Click, click. Beep. Diiiiing! “Welcome to World Wardrobe!” projected a voice deep within the store as I continued to step in further. The lady behind the counter was a short, plump woman with remains of what used to be a head full of ginger locks and an energy so vibrant she must have been well beyond her first cup of coffee. She appeared old enough to be my grandmother yet clearly had the motivation of a newborn baby the way she zipped around sorting through clothes while pointing customers in every which way as they asked where to find this and that. Diiiiiing! “Welcome to World Wardrobe!” Gosh that must get so repetitive. A rush of a breeze wrapped around my entire body as I felt the pain of a punch on my right shoulder. “Your in the way!” I watched as the lady frantically ran towards the counter dragging her bags over my feet and then the sleeve of a bubblegum pink shirt that was nearly falling out. “Hi, I would like to sell of all these, so how much will I get?” “Hi how are you today ma’am?” questioned the old plump woman, Sal written across her nametag. “I need to sell these,” said the woman again, this time a little more calm. “If you don’t mind filling out this form with some basic information I’d be happy to add you to the list and call you when we have finished going through everything.” “Oh I went through it, everything’s fine, so uh, how much did you say you’ll be paying me for all this?” “Well that’s why we have to go through everything first ma’am, to ensure the quality of all your items and to maybe return any to you that we feel could be more valuable to someone somewhere else. That just ensures everyone’s happy ma’am.” Her use of ‘ma’am’ was quite a nuisance as I began to pick up on her slight southern accent. “Also because of the heavy traffic here this time of year, we can only examine two bags per customer, but you’re welcome to come back tomorrow with two more bags.” The lady glared as if Sal had just robbed her of everything she’s ever had. “You do not understand, Christmas just ended, we don’t have much time, I am in the middle of cleansing myself, do you think you can just make me put that on pause for you?” At this point I was staring with no control. Sal focused on me now, “Is there something specific you were looking for?” I snapped out of it and realized this was not my business. I turned right around and walked out of the store before I could lay my eyes on anything I would want to buy. From the looks of it, I would be waiting awhile to check out anything I picked up anyway. I got back in my car reflecting on the insanity of people and their “cleansing” rituals as I began to slowly back up, slamming on the brakes soon after as another crazy woman zipped behind me and then into a parking spot near by, got out of the car, and dragged her bags in just as frantically. I got home, no bags to bring in. The red light flashed on my phone counsel with new messages waiting for my arrival. I clicked the button “Hi Rach,” Rachel was my name but those who were close to me called me Rach, usually, “I know it’s been awhile but I wanted to let you know I’ve been thinking about you and you’re welcome to come over whenever you’d like, we’ll talk soon. Tell your folks I said a Happy New Year to them!” Same message as last year, and once again, probably the only message I’ll get for the year. Click. “Next message.” “ Hey girl! It’s Sam, you know, Samantha? From science lab?” It’s been almost two years since I graduated high school now and just about a year since I last talked to Sam. I guess you could say we had a falling out. We really just distanced after my grandmother passed and I had become cold to the world, Sam just took it personally I guess, nobody’s fault, really. “I just wanted to let you know, more for me though, that I forgive you.” Okay, I changed my mind. It was her fault. She probably should have been there for me more knowing how close of a relationship I had with my grandmother. She was too worried about losing me as a friend texting me things like asking if we are still friends and she felt like I didn’t like her like I used to. Of course I didn’t, I didn’t like anyone, I just lost a huge piece of me, like losing a friggin limb. It’d be kinda hard to lose a leg and then get up and start walking again.

Click. “Last message.” “Are you unhappy with your current medical coverage?” Aah the wonderful world of telemarketers, Shut up. I shuffled over to end the message retrieval. “Start off 2020 right, correct you health…” Annnd Click.

Today is December 31st. Tomorrow is January 1st. And at one point, tomorrow was December 1st, and November 1st, and October 1st. What was I missing? Someone, sometime ago, decided on a certain calendar setup and it just so happened that January 1st was the first day of the year. Great. Well what if nobody ever decided that? What if we all just lived everyday like another day, because that’s all it really is right? Another day? The holidays all repeat, Valentines day, St. Patrick’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and then the big finale at the end of the year where Halloween hits, then Thanksgiving, Christmas, almost feels as if you never left the same chair at Uncle Mike’s house as your family celebrated around you. Then you think you get a break after that but New Year’s comes to slap you in the face and suddenly there is an expectation realm around everyone for a fresh start for the next two months until we all just resort back to our regular ways. You know, the seasons repeat too. Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall. They are all present in a time marked “year” but they don’t end and start again, aiming to be better than before. They just act in a cycle. One dying out while the next steps in to pick up the slack. You know why we rely on a groundhog for our annual ritual? Why we rely on an animal who has no idea about time past the difference between day and night? Because it keeps humans on a timeline. But life isn’t a timeline. If a groundhog wants to start doing something different on August 7th at 6:42 in the afternoon, he does it. Anyone of you crazy New Years go-getters could drop dead anytime, and you can’t control that. You can’t align it perfectly with your timeline, when it’s convenient for you. Who is someone that developed an idea of time to encourage you to wait until January 1st to start your better life, seems a little dependent for no reason. “We made it through another year!” people will proclaim year after year after year, like what were you expecting? Whether you come or go, or the World gets shipped off to war and people die, there will always be that guy, “Phew, made it through 2036, let’s make 2037 great!” But will it be? Why couldn’t you have made the last month, or the last two months, or the last two months and twelve days great, were you out of control? To make it through another year again, I guess is a good personal… accomplishment? Not sure if that’s the best word to describe it. You either make it, or you die and don’t know you didn’t make it. In this case though, wouldn’t your birthday be a better start to your “year”? Or even if we wanted to do this as a group effort, as a full country effort, our country has a birthday! But, I digress, people will still go out and have their fun every year proclaiming that “This is my year!” I opened the fridge and grabbed some guacamole I had thrown together last night. That was about the only thing that remained in my fridge, but a day like this was not one to grocery shop. It was already 5:00 and darkness would be rolling in soon. Just another day that flew by with no accomplishments. I grabbed some wheat crackers that sat at the top of my pantry and shuffled to the living room to sit in the recliner. I clicked the TV on and scrolled through the channels, everyone of them making a big deal about the ball drop. Why the hell do hundreds of people feel the need to talk about a ball dropping hours before it happens to signify a new day? Why is that so damn entertaining?? A big ball is lowered from high up. That’s it. Somehow its broadcasted about for hours. Me eating my homemade guacamole would be a more interesting topic. There was nothing to watch on TV, the world could not convince me to go out and do any sort of shopping, and the few friends I had were probably miles and miles away drunk out of their minds. I lived alone and I usually didn’t mind it, but on a night like tonight or really any night deemed to be a holiday, I had to worry about break ins or someone I loved being in some sort of accident with a stupid party animal. I shuffled back to the kitchen, rinsed my dishes and grabbed a glass of water. My doctor told me to start drinking a full glass of water before bed, said it would reduce cramps while I was sleeping. Nowadays I would just be up all night peeing, but I guess he was right, at least I didn’t have cramps. Nothing like waking up to yourself already standing beside your bed and it feeling like your being stabbed in the back of the leg.

I took my water to the bathroom and started the shower. I cleaned myself up, got soap in my eyes like almost usually everyday and stood there for five minutes in pain thinking what an inconvenient time this would be for someone to break in, me blinded. I stood under the hot water for a while sipping my cold glass of water, just like I did every night.

I got out and blow dried my hair on the lowest heat setting, just like I did everyday. I brushed my teeth and flossed and gargled listerine, just like yesterday and the day before.

I threw my robe around me which was conveniently left hanging on the bathroom door, just like it is everyday.

I walked to the kitchen to stare at the green numbers on the stove screaming 6:45 in the finally pitch blackness that poured through every inch of the windows. Too early for bed I thought.

I cleaned and put the dishes away that I left in the sink so that I wouldn’t have to worry about them tomorrow, just like I always do before bed. I went to my room and put all my blankets and pillows in order. I was never one to make my bed in the morning, not today, not yesterday, never. I plopped down and scrolled through every app on my phone, just like I do everyday. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, peoples stupid snapchat stories, all the same, trying to impress the world, looking much happier online then they probably actually are in real life.

It was now just after 7:00. People were probably getting up from naps and just now leaving their houses to go celebrate after spending hours getting ready. Here I was, ready to sleep again, too early again, just to wake up early tomorrow, again, and start going... again. I woke the next morning to the sunlight beaming through my window onto my pillow on the same spot as it does everyday. I got up, went to the bathroom, washed my face, put my deodorant on and got dressed. I opened my front door to leave for work and there stood that big bulldog, the one that’s there every morning when I leave for whatever it is I am doing. I went to work, then went grocery shopping, came home, red light flashed on my phone counsel, listened to the messages.

Grabbed something to eat, clicked through the tv channels. Back to the kitchen, rinsed dishes, grabbed a glass of water.

Took water to the bathroom, started the shower, burned eyes, thought about burglars. Stood in shower, finished glass of water. Got out, blow dried hair. Brushed teeth. Flossed. Gargled. Robe. Dishes. Bed. Phone. Sleep. I woke the next morning to the sunlight beaming through my window onto my pillow on the same spot as it does everyday. I got up, went to the bathroom, washed my face, put my deodorant on and got dressed. I opened my front door to leave for work and there stood that big bulldog, the one that’s there every morning when I leave for whatever it is I am doing. I went to work, then came home, and guess what? The red light was flashing on my phone counsel.


The night is resoundingly quiet, not a soul wanders the cool streets. So the clicking of my heels thunders like the clouds above me. I can’t even hold back the cliche melancholy washing over me anymore.

I should be in the packed gymnasium, visiting my old best friends, my old teammates, my favorite teachers, but instead, I’m wandering the street like a lost puppy looking for its mom. I tried to go, I really did. But as soon as I walked in the entrance, dressed in a casual dress I usually wear to work and my “attorney heels” as my husband calls them, I couldn’t go in. I couldn’t force my feet to pass the threshold, they shook and my toes curled in terror every time I tried to lift them off their station on the floor. So I stood there for 30 minutes until a man that looked strikingly familiar tapped my shoulder and I elbowed him out of the way and took off into the night.

It’s really pathetic. I even told my husband, James, he didn’t have to come because I could do it alone just fine, but apparently I was lying through my teeth. I wanted to hear one of his cheesy jokes about my hoity-toity high school, with its Olympic sized pool and planetarium. I wanted his warmth close by my side instead of the biting cold of a solitary bench on the street corner I’m perched on.

My legs had begun to ache in these heels, they aren’t usually for walking. They’re usually what I wear in court. I’ve found that 5’ 10” woman with confident resounding voices are more intimidating than 5’4” women who are just as loud. These heels come with me to every court case and meeting prior to the hearing, hence their coined name “attorney heels''. James loves them, he always smiles and says “There’s my spitfire goin’ to work!” when I get them out; I still blush every time, despite 10 years of marriage and 2 children.

Thinking of my husband and our kids at home makes me wanna hop on a plane and fly back to New York this instant and leave this tiny town behind, but then James would know something is wrong.

I look down at my watch, it’s 9:30, Sammy and Duke should be in bed right now but I know they aren’t, they’re probably up watching football with James who's likely saying “just another minute and then off to bed with you two!”. I always find them sprawled out on the couch the next morning after waking up in a cold bed--I act angry and scold them every time but secretly, I’m smiling at the little family we’ve made.

I had wanted to brag about my success at this foolish reunion, I wanted to say that despite all of their tyranny and bullying I came out alright. I know I came out better than alright. I live in a 3 story house with 2 beautiful children, a super hot and sweet husband, and a job I love. But I couldn’t do it! I was too much of a wimp! Perhaps I haven’t changed that much since high school.

The thought makes me clench my fist and bang it against the damp metal I’m sitting on. The blow rings in the hand but I just grit my teeth and try to hold back the tears of pain that want to escape.

“Allie?” A voice behind me makes me spin around. It’s my old friend Maya, the one who ditched me my Senior year when I was deemed too weird to be seen with.

“Hello, Maya.” I must remain cordial and she will go away. I secretly cross my fingers and pray for the clacking of her heels to grow fainter and fainter but they do the opposite.

She plops down beside me and looks over.

“Smoke?” She asks, holding out a pink box of cigarettes. I decline with a shake of my head. I look back over at her, her face more visible in the light of the streetlamp. I can’t help the shocked look on my face as I take in her sallow skin and sunk eyes, under her eyes are a heavy set purple and her face is the uncanny orange of discolored foundation, her mouth is shakily lined with cheap red lipstick and her hair is patchy and hanging out by chunks.

Her previous beauty and the youthfulness that drew in every boy at our school is gone, long gone. Now she just looks sad and, strangely enough, used.

I quickly look away. “So, how’s life?” Her voice is scratching, with emotion or tobacco, I’m not sure.

“Fine, I’ve got 2 kids. A daughter and a son Samantha and Duke.” I keep my answer short but try to give enough information to satisfy.

“I got a few of those,” she takes a long drag from her cigarette.

“Sons or daughters?” “Eh, both?” She poses the words like a question, does she not know about her children?

“How many?” I say the words slowly, suddenly curious.

“Um, lost count ages ago. At least 7?” Her words take me aback. She doesn’t know how many children she has? What happened to my Valedictorian best friend from high school? “Oh.” Is all I can bring myself to say. I want to ask her why she doesn’t know the number, but I don’t want this conversation to last much longer, her cigarette is giving me a headache. “Seems you turned out better than most of us. Michael, Caleb, and Carra are dead, various things like cancer or whatever.” She takes a drag between each name. “Jackie is a drunk, got hammered just an hour into the reunion. Daniel, well we don’t know. We didn’t know about you either, you never talked to us anymore. Annie said she thought you’d died, but here ya are.” “I went to college, and law school. I decided to stop being a screw-up.” My mouth is open and forming words before I can process what I’m saying. “I met my husband there, James Earl, he’s an absolute nerd and we argue all the time, but I love him. And he was by my side every day, when I was giving birth he held my hand and kept telling me I was beautiful and strong and perfect for him.” A smile creeps over my face as warmth fills my chest.

“Eh, good for you.” She takes a drag and pauses, studying me the warmth quickly recedes. “Really Allie, I’m glad you’re doin’ good. I’m glad you got out and away from this little shart town. If you can’t tell, it chewed me up and spit me back out.” She looks at me, her cigarette hanging out of her two fingers like how we used to when we sang with Rizo during our Grease marathons.

I don’t know what to reply so I don’t. I look down at my lap instead, picking at a loose string in my dress. She takes another drag and speaks again, “I got pregnant,” she pauses for a drag, “my first year of college, a guy named David.” Drag,” real bastard he was.” Drag,” After that, I got into sex work, I was a young woman and beautiful, made some good money for a bit.” Drag, “and then-” She starts lifting the cigarette to her mouth but I pluck it from her and stamp it into the bench, almost smothering it on her skin tight cheetah print dress. She stares at me for a second as my ears flame red, but then she bursts into a resounding fit of laughter that ends in a violent series of coughs, each time her throat rattles I flinch. Finally, she gets herself under control and looks up at me from under her chunky eyelashes.

“God Allie, I missed you.” She smiles at me sadly as unspoken words are exchanged.

I realize now that the peak of her life was high school and when it ended, her life ended with it.

Maybe that’s what drove me to wrap my arm around her slim shoulder despite the rancid smell emitting from her form, or maybe it was just the guilt I feel for leaving her behind here, or perhaps we both just need this little bit of warmth to thaw the bitter ice coating those 4 years. I may never know.

But for now, I let her cling to me and cry as I hold back tears of my own, our roles reversed after all these years, on the park bench where we first met.


Trastevere, Rome, bustled with life as another day gave way to another night. The lights on the Ponte Sisto Bridge reflected in the Tiber River below, bringing to mind romance and vitality. For Cassidy, it had all been intoxicating upon arrival, but now it was all as bland and familiar as home. She was spending a year teaching English as a second language, and had happily settled in Rome. As she was weaving her way home from dinner one evening, she saw him: Paul, her brother, who had gone missing fifteen years ago. She brushed it off, noting how, in the months and years following his disappearance, she often imagined she saw him on every street corner, saw his smile or his eyes on every stranger’s face, heard his laugh in the corridors of every building. They locked eyes, and he maintained contact just a beat too long before looking away and vanishing into the throng of tourists. Early the next morning, after espresso and cornetti, Cassidy sat by the fountain in the Piazza di Santa Maria, enjoying the early-morning streets, still asleep, the empty cobbles echoing with the solemn church bells ringing out hour by hour through the centuries. That’s when he emerged again. He caught her eye and paused.            “Buongiorno,” Cassidy called out. He said nothing. “Do you speak English? Lei parla l’inglese?”            “Si. Parlo l’inglese.”            “Okay. So let’s,”            “Perche? Why should we, if you speak Italian?”            “Are you Paul Carson?” Cassidy said. The man started. He laughed to himself, then sat on the edge of a step on the fountain. Clasping his hands together between his knees, he observed the edifice of the old church, and said,            “How did you find me?”            “I wasn’t looking for you. I stopped years ago. Everyone thinks you died, you know,” Cassidy said.            “That was the game plan. It’s strange, speaking English. I haven’t in a long time. It’s like trying to fit into an old pair of trousers. You should be able to, and you recognize it as your own, and yet…it’s not quite right.”            “I can’t speak Italian well enough to grill you like I need to,” Cassidy said.            “I know, I know,” Paul held up his hands.            “So, what the hell, Paul? What happened?”            “First, my name isn’t Paul. Okay? Paul Carson is dead.”            “I refuse to call you Paolo.”            “It’s Giovanni. Giovanni Giancarlo.”            “Good Lord, that’s pretentious,” Cassidy muttered. “You know who I am, don’t you?”            “Of course I do. Cass. I’d recognize you anywhere,” Paul said, with a tenderness that would have made Cassidy want to hug him if the urge to slap him wasn’t so strong.            “I don’t even know what to say to you right now. I mean—do you know how heartbroken we all were?”            “In your case, I’m surprised,” Paul chuckled. “I thought you hated me.”            “Yeah, sure, in the usual way a girl hates her older brother. It’s nothing real . I wanted you to stop being such a lazy, cocky asshole, that’s all. I didn’t want you to get hurt —and I certainly never wanted you to die .” Paul was in college when he disappeared. He was an active member of the Georgetown scene, then one spring break he disappeared. Hide nor hair was ever found of him, and friends, family, and strangers took sides among those who thought he was out there somewhere and those who thought, if he was ever found again, it would be as a corpse. His mother refused to relinquish hope, while his father preferred to face what he called “cold, hard facts.” The problem was, very few cold, hard facts existed in Paul’s case. Everything was hazy, uncertain. His friends last saw him down by the Potomac waterfront, drunkenly serenading people at the Key Bridge Boathouse. They left him there for some reason, and never saw him again. People walking by the boathouse said he tried to climb into a kayak, but they restrained him and put him in a taxi. Allegedly he gave an address that turned out to be his ex-boyfriend’s. Later, certain of Paul’s possessions were found at the ex’s apartment: the tie he was last seen wearing; a few textbooks; and, damningly, a blood-stained shirt, which DNA tests confirmed belonged to Paul.            Cassie joined her father and many people in assigning blame to Freddy, the ex, who maintained his innocence, insisting the bloody t-shirt was a result of chafed nipples.            “He’s a marathon runner! Half his shirts are bloody. You should see the state of his socks.”            Freddy was not convicted, with much of the community citing his wealth and his family’s political connections as the reason for this, rather than the reasonable doubt standard.            “It’s hard for family members of a murder victim to see reason,” someone said, trying to be helpful. Maybe so, Cassie thought, but how could someone be put away for murder when no body was ever found? Circumstantial evidence couldn’t—and shouldn’t—land someone in the electric chair.            Several years later, Freddy sat for the Virginia Bar and was denied admission for failing to disclose this brush with the law. Law students across the country rolled their eyes, scoffing at how he thought he could get away with that.            “If I have to report a damned speeding ticket, you have to report a murder charge,” one Maryland Bar candidate commented. Freddy later took his life, and people stopped talking about him. As a result, people stopped talking about Paul, too. Years passed, Cassidy grew up, attended college in California, then took a teach abroad opportunity in Italy. The apparent death of her brother caused an irreparable rift in her parents’ relationship, and their marriage ended. Away from the ghosts that lurked throughout DC, in their home, on the metro, and all across the National Mall, Cassidy came to terms with the past and moved on with her life.

           Then, suddenly, Paul appeared on the ancient cobbled streets of Rome.            “You know people think Freddy killed you,” Cassidy said.            “Freddy helped me escape. He’s a good friend.”            “He killed himself.” Paul paled, but recovered quickly, a smile returning to his face. “No, he didn’t.”            “He swallowed a bullet in his parents’ basement.”            “That’s what he wants you to think.”            “Jesus, Paul. They found his body, okay? They buried him. He didn’t vanish. You ruined a lot of lives, you know that? And for what? A clean break? What, you were too chicken to live the life you wanted and be judged for it?”            “Keep your voice down, will ya?” Paul snapped. The siblings sat quietly for a moment, each fuming with private thoughts as they watched pigeons scour the cobbles for snacks. “It isn’t what you think,” Paul said. “I didn’t just get bored one day and leave.”            “In Freddy’s testimony, he said you were always whining about how you wanted to disappear.”            “I didn’t know you were such a big fan of Freddy’s.”            “I’m not. I spent the last fifteen years thinking he murdered you. I was horrible to him whenever we ran into one another, and then I see you here, healthy as can be, and I think of the fact that people hounded that poor guy for no reason, apparently, and now he’s six feet under and still tarnished for a crime he, evidently, did not commit.”            “Right, Cass, now if you would just step down from your soapbox and let me speak, you would see I didn’t have a choice.”            “How’s that?” A beggar holding a child appeared at their side, out of nowhere as they always seemed to do, and smiled at them, hand outstretched, waiting for money. Cassidy had learned to ignore them in the last year, though she still felt badly when a small child was involved; Paul, however, who had clearly had much more experience, snapped at her, “ Basta, ehi? Vada via, adesso! ” The woman wandered away, and Paul turned back to his sister, shaking his head and muttering, “ porca puttana. ” Cassidy raised her eyebrows at his foul language. She crossed one leg over the other and cocked her head, waiting for Paul’s explanation. He cleared his throat and looked down at his weather-worn leather shoes as he scratched the palm of his hand, a nervous gesture Cassidy recognized from long-ago. "I was stupid back then, okay?” “Only back then?” Cassidy said. “Hey, come on.” “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. Carry on.” “I thought I was smart and all,” Paul laughed mirthlessly, glancing over his shoulder as if afraid they were being watched. “The summer after junior year, I interned on the Hill. I never had any political ambitions myself, but I wanted to work behind the scenes. I dunno, something like chief of staff, you know? So, anyway, that summer I made friends with some sketchy characters.” “I’d say most characters on Capitol Hill are sketchy,” Cassidy interjected. “Can you save the snark, please?” “The more uncomfortable I am, the snarkier I become. It can’t be helped.” “Suffice it to say, I got in over my head. I thought I was doing something, I dunno, something impressive . Something exciting. I lead this secret life, and I made some money. That’s when I started going out with Freddy,” Paul paused on the name of his ex. “Was Freddy one of these sketchy characters?” “No, no, of course not. Freddy’s an angel, he would never—” Paul shook his head. 	He glanced over his shoulder again, biting his lip, scratching at his palm. “My relationship with Freddy was the light. My side-job with the fellas on the Hill was the darkness. I did end up telling Freddy about it, after a few months. It was around Thanksgiving when I finally told him what all I was involved in.” “What, exactly, were you involved in?” Cassidy asked. “Drug trafficking, to put it simply,” Paul said. “Before I knew it, I was caught up in a web of organized crime. The kind of shit that’s meant to be glamorous on TV and in John Grisham novels. I finally got scared and realized what I mess I was making of my life. I stopped cooperating with the guys, hoping it would all just go away. But, see, that’s just further proof that I was a naïve idiot. That stuff doesn’t just go away . You can’t ghost organized crime factions.” “I would imagine not,” Cassidy muttered, trying to wrap her mind around the insanity spewing from her brother’s mouth. Part of her wondered if he had just taken too many drugs himself and imagined this whole thing, but his demeanor was genuine. His confidence had vanished, his eyes were far away with remembrances of his past. Guilt, remorse, and a bit of fear came through in his voice. Paul continued, “They started threatening me, but I wasn’t having it. I’d never dealt with people like that before. Of course, I guess normal people would be frightened into compliance—it’s people who are used to those dealings who would call a bluff. But, you know what I was like. King of the world. Spoiled and unprepared,” Paul cleared his throat. He took a deep breath, waiting for a group of people to pass by before he continued, “So, they started threatening to harm Freddy. They found where he lived, sent me pictures indicating as much. Well, I couldn’t let them do that, but I didn’t want anything to do with them anymore, either. I was trapped. So the only option was to do what I should have done before I got involved with them anyway.” “Vanish into thin air?” “No, are you really that stupid?” Paul snapped. “I went to the feds. Told ‘em all about it. Haven’t you heard of the Witness Protection Program?” Cassidy nodded slowly, considering this revelation as a pigeon landed on the step between her brother and herself. The Witness Protection Program. Of course. “And Freddy? I mean, you said you told him. Did he know you were going to turn yourself in? Did he know you were going to disappear?” “Yes and yes. He and I broke up around Christmas. I could tell it was eating him alive, knowing what I was involved with, and I hated it. I promised I would get out of it, but he didn’t see how that was possible. We stayed friends, and I confided in him about everything. We would meet up at his apartment and talk about it. That was dumb, too. I put him right in the path of danger—” “There was nothing suspect about his death,” Cassidy said, surprised at the warmth in her voice. “Maybe not. But he still wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t put him through all that,” Paul said, laughing bitterly. Cassidy couldn’t think of anything to say. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and moved her hair from one shoulder to the other, trying to combat the brutal Italian sun. “So, that’s it,” Paul said. “Spirited away under the cover of night. New life, new identity. I always thought I’d go back one day, after enough time had passed. But, I don’t know. Maybe it would be too painful.” “Are you allowed to go back?” Cassidy asked. “You’re not breaking the law right now, are you? Telling me all this stuff?” “No. I don’t work for the CIA. It’s not like that. I can go back to my old life whenever I want,” Paul shrugged. “Sounds so easy, doesn’t it?” “Do you ever miss it?” “A little. I’ve missed you, and mom and dad. How are they?” “Divorced,” Cassidy said. “But okay, individually.” Paul nodded, his brow knit together as he considered this news. “What happened with Freddy?” Paul asked, his voice childlike in its sadness. “How much do you know?” Cassidy stammered. “Nothing,” Paul said. “I was told not to look anything up. No internet presence, no reading the papers regarding my supposed demise, nothing. I haven’t—seeing you is the first time I’ve had any contact with my old life since I left.” “Well,” Cassidy sighed. She cleared her throat and shifted her seat. “As I said, everyone assumed you were dead. Foul play seemed likely, and they found stuff at Freddy’s apartment.” “What kind of stuff?” “Oh, just some things. Textbooks, the tie you were wearing the night you vanished, a bloody t-shirt…that’s what got him in trouble, that t-shirt.”

“Bloody t-shirt?” “He said it was from chafed nipples.” “He was right,” Paul said. “I guess no one believed him.” “I don’t know if no one believed him. But I didn’t. Dad didn’t. Mom never gave up thinking you were still alive somewhere.” “See, never doubt a mother,” Paul shook his finger. “Mothers always know, somehow. It’s like they’re endowed with magic powers when their children are born.”            “Anyway, he wasn’t convicted. Looking back with a cooler head, of course he wasn’t. It was sort of absurd that he was ever arrested anyway, considering they never actually found a body.”            “Good old American justice system,” Paul said. “When did he—you know.”            “Oh, three, four years after you disappeared?” Cassidy said. She explained the Virginia Bar’s refusal of Freddy’s application on the grounds of withheld information. That, in addition to years of speculation around the city, had ruined him.            Paul hung his head. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He let out a short, self-deprecating laugh and said, “I don’t know what I’m getting so upset for. We were only together for a few months.”            “You don’t have to apologize for being upset. The whole situation’s a mess.”            “That’s true. Poor Freddy. How anyone could think that man would be capable of murder is—he was a lovely man. I wish you could have gotten to know him. I wish he’d never gotten tangled up in my mess. Or, really, I guess I wish I’d never been so stupid in the first place.”            “No use regretting, I guess,” Cassidy said. She patted her brother’s back. It was odd, how natural it felt to comfort him, when for all intents and purposes he was a stranger. “Do you think you’ll ever come home?”            “I am home,” Paul said, a sad, resigned smile on his lips as he glanced around the Piazza di Santa Maria, coming to life now as the church bells struck 10:00. “There are worse places to hide away, I suppose.”            “ Certo ,” Cassidy said, offering her brother a friendly smile, which he returned.            “How long are you here?” Paul asked.            “Until Christmas,” Cassidy said.            “I’d like to see you again. If that’d be okay,” Paul said.            “Yeah. I think I’d like that, too,” Cassidy said. She wondered about Paul’s life here in Italy, whether he ever had a boyfriend, or any friends at all. Perhaps it was easier to live out his life in solitude, so as not to draw anyone into his complicated situation, or perhaps he simply never spoke about his past. Maybe, to him, Paul Carson really was a different person, and he was someone else. From his expression, she assumed he had never quite gotten the events of fifteen years prior off of his chest before. There was something of serenity and relief in his face, but also pain.  “I won’t tell anyone,” Cassidy said, leaning in and holding her brother’s gaze so he knew she was serious. He was safe, until he chose to come home. He smiled and nodded his thanks.            Cassidy rose to her feet, noting the time and the fact that she had yet to create lesson plans for the week. Paul rose as well.            “Good to meet you, Giovanni,” Cassidy held out her hand.            “ Piacere ,” Paul shook it. The siblings smiled at each other, letting the secrets of the past marinate between them. Cassidy gave Paul her phone number and address and walked away from him, following the cobbles back to the top of Via Garibaldi, to face another day in this strange, foreign world.


Grayness. My entire vision is immersed in a pulsing gray vortex. A thunderous cacophony resounds in my head as I flail around. Gradually my sight focuses, and a landscape sprawls out around me. First comes an evening sky, enshrouded by a ponderous layer of clouds. Snow is falling onto the ground, disgorged by the sky as bloated projectiles that splatter over everything in the vicinity. I hold out my hand and catch a few, but I feel no chill despite the brumal winds and vision obscuring snowfall. Looking at my hand, I notice that the snow is passing through it. My chest moves, but there are no vapor clouds around my head. The snow cakes onto the branches of the nearby trees so thickly that I wait for the precipitous white heaps to plunge to the ground, but they never do. Coniferous trees converge on a hillside. I try moving forward, brushing against the nearest tree with a soft thud. “How are you feeling?” A disembodied voice says. I try to respond, but nothing intelligible comes out. “Did you just day something? That is unexpected. Well, whenever you’re ready, go to the other side of the hill. I looked at the apex of the hill, but I turn away and wander in the opposite direction until I happen upon a secluded woodland cabin. Christmas lights blink in a repeating series along the rooftop. A trail of smoke emanates from a stone chimney. Above the garage, a motion activated floodlight maintains a nocturnal vigil over the property. I approach the tall, frosted door, but the sensor does not activate. Behind the cottage, a bare expanse of snow extends for about twenty feet, concealing a birdbath and currently barren garden. The back door was wide open, so I passed into the house. Soft, warm lighting illuminates the interior. Blocky furniture and shelves are arranged throughout the rooms of the house. In the living room, a television beside a Christmas tree depicts the descent of a geodesic sphere in New York. A woman sits on a crude couch, eyes fixed on the ceremony. Her face bears no expression, and she does not blink, even as I interpose myself between her and the television. I leave via the front door. I have dallied enough. I take a moment to stabilize my emotions and retrace my steps to the forested hill. This time I ascend the rise. As I progress, a wall of oily smoke becomes visible, but I smell nothing. The trees are thicker here, prohibiting vision, but I know what awaits on the bottom. “Yes, you’re almost there,” the voice says. I make my way down the slope, weaving in between the trunks until I reach the base of the incline. An ice laden highway wraps around the base of the hill. On the far side of the street is a sheer cliff that is easily over a hundred feet high. The crushed remains of a truck and a sedan block the entire street. Both vehicles are on fire. The truck has torn the safety railing aside, and the back of the trailer wavers on the edge. Behind the windshield of the smoke filled cab, the unknown driver’s head is buried in an airbag. Whether he is alive or dead cannot be ascertained. The truck tips back, plummeting into the darkness. I wince at the sound of the resulting explosion. I slowly look at the remaining vehicle. This sedan is the second vehicle I’ve ever owned, purchased at a used car dealership after two hours of deliberation. I remember the reason why I would be on the road tonight, a promise made to my girlfriend to spend the new year together. I brace myself and countenance the driver. I barely recognize my own visage. My face has been damaged extensively, eyes swollen shut, blood trickling from the left side of the mouth. The voice speaks again. “Now, don’t look away.” This edict proves difficult to follow as a nauseous chill washes over me. The tension in my chest increases as the flames lap closer to my vulnerable form. Someone is behind me. It is the woman from the cottage. She quivers in her robe as she holds a cell phone. She dials 911 and supplies the details of the situation. A few minutes pass. My skin is beginning to burn. A fire truck and ambulance pull up. The fire fighters extinguish the flames and extract my body with hydraulic tools. The paramedics take it into an ambulance and fasten it to a mattress with secured wheels. I follow them inside. The door closes and the siren wails as the ambulance takes off. The EMTs scramble to sustain waning vital signs. My head begins to pulse. Suddenly the monitor emits a high frequency tone. The numbers to the side of the screen plummet, and the wavering lines straighten. The ambulance driver disables the siren, and one of the men in blue uniforms grabs a set of defibrillators. As shocks are administered, I see the gray haze return and coalesce. As the final jolt goes through my body, the vitals begin to stabilize. The gray vortex engulfs me again and I hear another disembodied voice. This time it is feminine and metallic. “Simulation complete. Logging out.” Everything goes black. The visor surrounding my head pops open. I’m back in my hospital bed. Beside me, a man removes a headpiece similar to my own and takes off my helmet and gloves. “So, what do you think?” His speech is much clearer without the electronic feedback in the background. I take a ragged, painful breath. “Doctor, how is this supposed to help me?” “I concede that this desensitization therapy is unorthodox, but you commented in one of our earlier sessions that your flashbacks always elapse at the moment of impact with the truck. This therapeutic simulacrum is designed to let you see the see the entirety of the incident, culminating in your successful resuscitation. Our hypothesis is that allowing patients to see reconstructions of their traumatic events in a safe environment will give them psychological distance from the traumatic event.” “Why did you recreate the old lady’s house?” “Our company believes in maximum verisimilitude, or at least the highest degree attainable without crural inputs,” He glances at my legs, which are suspended in traction. “This is the end of today’s session, but I think you have a visitor.” As the psychologist departs, my girlfriend enters. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” She says. I had forgotten entirely. I smile with what my intact facial muscles. I’m in intermittent pain, my legs won’t be usable for a long time, and I’ll never be the same, but I’m alive.


The darkness fell upon them suddenly, without warning. No storm ushered the way, no meteorologists or news anchors cautioned them about the power outage. One minute there was light, the next there was none. Close to seventy people had gathered that night for the party. It was Sebastian Beck’s forty-fifth birthday, and his closest friends and colleagues had been invited to celebrate at the Attic, the newest, swankiest bar on the outskirts of Chicago. Most nights there was a hefty cover charge to gain entrance to the Attic, but of course Beck had booked and paid for the entire bar for the night of his party. The place was rather small, as all of the most exclusive venues are by nature. All of the guests fit inside the building, but a certain sense of personal space was lacking. Monica De Leon was a journalist who had recently started working for Beck. In an effort to make the best possible impression, she had spent the Saturday morning before the party perfecting her look. Her cocktail dress, a black, sequined number ruched at the waist, was perfectly fitted by her tailor, and her wavy dark brown hair had been elaborately pinned in a stylish up-do by her hairdresser. She hoped that the final look was attractive but not too attractive. Monica admittedly liked Sebastian and occasionally imagined him becoming more than her boss one day, but she wanted to come across as professional and serious, not a schoolgirl with a crush. He was a distinguished man and would certainly be turned off by any immature behavior on her part. Though Monica was twenty years younger than Sebastian, she was sophisticated and attracted her fair share of older men. Arriving at the party at 8:30 p.m. (just late enough to make people think she was as busy and important as they pretended to be), Monica spotted Beck across the bar and then began mingling with the other guests. Best not to appear eager; she would slowly find her way closer to the man of the hour and introduce herself properly after a while. One hour and two martinis later, Monica’s feet were aching in her stilettos and she was growing increasingly bored. Growing up on the west side of Chicago, Monica met all sorts of people from various socioeconomic backgrounds, but she had never met people like this. These were the rich, the upper-class, the elite. Extraordinarily wealthy people seldom commingled with regular folk. They were like sasquatches; rarely seen in the wild and a bit unbelievable. For all her hopes of hearing fascinating stories about their opulent lives, the disappointing truth seemed to be that rich people were dull. Everyone she met that night either droned on about taxes and stocks or complained endlessly about the help. They were completely intolerable. Just as Monica made up her mind to finally approach Sebastian Beck, the lights went out. A few people in the crowd gasped. Someone dropped a drink and the sound of the glass shattering made Monica jump. For a moment or two, it was practically silent as the guests adapted to the abrupt change in atmosphere. A few of the more inebriated celebrants loudly asked no one in particular why it was so dark. Sebastian Beck spoke up. “Let me take this moment to thank you all for coming tonight! Throwing a birthday party at my age feels a bit ridiculous, but I love a good excuse to celebrate with all of you wonderful people. I hope you are enjoying yourselves as much as I am! We appear to have lost power; I am going to make a few calls to find out what caused the outage, and surely everything will be up and running again in no time. No need to panic and certainly no need to leave just yet!” Monica fished her cell phone out of her handbag as Beck finished up his speech. She wasn’t planning on making any calls herself, but the light from her phone would help her find her way out of the building. Despite Beck’s reassurances, she took the power outage as a sign that this night was a bust and decided she should be on her way. Though her phone was fully charged when she left for the party not two hours earlier, for some reason it wouldn’t turn on. Voices started whispering in the dark, lamenting their own cell phone failures. By some bizarre coincidence, not a single person in the Attic seemed to have a working phone. Monica took a deep breath and weighed her options. She had a vague idea of her location in the building and the direction she needed to go to find the exit. She might accidentally bump into a few people on her way out in the total darkness, but she surely wouldn’t be the only one. As she turned around and started to make her way back towards the front door, Monica tripped, catching her heel on something and twisting her ankle. She yelped as the sharp pain shot up her foot and grabbed on to a table to stop herself from falling. Dammit, these stilettos cost more than my first paycheck. She was feeling like this night was a failure more and more every minute. Now limping, she continued weaving through the group. Suddenly someone walked straight into her. “Oh, I’m sorry. Excuse me.” Monica stammered. “No need to apologize, it’s darker than a tomb in here. Where are you heading in such a rush?” “I’m calling it a night. The party’s been great, but it’s getting late and I can’t see a thing in here. Have a good night.” Monica leaned forward but the man was still standing in her way. She stepped to the left and he mirrored her. “Look, I’m tired and my ankle hurts and I’m not in the mood to dance with a stranger in the dark right now, so if you’ll excuse me…” Monica’s tone was no longer charming. She hoped she didn’t sound as irritated as she felt, but she needed to come across as firm and direct with a man like him. “Well, isn’t that cute! You aren’t in the mood? What makes you think I care what kind of mood you’re in, Monica?” Monica’s blood turned to ice. The man’s voice did not sound familiar. Although she couldn’t name everyone she had met tonight, she was certain that she had not talked to this deep-voiced stranger. How did he know her name? “Now, little lady, the party is just getting started. Come with me.” The man grabbed Monica’s elbow forcefully and led her back towards the center of the bar. “Get your hands off me!” Monica shouted as she tried to pull her arm free and shove the man away from her. “Help! Someone get this creep away from me!” A moment ago the other attendants were laughing and chatting amongst themselves. As the mystery man dragged Monica further into the bar and she screamed for help, the guests grew quiet. No one moved to assist her. No one spoke up. Sebastian Beck began to speak. “Monica De Leon. My newest employee. Thank you so much for showing up tonight. I didn’t mention this before, but you are my guest of honor! I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you here.” Monica laughed nervously. “Thank you, Mr. Beck. That’s very kind of you to say. I had a lovely evening. Would you be so kind as to escort me to the exit? I really must be going.” “Going? No, you won’t be going anywhere. As I’ve said, you are the guest of honor.” Beck’s usually pleasant voice was hardening. “I don’t understand... I am so grateful for the invitation, but it is late and quite dark and I want to go home now, please. Happy birthday, Mr. Beck. Goodnight.” After this last plea, the entire roomful of people burst out laughing. Is this some kind of prank? Did I say something embarrassing? Monica had stopped drinking when the power went out, but her head was growing foggy and the darkness was disorienting. The man who had forcefully dragged Monica across the bar abruptly picked her up and laid her upon a long table. Hands reached towards her from all around; big hands, hairy hands, manicured hands, cold hands; hands holding her down as she writhed and squirmed in a desperate attempt to escape. Before she blacked out, Monica heard one line, repeated by each party guest in unison: You are the guest of honor.


Murdoch eyed his opponent. The game had settled on this one hand. Murdoch could see the chips in front of him and quickly calculated that he had only this shot to turn the corner. He kept his composure as he eyed the three of hearts and three of spades in his hand. But is was not his own hand that was important to him, it was Carrigan’s.

Michael Carrigan was not one of those gamblers that roamed from town to town trying to set up a game and then move on. He owned the largest ranch in the area, he owned the bank and loaned much of the money to the business in the small little town of Milton Creek. He donated the land for the town church hall, and many of his men were diverted from their normal ranch duties to build it. He was known to be quick to laugh and quick to anger. He was generous and greedy all at the same time. But his biggest weakness was the tables.

“Martha will only let me come to town with 100 dollars,” he would say before starting each game. But everyone knew he could get more if he needed it. He never needed it. Often walking away with double or triple what he came to town with, Carrigan was known through the region as one to beat.

 Murdoch knew that if he bet wrong the tide would turn one way or the other. He studied his opponent looking for any tell that would give the old man away. He realized he was looking to long and had to resist the urge to abruptly take is eyes off his opponent. He had been told that THIS was his tell. Boone always said he could tell Murdoch had a questionable hand.

“That’s when you get all serious,” Boone would say. Boone was Murdoch’s foreman at the Circle ranch a town over in Chester Hollow. “It’s like you were a Mountain Lion closing in on his prey, only not so sneaky.” Murdoch swore to himself; he had struggled to keep this tell at bay, and Carrigan didn’t give him any indication whether or not he noticed such things. Yet he had a feeling he did.

“This here, game its kinda mix of Stud and Draw, almost like a game out of Omaha,” Carrigan said. “I learned it from a German ranch hand, his family settled in Texas before he started pushing cattle. I don’t know its name.” Murdoch replied trying to keep the mood light. To Murdoch this game meant everything. He had ridden to town with only a few dollars and what was on his back, or in his saddlebags. He had a good horse and knew he could hold his own with any cowhand. Many men would be content with that, but Murdoch wanted more. Nothing extravagant just a small piece of land to keep a small herd of cattle, and simple and comfortable home.

There was a piece of land just at the mouth of the devil’s canyon that would suit him fine. Carrigan owned it but had it up for sale, and Murdoch heard there were several others eying the land. Carrigan would sell off the smaller pieces of his large stake. He knew that as the town grew so would his opportunities. He would even loan the money with a low payment and reasonable interest. Carrigan was a man with grand plans so most of the land he sold he retained the water rights or sold them separately at a premium. The devil’s canyon property was different. It was a little bit further away from town and the ground was rocky and tough to work. And the grazing land was good but much higher in elevation and spread out across the mountains up to Coyote peak. Carrigan wanted nothing to do with it so he was selling the land, water, and mineral rights all in one. But it wasn’t cheap. He was asking 85 dollars for everything.

Murdoch was looking down at his pile of winnings, 75 dollars he was so close to having the money--so close to having everything he wanted. Carrigan had matched Murdoch’s bet and raised him 2 dollars. Murdoch called. The first card came out as the queen of spades, then the 8 of clubs, and finally the three of hearts. Murdoch kept his eyes on his hand, overcompensating for his tell. He glanced at his opponent and was greeted by a smile. Murdoch combed his hand through his dirty blonde hair and then readjusted his shirt with his free hand. His work-worn boots were licked tightly to the floor, Murdoch knew that if he wasn’t vigilant his feet would start bouncing.

“Mr. Murdoch, what’s your bet?” Carrigan urged. Murdoch knew that three of a kind was not enough to win. Should he risk more? Right now, he could take his winnings and wait a few months of riding for the Circle s Ranch in Chester Hollow. But it would be nice to get started right away. With ten more dollars, he could buy his property but would have to wait at least another season to start doing anything with it. “Ten dollars,” Murdoch said as he pushed the money to the center. Everyone in the bar, who had been watching the game in peripheral, quickly turned their full attention to the game. Ten dollars was a large bet, one could buy a good horse or even a reasonable horse and a gun with that money. You could make a living with a horse and a gun. That is if you didn’t drink it all away at the local saloon. Or lose it all in a game like this. “I’ll see that ten,” Carrigan said and wryly glanced at his cards. Murdoch sensed that Carrigan was pausing only for effect. “here is another 20.” A chatter surged out among the spectators. It had been a while since a game had been raised to such stakes. “Call!” Murdoch said not letting his eyes off Carrigan. The dealer flips the next card over, 2 of clubs. Murdoch swore to himself again. He was already into this hand too far, and even if he walked away now, he likely would not be able to have the money to buy his land for quite some time. It probably would be sold long before.

“20 more!” Murdoch announced trying to show the anxiety blossoming in his stomach. “Call” Then the last card was down. 2 of spades. There it was, a full house, but was it good enough? As full houses go this was not the best. But Murdoch figured he had come this far. “I’m putting it all in!” Murdoch said disregarding any hope to conceal his fear and excitement. The smile left Carrigan’s face as he tried to decipher the clues on the man in front of him. This was a new side of his opponent, and Murdoch struggled to know what it meant. A focus had come of Carrigan, unlike anything Murdoch had remembered seeing before. “Mr. Murdoch,” Carrigan said. “I have a feeling this one’s on a knifes edge. And let me say it has been a pleasure. And whichever way this goes, I have a sneaky feeling you and I are destined to work together. Talk to me later, because I have a proposition for you.” With that, he matched Murdoch’s money and said “Call”


               								Lucine  “Stop fidgeting or you’ll wind up with this needle in your back.” “Is our young lady a little nervous?” “You stop teasing, Poppa.” “There, now let’s have a look at you.”     Kristine stepped to the portal, leaned against the jamb, and posed. “Tell me again, where’d you meet this boy?” “The Saturday night dance about a month ago.” “Seen him since?” “Again at the dance and at a basketball game.” “And now he’s asked you out?” “Yes, to see Spellbound at the Lincoln.” “The Lincoln?” “Yes, Poppa.” “What’s his name?” Kristine pretended not to hear her mother. “Kristine? What’s his name?”     “Sevi.” “What kind of name is that?” “It’s short for Sevda.” “That’s a Turkish name!” “So?” “Is he a Turk?” “He’s American.” “Where are his parents from?” “His father’s from Turkey; his mother passed away five years ago.” “Kristine? A Turk? Those barbarians killed your father and brother.” “Sevi’s not a barbarian. He’s gentle, and he treats me like a lady.” “We crossed an ocean to get away from the Turk, settled in the Dardanelles among Armenians and Syrians and even Italians, and the first boy you bring home is a Turk. Didn’t you think I might be a little upset?” “I knew you would. If it was up to me, I would’ve told you I was going to the movies with friends. Sevi insisted he meet you and Poppa.”  “But he’s a Turk.” “Lucine, he chose to meet the family. He’s taking her to the Lincoln, and not the City Theater. Give him a chance. What’ve you got to lose?”

All three turned to look to the portal leading into the hall which led to the front door upon hearing the knock. Kristine turned to her mother and made one last appeal. “Fix your hair. Your father’ll show him in.” Kristine and Sarkis departed, the former to her bedroom; the latter to welcome their visitor.

Sevi entered the kitchen carrying a single rose in tissue paper. Trailing were Kristine and Sarkis.

“Momma, this is Sevi. Sevi, Momma. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Yaldizian. This is for you.”     Sevi handed his rose to Lucine; Sarkis noticed a trace of a smile on Lucine.

“Have a seat, Sevi.” “Yes, please sit down, and tell us about your family.” “No, we don’t have time, Momma. We want to catch the first show, so I can be home early. Okay, Poppa?”

“You look after our Kristine, young man.” “Yes, sir! I’ll have her home before eleven.” “Go!” They left; Sarkis rejoined his wife. “Let’s have coffee and cake.”

Lucine fetched the coffee from the stove and cheese cake from the fridge. Sarkis tried again. “This cheese cake’s from the Swiss Bakery?” “Yes.” “And you love it?” “Yes.” “And last night we had Italian pizza and enjoyed that?” “Swiss and Italian are not Turkish.” “You can’t fool me, Kristine.” “What are you talking about?” “You may be able to hide it from yourself, but you can’t hide it from me. You’re softening. What did it, the rose?” “But will I stay soft? Already, I’m thinking this man’s father may have taken my husband and son from me and killed them. When I heard he was Turkish, the image which came to mind was those soldiers arresting my husband and demanding I  undress the babies to see if either was male. Am I destined to revisit that scene every time I see that boy?” “What is the probability his kin destroyed yours? Even if they did, should the sins of the father be visited upon the son? What does your faith teach you: to forgive your enemies, no?” “You should talk about forgiving your enemies. He does seem like a nice boy, though?”  “And he’s taking her to the Lincoln, not the City.” Sarkis read the paper. Lucine husked an ear of corn. Kristine stood at the screen door listening to the surf, breathing in the salt scented air.

“Thank you, Poppa.” “For what?” “For this week down the shore. It’s the best graduation present you could’ve given me.” “I worked too, you know, to be here.”     Kristine gave her mother a hug and stepped back. “Thank you, Momma.”     “When’s Sevi coming?” “He said he’d leave after he helped his father put the baskets of fruit and vegetables outside the store. He should be here soon.”     Kristine turned back to the screen door, but instead of looking to the ocean, bowed her head and drew her mother’s attention. “Kristine. He’ll be here soon.” “Love is impatient you know.” “Momma, Poppa, I’ve something serious to tell you.” Sarkis set his newspaper down; Lucine, her ear of corn. “You two had a quarrel?” “No! We’ll never quarrel. Poppa, Sevi has something to ask you.” “What could be so important you have to pave the way?” “He intends to ask for my hand in marriage.”  “It’s out of the question. You’re both too young.” “He’s going to ask Poppa, not you, Momma.”

“Kristine, I’m only your stepfather. What your mother decides is what Sevi will hear.” Lucine advanced to stand a few inches before her daughter. “The answer is no. You’re both too young, and it’s too soon. You’ve known him only six months.” “Sevi’s earning a decent salary working for the Mahmarians. In September, he begins night classes towards a business degree. I start next week in the embroidery shop. We’ll do fine. And you like him. We know you like him.” “I do like him. God knows, I never thought I could like a Turk again. He does touch me. But, still, it’s too soon. I want to know him better. We need to know his family better.” “You’ve been to their store. You’ve met his father.” “Yes, for ten minutes, to buy pomegranates. I said less than ten words to the man. No, you need to wait.” “We can’t wait.”

Lucine almost collapsed into the chair. “What have you done?”     Kristine looked guiltily at Sarkis and spoke barely above a whisper. “I’m two months pregnant.”     “Kristine!” responded Sarkis, shocked.  “You ought to be ashamed. Didn’t I teach you virginity is for your husband?” “I’m not ashamed. I gave it willingly, to my husband. Sevi loves me more than any man ever could, and I love him.

“He’s nothing but a barbarian.” “No, he’s kind, gentle; it was beautiful, and I’m not ashamed. I wish we could’ve waited, but love is impatient.” “Oh, Kristine.” “I’m sorry to disappoint you, truly sorry, but I’m not ashamed.” “Only two months?” “Yes.” “If it’s only two months.” “I’m having this child, Momma.”

    All three looked to the screen door when they heard a car pull up. Kristine hurried to finish. “We want to marry as soon as possible to save you any shame.”  “Sevi must not ask your father until this evening. We need to talk about it. Not until this evening, you hear?” “Yes.” Sevi knocked on the screen door, and Kristine opened it and welcomed him. He held in one hand a gym bag; in the other, a white cake box. He could sense the chill in the air. He stepped to the opposite side of the table to greet Sarkis, who neither stood nor offered his hand, but tried to bridge the gap. “Sevi, I know you wish to ask me something important. It must wait until this evening.”     The young man looked to Kristine, who managed to nod. “Yes, Mr. Yaldizian.“ He turned to Mrs. Yaldizian. “The cake’s from the Swiss Bakery; your favorite, a crumb cheese cake.” “Thank you. I think you and Kristine ought to go to the beach now. Mr. Yaldizian and I have to talk.” Sevi followed Kristine out of the room.

“What do you think, Sarkis?” “They think they’re Romeo and Juliet.” “You mean Adam and Eve playing at love.” “I don’t think they’re playing.” “They’re like mirrors reflecting each other’s love.” “Is not all love like that?” “Not all love.” Kristine re-entered the living room and for a moment exchanged stares with her mother.

“Kristine, put the coffee on.” Kristine left and quickly returned to set the table and cut the cake. “It’s not a bribe, Momma. Sevi truly likes you and wishes to please you. And Poppa, he has much respect for you.” “If Sevi respected me, you wouldn’t need to get married.” For the first time, Kristine displayed a sign of guilt, but was rescued by Sevi, who strode into the room in a swim suit, carrying a towel.

“Sevi, there’s a law in town prohibiting men from walking bare-chested in town. It could cost you three dollars.”  “Thanks, Mr. Yaldizian, I need to save all the money I can now.”     Sevi turned to smile at Kristine before leaving to get his t-shirt. Lucine stood visibly shocked, swooned, and almost feinted before grabbing hold of the table to support her.

“Momma, don’t worry. It’ll be alright.” Lucine sat down and looked up as though awaking from a nightmare. “What? No, I’m alright. It’s your news; it takes a little getting used to.” Sevi returned in t-shirt and swimsuit. “All set!” “I don’t know; Momma doesn’t feel good.” “No, I’ll be alright. You two go ahead.” “I’ll look after your mother.” “Okay, Poppa. I’ll be just a minute.” Kristine left to change and all was silent for a moment before Lucine spoke. “Sevi, I couldn’t help but notice the tattoo on your right shoulder.” “Oh? You mean my birthmark.”

“I thought it was a tattoo because it seemed shaped like.” “Like a butterfly? My mother said it was God’s mark of my transformation. I asked her what transformation; she answered God only knows?” Kristine returned dressed in swim suit covered by a knee high robe. “We’ll be back about five, then, okay?” “What? Oh, yes. You enjoy the beach.” Sarkis, less concerned with his stepdaughter’s indiscretion and more with his wife’s well being, questioned Lucine. “You alright?” “My unmarried daughter is pregnant, in danger of going to hell. She wishes to marry a Turk, and you ask if I’m okay?”

“Lucine, don’t take it out on me.” “I’m sorry, honey. Just give me a little time.” “You want to talk?” “I need to think. Then we’ll talk.” They sat in silence while Sarkis ate his slice of the crumb cheese cake and sipped his coffee. Lucine looked at the cake, picked up her piece, put it back down, turned, and looked toward the screen door. Sarkis tried once again to find solace. “It could be worse. He could’ve not wanted to marry her.” “Yes, it could be much worse.” “You know if we don’t give them our blessing, they’ll get married anyway?” “I know.” “So, doesn’t it make more sense to bless the marriage and keep them near than to not bless it and drive them away?” She turned again and looked to the screen door.  She seemed to be contemplating something other than the question Sarkis had just posed.

“I’m going to walk down to the bay. You want to come?” “No, Sarkis! I need to think about what you’ve just said. Sarkis took up the newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and left. Seconds later, Lucine dropped from the chair to her knees, lifted her hands clasped together against her breast, looked to the ceiling, and released the pent up emotion.  “Thank God! My son alive! Ari, alive! Right here in my house!” No two boys could’ve had the same birthmark in the same place. Ari had been given to a family to be raised as a Turk.  She had had to check her impulse to rain kisses all over him. “Because Ari lives, I thank God. But I also curse God. Yes, I curse you for a gift tainted with defilement. How could you have done this to me, to them?” Should she tell them you cannot marry because you’re brother and sister; because you’ve committed incest? Would they believe her? Her daughter had little joy in life; should she take away the sweetest she’s known? And should she condemn her son with forbidden knowledge? Would they respect her for deliverance or hate her?

But if she said nothing, they’d continue to live in sin. But is it a sin? They don’t know what they’re doing. They’re so innocent and so much in love. What if she told them and they refused to part? Then they’d lose their innocence and be damned. What if she told them, and they gave the child up and separated? Then, she’d be taking away their love; neither would ever find another like it. And if she did that, she knew they’d both hate her forever. But if she didn’t tell them, and they continued to love and have children, could she bear witness to what she knew was profane? What then would happen to her soul?

She needed to talk with someone, but whom? Sarkis?

It wouldn’t be fair.  No! She’d work it out alone.  She looked toward the ceiling. “Yes, alone, because you, damn you, are silent again.”     Late that evening all four sat at table, having completed the evening meal. Sevi could no longer be constrained. “Mr. Yaldizian, I have something I wish to ask you.”     Sarkis looked to Lucine, who nodded permission. “What is it, Sevi?” “I ask for Kristine’s hand in marriage. I love her very much. I apologize for things as they are, but there are so because we love each other. I’ll take good care of her and our family. We wish to marry quickly to spare you humiliation. We want very much to have your blessing. But I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t add, whether or not you give your blessing, we will be married.” “Is there anything else?” “Only to repeat I will love Kristine all my life and take care of her and ours.” “Kristine is my step-daughter; therefore, my decision is to do whatever Mrs. Yaldizian says. Lucine?”  “Your father has been in favor of giving you our blessing from the beginning. I’ve hesitated.  But now I too give you my blessing.” Kristine began to walk toward her mother before the latter stopped her by raising her hand. “But there is a condition.” “What condition?” “Sevi, you’ve become dear to us. But a cloud hangs over us; I’m afraid it will hang over your marriage. It’s impossible for me to divorce myself from the past, to pretend you’re other than what you are. I can’t look at you and see just a fine young man who loves my daughter. I cannot help it; for me, you’ll always walk in the shadow of the past. So, I’ll bless your marriage on the condition you make and fulfill a promise.” “Anything, Mrs. Yaldizian.”  “You must promise, once you and Kristine wed, to take her and live away from Union City.” “Momma!” “Lucine, what’s come over you?” “But, Momma!” “Honey, I love you. It’s because I love you both I make this condition. I wouldn’t want anything to destroy that love, and I’m afraid, for me, the shadow of the past might do just that. Do you promise, Sevi?”     Sevi looked once more to Kristine, but she was not able to help him. “I promise.”     Kristine walked out of the room. “Lucine!  Do you realize what you’re doing, what you’re asking the children to do?” “It’s not something I want to do; it’s something I have to do.” “Sevi, do you have any idea where you’ll go, what you’ll do?” “Yes. My cousin wanted me to come with him to California, where he’s going to open a rug business.” “So far?” Lucine looked up at Sevi startled. “I know it’s far, but he said it’d be a great opportunity. Kristine and I dismissed the idea because we didn’t think the move would make you or Mrs. Yaldizian happy. Now, I’ll accept his offer.” “That sounds like a good idea, a good future.”     Kristine returned holding her small suitcase. Her mother was having trouble keeping up with the quick turn of events.” “Where you going? “I’m leaving with Sevi. We’ll drive home, I’ll pack my things; we’ll get married in Maryland. We’ll tell everyone we were married when I graduated high school. Our child will be born on time. And his grandmother will live free of the shadow of the past.”     Kristine started toward the screen door; Sevi followed behind. Sarkis stopped them. “Kristine, your mother loves you.” Kristine ran to her mother. They embraced. Sevi followed, and Lucine embraced him before reluctantly letting go.  Kristine turned to Sarkis and hugged him. Sevi followed and extended his hand toward Sarkis to shake his hand, but the latter brushed it aside and enfolded him in his arms. “Do not try to understand. Just believe we love you both.” “Yes, sir.” “You must write at least once a week and let us know how you, and the family, are. Do you promise?” “Yes.” “Now, you two go with our blessing and our love.”     Kristine and Sevi left the cottage. Lucine, after a few seconds, rushed to the screen door and looked out at Sevi’s car moving away from the ocean toward the long road that would carry them to California. She began to weep. Sarkis moved behind her and cradle her in his arms. “You know, when I was a small boy in Marash, I once came upon a beautiful butterfly in the wood. Its wings were a fiery pattern of reds, oranges, and yellows reflecting the blaze of the mid-day sun. I felt it to be an incarnation of God. It was perched upon the branch of a cedar for only a few seconds. It fluttered its wings and flew away, and I never saw it again. But it’s been with me all these years.” Lucine turned and rested her head upon Sarkis’s chest.


Next!” The voice droned from behind the dusty desk stacked with papers, some in neat piles and others in disarray. The young man was plain under his inconspicuous mustache that hid any emotion. He pushed his thick-rimmed black glasses back into place, closer to his brown eyes. “Next!” His voice tolled out to the line of people waiting outside of the abandon warehouse’s storage room. “We don’t have all day,” his voice flat and unyielding to anything other than monotony. An oversized woman in a brown oversized coat came around the corner and approached his desk. She spoke in a low tone, thickly glazed with a Russian accent. “That’ll be $10.00 ma’am. Just sign here.” He turned a pen towards her thick hand as she hunched over part of his desk, still contemplating if what she was about to do was right. Once, long ago, she had been a young and successful dancer at the Bolshoi. It had been her ticket out of poverty, yet a one-way road into a life of control and neglect. Which one would have been better — the poverty or the neglect? She was still unsure of as she hovered over the table, gripping the pen between her fingers, which still showed an air of delicacy to them. As she stood, her feet splayed out into first position. It had been part of the drills she went through in ballet, to master that one position before going onto the next. And though it seemed easy to stand with feet turned out, she still remembers her tiny feet kicked at and forcibly moved about by impatient hands. Oh, the impatient hands! always moving her little body about. She had shown so much promise, but it was never good enough. Not even when she had turned fifteen and was the lead ballerina. Her hands had been rapped on so often, that even as she still hunched over the table she could feel them rapping on her knuckles, and she dropped the pen. Other people waiting in the long line were growing impatient. Only moments had passed, but her memories were flying as if she were ending her life. She wanted to see the memories and proclaim to herself she had made all the right decisions, that without them she would be worse off. But there was no way to know, unless she signed the paper. The other people were eager. Some had made their decision and were unquestionably itching to hold that very pen, encased in her large fingers, smothering the time that each expectant customer had to wait. All while their own quiet memories played out in each of the waiting people. Some were old, some very young — just children, holding their mother’s hands. Was this pen meant for them? The old woman looked back over her shoulder after she had reestablished her grip. The man behind the desk had all day. It didn’t bother him how long she took, he would always be there, day after day. Pushing his punch card into the slot to hear the familiar clank of time in, and clank of time out each day. But the woman’s focus was behind her, and she was not moving slowly, it all was just moments — more moments that racked onto the pain of her life. Or had her life not been the pain she thought it to be? Had it been a good life? Could she miss it, when she could not remember it? She paid the fee and held the pen that was to erase everything. All she had to do was sign.
Sign the name she was given, the name that had been screamed to her for years, the name that had been whispered by the other children sympathetic to her at night. The name that had been dragged and tormented by others through the crevices of her life, that she rather just forget. “Yes!” she said, as she straightened herself up, and looked kindly to the clerk behind the counter. Her feet turned forward, and she smiled for a moment to him. She was not seeing the man behind the counter but her father’s face. His sweet, joyful smile that made her so proud to be his daughter each month when he came to visit her at the orphanage. Without another thought her hand moved, scrolling across the dusted paper with thick black ink and highlighted sections that went unread. There her name ended it all. “Thank you, NEXT!” the man in the checkered shirt and tan pants pushed his glasses closer to his brown eyes and forced a large stamp onto the paper in red ink. “Next”. He drawled out, his voice echoed out to the people around the corner, lined down the warehouse, and down the street to a thick yellow line on the ground that read. STOP, line ends here. Those who had missed lining up early enough, turned back, dejected at their opportunity to leave their old lives behind, to forget forever and start a new. Maybe tomorrow… they would tell themselves. But for the ones that had made it into the line, all awaited his face. They talked of the man with the thick-rimmed glasses and longed to hold the coveted pen. After the old woman in the oversized coat had turned and left, the line moved smoothly. The man with thick-rimmed glasses never left his swivel seat that creaked when he turned to get the next application. He never removed himself from behind the old metal desk, the color of the top unknown, covered with papers, but the front showed a worn pea green, left over from the 70s. Around him were stacks of papers and boxes, dusted over with the remains of all those who had come and stood before him. Those that had held the pen and then left with not a trace of their old life active within their memories or bodies. Free, he often thought to himself. I am in the business of freedom, he often told himself, to justify his work and actions. As if to liberate himself from the haunting memories of all those faces who passed by him, never to remember their old lives. And he wondered, would he as well one day come to the yellow line that said, STOP, line ends here. Would he stand before the one that would take his job and wear the thick-rimmed glasses, checkered shirt and tan polyester pants that were always a little too short, and hold the heavy pen in his hand while looking over the papers with highlighted sections and thick black ink? Would he look down to see the red stamp? COMPLETED Would he be happier as he turned to leave and live a life free from checkered shirts and glasses? ~ On the beaches of Maui, it is said you can touch the edges of pleasure and hold them the longest within your senses. There are not many places in the world that can promise such pleasure, but Maui does. It is said that if while in that pleasure you are beholding the beaches and waves, the organic life of birds, seals, and turtles that you could reach a place of ascension and become that which you have always long to be. It is said that if you fill yourself with goodness, then goodness you will become. He had lived on Maui for two years. He had made it passed the dreaded island fever and found that the perimeter of his life was to remain within this island forever more. What brought him was pure curiosity, but a reoccurring dream of an abandon warehouse and dusted papers played out in those uncontrolled moments of sleep, the ones he tried to escape, and pushed him out to the islands. He often awoke in a sweat and would rub his eyes as if he once wore glasses. But now on Maui he was tanned, and only wore sunglasses when necessary. He avoided checkered shirts, an aversion he could not understand, but adhered to and donned the flowered apparel of the islands instead. The most remote side of the island was a jungle, and there in the dense forest is where he slept and called home. The thought of four or even two walls was cloistering to him and called up dreams of a dusted old warehouse, which he avoided as much as the checkered shirts. Today he was going to the market. Fresh papayas, mangos and the Maui gold pineapples were his favorites. He filled himself with the goodness and beautiful colors of the island itself. The only fruit he avoided were the coconuts. He even arrived early to the market, before the people who cracked open the coconuts with short machetes’ began their work. The thirsty customers, always eager, always lined down the isles waiting for the sweet and refreshing waters of the islands. He avoided them for the sound of the thumping on the log with the machete. They would become like machines, hacking off the tops the thumping sounds would pull him from his life of pleasure into that dusty warehouse of papers. “Here!” a man with a checkered shirt placed a paper onto the table before the tan man dressed in the Hawaii apparel. It was a map, showing where the young man could go to find bulk fruit that would be tossed into compost if not eaten, a working fruit farm that needed an extra pair of hands. But the tanned man just looked down at the paper. “Just sign here and I will get you set up to work there.” His voice was friendly and helpful but the tanned young man with brown eyes could only see a form with yellow highlighted areas and thick black ink, a stamp in red was across the form COMPLETED. “You okay there, its not like you are signing away your life.” The young man snapped from his daydream and saw before him a colorful map with green palm leaved drawn around the edges and a mapped village with a hut circled in the middle.
He picked up the heavy pen and signed very slowly his name. He didn’t want to remember whatever was trying to be remembered. “They will pick you up next week here at the market, it’s a pink bus with green leaves painted on the sides, you won’t miss it.” The man in the checkered shirt behind the pile of apple bananas smiled as if he had done a great deed. He fixed his glasses and tucked the paper into his pocket while replacing the pen into his money bin, awaiting the next purchase. Customers were lining up where the people with machetes and coconuts were soon to be stationed. Their beat up truck was parked nearby, and the deeply tanned men hoisted plastic buckets filled to the brim with coconuts over the sides of the truck, the customers growing with anticipation. The young man in a Hawaiian floral shirt and beach shorts that stopped at his knees turned to leave. The flip flops had been a challenge to adjust to, and as he turned, it became lodged and the young man jolted forward into a woman’s arms. She was a robust woman, draped oddly in a brown coat. She caught him by the arm, her large hand pushing him back up to standing. His judgments passed quickly as she smiled innocently at him. She looked happy, he thought. “The flip flops may be the death of you.” Her voice was boisterous and thickly laid with a Russian accent, but her happiness seemed to alter it into something else, though the happiness could not hide who she really was. He nodded, thankful to her, but needed for some strange reason to get as far away from her as possible. He had also delayed too long and the men with machetes had started at their chopping block. With the first thud, the man with a broken flip flop turned and ran from the crowd of lined customers.


Twenty chairs usually lined the long farm table. This room, but for the table and chairs, was empty most of the day, and yet, it was here that Hannah felt most connected to her family. Tonight she eyed the extra chair warily as she and her sisters carried heaping platters of food from the table as the family assembled. Daed sat at one end, his bib overalls caked with the toil of the early spring planting, Mamm at the other end tucking stray wisps of hair back under her kopp. Mammi and Daadi sat across from each other in the middle of each side, ready to help the little ones cut meat and pour milk. Hannah and her siblings sat on either side of the table in perfect symmetry. Girls on one side, boys on the other, in order of birth. Hannah took her seat beside Daed and watched Levi perch himself on the pile of books on his chair so that he was high enough to reach the table. It had been three years since Levi, the last bopplin. Mamm said sixteen children were quite a blessing, and it would be prideful to wish for more.

"Händt nunna," Daed said, and the family dutifully put their hands in their laps and bowed their heads. Finally, Daed cleared his throat, a signal that grace was over and the passing of the platters could begin. Tonight Levi's chair straddled the corner next to Mamm to accommodate the Bishop, Jacob Yoder, who sat at Daed's left. Hannah shifted in her seat to avoid the Bishop's less than subtle glances in her direction. The straight pins holding her blouse together poked her chest. She listened to her father and Jacob drone on endlessly about crops and the shenanigans of the local adolescents enjoying their Rumspringa. Hannah thought back to her own summer of 'worldliness.' While her friends attended parties at the lake, went to movies, and sized each other up as potential partners, Hannah refrained, knowing that stepping that far from the community norms would only upset her parents. Instead, every Saturday morning, she packed a lunch and set out for what her parents thought was a hike. Secretly, Hannah spent those afternoons at the public library reading furiously, vicariously experiencing a forbidden world above the safety net of the pages. Every week the librarian offered her a library card, which Hannah demurred. Bringing home Englisch books would be offensive to Daed and Mamm. The mention of her name brought Hannah back to the dinner table. "So Hannah," Jacob Yoder began, "I've talked to your parents about the possibility of us spending some time together." Hannah inwardly cringed. Last week, when her parents urged her to consider Jacob as a potential suitor, Hannah had quietly accepted his appearance this evening as inevitable. His wife had died last summer, leaving him with three children to raise. She remembered Saloma, his oldest. Hannah was in eighth grade, her final year of school when Saloma was in first. The poor little girl cried endlessly for her Mamm those first few weeks. Hannah had done what she could to be comforting. Now her long-ago kindness was being repaid with Jacob's unwelcome presence at the family table.

"Hannah," Daed interrupted her thoughts, "Jacob is talking to you." "Sorry," Hannah turned to Jacob. "I was thinking about Saloma and what a hard time she had adjusting to first grade. How is she?" "She's twelve now. Next year she'll finish school. I'm looking forward to having an extra pair of hands during the week after that." Hannah noticed Jacob didn't tell her how Saloma was, only about how she could benefit him in the future. "I was hoping we could take a walk after supper." The Bishop made it seem more like a directive than a request. There had been whispers by the girls in the community. Hannah's friends Miriam and Sadie both told stories of uncomfortable encounters with the Bishop. There was even talk of Saloma being visited by her father late at night.

Hannah glanced down the table at Mamm whose eyes were pleading. "It's been a rather busy day for me, Jacob. Perhaps we could have a visit on the porch instead." The Bishop looked disappointed, and Hannah suspected why. At that moment, the scattered dissatisfactions of her life gelled into a lump of desperation. She looked down at the green flowers printed on her dress from her assigned seat at the table. Mamm never seemed to remember how much she disliked the color when she made Hannah dresses. Her fingers were stained pink from the countless quarts of strawberries she had picked that week. She remembered being ashamed of them last week at the Farmer's Market when a cute Englisch boy had shamed her by noticing them. The bobby pins keeping her bun secure dug into her scalp. She had seen English girls in town with their pixie haircuts dyed in various shades of green and pink and wondered what it would be like to live in a world without modest dresses and prayer kopps. And now her parents, her beloved Daed and Mamm wanted her to consider courtship with this awful man? After the silent prayer at the end of the meal, Hannah found herself alone on the front porch with the Bishop. "Saloma has two little sisters, you know. Becca is seven, and Miriam is five."

"Yes, they walk past the house every day on the way to school. They seem well-behaved." "Saloma does the best she can, but they need a mother, and I need sons." And there it was. Bishop Yoder wasn't here because he found Hannah interesting or noticed her strict obedience to the Ordnung. He was looking for a housekeeper and broodmare, like a replacement part for a buggy or plow. Hannah resisted asking him if he'd like to examine her teeth. The screen door creaked as Mammi appeared with two glasses of lemonade and a plate of sugar cookies. She put them on the table, scuffled to her chair at the far end of the porch, and picked up the rug she was crocheting.

Hannah hoped that with Mammi acting as chaperone, the conversation would turn to safer topics. "We're having an excellent strawberry season," Hannah offered. "The dry spring made the fruit sweet. We can't pick them fast enough for the customers at the market." Jake smiled his approval, knowing that her parents were saving Hannah's portion of the profits to build her future home. "The new baptism class will start in a few weeks. I will teach some sessions; I hope you'll be there. From the corner of her eye, Hannah saw Mammi staring at her. Hannah picked at the cuticle on her thumb and stared off into the distance. Her plans to attend the class evaporated. Why is every decision presented to me with a dose of added pressure?

"Of course she'll be there!" Mammi exclaimed.

The betrayal hit Hannah as if Mammi had slapped her in the face.

Swallowing the bile that collected in the back of her throat, Hannah turned to Jacob. "Please forgive me; I'm suddenly not feeling very well. I'm sure Mammi would enjoy it if you stayed and kept her company, but I'm afraid I need to go lie down." Hannah headed for the door, ignoring the glass of lemonade she knocked over as she left.

Mamm was standing at the bottom of the steps, no doubt eavesdropping on the conversation from the porch. "Hannah," she began, smiling hopefully. "Not now, Mamm," Hannah sharply said as she stomped up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door. Her sisters were all taking down their hair and putting on their nightgowns. Hannah ignored their questions about her visit with Jacob as she hurriedly got ready for bed. She pretended to read as the girls finally settled down and turned off the oil lantern.

She listened to the bullfrogs sing their courting songs down by the creek. She laughed to herself, hoping the frogs were making a better argument for mating than Jacob had on the porch earlier.  Mamm had carefully modeled a wife's complete submission to her husband. She hardly ever talked about the past, but when she did, she spoke of the two times in her life when she freely had her say. The certainty she felt about the day of her baptism and how happy she was the day she accepted Daed's marriage proposal. Now Hannah doubted the truth of her testimony.

Mammi's comment had brought everything into focus. Lies. It was all a lie. This evening had shown her two clear paths, to acquiesce for the sake of the community or the unthinkable. As she listened to the rhythmic breathing of her sisters, her heart swelled with love for each of them. She thought of Levi and his silly antics that could soften Daed's most sullen moods. Someone was sneezing and sniffling from the boys' room across the hall. She knew it was Henry, her dearest friend, and twin brother, who had followed her into the world moments after she arrived. She should talk to him. Did he already know?

No, he was blissfully unaware, as she assumed was everyone else in her family. Without realizing it, Hannah's carefully planned Rumspringa adventure had resulted in an unforgivable sin of Biblical proportions two summers ago in the public library.

 Like Eve, she had spent months picking fruit from the tree of knowledge. Her eyes were open to the coercion, false promises, and oppression, and now the price would need to be paid. With great sadness and firm resolve, she threw back the covers and dressed quickly. A sob caught in her throat as she passed the family table. Unable to resist, she sat down at her assigned place one more time before walking into the night, expelling herself from her Garden of Eden.