love the chains that bind me. I'm watching for something - someone. I was looking for them yesterday and the days before, but I've only just realised it. I wish I knew who I was looking for.

I sit and wait for the woman of my dreams to pass, watching the outside world with greedy eyes. Suddenly I catch something from the wrong side of the window that reminds me of my dream, and I bolt through the door in pursuit.

- The waitress stared at the door, an upturned chair lying unheeded beside her.The gentleman hadn't paid his bill. - I'm halfway down the street before I realise that I don't know who I'm chasing. The woman of my dreams has disappeared among the crowd. I decide to go home. I've left the café to go back to my house. A letter waits for me outside my front door. I walk inside, take off my hat and coat and sit down to read it. The first sentence tells me who the letter is from. 'Dear Bug,' (I smile at the childish nickname. Since she first saw me, Aunt Maddie has insisted on calling me 'Bug'.) 'A hermit's life can be very trying at times. Your last visit was three months ago, you naughty little scamp. I'm sure you would not want your old aunt to die of loneliness, would you? Yours, Aunt Maddie.' Dear Aunt Maddie. She could never say anything directly. I stare down at the letter. 'Dear... Visit... Aunt Maddie.' I suppose I will have to visit Lady Mirrelton (I have never and will never refer to her as 'Aunt Maddie'. Ridiculous). After all, I'm the sole beneficiary of her will. I must act the part of a devoted adopted nephew. She hasn't got long to live, and at any time she could write me out of her will. She's right about visiting more often. I have nothing to do today; I might as well start now. On goes the hat and coat again, poor worn-out things. Aunt Maddie's estate is only a few minutes walk away. I walk to the Mirrelton estate whistling loudly. Again and again I run my dream through my head, revelling in the feeling of power that it gives me, filling the aching hole with a new, better kind of ache. There's no answer to my knock. Aunt Maddie has never had any indoor servants, despite the size of her house. I open the door myself and walk down the candle-studded hallway to the visiting room. Lady Mirrelton is glad to see me. She smiles, her wrinkles multiplying until her face is just mountains and valleys with two colourless eyes set deep inside. And suddenly I know. Rising from her chair, she comes forward to greet me. I take a step towards her and fasten my hands around her throat before she can react. The scene from my dream is finally replayed in reality, and the thrill that runs through me is better than anything I have ever felt. I have mastered control over the powers of life and death.  - A gardener working on the estate froze as a noise like the laugh of death reached his ears. - I stand alone in the middle of the hallway, waiting. Waiting for what? I wish I knew. I'm no longer in control, almost in a trance as I slowly walk to the hall 'phone. My hands reach for it and dial a number. I feel my lips forming words. "My aunt's been strangled."

Only after I've hung up do I realise what I've said. Strangled. I said Aunt Maddie's been strangled. A wave of panic rushes through me and I hear my own footsteps running towards Aunt Maddie's visiting room.

She's praying. I breath a sigh of relief - and freeze. She's not moving, not making a noise. She's dead, and I don't need to see the marks on her neck to know that she's been strangled. One week later... When the news spread that the famous hermit, Lady Mirrelton, had been murdered, there was a sensation. The local papers published news of nothing else, and the public crowded the estate, the impending war forgotten. I sit on the bed of my cell, legs swinging, reliving The moment. The ache, the new and better ache, still clings to me. The hole in my heart is wider, the pain stronger, darker, and I love it. I chuckle to myself, looking at the guard by my cell door. I can kill him any time I want to. I still can't get over her - her death. It's like a nightmare. The nightmare that has been plaguing me for nights. I finally know who I've been searching for. I know - I know - I know. I am taken to trial, to stand in the dock. The judge's clerk rises. Clerk: You stand charged upon this indictment with the murder of Madeline Gladys Mirrelton on the third day of October. Do you please guilty or not guilty? I: Not guilty. (They are fools to think that they can convict me.) Clerk: Members of the jury, the prisoner stands upon this indictment for the murder of Madeline Gladys Mirrelton on the third day of October. To this indictment he has pleaded not guilty, and it is your charge to say, having heard the evidence, whether he is guilty or not. (He sits.) Someone from the other side of the court clears their throat. A large, slow-looking man takes his place in the witness box. After placing his hand on the Bible and reciting the oath, he announced himself as Detective-Inspector Robert Oake of New Scotland Yard. I can hear the questioning from my place in the backroom where the witnesses wait. Prosecution: Inspector, you say that you and three of your officers arrived at the Mirrelton estate in answer to an phone call reporting a murder. Did you take the call yourself? Inspector: Yes. Prosecution: If you were asked to identify the voice, would you consider yourself sufficiently capable of doing so? Inspector: Yes. I've fallen asleep and missed the first part of my trial. They seem to be still questioning the Inspector. Prosecution: Had it perhaps been a voice familiar to you prior the call? Inspector: No. I had never heard the caller's voice before. (The audience whispers among themselves.) Prosecution: Have you heard it since? Inspector: Yes. Prosecution: Would you please tell the court where? Inspector: In this court, barely minutes ago. Prosecution: Who does the voice belong to? Inspector: The prisoner. (Sensation in court. I start. I don't remember calling the police. Why would I want to?) The Inspector is dismissed. I pass the rest of the trial in a trance, barely conscious of anything. I still haven't figured out who's on trial. Prosecution: Members of the jury, you have heard of the prisoner's current financial state, which made it necessary to borrow money from the deceased, his only living relative. You have heard of how he was invited to visit her by letter and decided to go that very day. You have heard that upon his visit, he professes to have not seen her alive, finding her body after making the 'phone call to the police, an action which he has not attempted to explain. Given the evidence, I am confident that you will find the prisoner justly guilty. The jury retire to their room to decide their verdict. I'm afraid... I'm afraid that if I think at all I'll realise something... Something I don't want to know. "Guilty, my lord." I laugh, and even to my own ears it sounds mad, the voice of Death thwarted. They think I'm scared of death. I welcome death with open arms. There, the ultimate pain awaits me.

******************************************* This story is a re-write of a story I wrote about 4 months ago, my first short story. (You can read the original here: https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ulcd58/ I wrote this again (with a definite change in plot) because I wanted to see if my writing had improved in these months. I hope you enjoyed it.


James looked at the clock. It was 4:50 pm. He let out a sigh and looked to the ceiling. A small spider hanging on its web caught his attention. He wondered what the world of spiders looked like. Did they ever feel stress? Pressure? Like they ever wanted to quit?

“James?” James almost fell from his chair when he heard the voice from behind his chair. He stood up and turned to look at who was calling him. “Hi Linda, you scared me a bit there.” “Sorry” Linda smiled, a smile James never got tired of seeing. “Can I help you with something?”

“Oh yes, I need you to help me with the report that Andy told us to work on.” James narrowed his eyes. “I thought you had a copy of the report?”

“I did. But I don’t anymore.” James looked at Linda as if expecting an explanation. But she didn’t say anything else. “Okay...I’ll email it to you.”

“Thanks.” With that, Linda left his office. James looked at her as she walked away. She really is strange sometimes, James thought to himself.

James dropped his bag on the floor when he reached home. He fell on the sofa, feeling the strains of work all over his body. Somehow the sofa - that was made of leather - felt so comfortable, as if it was massaging his back. On the walls of the living room hang picture frames of him and the trophies he had won on various sledge racing championships. “Good times,” James said to himself looking at the picture. He remembered how happy he was back then. How he felt alive in those competitions. Suddenly feeling thirsty, James went to the refrigerator to get a drink.

He saw the pile of reports on top of his table, reminding him of the work he needed to complete. “Oh how I love my job,” James said in a sarcastic tone. Just then his phone rang. The caller id read “world’s worst boss.”

“Hello, Mr Richards,” James thought of adding something else to his formal greeting. Something like, hello, Mr Richards, the boss no one ever wants to work for. “James! Where is the report you were told to work on? I need it now!” “I thought I had 2 weeks to work on it? I remember…” “What?” Mr Richards interrupted. “I’m telling you now, I need that report. Get it down, now!” With that, Mr Richards hang up. “Now I really love my job” It was 01:23 am when James finished working on the report. “Finally,” James said while yawning. He really felt tired. But most of all, he felt out of place. Like he was in the wrong place. James had always thought of quitting but he was afraid. Afraid of the future. Afraid of being jobless. Afraid that...he never find what he was looking for. But what was he looking for? James was alarmed by the alarm from his phone. He got up and looked at the time. It was 8:45 am. “What!” James shouted. “I am so dead” he rushed to the bathroom and took a quick shower. He looked through his closet, picked a T-shirt and black jeans. These will do.

He was welcomed by Linda, who was leaning on the door to his office. She was wearing an all-black suit. Her hair was well done. For a moment James was taken up by how she looked. Realizing that Linda had noticed he was looking at her intently, James cleared his throat. “What’s the occasion?”

“The boss wants to see you.” Linda then began to walk away before she stopped. “Oh, and he doesn’t seem too happy” James put his hand on his hip. Now, what’s the matter this time? James knocked at the door of Mr Richards. “Come in” James entered. Mr Richards had just put the phone down. He looked intense. “I was told you wanted to see me?” Mr Richards got up from his chair. He walked towards James.

“The report you sent me was...trash” James stomach tightened. “I mean...what did you even do? This is absolute garbage!” James looked at his boss as he went on and on complaining about how bad the report was. James left anger build up inside him. Did he consider how hard I worked on this report? The time I slept working on that report? Does he even appreciate the work I do here? This ungrateful being! “Oh great. You aren’t even listening to me!” James’ came back to reality. He was in a place he didn’t want to be, a job he didn’t want in the first place, working for a man who didn’t appreciate him or the work he did. His anger had finally reached a point where he couldn’t contain it anymore.

“Now you listen to me!” James said with an angry tone in his voice. “I have done everything...and I mean everything you have asked me to do.” Mr Richards could see a line of veins on James’ forehead.

“...but you never appreciate anything. Nothing at all. So I’m done. I quit!” James walked out of the office, shutting the door loudly.

He walked towards Linda until he was very close to her. He held her head and kissed her without any warning. He broke off the kiss and looked Linda right in the eyes, “I have always wanted to do that.” James then turned and walked towards the exit door. He looked behind and saw all the workers who were looking back at him with surprised eyes. “I hope you all open your eyes” James smiled and walked out. James took a big sip of his wine before he told the bartender to add him another glass. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” asked the bartender. “Hey man, I…I have had a rough day and I don’t know what’s going to happen next. So please…just keep them coming, Ok?” James looked at his watch, it was 11:36 pm. “Time does fly when you’re having a drink.” The bartender, who was pouring him another drink, motioned to James that this was his last drink for the night. “I hope you are going to pay for all these drinks?” James turned the lights of the room when he reached his home. “I’m home.” He looked around his living room as if expecting someone to welcome him. He let out a loud sigh when no one came. What a lonely person , he thought. He walked towards his sofa, clearly feeling the heaviness of the drinks he had. “Why are there 2 sofa sets?” James reached to what seemed his sofa, and dropping like a sack of potatoes, he fell flat on the carpeted floor. James was snoring loudly when his phone started ringing. The ring tone partially woke up. He looked at his phone but couldn’t see the caller id clearly. He groaned as he sat up, realizing that he had slept on the floor. His head hurt badly as he tried to make out what had happened the previous night.

“Ah!” James let out a soft moan. His phone kept ringing. “Hello…” James answered. “Hey, James. It’s been a while.” James tried to make out the voice but his head hurt really badly. “Who is this?” “Oh man, I’m offended. I can’t believe you forgot about me that quickly.” James’ vision started becoming clear. His memory of yesterday begun coming back to him, but his head still hurt. He removed the phone from his ear to look at the caller id. It was his old friend Robert. “Robert? Is it really you?” “No. It’s the landlord and I have come for the rent. Of course, it’s me, Robert!” “Sorry man, I…um…hey, how’s it going? It really has been a while.” “It has. Listen, why don’t we meet up? I want to discuss something with you.” James reached the destination they had agreed upon with Robert. He was 30 minutes early. James entered the restaurant and ordered a cup of coffee and some cookies. He loved cookies, especially chocolate cookies. He sat down and quickly his mind wandered to the conversation he had over the phone with Robert. What did he want to talk about? He looked outside through the big window and saw 2 boys walking across the street. He wished he could be young again and make better choices in life. But what bugged him the most was that he really didn’t know what he wanted in life. What was even his purpose? Somehow James felt lost, wondering if he would ever be or find something meaningful to do. “Just like old times.” James looked at Robert, who was standing in front of him. “You always were early. Old habits never die huh?” Robert was wearing a black suit with sunglasses. His shoes looked like it could cover James’ salary for 4 months. “Are you walking with the Men in Black?” James asked while standing up. The 2 men hugged themselves, embracing themselves in a tight hug before pulling themselves at arm’s length and observing each other.“Well, look at you. You look so…classy.” James said. They both sat down. “So…how’s it been?” Robert began. “Oh, it’s been alright.” “Hmm...it’s that bad huh?”

James took a sip of his coffee and bit on his cookie. “I quit my job yesterday. I couldn’t handle another day in that place.”

“Oh, I see. You have any plans moving ahead?” Robert asked. “Honestly, I don’t know. I just left without thinking about what my next move is.” James put down his coffee. “I really don’t know where I go from here.” James continued. There was a moment of silence. Something like 10 seconds before James broke off the silence. “So...what did you want to talk about?” He took another sip of his coffee, but his gaze never left Robert. “The Iditarod trail sledge dog race” Robert answered. “What about it?” James asked. “I want you to come back and race.” “Come back?” “Yes,” Robert responded. “The race needs people like you, James.” “I’m retired, Robert. And besides, it’s been 6 years since I last raced.” The waitress came and put Robert’s coffee on the table with a piece of cake on the plate. “Thanks,” Robert acknowledged the waitress before she left. “Look...” Robert’s attention quickly turning to James. “Since you left, the race hasn’t really been the same. The passion has died because people can’t live up to what you achieved.” James looked at his coffee. He was deep in thought, remembering how he used to race 6 years ago. “And besides...” Robert continued “you could get some money to help you find another opportunity. You don’t have much to do, and you kind of need the money. So why not give it a try?” James turned his attention to Robert. He could see Robert wanted him to come back to Alaska. “The racers really need you to get their passion back. They looked up to you, James.” James looked up to the ceiling. He wondered if he could still race. But maybe he needed this. The prize money was really good and it could go a long way to help him. It wouldn’t hurt he tried to race again. What else was there to lose? “Are you going to race too?” James asked Robert. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.” “Alright then, count me in,” James said with a smile on his face. “Yes! Thanks, man. I knew I could count on you. We leave on Thursday morning. Everything has been set.” A cold wind welcomed James as he came out of the van. There was snow covering everywhere. This reminded James of his race days. It brought a smile on his face as he remembered his first race when he fell off his sledge. “I saw that” Robert put his hand on James’ shoulder. “It

brings back memories, huh?” James saw a group of people and some dogs up a hill. He climbed towards them, but someone in the group shouted: “Is that James? James the sledge king?” The people, who had been murmuring amongst themselves, turned and looked at James who was approaching them. “It is him…” another person shouted. When James finally reached them, they all rushed to get his attention. “What brings you, James?” one person asked. “Are you here to observe the race?” “I didn’t expect to see you here” “Are you here to race too?” The questions kept coming. “Guys,” Robert finally appeared. “Give James a break will you?” James nodded at Robert as if saying “thank you” “I’m here to race too.” James finally spoke.

“Really?” asked a young lady.

“I thought you had retired?” another person in the crowd asked. “I did. But now I’m back...for one more.” James heard the dogs barking and he knew it was race day. Yesterday he hadn’t slept at all as the people kept him up for most parts of the night. He also was thinking of the upcoming race. Can I still do it? It’s been over 5 years. The organizers where busy arranging the sledges and patting the dogs. Seeing all this made James feel happy. He had always loved the feeling of racing on the snow. He loved how the felt right before a race. How the thrill of the race took over him whenever he would get on that sledge and race. All these feelings were coming back to him. James turned and looked at Robert who was next to him at the beginning of the race line. He was about to going sledging with his friend. Robert had always come closest to beating James but never did. Maybe this time he would. But there was no denying how excited James was. For the first time in a while, James felt like he belonged here. In the snow. Sledge racing. Everything came back to him, and though he had retired 6 years ago. He had never really left. And he then knew immediately what he wanted. He wanted to sledge.


I was feeling pessimistic when I first met him. I was sat at the bar, submerged in my own self-pity as I stared into a welcoming glass of rum and coke. I knew ordering a rum and coke was a little unfledged. A glass of wine would have been more mature. Maybe a glass of whiskey to remind me when I lived in Scotland. But fuck it, I was in a bad mood and I needed a reminder of my adolescent years to lift my mood. It did not. It made me feel worse. I did not know at the time why I felt dispirited. Realization came a little while later. I sighed and looked up from my miserable drink and scanned the bar. I noticed a couple of lads laughing at something funny while one of them rubbed his face in embarrassment. I wondered what was so funny. Maybe the humiliated one told an embarrassing story and that was why he was red in the face? Or maybe the others were reliving something from another day that the guy did not want brought up again for the hundredth time? My attention then drifted to a young couple who were rarely looking at each other. Their faces were almost white from the glow of their phones that they were fixated to. I snorted as I imagined them either talking to each other via their phones instead of talking across the table, or maybe engaging in a miserable attempt at broadcasting their wonderful night out on social media. I sighed again. This time deeply as I brought my glass up to my lips to take another sip. As I did so, something alerted my attention. Well, more appropriately; someone. My smile fell from my face. The smile that I did not even recognize I was wearing until that moment. I realize now that that smile was not a happy smile; it was a bit of a cynical smile from imagining the previous couple having a fake good time on social media. I noticed I had faltered ever so slightly, the glass raised to my lips but not moving any closer. His eyes only briefly glanced at me, but it was enough to send a curious shock through my body and linger dangerously. I had not noticed him before now. I do not tend to notice people right away. My initial instinct when I am walking into a bar on my own is to find a table that is both free and far enough away from the crowd. Usually in a corner or by a wall so as to not draw too much attention to myself and so I can sit, and people watch. It is not until I have successfully got a drink and slinked my way onto the table quickly enough that I can let loose a little and look around myself. The group with the curious and allusive embarrassing tale were initially the first people I properly noticed. The couple were the second. And he was the third. As soon as I noticed him, however, my attention elsewhere was basically non-existent. He had a eerie air about himself that drew all attention to him the moment you noticed him. Everyone else was just background noise. Or extras in a film. There, but not important. The main characters were important. It was as if he was the main character in this film. He was ruggedly handsome. Short dark hair, either dark brown or black, I could not tell in the poor light of the bar. A strong jaw, cleanly shaven, with a suspicious scar on his thin upper lip. He wore a crisp suit, which was also dark, it could have been black, but I was not ruling out any other dark colours.

He held himself tall while he took large gulps of a beer. He clearly did not seem bothered by the noise around him. Like he too thought it was unimportant background noise. I found myself staring. My glass now back on the table, that sip I had been planning to take was never taken. It had lost its appeal. It was as if the welcoming liquid in the glass held no more significance to me and might as well have been stale water. I gasped as his eyes flicked to me again. His deep endless green eyes seemingly staring straight into my soul and almost revealing my biggest weakness right before me. I was helpless. I even saw a faint flicker of a smile. Little did I know, that was just the beginning. I recalled reading somewhere once that most women – probably only the heterosexual women – usually go for the tall, muscular men who are confident and dominant because they want a partner who can protect them. I also remember thinking that every time I thought of my Mr. Right, he would be tall and muscular too. As well as confident enough to protect me and keep me safe. I knew no one was perfect of course, I was prepared for some flaws in my Mr. Right. But those were my main requirements. I am not insinuating that guy at the bar was my Mr. Right. In fact, I am certain he was not. Far from it. I pictured my Mr. Right as a loving guy, with a wacky sense of humour to make me feel better on my low days, who loved me unconditionally and even enjoyed cuddling – I know, cliché much! The guy at the bar did not even strike me as that sort of guy. Even then, on that first day I met him. I could not picture him wanting to cuddle or even having any form of sense of humour. But Mr. Right was suddenly forgotten about. Especially when the Mr. Most Probably Wrong stood up and walked right over to my table. “Have we met before?” he asked. His voice as deeply dominant as his features. The now familiar American accent I had gotten used to boomed in front of me. Even his voice sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. I should have realized then that I should not engross in any form of conversation with him. He was entrancing and it was dangerous. But of course, I could not resist; “No,” was the only thing I could say. Unable to string a few words together to complete a sentence. I was happy enough to know I spoke the right word; I did not know him. I was certain I would recall him if I had ever seen him before. He watched me for a few seconds. His gaze had some sort of superpower as I noticed the hairs on my arms start to raise. “Are you sure?” he was stern and commanding. “Yes,” I uttered another single syllable word. “What’s your name?” he practically ordered. It was not really a question; it was a demand. I remember thinking that I should not answer. I should not give him my name. I did not know this man. What if he was a serial killer scouting for his next prey? But of course, my lips seemed to move on their own accord; “Jo.” “Tell me, Jo,” he started. I was not able to read any emotion on his face or his voice. I was not sure if it was because I was currently incapable of reading people or if it was him. “Why do you look familiar to me?” “I… I don’t know,” I stuttered. Well, at least it was better than a single syllable word. He seemed to watch me again for a few painfully long seconds and I could feel my palms getting sweaty. He did not seem satisfied with my answer. As if it were my fault, he could not figure out why I looked familiar to him. “Sorry,” I uttered involuntary to break the uncomfortable silence between us. The background bar noise did not even register to me by this point. For the first time I saw his face move, other than his lips. His right eyebrow rose. “What are you sorry for?” “For…” I paused. What was I sorry for? “For not being much help.” “I don’t know…” Another movement, this time a microscopic smile. A smile that made you falsely believe you were in safe hands. “I still think you can.” He suddenly plopped himself down in the chair opposite me uninvited and took a swig of the beer he was holding. The beer I had only just noticed he even had.


“What is all this fuss and bother about?” the owner of the demolition company complained. “It's just another big, old, ugly, worthless building. It's empty and not earning anything . A parking lot would at least bring in some money.” “We don't need to be a town of almost nothing but parking garages and parking lots, Mr. Young,” the mayor retorted. “Wasn't that the lesson that Seattle had to learn so painfully? Why must we repeat what they had to go through? We already know what their result was.” Mr. Young sighed. “And what, pray tell, was their result?” “A beautiful old –” the mayor began. Mr. Young looked triumphant. “Ah-ha! See? You even admit it!” She gave him a tired look. “If I may continue, please?” “Fine,” he replied. “But don't expect to change my mind in the process.” “I'm not sure anyone, short of God Himself, could do that,” the mayor said. “As I was saying: A beautiful old hotel, instead of being saved for posterity as a historic landmark, was demolished, to be replaced by a parking garage. It was only after that happened that people in the city woke up and decided that they weren't going to let that happen anymore.” “How many times did it happen before that, I wonder?” Mr. Young asked. “Too many times,” the mayor replied. “And that is the main reason why I refuse to let it happen again here. Take your equipment and business elsewhere. Maybe some other town or city doesn't care about its past, but we care about ours.” “You're a bunch of damn idealistic fools,” Mr. Young said. “I offer you something that'll make your town money and you chain yourself to a sinking ship instead.” He shook his head and sighed. “You'll never learn.” He turned and left her office, slamming the door behind him. “No, Mr. Young, I don't believe you will ever learn,” the mayor said sadly. There was a knock on the door moments later. “Back so soon, Mr. Young?” the mayor called. The door opened slightly. The head of the Chamber of Commerce poked her head inside. “Actually, it's Nora. Could we talk for a bit?” “Sure,” the mayor said. “Come on in. After all, it's not as if I have any important duties to perform.” Nora entered, softly shutting the door behind her. “Was that Mr. Young who just stormed out of here?” The mayor sighed. “It was.” “What in the world made him go ballistic?” Nora asked. “The fact that we're saving the Dandridge Hotel, not letting him demolish it,” the mayor replied. Nora stared at her. “You're what? ” The mayor nodded. “Don't you think it should be saved, either? Doesn't anyone care about history anymore?” “Kris,” Nora said. “We've been friends for a long time.” “Since at least First Grade,” the mayor said. “I saved you from getting bullied and nearly got suspended for doing it. Thank goodness you spoke up for me.” Nora smiled. “You still remember that.” “Of course,” the mayor said. “Why would I want to forget how we first met?” She sat down in her chair behind the desk, then gestured at a chair across from her. Nora sat down and said, “The downtown area isn't doing as well as it used to.” “You don't have to show me the Chamber's statistics,” the mayor said. “I'm well aware of it.” “And yet you defend saving the Dandridge Hotel,” Nora said. “It's one thing to try to find a way to increase business in a bad economy, it's another to toss history on the bonfire or the rubbish heap,” the mayor said. “It's not exactly Gettysburg or the Lincoln Memorial, Kris,” Nora pointed out. “The downtown's businesses have been steadily vacating and moving to the shopping mall outside of Dandridge,” the mayor said. “Some have even moved entirely out of this county. You'd think we had some sort of commercial plague infecting the downtown area.” “And you don't think that more parking would cure it,” Nora said. The mayor shook her head. “I know you mean well. I know you want this town to be better off than it is. So do I. But not at the cost of yet another demolished historical building. I need a different kind of solution to the problem.” Nora was silent for a while. “Maybe we should have a fundraiser,” she suggested. The mayor tried not to stare. “I'm sorry, but could you repeat that? I thought you suggested something that didn't have to do with demolition.” “I said maybe we should have a fundraiser, Kris,” Nora said. “All the proceeds going to the downtown area. We could call it the Downtown Dandridge Renaissance Project.” The mayor didn't quite laugh. “All these months … and suddenly you turn around and suggest something that doesn't include the demolition of yet another historic building. Are you sure you're still my friend Nora? You don't sound like her.” “I'm not joking,” Nora said. “We could even hold it annually like the street fairs in other places.” The mayor steepled her hands in front of her chin, interlocking the fingers. “How soon do you think you could get the ball rolling on this?” “Give me enough helpers, I could get plans started this afternoon,” Nora said. The mayor smiled. “You're on. Anyone in this building who wants to volunteer is free to do so. Likewise in the Chamber of Commerce. And, who knows, we could even invite Mr. Young to the fundraiser. To show him what can be done when one thinks positively instead of negatively.” Nora stood up but didn't leave yet. “What if he turns down the invitation?” The mayor also stood up. “Maybe you can persuade him to accept it. You used to be pretty good at that when we were in the same college sorority. Those pledge drives wouldn't have been the same without you in charge.” “I had some help,” Nora said. “Wise is the leader who realizes that they cannot do everything alone,” the mayor said. “Good luck and keep me informed.” Nora nodded. “Definitely.” --------- Back at the Chamber of Commerce, there was some surprise when they learned what Nora had suggested to the mayor. They weren't all convinced that it was a good idea, however. “But what if no one comes?” her secretary asked. “It's not as if we're waiting for the barbarians to come and take over our town,” Nora replied. Her secretary looked puzzled. “It's a reference to a poem by the Greek poet C. P. Cavafy, Waiting for the Barbarians ,” Nora said. “I read it back when I was in college. An entire city decides to do nothing but look impressive and wait for the barbarians to arrive and take over.” “Did they arrive?” her secretary asked. Nora shook her head. “And the city didn't know what to do anymore. They thought that the barbarians were some sort of solution.” “That's dreadful,” someone else said. “That's like saying lying down on a railroad track and waiting for a train to come and run over you is a good idea.” “Precisely,” Nora said. “We're not going to be like that. We're going to make something positive happen. We'll print fliers and hand them around. We'll also print posters and put them where they'll get the most attention. Whether anyone comes or not, we are going to hold our fundraiser. I don't even care if we don't raise more than twenty dollars. I want the event to happen, okay?” Everyone else in the room nodded in agreement. “Then let's start brainstorming ideas,” Nora said. “Fran, if you could bring in the whiteboard from the conference room and a felt-tip marker for me, that would be great.” --------- Mr. Young looked at the flier on his desk. “You'd think they were serious about this, Jack.” “They apparently are, sir,” Jack said. “Are you still going to try the legal route?” “Only if there's no other option,” Mr. Young said. “Oh, and one other thing,” Jack went on. Mr. Young waited. “You're invited to the fundraiser,” Jack said. “I'm what? ” Mr. Young asked in surprise. “You don't have to go, though,” Jack said. “It's not mandatory. But if I was you, I would go. Just to see what it's like. Who knows? It could be interesting. It could be fun.” “You sound like you'd like to go to it,” Mr. Young said. “I wish, but I have to work that day,” Jack said with a sigh. “What if we both went to it?” Mr. Young suggested. “But the work –” Jack protested. “Can wait until the next day,” Mr. Young finished for him. “At worst, this fundraiser will be a complete and utter failure. Then I wouldn't need to file suit against the town. I could just bring in the bulldozers, steam shovels, paving machines, and all the rest. I bet we could have a parking lot in place of the hotel in less than a day.” “And the hotel?” Jack wondered. “I could care less,” Mr. Young said. “My job isn't to save buildings; it's to demolish them. Just you remember that. You aren't a volunteer here; you're a paid employee. You want to keep earning a paycheck, you do what I tell you to do. Okay?” “Yes, sir,” Jack said quietly as he watched Mr. Young toss the flier into the nearest trash can. ---------- It wasn't just the fundraiser that got attention via the fliers and posters, it was also the preparations themselves. Passersby would stop and watch as one white tent after another was raised, with a pole at each corner. The white tents were laid out in a cross shape reminiscent of the Swiss flag right down the center of two cross streets. Downtown vendors, as well as out-of-town vendors, were encouraged to promote their stores as well as their wares. With any luck, they might even make a large number of sales during the fundraiser. They would keep half the money while donating, as agreed beforehand, to the fundraising committee. “I just hope it doesn't decide to rain or get windy on the day of the fundraiser,” Nora's secretary said. “Then we can move everything indoors and still hold it,” Nora said. “As my grandparents used to say: Always have backup plans.” “And don't forget to look in the rear-view mirrors,” her secretary said and grinned. “That's the idea,” Nora said approvingly. “Let's keep our spirits up even if Mother Nature tries to dampen them or even flood us right out.” “This is going to be fun,” her secretary said, almost feeling like a schoolgirl again. “It sure is,” Nora agreed. --------- The day of the fundraiser wasn't a sunny one. It wasn't rainy either. It was rather somewhere in between. Grey, overcast, and a little bit cold. But you wouldn't have known it from the excitement in downtown Dandridge. People came dressed for the weather and were determined to have a good time. Rather than fill the parking spaces along the curbs of the cross streets, there was a parking area across from the courthouse and shuttle buses that transported people to and from the fundraiser. More white tents were set up when even more vendors wanted to participate. The fundraiser area spread east and west, ultimately filling three intersections rather than the one that had been planned for. Thunder rumbled, but no lightning and no rain. Laughter would erupt each time thunder was heard. Almost as if daring Mother Nature to do her worst. -------- Mr. Young and Jack arrived a couple hours after the fundraiser began. They were pleasantly surprised to see all the activity, despite the weather. “It could've been pouring-down rain and they wouldn't have cared,” Jack said. “I never knew that so many people cared about the downtown area,” Mr. Young said. “That's the tenth person I've seen wearing a Don't Tear Down the Hotel t-shirt. Eleventh. Twelfth. Thirteenth. Fourteenth.” He gave up counting. “You still want to demolish it?” Jack asked him quietly. “That depends on how much this fundraiser earns,” Mr. Young said. “If they can raise enough to offset the cost of the demolition, then they can have their stupid hotel. I can always find something else that's far more worthless to demolish.” “I suppose, sir,” Jack said. “Maybe sometimes old buildings should be saved instead of destroyed.” Mr. Young jabbed him in the chest. “Careful. If you keep talking like that, you won't be working for me much longer.” “Maybe that's a good thing,” Jack said. “I've seen too many beautiful old buildings destroyed since my first day at the company. Some were –” He shook his head and shrugged. “Too late to mourn what's gone. But maybe it doesn't have to happen this time.” Mr. Young looked at him, then suggested, “Let's see if we can find the mayor and congratulate her and the Chamber of Commerce on their fundraiser.” --------- The mayor was helping sell bags of freshly cooked kettle corn and cups of hot chocolate. She saw the two men approach. They didn't seem to be unhappy with what was happening around them. “Glad you could make it after all,” the mayor told them. “Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Mr. Young said. Jack rolled his eyes. “It's amazing how many people came out on a day like this.” “It's about more than just the Hotel Dandridge,” the mayor told Jack. “We're hoping to create an ongoing fund so that we can save more buildings from being demolished.” “Where will the customers park, though?” Mr. Young asked the mayor. “Like today, they could take a free shuttle to the downtown area,” the latter replied. “Then we could even turn the downtown streets into traffic-free areas sometimes. Like they're doing in towns and cities in Europe. If they can do it there, why can't we do it here?” “Different kind of people, different attitudes,” Mr. Young replied. “Americans love their vehicles.” “They also love their towns,” the mayor said. “I haven't heard heard one single complaint about having to park across from the courthouse and take shuttle buses here.” “This is just one time,” Mr. Young said. “What if they had to do it on a daily basis?” “I think they would willingly adapt if they knew it was helping improve their town,” the mayor said. “Not everyone wants traffic jams and parking lots everywhere, you know. And if this sort of attitude spreads, there could be more towns and cities in America doing it.” “No need to preach to me,” Mr. Young said. “I have a business. I have a job to do there. Saving old stuff isn't part of the picture.” “Maybe that needs to change, then,” the mayor said. “You'd have to be very persuasive, ma'am,” Mr. Young said. “With something more convincing than bribery or tax loopholes.” “What would you suggest, then?” the mayor asked. “Something that might encourage you to refurbish and rebuild rather than demolish. Get enough customers interested in saving and you might have to change how you do business.” “Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Mr. Young said. “Let's see what this fundraiser brings in first, then see what can be done next or what can't be done.” “Fair enough,” the mayor said. “Now, then. Some kettle corn and hot chocolate for both of you?” “Yes, please,” Jack said. ---------- It was dark when the mayor stepped up onto the temporary wooden platform in the center of the fundraising area. The sea of faces turned to her, waiting and listening. The sea included the two men from the demolition company. “Excellent news!” the mayor called out. “Even with only a preliminary count of the money earned today, we have exceeded what we needed!” There was loud cheering throughout the crowd. Even Jack cheered. But he noticed that Mr. Young kept quiet. “If Mr. Young and his associate Jack would care to join me here?” the mayor went on. They did so. “Is this really necessary?” Mr. Young asked the mayor. “This could've been done more quietly.” “Of course it's necessary,” the mayor replied. “You need your money; we have your money and then some.” She counted out the money required and laid it in Mr. Young's hands. “There you go. The Hotel Dandridge still stands. Even more good news. I've filed papers to make it a historic landmark.” She noticed that he didn't close his hands over the money. “What's wrong? That's the correct amount. We double-checked.” “Keep it,” Mr. Young said, handing the money back to her. “You've proved your point.” “And the demolition of the hotel?” she asked. “Won't happen,” he replied. “I may not like the old hotel – and I don't – but I'd be a fool to destroy something that you've all tried so hard to save. The last thing I need is an entire town turned against me and my business.” “How do I know I can trust you?” the mayor asked. “When Christmas rolls around and you receive an anonymous donation to the Save the Historic Buildings Fund,” Mr. Young replied, “you'll know who it's from. That's how.” He smiled. “You know? You should do this every year.” “That's the plan,” the mayor said. “Good,” Mr. Young said. “We'll be here next year. And without any wrecking balls, bulldozers, or steam shovels.” “Promise?” the mayor asked. “Promise,” Mr. Young replied.


I told myself to practice the longest and most difficult of my lines ten times in the mirror before I could go to the easy lines. She said practicing in the mirror was the best way to memorize while also getting used to having an audience. How I got myself into the role of a thespian in a high school play was still a mystery. I was sure Ernest W. Stanley, who I was cast to play in The Man Who Came to Dinner , would have sympathy for my bewilderment. The performances were all scheduled, tickets printed, costumes selected, and my name was in the program. There was no way out, so here I stood in front of a mirror trying to memorize my part, dreading the first day of dress rehearsal. My longest lines, directed at the lead character, Sheridan Whiteside, an unwanted guest in the Stanley household, were monologues. My character gathers his courage and says, “Not having your gift for invective, I cannot tell you what I think of your obnoxious interference in my affairs, but I have arranged that you will interfere no longer.” My character turns to three silent actors waiting off stage right and continues, “Mr. Whiteside, these gentlemen are deputy sheriffs. They have a warrant by which I will be enabled to put you out of this house. And I need hardly add that it will be the greatest moment of my life. Mr. Whiteside, I am giving you 15 minutes in which to pack up and get out. If you have not gone in 15 minutes, these gentlemen will forcibly eject you. Thank you, gentlemen. Will you wait outside, please? Fifteen minutes, Mr. Whiteside, and that means bag, baggage wheelchair, penguins, and octopus.” I then turn to exit stage left and exclaim, “I am now going upstairs to smash our radio so that not even accidentally will I ever hear your voice again.” Presumably, the audience applauds as my character exits. I focused on repeating words and phrases in the dialogue to anchor my memorization. ‘Mr. Whiteside’ and ‘fifteen minutes’ were each repeated three times allowing me to memorize using the repeated words as a focus. There was also blocking on stage, which started with my character briefly addressing his wife, Daisy, and then striding across the living room scene to Mr. Whiteside, my tormentor, who was sitting in a wheelchair, at which point I started acting like the man of the house. The play had been around for over twenty years by the time the drama instructor at our high school selected it for the annual school play. It had played successfully on Broadway before becoming a feature film. As high school students, we were more interested in films such as Cleopatra, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Longest Day, and Alford Hitchcock’s The Birds than a Broadway play. My best recollection is that the grooming started in English class, where we learned to write sentences about a noun the teacher selected that day and then diagramed the sentences. If we did other things to improve our English grammar, they have escaped my memory. The teacher was Miss Mortensen, back when it was still acceptable to categorize women by their marriage status. At least, such categorizing was acceptable in the dusty open spaces of eastern Washington State, where I lived at the time. As it happened, Miss Mortensen was also the drama instructor; another job for which she was underappreciated and unrecognized. It came to my attention that our school conducted some type of theatrical performance in the combination cafeteria-theater, but I never participated or attended. If it didn’t involve sports or girls, it exited through a black hole in my consciousness. My friends were even more oblivious to non-sports school activities. It had to be Miss Mortensen who injected theater into my world, and that world was never the same. I recall watching in disinterest as she diagramed a sentence on a green chalkboard, and before she finished, she put the white chalk in the tray and slowly walked downstage to her desk. I whispered to the boy across the aisle, “Pop quiz time.” He nodded. We had seen these sneaky tactics before, but not from Miss Mortensen. “The school play will be in May,” she said as she walked around her desk. I was anticipating she would pull out a file with the pop quiz questions, so I didn’t listen to what she was saying until she sat on the front side of the desk and crossed her legs. “Just a few months away,” she continued and allowed her dress to settle above her knees. The boys in the class considered Miss Mortensen an attractive woman in a mature sort of way. She was probably in her early 30s, tall, wore her hair short like Elizabeth Taylor, and frequently wore tight sweaters. She put her palms flat on the desk on each side of her legs, leaned forward, and looked at the class. Suddenly I forgot about diagraming sentences. She started to talk about the struggles she faced as a young teacher trying to bring culture into a school that is dominated by sports and tradition. “They say arts and theater have a place— but do they really want to support a thespian program?” she asked without defining thespian. “Yes, we have a stage, lights, and a few set designs, but it takes more,” she continued as the room became quiet. English class seemed to be over. “It takes people, students, willing to play the parts to give of themselves to create theater. Students who want to expand their world beyond the muscle-bound culture we now have,” she continued. I noticed for the first time a box of tissues on the desk. Almost subconsciously, she pulled a tissue out of the box and continued to talk in a husky voice. “If I cannot produce a play for this high school, I doubt I’ll be here next year,” she said, turning her head to look out the windows to her left. As we looked at her profile, she lifted a tissue to her right cheek. Then, for a few moments, she sat and stared into the distance. Unsure what to do or say, we waited. “Students with undiscovered talent will miss the opportunity to act,” she said as she arched forward on her arms, looked up at the ceiling, the color rising in her neck, and the sweater stretching across her chest. “I’m not sure anybody cares. This is my responsibility to give young people in this community a place to grow and explore their gifts. Even if in the end we must cancel because, . . .” and she stopped, slipped slowly from the desk, reached for another tissue, and turned her back to the audience. We waited in her silence as Miss Mortensen wiped her eyes and straightened her posture before turning around. “I’m sorry,” she said very quietly. “This is not your problem. I came to a school that cares more about football than the performing arts, and I can’t change that.” “What can we do, Miss Mortensen?” a girl asked from the back of the room. “Thank you for asking,” she replied and looked down at the tissues in her hands. “Auditions are right after school today if anybody is interested.” I had wrestling practice that afternoon, and Miss Mortensen never mentioned the school play during class the next day. However, the following day before English class, I heard two girls talking about auditions and how they hoped to get a part in the play. After class, I waited for a chance to talk with Miss Mortensen, who was wiping the chalkboard. “I’m interested in helping with the school play,” I offered while she was still wiping the board. Without turning around, she said, “I was hoping you would be willing to be in the play.” I was not sure how to respond, but I found my voice and said, “Is it too late to be in the tryout?” She turned around, put the eraser in the tray, looked me directly in the eye, and said, “They are called auditions, and you don’t need to audition. Wrestling season is over next week, so come to the first rehearsal. I have a part for you.” That was the beginning of an English lesson and much more. I had never been on the school stage or the backstage area, so it was all new and exciting as we gathered for the first rehearsal. Every step on the slanted wood stage could be heard in the cafetorium. Backstage was dimly lit, with black curtains, black painted walls, and accents, adding to the intrigue of being in the theater. Miss Mortensen gathered us on stage around a wheelchair, passed out scripts among the would-be actors, and began assigning roles. She directed one of my classmates to sit in the wheelchair to become Sheridan Whiteside, the lead character. She motioned for me to stand by the wheelchair. “You are Ernest W. Stanley, owner of everything around you, but your life is about to be controlled by the man in the wheelchair,” she said. Next, she walked to a group of girls, took the hand of one, and stood her next to me, “You are Daisy Stanley, the wife,” she informed us. In a manner of seconds, we all had our assigned roles. During the third rehearsal, I stood offstage behind a curtain, listening for my cue, when we heard a knock on the metal exterior door backstage. Miss Mortensen told everybody to take a break as she went to push the door open with the crash bar. Daylight poured into the backstage area as Miss Mortensen held the door for a man silhouetted in the bright light. When he entered and came closer to the cast members, I heard somebody whisper that he was a former student who graduated three years ago.

Miss Mortensen called him Russ, and he called her by her first name, which we had never heard anybody use. She made a brief introduction without explaining what Russ had to do with our play and why he came in the backdoor. Russ always came to rehearsals and performances through the backstage door with the assistance of Miss Mortensen. It became apparent to our cast that Russ and Miss Mortensen were friends who had a love of theater in common. Over the following weeks, we watched them together, their body language, standing close when talking, smoking on the stairway landing at the backdoor, sharing ideas. Our young minds were filled with imagined roles for our drama instructor and her young protégé. We grew to appreciate Russ for his ability to see when an actor was stuck on a line, he would whisper the missing word or words from offstage. As our first dress rehearsal approached, I still had not mastered all my lines. I figured that since Russ was good at prompting, he might be helpful with memorization. After rehearsal, I found Russ backstage walking to the backdoor, and I followed him out to the parking lot. As we talked about memorization, he asked, “Have you been practicing in front of a mirror?” I nodded and waited for his assessment. “That’s good,” he said. “Was Miss Mortensen the one who told you that was the best way to practice?” “How did you know?” I asked. “Was that before or after she cried and described how hard it is to be the drama instructor here?” he asked as he lit a cigarette. I looked at him, unsure of how to respond. Finally, I said, “You have seen her do that before?” “How do you think she got me to come back here to help with this play?” he replied. “You mean that is how she recruits people?” I asked. “Consider it your first acting lesson from a professional,” he said and got in his car.