nedful things

The redhead draped long white arms over his shoulders, her hands behind his neck.  The dancing candle flame and her firey hair reflecting on the sequins in her gown made a shimmering red moon in the center of each silver circle.  His hands traced the swell of her hips as she cooed softly but his eyes were steely determination.

"I've been trying Gil, I swear", she said.  "He never goes anywhere without his wife and sometimes I don't think he even notices that I am flirting with him.  It's enough to really destroy a girl's ego. I don't understand it, I never had any trouble getting a man's attention before".

"Maybe you're being too subtle, Ginger".  His hands pried hers apart and he brought her arms down to her side.  She pouted at his sudden move to separate them and tried to re-establish her position.  He pushed her away from him, holding her at arm's length to survey the bait he had brought to hook his chosen fish.  She looked as if she had been poured into the iridescent evening gown she wore.  The plunging neckline automatically drew eyes down its V and into the imagining of what those narrow straps that were anchored at her neck held.  Here, in this sweltering tropical heat she wore full makeup, her eyes rimmed with thick, black lashes and her lips full and red.  "No baby, I guess no one would ever accuse you of subtlety.  Go back to your hut, Ginger, the Skipper and I have some business to discuss".

Ginger started to protest being so coldy dismissed, but even she realized that in his present mood, her feminine wiles would have no effect.  A bit of self-preservation kept her from trying to persuade him but she couldn't resist a defiant toss of her red hair as she exited.

"She's gone away mad now Gil.  You hurt her feelings".

 The sympathetic voice for the rejected Ginger came from a large man in the corner of the hut. He was older than the first man, as pudgy and out of shape as Gil was thin and wiry.  They looked a bit like a Laurel and Hardy team.  The big man's face was softer, and he spoke without the embittered edge that was present in Gil's words.

 "You're lucky to have a girl like that, Gil.  She's beautiful and she loves you.  She'd do anything for you.  It's not her fault that Howell character isn't interested, must be something wrong with him. Who wouldn't be interested in a gorgeous girl like that?"

"Who wouldn't be interested?" Gil lifted his left eyebrow and pinned the fat man against the wall with one look. "Are you maybe a little interested, Skip?"

"No, Gil.  Uh uh, no way", Skip's voice revealed his panic at having angered Gil with his chivalrous defense of Ginger. " I didn't mean that.  I would never do that to you Gil, you know that."

"Don't look so scared, Skip.  She's nothing to me.  Besides, we got bigger problems than that right now.  That crazy professor has made another receiver, caught him trying to pick up ships' radio on it.  I had to play the bumbling sidekick again and pretend to stumble over it.  I think I disabled it for now but he'll probably have it fixed by tomorrow.  That's all we need right now.  If he manages to contact a ship, he'll tell everyone we're here.  Rescue is not on the schedule just yet, not until we have Howell's signature on that will."

"Will?" The Skipper looked nervous and surprised.  "I thought we were just going to pretend to take good care of him until we got "rescued" and get Ginger to convince him to give us a fat reward.  You never said anything about killing him, Gil. I didn't think we was gonna kill him."

"Who asked you to think, Skip?"  Gil's tone was sharp and condescending.  "I mean, that's not your strong point is it?  Who was it let those two tourists on board, little miss Girl Next Door and the Nutty Professor?"

"Hey Gil, that wasn't my fault.  I couldn't get rid of them without raising suspicion, I had to let them on board".

"Yeah?  Well, you were only supposed to pretend to be shipwrecked, not actually scuttle the ship!  Now we got no way out of here.  I can't even get rid of that pain in the ass professor because we may need one of those crazy coconut radio inventions of his to really get off this damn island.  So don't think anymore Skip, okay?"

Gil growled out his orders within inches of the Skipper's face, accentuating each word with a finger drilling the words into the Skipper's chest, his voice rising in anger.  "Do me a favor and don't.. think... anymore!"

"Okay Gil.  Whatever you say, it's your plan."  The Skipper backed his rotund frame out of the door of the hut, trying not to look as if he was in a hurry to get away.  "You know Gil, there's a good moon tonight.  I'm gonna go down to the lagoon and do a little work on the hull while everyone sleeps."

"Yeah, okay.  Just don't make it obvious.  We don't want anyone to notice if you do get that barnacle farm seaworthy.  We need it ready. Although, with the way this job is going we could end up on this god-forsaken island for the next ten years."

The big man pulled on his cap and smiled reassuringly. "Oh no, Gil. You're too smart for that.  Don't worry, that ain't never gonna happen."

*For anyone who didn't grow up in the United States or who may have lived under a rock since 1964, we offer this link by way of explanation.

Michael brushed the sawdust from his sleeves and worn denims. He slipped into his quilted flannel jacket and slipped out the door of his cabinet shop into the street.  A light snowfall was painting a picturesque Christmas Eve in the town square.  The flakes that danced under the streetlights made a lacy confetti, a decorative edging on the wreaths that hung from every lamp post.  He hurried down the street, eager to get home, eager for the smile on his wife's face and the peace it brought him.  He smiled at  the nervous excitement of Michael, Jr., whose bedtime would be voluntarily early, so concerned was he that Santa may come and find him awake.   He knew that would mean no presents, for Santa could never be seen.  Michael Jr. was so like his father, and at six years old, still lived in wide-eyed wonder.  He might believe in Santa forever if it were not for the inevitability of other children sharing their discoveries.  A sudden yearning for the simple joy of his childhood swept over him, awash in memories of his own days of wonder and magic so long ago. And so, it surprised Michael a little bit when he turned in at the door to Joe's Bar instead of walking straight home.  

The only difference in atmosphere between the deserted bar and the deserted street was the temperature.  The bar was as dark as the dusky street and inside as well as outside,  the night was illuminated only by   strings of Christmas lights. They twinkled around the doorway and over the mirror behind the bar but did little to dispel Michael's cheerlessness.  Joe looked up and nodded at him.

"You just made it Mike. I was about to close up.  What'll you have?"

Michael opened his mouth to answer Joe's query but another voice rang out ahead his.

"You should have an eggnog with a little rum to warm you.  It's fitting for the season", came the suggestion.

The voice that spoke to him was deep but tremulous.  It belonged to the only other patron, the only other soul who was not at home this evening.  An elderly man sat on a stool, square in the middle of the bar. He didn't turn around but addressed Michael's reflection in the mirror beyond him as he spoke.

"It's a cold night and a long walk home."

"Yeah, it is".  Michael sat at the bar, deliberately leaving an empty stool between him and the stranger who had invited him as if he were the host of the evening. "I'll have a beer, Joe".

"Gonna have to be a bottle tonight Mike, I pretty much have everything shut down. " Joe set a glass and a bottle of beer in front of Michael.  "How's that little guy of yours? Looking forward to Christmas morning I'll bet".

"Yeah he sure is" Michael answered. "Reminds me of when I was a kid, you know? Christmas was always this magical time.  You believed everything and expected everything, and no matter what you got, it was everything you wanted.  It's different now."

"It is different now", the old man chimed in.  He stroked the bristly whiskers on his chin. They looked as though they once made a magnificent appearance but now grew like scrub across his jawline.  "Christmas once meant something, but now it is just a lot of lights and glitter.  No one understands what it means anymore, no one believes..." His voice trailed off into a gravelly whisper.  He gestured silently and nodded his head in agreement with his own inaudible points.

Michael shot a concerned look at Joe who leaned over in a conspiratorial huddle. "Don't worry, he's alright", Joe said. "Been here all evening and he's still on the one rum and eggnog.  I won't make any money on him but he doesn't seem dangerous, just a little titched in the head".  Joe tapped a finger on the side of his head to emphasize his opinion.

"You know, you believed once Mikey", the old man looked straight at Michael this time as he spoke. "You know you were one of the last ones to get a real crafted toy, before Christmas came from a store."

Michael stared at the old man, taken aback at his familiar address.  Of course.  Joe had called him by name when he came in, that was how the old man knew it.  Still, it was a little disconcerting to be called Mikey, he hadn't been called that since he was a little boy.

"That's where Christmas is now you know", his voice rose and he spoke excitedly.  "It's at the mall.  It's sold on television,  commercials pounding the name of the "in" toy for this year into the minds of children.  Children who know what to demand from the laps of eight-dollars-an-hour store Santas. It's a fad, a gimmick, it's not real anymore."  

The old man shook his head sadly and repeated the words slowly and to himself alone now. "It's not real anymore."

He sipped a little eggnog, still shaking his head; his hand shaking on its own as he lifted the glass to his lips.  "Even still", he said.  "Even today, the children that sit on such laps might believe if someone gave them something really magical to believe in.  But their parents have long forgotten the dreams they dreamed as children, they cannot remember what magic they once held in tiny hands."

"Do you see that?" the old man pointed a bony finger towards the door.  There, on top of the jukebox, a four-foot animated Santa sang disco versions of Christmas carols and danced to the beat, his electronic hips swaying provocatively.  Someone had crowned the figure with a headband that sported reindeer antlers."That's what Santa is these days, a comical figure; shaking his booty and looking like the office clown at the annual Christmas party."

The old man rose and with groans announced the enormous effort it was to unbend and straighten to a standing position.  For the first time Michael noticed his clothes. They were tattered, worn and several sizes too big for his wizened frame.  He pulled on a long overcoat and wrapping it against him in folds, tied a belt around his waist to keep it closed against the cold.

"Keep the spirit alive Michael, you are one of the rare ones.  Give that rocking horse to your son, pass on the magic inside you."  

Michael eyed the old man half in wonder and half in suspicion.  How did he know about the hand-made wooden horse he had kept all these years?  He had wanted to pass it on to Michael Jr. but his wife had convinced him that there were newer and better rocking horses at the store.  In the end they had chosen a plastic rocking horse in those bright primary colors that were said to visually stimulate children and he had left the wooden horse in the attic, a reminder of the Christmases of his childhood.  

The stranger reached the door and paused. He jerked a thumb at the dancing Santa.  

"It's a good thing he's a mythical figure", he said. "Otherwise he'd be pretty embarrassed when he sobered up".

He winked and a sly smile crept over the worn and wrinkled face.  "Merry Christmas, Michael", he called as he walked out into the night.

With the evening newspaper spread out across the table, Amy cradled a cup of comfort. Warming and aromatic, her coffee was her favorite companion.  At the end of a long day - the children asleep, the supper dishes washed up - there was time to put aside formulating the plans for morning; time to take a few moments of quiet and scan the newspaper. Most evenings Amy had only enough of an attention span left over to chuckle at the "wrong" advice column, but something suddenly took her attention captive.

"Miss Hammond!"

The named exploded out of Amy's mouth. She hadn't thought or said that name in years. But in that moment that it appeared in front of her, it leaped off the page into her memory, bringing it to life.  Miss Hammond - hadn't she been dead for years?  Miss Hammond, frail of frame but determined and imposing in her way, cultured, refined and not at all the sort of person Amy would ever have expected to meet.  The sort of person Amy might never have met if it weren't for those fateful words, the sudden and unthinking exclamation of a seventh grader in a troublesome situation and looking for a way out.     

I always wanted to play the piano", Amy had blurted in that desperate moment.

It was just something to say, something to give the guidance counselor something to concentrate on.  It was another one of those sessions, the ones where her guidance counselor tried to live up to her job requirements and guide her.  These discussions always went the same way, Mrs. Garcia was no different than any of the others.  

"You're a good student, and gifted.  Your grades don't reflect your abilities and this is Junior High School now, Amy.  This is where your academic career begins to be important to your future. If you don't come to school you miss opportunities to learn and your grades suffer."

Academic career.  Why had they never understood that words like that meant nothing to a twelve year old girl?  Why was it so difficult for them to see why she didn't like school?  Was she as invisible to the adults and faculty as she was to everyone else?  Mrs. Garcia droned on and on. Why did she always pick on Amy to practice her counseling skills on? Amy was in no danger of failing and there were plenty of other students who were.  Amy even knew who they were.  She was in all the same classes as they were.  Amy didn't understand then, she didn't realize that the more school she skipped and the more her grades slipped, the more likely it was that she was going to end up in classes that became increasingly less challenging. The overall effect was to make school a less attractive choice than it was already.  She had a passing grade in all her classes, why wasn't that enough for people like guidance counselors?

Mrs. Garcia was searching for something to interest Amy, not in school but in life.  When she asked for the hundredth time what Amy would like to do or study that would interest her, Amy said the first thing that came into her head.

That was how she ended up taking piano lessons from Miss Hammond.

It was decided - after the guidance counselor had contacted her mother - that not only Amy, but her brother as well, should be quickly enrolled in the study of music.  Amy's mother was very pleased with the idea;  her sister played the piano and so she was very sure both her children had latent musical talent.  She quickly located and installed in their tiny livingroom the most inconveniently large upright piano she could find at the Salvation Army store and called for the tuner.

Saturday was the appointed day for lessons and each Saturday morning, instead of running outside wild and free, Amy and her brother Nick trudged to Miss Hammond's to be instructed in the fine art of tickling the ivory.  Miss Hammond lived on Randall Hill, where all the large and imposing houses built by the richest and most important citizens of town were located.  The hill was steep, and Amy felt this weekly struggle with gravity was just her punishment for having opened her big mouth.

Miss Hammond's struggles had to do more with the students she had taken on.  She certainly earned her seven dollars when it came to Amy and her brother.  Nick could read music, but he couldn't sight-read.  Nick would learn the piece and then play it by heart every time.  He had a wonderful touch, but couldn't play anything cold.  Amy, on the other hand, could sight-read but wouldn't practice.  Miss Hammond constantly scolded her for the way she positioned her hands, Amy having a tendency to use whatever fingers were handy to strike the notes that danced across the page rather than following the accepted patterns.  Perhaps if Miss Hammond could have combined the two children into one, she would have had a prodigy.  Unfortunately all she got were two very musical but very lazy and stubborn students, whose careers were destined to be in something much less disciplined than the playing of Beethoven.

Amy probably never would have admitted it then, but she really didn't hate going to piano lessons.  She loved music and it was interesting to learn how it was made. The best part of the morning was when it was her brother's turn for a lesson.  While Miss Hammond scolded him for not reading the music, Amy was free to explore the world Miss Hammond lived in.

Miss Hammond's parlor was spacious and airy.  The baby grand piano was set by a bay window adorned only by sheer panels and that part of the room always seemed awash in sunlight that made the polished mahogany of the instrument gleam. The floors were polished as well, dust-free and shiny hardwood.  There were two rugs, persian, in rich tones of blue and red, but not matching.  One was placed under the piano and the other in the part of the room meant for sitting and socializing.  The spare look of the piano's space was sharp contrast to the other half of the room.  Deep cherry wood tables with intricately carved legs and feet were topped with embroided scarves and  books of every kind, picture books, history books. Some had been written by friends of Miss Hammond and inscribed by the author on the inside cover.  It was a glimpse right into the soul of Miss Hammond to inventory this room, her love of art and music and fine things was everywhere displayed.

Amy never knew what Miss Hammond seemed to like about her, or Nick for that matter.  It never occurred to her at that time that perhaps most of Miss Hammond's students were even less talented or diligent about practice than they were.  She now wondered if Miss Hammond felt there was something alive in them that she wanted to cultivate, something she didn't see in her other students.  Amy never knew why Miss Hammond chose her and Nick to accompany her for an afternoon of chamber music and a display of vocal talent of the operatic sort given by a tall, blonde, curly-haired man in an impressive suit. Whatever the reason, Amy had felt very grown-up and yet somehow out of place in that auditorium. Amy thought then of all the worlds that Miss Hammond had introduced to her, all the experiences she would never have had if she hadn't been trying to escape an eager and concerned guidance counselor that day so long ago.

The last time Amy had heard Miss Hammond mentioned was at least a decade ago.  Miss Hammond was gravely ill and in the hospital, with the sort of illness one does not survive.
Over the years, Amy had relegated Miss Hammond to deepest memory; the place where people long gone are sent to reside, in brain cells that are rarely called up to deliver their bits and flashes of those lives that have briefly intermingled with our own. Until that that evening, as Amy sipped her coffee and skimmed the paper.
    
        "Virgina E. Hammond, age 97,
        from complications of pneumonia,
         in a local nursing facility"

In that moment, in those few words: "survived by" "leaves" and " taught piano in her home",  Miss Hammond came brilliantly to life; resurrected from memory to scold and instruct, tapping a hand on the piano and counting out the beat as Amy struggled through Fur Elise one more time.  

And then, Miss Hammond was dead.  Again. 

It was their first date.  Theirs was a Story Untold.  She had primped and fussed, put on her best Chantilly Lace and waited In The Still of the Night for him to arrive.  Then finally, there he was:  Jim Dandy.  It was a Magic Moment.

"Little Darlin, Come Go With Me", he said, his arm extended.  Peggy Sue took his hand. She was hoping he wasn't like the others she had dated.  Johnny B. Goode? He wouldn't.  Charlie Brown?  Well, he was just a clown.  

Jim Dandy was sweet.  After a movie he took her for ice cream - her favorite flavor, Tutti-Frutti. They went dancing At The Hop.  He was the object of every girl's attention but he held her close and whispered "I Only Have Eyes for You". She knew then, she loved him Sincerely.

He drove her home in his Little Deuce Coupe.  It must have been The Time of the Season,  because it was a Rainy Night in Georgia and there was a Bad Moon Rising. But he said "Don't Worry Baby, I Can See for Miles and Miles".

He took her home and walked her to the door.

"Oh, Pretty Woman" he said.  "They call me The Wanderer and I was Born to Be Wild but you make  me want to change my ways.  Who knows why?  Why Do Fools Fall in Love?"  He kissed her passionately and whispered "Let's Spend the Night Together".

She whispered  back "Love Me Tender" and fell into his arms. "But", she looked at him with eyes that pleaded Don't Be Cruel and asked him the question her heart needed answered.  "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?"

"Baby", he said.  "Do You Believe in Magic?  Wild Thing, for me there is Only You".

Now the tale of Rapunzel has been told on this wise: that a wicked enchantress kept her hidden and locked in a tower and so she awaited rescue by a handsome prince.  But this is, as most fairy tales turn out to be, not entirely true.

 There was no enchantress, this was an invention of the myth that followed the discovery of Rapunzel.  For people will embellish and romanticize and as the story was told over and over, imaginations added to the truth until the life of Rapunzel became a story told to young girls who dreamed of princes, when the time came for them to lay their heads upon their pillows and dream the dreams of young girls.

 Rapunzel did not always live in a tower of stone.  She lived in a village, a quite ordinary village of quite ordinary people.  Had she been ordinary, she would have been quite ordinarily happy there.   As Rapunzel grew, she realized that the thoughts of these people were not her thoughts, their concerns did not hold her interest and she spent her days alone and pondering the empty spaces inside her that she could not fill with stories of whose cow had the hoof and mouth or whose farm had produced the most corn or even which proud wife of which proud husband had produced the prize winning jam at the village fair.

Rapunzel went far into the woods on those days when the voices grew too loud and pounded in her head.  The crowded, noisy village made her lonely; and she went to a secret spot near a small pond, where she read and wrote in her journal.  

There was a peaceful busy-ness to this place. The birds carried on their coded conversations and their songs held more meaning for her than all the words that she had ever heard.

One day, as she wrote in her journal of the visions she saw drawn in the sky, the wispy dreams that floated past the sun, a voice behind her startled her out of her reverie. That was the day she first met him.

 He stood there, with the day's dying sun settling on him like burnished gold.  His eyes  had the color of the mist that rose from the water in the early morning.  His voice sounded like the music from a distant land, and called her away into him.

She met him there, day after day, travelling by his words into worlds she had not known, and her discontent with her village life increased tenfold.  Each day she awoke, full of anticipation of him, and travelled to meet him until that one day when he did not arrive.

 The next day felt his absence too, and the day that followed that, and the day that followed that.

 Soon, she stopped returning to the village even at night. She built a shelter, a make-shift thing at first but as days went on and became weeks, she built in earnest, gathering stones and constructing walls.

 In time she had built a strong tower with but one window that overlooked her beloved place.  She watched the mist rise from the water in the morning and knew his eyes, she saw the sun go red and gold in the late afternoon and knew his face and she listened to the song the birds sang to their mates, her heart struggling to sing with them.

Now, in this time, Rapunzel's hair grew long and thick and she braided it into a strong plait of gold (yes, you see, this part is true). It happened one day that a passing traveller on horseback came by her pond, and seeing the tower called out for any sign of a resident.

Rapunzel leaning out of her window, so enchanted the fellow that he begged her to allow him entrance.  Amused but slightly irritated at his insistence, she acquiesced but playfully lied and told him the only way to gain access was to climb up her braid, which she let fall down out of the window.  It was long enough now that it reached to the top of his horse's head (which stood 15 hands). The fellow was game and did indeed climb her golden staircase of hair.  

 His company wore thin after just a short time.  Her words fell on closed ears, he heard nothing of her and knew her not, he saw her visage only and insisted that she be as he imagined her to be from what only his eyes could perceive.  He was no more than those she knew in the village, and she sent him away.  

 Her heart knew only one, and he did not return.

 But word spread now, throughout the countryside, of the beautiful girl who lived in the tower and more came to find her.

 They came and stood under her window, begging for the golden staircase to be let down to them. Each proved more unworthy than the last, although occasionally one would tempt her heart, she would always find he was not true and could not see her as she truly was.

 The constant invasion of her chosen seclusion became so onerous that one night, in a moment of utter despair and heartbreak, she took scissors and cut off the means of connection to the world below.  Rapunzel took the braid and wrapped it carefully, for if he ever came, she would have it ready for him.  But when others appeared at her window now, she would show herself, shorn and with her face contorted.  She would cry out as one mad and frightened them all so that eventually, only the bravest of the village children on a dare came to see her.  Word of the mad Rapunzel in the tower spread like a fairy tale through the land.

And so it was, that is how they found her many years later. Sitting by her window, where she had watched the mist come up in the morning, and had watched the sunset in the evening, waiting for the one who owned her soul.  The unused ladder lay beside her. Stacks of journals she had written, of the one whose love she longed for, told her story.  But those who found her were not able to read and understand, and the stories of Rapunzel sprang up as different and plentiful as there were voices to tell them.  The one that lasted the longest is the one you hear even today.

Yet her journals still exist, they wait to be read and understood.  And here and there, now and again, one who has loved will read them and understand.

He noticed the creature a long time before he made his plan to capture it.  At first, he was intrigued by its quiet movements, the unobtrusive way it lived within the woodwork, coming out only when it felt safe and unobserved. Its nocturnal excurions into his world fascinated him, there was a beauty in its fear as its cautious eyes probed the darkness.  He took a certain pleasure in crouching in the dark corner, still and undetected by the creature.  Night after night he sat in silent observation, noting its movements, and its timid exploration.

He didn't know quite when the idea to capture it came to him.  It seemed to slip into his mind the way the moonlight slipped through the slats in the blind in the window over the sink. It lay across the path of the creature, forcing it at times to walk through an illuminating slice, a danger to its stealth.  He waited for those moments, and his fascination with the creature's habits continued to grow.

He began slowly.  He marked paths across the floor with tidbits and crumbs.  A few at first to see if the creature would follow.  He was pleased that it seemed interested in what he had left there, and he manoeuvered its path towards the light a little more each evening, drawing the creature closer to his hiding place with every seeding.  The first time he lured the creature close enough to see him, he had inadvertently moved too quickly and sent it skittering off back into its hiding place and it did not return that evening.  He began again and painstakingly.  It may have been a few weeks or longer, he did not know, that he sat in that dark corner watching the creature's approach; never moving, until its confidence in the safety of his presence was won.

He was content to sit alone in the dark hours and wait for it to emerge.  He increased the light reaching his corner by tiny amounts over a long period of time.  He did not do this for the benefit of the creature, whose eyes perceived all it needed to know in the blackness and who understood without seeing, the dangers inherent in this human domain. The creature was beautiful in the complexity of its interactions, the simplicity of its acceptance of him.  He simply wanted to watch it and see that it could learn to trust him.  For some reason it was this trust that drove him forward in his plan. It was this trust he had purposely engendered that held him prisoner to the creature and he must break free.

The trap was easily set.  A few of the usual and expected tasties placed in a path that led to it. He placed the trap near him, where it was dimly illuminated.  He didn't even know why he was doing it. The power? The control? Whatever it was it was exhilarating.  A sliver of moonlight crept across the floor and glinted off the steel sprung gate.  The bait set, he sat and waited.

 His breath came in ragged intervals and he tried to regulate the pounding in his chest, the anticipation collected on his face in beads of cold sweat and dripped into his eyes; the salty drops stung and a knife-like pain went through his chest at the moment just before it was too late.

The creature emerged near midnight. The device was a new item, an addition to its usual surroundings but the bait was familiar and enticing. A tentative step towards it and no danger was sensed.  A certain boldness had been birthed in the creature, going against its natural inclinations.  He had given it confidence in his presence that was contrary to its instinct, anathema to survival.  It took an easy step to the expectation created in it and a delicate foot on the trigger tripped the spring.  The blow was crushing in intensity, caught at the neck, yet alive, it struggled.  

He was transfixed at first by the desperation in its eyes, the futility of its battle to live.  There was a exquisite beauty in its expiration.  He had a brief desire to free it, but he knew it would be in vain. He could not return its life to it.  Then waiting was ended, the deed done and suddenly, the sight of his destruction filled him with revulsion; the gruesome portrait of death by his hands. He  picked it up and threw the mouse, still bound in the trap, into the trash bin where its pleading eyes could not haunt him.

The AC had been out for only twenty minutes but already the air in the office was stiff and unmoving.  The sudden and violent lightning storm and its accompanying wind had knocked out the power to the building.  One hundred and fifteen employees, suddenly stripped of phones and computers, gathered at the windows to watch the storms or wandered through the aisles, joining this or that one of dozens of conversations, all buzzing with a single theme:  Do you think they will send us home? Those at the windows marveled over the foolhardy denizens of other offices, walking or running to their cars holding cellphones, inviting a sudden conduction.  More than a few giggled wickedly over the shiny new BMW convertible, left with its top down as the wind-driven rain pummeled and soaked its pristine interior.

Amy felt the burden of the air increase as it grew heavier.

She gave up trying to send a text message on her cell phone. There didn't seem to be a signal, maybe as a result of the storm. The ice in her coffee had by now completely melted; sipping it gave no real pleasure or cooling effect.  She made her way to the bathrooms and by the faint illumination of the emergency lights, splashed a little cold water on her face, relieving some of the effects of the rapidly rising temperature on the fifth floor.  It felt so good in fact, she continued dousing herself with cool water from the sink until her head was thoroughly wet and water dripped from her hair; the mirror streaked with little rivulets and a circle of tiny puddles forming a boundary around her feet. She went back to her desk, feeling the lack of the electric fan intensely, needing something to cool her body as the heat zapped her strength.  Finally, she approached her supervisor.

"When it gets too hot, I can't breathe" she said.

"Neither can I", was the off-handed reply.  Her supervisor hadn't understood. She tried again.

"No, I mean when it gets hot, I can't move my diaphragm", she explained.  "If it gets too hot, I will have trouble with five flights of stairs". The admission both embarrassed and scared her.

 It was all so much easier when she could blame it on Walmart.  It always seemed to be at the end of a Walmart shopping trip that she found herself sitting in the car, weak and feeling like a dishrag, finding herself breathing with a determined effort and yet having no difficulty with or obstruction in her lungs.  Everything seemed like an effort then, even sitting up and her only thoughts were of iced coffee and cool air.  She blamed the long lines and insufficient air conditioning at Walmart for making her so tired.  But now she knew why it happened, and ever since the doctor had explained the effects of the lesion on her spinal cord that had been revealed by the MRI, she had noticed the episodes more often.  Was it because she aware of them now? Had  they always occurred this frequently?  Or did they happen more frequently now?  She realized that they could have gone on for years this way and she could have happily and innocently blamed Walmart.  Why did the doctors always have to steal your innocence?  Why did simply knowing about something make it seem so much worse?

    Suddenly, she felt stupid and hysterical. She wasn't going to stop breathing, where did that come from?  She had never stopped breathing before.  It was all the focus that they had put on her condition, all the stress and emotional upheaval in her life, it all came down on her and panic had set in.

"Nevermind, I'm fine", she mumbled.  She was about to return to her desk, to sit and wait out the clock as it ticked down to closing time when the manager came through to announce that everyone could go.

The stairs were ill-lit with tiny lamps only every other landing and in between the darkness overwhelmed her efforts to watch her feet as she tried to ensure each landed squarely on a step and did not miss.  But the temperature fell with each floor closer to the ground and she found it all to be no great task.  Once she had reached her car and set the air conditioning to high, she relaxed and some of the intensity of her anxiety abated.

As she took her unexpected freedom before she had to pick up children, she lit a cigarette and turned the car in the direction of the coffee shop, to score an iced coffee and a few minutes of relaxation before the evening's work of dinner and dishes and motherhood began.  Pulling into the parking lot, she stubbed out the butt and laughed.  If I ever do stop breathing, she thought, at least they won't be able to say it was because I smoked.

  "Maybe I can still blame it on Walmart", she muttered as she pulled open the glass door. The elderly woman exiting looked at her in amusement and said "Might as well dear, they blame Walmart for everything these days".

"Yes, they do", Amy chuckled and agreed heartily.  "Yes, they do".

"Py, why don't you take me places anymore?"

"Galatea, you never went anywhere for years and no complaints.  Why do you bother me now when I am working?" The sculptor ran one dusty hand over his forehead to brush the hair out of his face, leaving white streaks across his head as if her pouting had suddenly turned him grey. "Just hold your arm steady, I almost have it."

"Yes, and all that time don't think I couldn't hear you, praying I would speak to you and promising me so much if only your dreams for me could come true", Galatea retorted, her voice rising to be heard above the sound of the hammer. "Now that I am here and doing as you wish, you find me a burden."  

She started to sob but rather than moving the object of her pleading, his attitude became more impervious to her apparent heartbreak.

"Oh, now you've gone and done it". he exclaimed.  "I've ruined the hand.  How am I going to fix this now?  How many times have I told you not to move?  Give them life and suddenly they can't sit still for a second", he muttered, tossing his chisel down for emphasis.  "A whole day's work ruined."

"Give me life?", she said.  "There you go again, Py, taking credit.  I was everything you see long before that.  And oh, how you used to court me, always bringing me gifts and jewelry; kissing me so sweetly and begging me to respond.  I was cool in those days, cold in fact.  You doted on me, you yearned for just one bit of warmth from me and now that you have it, you scorn me. I am leaving you Pygmalion, leaving!"  She collapsed upon the chair, sobbing.

It was true, he thought, as he surveyed the work he now created.  Galatea was every bit as beautiful as this new statue he now carved. But how foolish he had been not to realize that his perfect creation would be ruined by becoming a real woman.  Before he had longed for her touch and to hear the sound of her voice, but now he recoiled from her.  His serene angel had become this creature of petulance and jealousy, full of demands.  Yes, she had been the helper he had envisioned in his work. Indeed, she helped him now in ways she did not even suspect as he fashioned this new sculpture with her as his model. Gala was lovely, but her needs were superceding his own in her priorities.  It was a shame that she was going before he had quite finished but he had worked without a model the first time and he was sure he could do it again.

"I am going Py."

She was at the door, having gathered her things in a small bag. She stood expectantly but the call to stay was never sounded.  With a look of defeat she opened the door and paused, to give him one last chance to cajole her with pretty words and promises as he had done in the past, but as none were forthcoming, she turned defiantly and strode out.  

The sculptor watched with a slightly wistful gaze.   He would miss the pearl necklace she was wearing but what could he do?  It was a gift.  He caressed the tapered ivory neck of his new creation and hoped to find another set of perfect pearls just as lovely to adorn her. And this time, he vowed, no more silly wishes.

The monthly reports finished running and Gloria emailed them off to her superiors.  The data would please them but show nothing unusual.  She was anxious and wanted to get out of the lab as soon as she could, but she couldn't leave early or do anything out of the ordinary.  Gloria never left early.  She never slacked, she never took a day off.  She smiled to herself, it was time for a change.  The screen on the computer became unusually colorful and active as she played a game on the Internet.  She felt deliciously wicked and slothful. 

When she had wasted most of the afternoon, Gloria pulled her briefcase and a small cage out from under the desk and began her most important task of the day.  She removed 5110 from the large cage and placed the rat in  a small bordered area.  With a sure hand she carefully pried the metal ID band off the rat's hind leg.  She then placed 5110 in another small cage on the desk.

She opened the other cage, the one she had brought with her, and removed the rat she had purchased at the pet store in the mall.  This rat was skittish and unused to handling and it took a long time to get the metal ID band clamped on its leg,  She was careful and kind, fearing to injure the animal but her secure and gentle touch eventually soothed the animal's fears to the extent she was able to attach the band to its leg and release it into the cage with the rest of the rats.  This was a risky move, she knew that .  It could skew the data but she also had realized that having animals die repeatedly when she was alone in the lab might eventually raise suspicion.  Her excusing of the rat from tests all week and reporting illness would be sufficient to cover any changes in its behaviour and raise less suspicion than its disappearance.

Her heart was racing now.  When she took Einstein she was acting on impulse and emotion.  What she was doing now was a calculated and premeditated act.  She gathered up her briefcase and placed the small cage inside it, turned off the lights and stepped out of the lab, her contraband neatly hidden.

Willoughby had struggled throughout the day with the etch-a-sketch, turning the knobs, making the lines over and over then flipping it over on his makeshift catapult.  A certain excitement gripped him as he worked to perfect the letters he needed to write his message to Gloria.   Over and over he worked to create the lines that would break down the barrier between them.

He knew that he had to choose a message that she couldn't  put down to random patterns that just seemed to make sense.  She had to know and understand immediately that he was communicating.  He needed her to see that he understood what he had written and be willing to teach him more.  There was something he needed her to do for him, something very important.

Only when he had his message exactly right did Willoughby allow himself one quick nap.  He rolled himself up snugly and nestled into the corner of the afghan that hung from the chair.  Exhaustion caused him to fall quickly into a deep sleep.

He slept so deeply, he didn't hear Gloria's keys at the door.  The first sound he heard was the heavy "thud" of the apartment door slamming behind her.  He was sleepy and disoriented.  She was talking to him. He blinked his eyes to clear the sleep from them and finally managed to focus on her.

"Einstein, I am going to need your help. We have a new house-guest and since you are the expert on apartment living for rodents, I am going to expect you to show our guest around and explain things".

Willoughby's eyes grew wide as he watched her reach into her briefcase and pull out a small cage with one lone rat in it. She set it down on the floor in front of him.  An exclamation of surprise escaped him.

"Rosalind!" His heart jumped at the sight in front of him.

"Willoughby... oh, we thought you were dead,  Thank goodness you are still alive." Rosalind said. "Where are we?"

There was much to explain, too much almost.  Willoughby was in such a state of happiness and shock at seeing Rosalind here,  he didn't notice Gloria picking up the etch-a-sketch and starting to shake as had become routine.  He always scribbled all over the screen to hide his work and she hadn't noticed that tonight the screen held only one neatly drawn image.

Too late his eye caught a flash of red and he looked in horror as Gloria picked up the etch-a-sketch, shook it clear and put it back down again.  He ran to it and saw his brilliantly executed pattern language gone.  All that work erased in a second. Gloria did not see the carefully etched "T_H_A_N_K __Y_O_U".

 Willoughby looked back at Rosalind, who by some miracle was now here with him. His joy at seeing her was ten times greater than his disappointment.  Ah well, he thought, there was time to rewrite the message.  Rosalind could help him.  He went to her and poked his nose through the bars in the cage that held her.  She rubbed her nose against his and their whiskers touched.  "Oh Willoughby", she sighed.  "I'm so glad you're alive."

Yes, Willoughby thought, I will rewrite the message. He must. He reveled in the scent of Rosalind, the only thing he had missed about the lab.  Now he had more reason than ever to thank his rescuer.   

Gloria spent the week half in anticipation of a day without Porter and half in anxious worry over her plans.  But if her plans worried her, her future beyond them worried her more.  She had never been a risk-taker or a rule-breaker.  Lately she had doing a lot of both and she felt uneasy, like someone waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for fate to lower that proverbial boom and she was sure when it did, it was going to come smack down on her.

She had prepared to spend most of Friday running data through the computer models, and producing the month's reports.   She had to alter the data on 5110 or they might question further and find the rat missing.  The Institute had their own agenda as well and she often wondered if the work that she was doing actually meant anything.  If they had cared at all about real research they wouldn't hire someone like Porter.  They would have noticed her reports on Einstein.  She suddenly felt as if she had wasted the last six months of her life working for people who cared only about return from their clients and nothing about the real miracles going on right under their noses.  She realized that she had to go through with her plans, only she was going to care about the possibilities that she had discovered in these two rats.  

"Or am I just insane?" she asked herself out loud. She nodded to herself. Yes she was mad as a hatter.  Then she giggled, and it surprised her a little to hear herself sounding so happy.  In the stillness of the lab the slight echoing of her giggle made it sound maniacal.  She liked the effect.
Gloria had spent her whole life playing by the book.  In college she had been the complete nerdy bookworm; she studied hard and was known as the "death of the party".  She was careful in relationships, so careful that she usually didn't have one.  Her life was a long list of "do's" and "don'ts".  But something very freeing had happened to her that day she had taken Einstein; a self-imposed carefulness about life had disintegrated and she realized that she felt alive.   It was wonderful and invigorating but it created a hunger in her for more of life than she had allowed herself up until now and that hunger was creeping into every area of her thinking.

Willoughby spent the week perfecting his catapult that turned the Etch-A-Sketch over with enough force to clear the screen and then flipping it back over the same way.  He was also learning the names of letters and a few words and short phrases.  He was starting to see the meaning in these language patterns.  He had learned that "H E L L O" was a greeting that humans used when coming into contact with someone who had not previously been present.  It was fairly easy to make on his writing screen too, mostly straight lines and right angles.  It was a possibility as a first communication with Gloria, but it didn't really express all he wanted to say.   He kept watching and practicing and learning; his determination to succeed overruling even his desire to lie on his back and let the warm sunlight bake through him while he napped.  He needed to talk to Gloria, to end this loneliness.

He hadn't wanted to admit it at first, he had been somewhat disdainful of the crowding and pushing of the masses of rats at the lab.  But it had been a long time since he had talked with any creature that understood him and although he was starting to understand Gloria more and more, he could not reach her.  He sighed at the loss of a good nap and perhaps a dream about cheese prizes at the end of simple, easily navigated mazes.  He thought about friends and one in particular whom he missed.  Then he shook off these thoughts and returned to his work.  Letters, letters, letters.  These were the keys to Gloria; he would unlock this door of silence somehow.

Gloria counted the days until Friday, three days she had to hold her tongue and put up with Porter so he didn't get suspicious.  So for three days she was polite and didn't mention anything unusual in the testing results.  Two or three times she mentioned that 5110 was looking ill.  She excused the rat from several tests, in case Porter noticed anything but she suspected she needn't have bothered.  His thoughts were on his weekend bash and little else.

Willoughby spent those days at the Etch-A-Sketch, tirelessly turning knobs and forming patterns on the screen.  He had mastered several patterns so far but he didn't know what they stood for and so was quite frustrated with his efforts.  The screen got filled and then he could not see anymore what he was making and so his time for practice was limited. He had to wait for Gloria to come home and turn it over until he could figure out how to do it himself.  It was during one of these experiments in trying to work with the writing screen that he discovered something wonderful.

Willoughby was attempting to build a kind of catapult.  He had gathered a couple of pencils and wedged one end under the Etch-A-Sketch and was searching for just the right thing to place under the middle of the pencils.  The remote control for the television had proved to be too small, it didn't provide the height he needed but a careless pressing of some buttons had changed the channels several times, coming to rest on the most interesting show he had seen so far.

Some small humans and some large animals of types he had never seen danced and sang. As they sang, language patterns appeared on the screen. These animals had strange fur and spoke in human language.  He soon surmised that the sounds they were shouting out as the patterns flashed by were the names of these patterns.  Finally, he knew the names of these patterns.  Willoughby had discovered children's educational television.  

Gloria entered the lab that morning with plots hatching in her head.  When she ran the experiments and trials that day, she never mentioned the rat who was outdistancing all the others and often sat and stared at her. She did not want Porter to be suspicious of anything.  

She needn't have worried.  Porter spent the day in his usual self-absorption, his most pressing thought for the day being where to have lunch. He never noticed that she altered times and outcomes on the reports, she wanted to downplay the performance of this rat.  In doing so, she was not being a dutiful researcher but she also realized that the powers that be would not listen to her findings.  That is why she had to take Einstein, 4251.  That is why she was considering this next boldly insane move.

At home, Willoughby watched the TV that Gloria had been so thoughtful to leave on for him.  The usual scenes were flashing by his eyes when he noticed something interesting.  A young human, a child, was playing with a toy.  It was a box with knobs that looked something like the television and as he turned the knobs lines and pictures appeared on it's tiny screen. Willoughby had noted that humans often used implements that turned lines and circles into patterns through which they communicated.  These patterns of language were often shown across the television screen and he assumed they had a relationship to the voice that  boomed behind them.  He had never thought of learning these patterns, it had never seemed possible before for him to make them.  But now, a thought occurred to him that never had before and he scurried into the bedroom to search under the bed for something he had seen there many times.  

The day at the lab went slowly for Gloria, she was nervous and unsure.  Her thoughts ran wild with possibilities and yet she knew that if she embarked on this dangerous course she could endanger her position.

"I am taking the day off Friday", Porter suddenly offered.

Gloria stared at Porter.  This was the first time since he had started working here that anything he said had interested her in the slightest, but now she listened with heightened attention, barely able to keep her excitement out of her voice.

"Oh? Why is that Porter?"

"Because it is going to be a beautiful weekend, Beautiful, and I want to enjoy it.  Gonna go stay at a friend's beachhouse".  He didn't notice the icy look she shot him when he called her Beautiful and for once she didn't bother to remind him that she had a real name. "You should get out more too, you know.  You aren't bad looking, you might even find someone.  If you stay cooped up here with no one but the rats for company Gloria, you are going to wake up one day very lonely and very frustrated. Of course, if you ever start to feel frustrated, you know I would  be glad to be of service."

He was odious.  But he was going to be gone for a whole day.  That was enough to brighten her spirits in itself but it also gave her time to think, to plan.  She left the lab that night, full of ideas and a strange sense of anticipation.

Gloria went home that evening to find that Einstein had somehow found the Etch-A-Sketch that her niece had lost months ago in her apartment. She had scoured the entire apartment to the wailing voice in the pitch of a 3 year old girl, but never located it.  It was strange and she wondered how he had come across it.  Stranger still, was that he was playing with the knobs.

"Where did you find that, Einstein?" Gloria asked.  Seeing that the screen was full and that he could make no more lines, she took the Etch-A-Sketch and shook it upside down to clear it.

"This is better now, you can start over", she said as she set it back down on the floor in front of him. "You get up to strange things when I am not home, don't you Einstein?"

Willoughby stared at the toy in front of him, the screen was blank again.  So that is how it is done, he thought.  But no matter how he tried, he could not think of a manner in which he could accomplish this himself.  When he had finally mastered this pattern language he would have to do it perfectly the first time.  But this was not his first concern right now.  First he must learn and formulate his message to his rescuer.  He looked up at Gloria with love in his eyes.  She was the first and only human he had ever truly cared for.  He must find a way to communicate with her.

This is the second tale in a series.  To read the first story about our hero, please go to A Rat's Tale.


Willoughby lay on his back near his cage, surveying his new home.  It was much larger than the lab, and it was bright and sunny.  Sunshine had not reached him in the lab often, the only window close to the cages being a northern one, there was nothing like this light that streamed in upon him now, making him feel warm and lazy.

When he first arrived here, he had known immediately it was her habitat, her scent was strong everywhere.  He realized he didn't detect any other human scents. How strange these humans are, he thought, this vast space occupied by just one human.  Certainly though, it must be much more comfortable than the overcrowded box he of which he was an inhabitant in the lab.  Still, he thought, there are times when it must be cold without another body to share its warmth with you.

Gloria was quite proud of herself for having spirited the rat from the lab.  Porter was too involved in his own agenda to question the disappearance of one rat.  He had never listened to her or believed her when she tried to explain how special this one rat was.  He had no vision or imagination and she was grateful for it in this one instance.  She was surprised at how quickly the rat adjusted to life in her apartment and now she never closed his cage door.  He had the run of the place but when she was home, he generally stayed quite close to her  His capacity to bond with her surprised her.  

When she had breakfast he would sit happily on the table just watching her and wait for whatever crumbs she tossed him.  When she curled up on the couch to watch television, he lay at her feet and she thought it looked as though he were watching too. He was her constant companion and she wondered if he missed having so many of his own kind around him, she wondered if he felt his isolation as much as she felt hers.  

Willougby realized that by listening to Gloria talk to him and on the telephone that he was beginning to understand a lot more human language.  It was odd to be sure, but it had a certain rhythm and the speaker changed tones depending on intent.  Very simple creatures really, he thought.  They seemed to be mostly concerned with what they will eat and how to best clean their cages.  The television showed dozens of products to eat or clean with daily.
 
Willoughby heard the sound of keys in the door, Gloria was home and for some reason this filled him with joy.  It was a rather lonely life for a rat after all, as used as he was to many companions even if the overcrowding was uncomfortable. He only waited for the opportunity to communicate with her, and that barrier he had not found a way to overcome since his victory in the lab.  

"How are you today Einstein"? Gloria called out.  She had taken to calling him by this new name instead of 4251.  He wasn't sure why she did that but felt instinctively that it was a gesture of friendliness and so he accepted this new name gladly.  He had no way of telling her what his real name was, at least not yet. He watched helplessly as she checked the phone messages.  He wanted to tell her that the deep voice she was listening for had not called;  the voice that sometimes made her smile and sometimes made her cry.  Instead he could only watch the look of disappointment on her face and it pained him.  She held a handful of mail, and sorted it as she looked over the many envelopes, finally depositing it all on the table by the door.

"I don't even know why I look at it, I have no intention of reading any of it", she laughed as she collapsed onto the couch, dispensing with her shoes as soon as she hit the cushions and pulling her feet up onto the couch after her.

"That Porter is such a dolt, Einstein", she said, addressing the rat. "I think that you are smarter than he is."  The rat came up to the couch and she scooped him up with one hand, placing him on the cushion to sit with her.  "You are a much better friend, too.  At least you always listen."

Porter had been disputing her findings with yet another experiment.  And again, she found there was one rat who behaved in odd and inexplicable ways.  Porter again put it all down to the rat having some behavioural disorder and would not listen to her as she tried to recount the actions that seemed deliberate, if odd. She was careful this time not to press the issue with him, she couldn't keep spiriting rats out of the lab to save them from Porter's shortsightedness.  The whole process of dealing with him was exhausting.  If he wasn't being obtuse about her findings he was being flirtatious and ignoring her obvious disinterest.  

"I am too tired tonight to play mazes with you Einstein, how about we just watch some TV?".  Normally she ran experiments with him on her own time, and was impressed daily with his apparent independent decision-making ability.  She wished she were clever enough to understand, as she now believed wholeheartedly that he attempted to communicate.  As there were geniuses in the human species, she began to believe there must also be outstanding individuals in every species, and she believed Einstein was one such individual.  That she was beginning to suspect the same of another rat in the lab made her head spin with possibilities she had never entertained before. Her desire to see them interact was growing but she pushed it aside for now.  Surely Porter would be suspicious if another such rat disappeared and she couldn't very well turn her apartment into a boarding house for intelligent rodents.

"I think that would definitely assure my perpetual dateless existence", she thought aloud. Still, it was tempting.  "What would you think of another roommate, Einstein?"

She sat high above the ocean on a seat that had been hewn out of the rock by eons of nature's unrelenting forces. Her heart rose in sympathy with each brave assault of the waves on the cliff face, her pain sounded in each mighty crash.  They would win eventually by their tireless pounding, but all their victories would result only in destruction. A somber sky hung over the horizon in mourning for a day that held no promise of light. The wind, like a playful puppy, battered in spurts and kissed her face, nudging its cold, moist nose against her cheek.  The solitude suited her and was yet unbearable, for it was not by choice.  Her eyes searched the sky as if she waited for an omen, some vision to descend.  

She had loved him in spite of herself.  Her instincts had put up warning signs, her experience had sounded its loud voice.  The risks were great and hope did not exist.  She fought her heart at every turn, at every word she knew better than to believe and yet carved a niche for, allowing it to live in her and war against her will.  She had opened the vault to her soul and he had searched deep, collecting treasures no one had ever seen.  He owned parts of her now that she could not retrieve.  The pain of her loss was more than she could express and yet into the morning the wind howled and sounded the cry of her soul. Left asunder, it cried for what was forever lost. She listened to its mournful appeal until in a moment of perfect empathy she followed its cries and gave herself to the sea, descending only to arise again with the waves and pound out her despair against the rocks.

She had wanted to stop for an iced coffee on the way, something to reward her for actually making this appointment, but as it turned out, time was too short to allow a stop.  Even without the steeling effect of the coffee, Amy sat as poised as she could manage in the upholstered chair in the examination room.  With one leg crossed over the other and the light that glinted off the new toe-ring highlighting the pedicure she had treated herself to, she thought she looked composed and cavalier as the doctor whipped out one radiograph after another, placing them against the lighted panel on the wall and saying "yes, there it is" and "hmmm" and other such pronouncements.  She only half heard him when he said words like "progression" and "spinal cord lesion" and was amazed herself that her thoughts were still elsewhere and not on this grim soliliquy.

"This is what I don't want to see in a patient with your condition.  This is the kind of thing that could put you in a wheelchair in five years if you aren't willing to do anything about it".  His admonitions were stern.  He was a believer in "telling it like it is" and was firm in his opinion that her stance of denial was no longer going to serve her well.  She had long lived as if refusing to acknowledge her condition could stave off its effects.

"I don't understand", he said.  "Someone with this kind of problem, who refuses treatments that have a proven history and yet smokes".

"I know,  you don't understand why anyone would refuse accepted treatments and then ingest large quantities of poison daily.  Well, that is just because you haven't known me long enough", she quipped.

The doctor's face didn't show any appreciation of her feeble attempt at humor.  This was one situation where she couldn't fast talk her way out of it.  He was not impressed.  He wore a face of concern and to his credit he noticed the tears welling up in her eyes.  He didn't know her well, for he thought she now cried because of his diagnosis and recommendations, something she was only barely acknowledging.

The physician's voice droned in the background as her mind wandered to other words that were indelibly etched in her memory.  It wasn't as if she had not expected to hear them, she had heard the death rattles coming from that corner for a long time.  Steven hadn't managed to surprise her with his announcement that he was leaving.  It was no surprise but it was no less painful for all her preparation.

When she met Steven she was impressed with his talent as a photographer.  His work was well received and he was not lacking in assignments.  He had been kind in his assessment of her paintings and even asked her to paint something for him. They seemed to have something in common and it naturally led to a relationship. At the beginning it was light and fun, they enjoyed all the same things, their tastes were so similiar she felt for the first time in her life that she had met someone who was capable of understanding her.  She understood him too and his ambitions, though she didn't share them.  His job at the newspaper was not his life goal, she knew that.  She also knew he would do whatever was necessary to achieve.  She wouldn't have been so hurt if only he had been honest with her.

"I can see three or four, yes four new episodes since the last brain study".  She heard the words and thought, that isn't too bad.  It has been ten years, four new areas of damage in ten years sounded like a bargain compared to what might happen in that amount of time.  It was the next words he used that caught her attention.

"And here, there is a black hole", he said.

"Excuse me, a black hole?", she asked.

"That's an area of permanent damage", he explained.

Amy chuckled bitterly. The doctor looked quizzically at her reaction.

 "You have to understand this, that is just so, so... so perfect", she told him.  "That so perfectly fits me it is actually funny.  What area is it in?"

"What area?  Do you mean what does it control?  Memory, concentration, some sensory".

She looked at him suspiciously.  "I have an excellent memory."

"I am not saying it is necessarily causing problems, you asked what that area of the brain controls and I told you."

For a moment she forgot all about being angry with Steven and concentrated on being angry with this man who could so blithely talk about things that were never going to affect him personally. He was trying to scare her, he clearly disapproved of her "hands off" attitude towards her condition for so many years although he grudgingly admitted that she was doing well considering her inattention to it.

"You don't understand", she had told him.  "Up until now, I was winning".

But today she was being told that she wasn't winning any longer, that she couldn't win. Normally, nothing made her more determined than being told she couldn't win. She had spent her life fighting losing battles.  But Steven's timing had taken the fight out of her.  His boss had given him an assignment that took him to San Diego. While out there he had made some connections and through them received an offer from a magazine.  He told her he could not pass it up, it was the opportunity of a lifetime.  She knew that it wasn't really much more prestigious than the job he had at the paper, but it had one fringe benefit.  It gave him an excuse.  Her pride made her pretend to believe, maybe part of her needed to believe that he was sorry to go.  But in her heart she knew he had planned to leave all along. She had entered the doctor's office today, already thoroughly defeated.  She surprised even herself when she nodded mutely at him when he asked if she were ready to give in and try the injections.  She had been fighting too long. It was time to admit she couldn't win.

"I suppose I have no choice", she said as she accepted the tissues from his hand, dabbing at tears that had very little to do with this morning's appointment and everything to do with her disappointment.  Choices were things only others seemed to possess. She left the office with yet another choice taken from her.

She never turned on the radio but drove through the rain in silence, the only sound the one that came from the stripped wiper blade as it scraped and scored the windshield.  She hadn't bothered to have it replaced as the shrieking it made perfectly matched the cry that echoed within her. The employee at the drive thru smiled and called her "honey".  He was sweet and yet she knew he called everyone "honey". So many in the line, so many times he had used that charm.  She asked for sugar in the iced coffee, but still it tasted bitter. 

"And now, it is time that I must go".

The Wizard began folding up his stage, packing up the puppets in a trunk.  An enormous wave of fear and sadness washed over me and fell out of my mouth in a panicked voice.

"Where are you going?  Why must you go?  What am I to do now?"

"I have only one thing left to show you.  Walk with me".

We walked for a short time until we reached a place where the brick road that we had traveled for so long suddenly ended.

"This is where your new journey begins", he said.

"How may I journey?", I asked.  "There is no road."

"You must now build a new road.  You have your companions with you now to assist you.  You are not alone on this journey, and when you have all built the road together you will find the place you are meant to be."

"And you will go where?"

"I will be where I am always, in the background, in the shadows, behind the curtain.  You will not see me, but I will have my voice to speak."

"Why must I always be sent on journeys?  They are all safe here, why can they not all stay here?"

"That will not do", was the only reply he made. We walked in silence back to the caravan, but my mind was busy formulating objections and arguments.  I had not wanted to come here, but now I felt I did not want to leave.  

"We will not know which way to go", I said.  "Why do you not come with us?"

"I cannot make this journey for you, it is one you must complete on your own.  You will find what you need in your companions, and soon you will forget about me.  I am only a catalyst, the materials you need to build your road are in your possession now."

He had closed up the stage and placed it on the caravan.  I saw that he intended to go and nothing I said was persuading him otherwise.  

"But where will I be when I reach the end?  Tell me what awaits me so that I may travel in hope."

"Hope is what you will build with, and what you find at the end I cannot say.  These are your dreams that will lead you onward, not mine."

"And will I not see you again?", I asked.  

"I have journeys of my own to make, who knows where they will lead?"  His face was as unreadable as always.

I had a foolish idea to call my companions to help me persuade him and ran to call them to come.  I was no more than a few steps when I realized it was too late.  In an instant, he had gone.  

We camped that night in the spot where the caravan had been, a fire burning in place of the stage.  We set off the next morning, each of us forever changed.  I worked in earnest now, building my road of hope.  The object of that hope remained elusive and unseen. 

"There is but one thing left undone".

  As the Wizard spoke these words he led me to the woman, who sat upon the ground by the stage.  A plate of crumbs and a cup sat beside her on the grass and I realized the Wizard had sent food to her, knowing she would be as hungry as we were but too shy to join us at the table.  The Tin Man had never left her side  but now the Wizard motioned him away and whispered a few words in his still fleshly ear.  The Tin Man now went to the table and sat with the Scarecrow, finally getting his meal.  The Wizard was orchestrating some meeting, I decided.  I was curious about this disguised figure and waited somewhat impatiently now for the revelations the Wizard intended to produce.

"A long time ago", the Wizard began.  "This woman held a treasure.  She had a locket but this was not the treasure.  The treasure was inside the locket."

"What was in the locket?" I asked.

"The key to the treasure, she did not know.  It was the treasure in this locket that made her beautiful, it gave her confidence, it defined her.  As long as she held it, she knew she would be beautiful. But one day, she lost her treasure.  And now, all she wants is for you to give it back."

I shook my head. "I do not know where her treasured locket is.  I only just met her on the road,  I can't be of any help to her."

"The story of her treasure is one of thievery and despair", the Wizard explained. "She had it in her hand one day, a broken chain had occasioned a trip to have it repaired.  It was a long journey to the jeweler, a hot and thirsty trip.  She came upon a clean pool of water by a fresh spring.  Leaning over to have a drink, a face looking back at her startled her and she dropped the locket into the pool."

The woman held her shroud tightly around her and her hands trembled as the wizard spoke out her story.  It was as if each word was a dagger, her shoulders moved convulsively to the sound of his voice.  He gently placed his hand over her hand, the one with whited knuckles that gripped the material over her face and then he continued. He sounded out each word like sustained notes from a cello, a mournful reverberation.

"She reached in over and over and searched for it but it could not be found, the face that had frightened her had disappeared into the swirling water and taken her treasure. She has hidden everything since that time, for fear of what could be taken if it were revealed."

"Then what the peddler said was untrue, I did not take her treasure", I protested.  "Looking into water one would only see..."

A strange thought struck me now.  This woman had followed me here, thinking I had her lost treasure.  But why did she think that?  Impulsively I approached the woman and commanded her to rise to her feet.  I was surprised when she followed my order and stood before me.

"If I have taken something from you, I am sorry". I began.  "If I have buried it in unseen depths, I will help you find it.  We could search for it together.  But if we are to work together, I must see you.  We must know each other."

Trembling fingers grasped the hood of her shroud by the edges and pulled it back letting it fall in ripples of material around her neck.  I looked upon the woman's face but it was not for the first time.  I felt no surprise at all to see myself looking back at me through her eyes.

"The correct question is" the Wizard advised.  "What do you want to do about it?"

This was really more than I could bear.  I had been hijacked, kidnapped, made to travel through a strange place looking for this even stranger man and now he asked what I wanted?  Suddenly, I felt a surge of myself return and I turned to him with a sarcastic expression.

"Oh wise Prospero, master manipulator and wizard, what is it that you have decreed I must do about it?  It is you and not I, after all, who is in control.  I wouldn't dare make a move without your consent and advice."

To my surprise the Wizard greeted my statement with laughter.  I expected anger, perhaps even invited it. Instead he reacted with amusement at my annoyance and this angered me even more.

"A little lunch seems to have done you some good", he said.  "Perhaps there was a tempest in that teapot", he added with a wink.  

At that I laughed in spite of myself. An imposing figure this wizard was not.  I had judged him haughty in the beginning, his accusations stung me.   Perhaps I was feeling a little better for having eaten.  Or perhaps it was what he did next that made me see him in a different light.

He produced a bound book and a pen and handing them to the scarecrow said "My friend, this is for you.   It is no good your having your thoughts scattered about you.  I want you to write them here, in this book.  We'll have no more of loose thoughts hanging out all over.  Put them here on these pages and when you have filled the book then we shall all have a read."

The scarecrow's face filled with delight as he fingered the crisp, blank sheets of the book.
He greedily took the pen in hand.

"This is the nicest gift I ever received", he said, smiling up at the wizard.  "In fact, I think it is the only gift I have ever received.  I must write that down".

 Immediately he began to write in his gift. Occasionally he would stop and tap the tip of the pen against his chin, then having more inspiration he would begin to write again. I was amazed at the way the Wizard seemed to handle the boys.  They listened to his every word and obeyed his commands, which I will admit were given with a soft voice that conveyed a certain concern and care.  The wizard rose from the table and extended a hand.

"Come my dear", he invited.  "We have more business to attend to".

My fear and distrust dissipated, I took his hand and rose to accompany him, this time without demanding an explanation.  

I was likely weakened by the journey and the events of this day.  I must have fainted, because when I came to I was lying on the ground and the Wizard and the scarecrow were standing over me.  The scarecrow, the dear thing,  was fanning me with his hat and the Wizard was assuring him that I would revive.  I tried to sit up and became dizzy, the caravan appeared to move in chase of the stage, and increased in speed as I turned my head.

The Wizard taking my hand said "I think you need a little something to eat, and you will be fine.  It's been a busy day.  Come over here, I have some tea and sandwiches prepared."

He led me to a table, perfectly accoutred with lace tablecloth and linen napkins.  There were three settings laid. I gave the Wizard a questioning look.

"Why only three"?

"The tin man doesn't wish to join us", he answered.  And indeed the tin man stood like a bodyguard next to the woman who was still kneeling on the ground by the stage.  "Please", he said.  "Take a seat."  He held a chair out for me and with a flourish he dusted the seat off with a hankerchief.  For a moment, he seemed to be the showman again.

I sat and let him hold my chair.  He took a seat opposite me, and motioned the scarecrow to take the remaining chair.  "Shall I pour?" asked the scarecrow, picking up the teapot.  I had to smile, he seemed at ease wherever he was and yet I knew he also felt at odds at the same time.  Directionless he had called himself.  The word suddenly struck at something deep within me and I became suspicious and afraid. My hunger overriding my curiosity, I greedily partook of the sandwiches and tea.  It was the first real meal I had eaten since my arrival. When I had eaten enough to feel satiated, I turned to my host.

"And what is it I have done to him?" I asked sarcastically, nodding my head in the direction of the scarecrow.

To my surprise, the Wizard smiled at me and winked.

"You are catching onto me already", he said.  "I knew you were clever."  He leaned over the table his hand to the side of his mouth, concealing it from the scarecrow.
"Why don't you tell me?" he said with a grin.

"Well, let me see", I ventured. "He is full of wonderful thoughts, but all of them unfinished.  I suppose I have somehow kept him from completing things."

"Good, good", encouraged the Wizard.  "Go on, you're getting it now."

"Let me think, how have I done this? Have I quashed his enthusiasm?  No, see he is very enthusiastic."  I looked at the Wizard's face for any sign I was right.

"I have not completed things myself",  I said.  "I have started many projects and not seen them through."

"Is that all?" asked the Wizard.  "Is there nothing else? Is it only your projects and tasks you have not brought to completion? What of your dreams and desires? Is there nothing else missing an ending?"

His words became my tears; they grew heavy and escaping the corners of my eyes, they burned as they rolled silently down my cheek.

"No", I dropped my head forward to hide my sorrow and shook my head slowly. "No, that isn't all that is incomplete."

The Wizard took my chin in his hand and lifting my face to look into his eyes, spoke softly.

"See, how happy he is.  He worries not because he has no endings, everything is still open to him.  He contains the beginnings of many great things; your thoughts, plans, hopes and dreams.  Still he is directionless because you refuse to follow them through out of fear of the endings.  He has never known failure, this is true.  But he has never known success either."

"I can't promise him success", I protested.  "It is much easier not to try than to fail."

"It is not easy to never succeed at anything", the Wizard countered. "It has not been easy for you.  That is why you have left him here.  He is your reminder.  But when you abandon him, you abandon possibilities."

The scarecrow was listening to all this, scribbling notes on scraps of paper and stuffing them into his pockets.

"What is it then that you want me to do?" As soon as I had asked the question came the fear that I already knew the answer.

The wizard folded his napkin with a slow precision and placed it on the table aside his plate.  When he finally turned his attention back to me his face held a look I hadn't seen on it before.  It was akin to sadness and weary.  

"Alas,my dear,you ask the wrong question." he sighed. "All of this and yet still you do not understand."

"To save me?  You are going to save me?", I shouted at the Wizard in anger and disbelief. "What makes you think I am in need of saving? I think you overstep here, yes, I think you overstep.  I am not in need of saving, except perhaps, from you."

"I am sure you may have good reason to think so, at the end of our time together", the Wizard said. "You may also decide not to listen to my advice. But do you not think at all of your companions who have journeyed with you?" he asked, unruffled by my ire.  "Have you no concern for their needs?"

The Wizard moved to stand by the tin man and placing one hand upon his shoulder, rapped on his chest with the other hand as if he knocked at a door.

"See here", he continued.  "The tin man, a man of wounds deep and lasting.  You have shielded him from injury but refused him love.  He has sought acceptance but instead of allowing his vulnerability, you have made him hard and cold.  You have given him this armor for survival but his heart dies within him."

My head was swimming now as I tried to fathom his words.  The Wizard  regarded me with a steady gaze, he never wavered.  His voice did not rise as he laid these charges against me, rather it was soft and consoling.  I felt then as if I would faint but somehow, my feet stayed beneath me.

"Do you not recognize him yet, my dear?" he asked.  "Look at him carefully, see beneath the armor to discover what he truly is."

The Tin Man looked at me, his eyes large and imploring.  The great sadness that was always present seemed to increase as the Wizard sought to reveal him.

"Do you see now?" continued the Wizard.  "I have watched your brave knight stand before you, his axe at the ready, his armor for your shield.  He has stopped many arrows and attacks. He has kept you safely behind him, but his armor has prevented more than pain.  He has not allowed anyone close to you, nor to himself.  He has kept these wounds far from you and in return he has lost much.  I have seen what you have lost as well.  The question you must answer for yourself is this:  Are you ready to reclaim it?"

"You are saying, I have done this?" I asked the question but the answer to it began to form even as it escaped my lips.  Yes, I knew this construction of metal and armor.  Yes, I recognized him.  He had walked with me all the days of my life.  My knight of battle, how wounded yet strong.  I cried now, as I thought of what was denied him in exchange for his bravery.  He stood, watching this exchange between the wizard and myself.  I ran to him and embraced him.  "I'm sorry", I whispered in his ear. "I am so sorry".

"It is I who am sorry, milady" he answered.  "I could not protect you, although I tried."

The Wizard looked at me, unsmiling but without anger.  He tapped the tin man on the shoulder.  "Wait here, we have need of you still."  The tin man stood, appearing exactly as he had when we had met him on the road.  He obeyed the Wizard without question, standing at attention as any good soldier would do when given a command.  

I stood as still as the tin man, but trembled within.  The Wizard gave me a knowing look.  I felt both pain and relief at his understanding.  I also feared what may yet become of our encounter.

I stood in front of the stage, flanked by the tin man and the scarecrow.  The woman was a few feet from us, hunkered down with her hood pulled tightly around her face, as if she were still hidden and watching in secret.  The lure of the show had drawn her closer to us than she had ever been, but still I did not catch more of a glimpse of her than her eyes, liquid blue and haunting.  

It was a puppet show. Across the small stage a figure moved in hesitating starts and stops.  Two other figures appeared at opposite sides and were still.   I recognized them as my companions and the woman who followed us but would not join us.  None of the characters spoke. I drew closer to the stage and as I did, a fourth puppet entered.  It was a man in a jacket and ruffled shirt.  "The peddler", I exclaimed.

"A show", said the scarecrow.  "How nice".  He sat upon the ground and stared up at the stage like a child, entranced.

There was no dialogue, the peddler moved about from figure to figure stopping at the likeness of the woman and only then did he suddenly speak.  

"I have seen your treasure, and the one who holds it.  I will bring the keeper of your treasure to you, do not despair."

The woman, the real one, huddled as she was on the ground, sobbed quietly as the show played out before us.  The likeness of the peddler stood in the middle of the stage now, addressing the audience.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the story of three is actually the story of one.  There is magic afoot, amazing and mysterious.  You have watched as an observer but you must participate if the magician is to succeed.  Are you prepared"?

The tin man and the scarecrow shouted "Yes" and clapped their hands, the woman sat upon the ground, her hands busying themselves, wringing one over another.

"Where is the magician?" I called out.  "Where is the Wizard?"

"Patience, my friend, patience", was the answer from the stage.  "The hurry you are in hinders your understanding."

"I didn't come all this way to talk to a puppet", I raged.  "I want to know now why I was brought here."

"You will remember sir, when we last spoke", the peddler puppet prodded. "I told you then of your purpose."

"Okay, that's another thing, you keep calling me sir, why do you do that?" I asked him, feeling slightly irritated with his side-stepping.  I had wondered why he called me "sir" that day on the street, but I never asked. I suppose most women would have been affronted to be addressed so, as if mistaken for a man, but I ignored it as an affectation.  His words caused enough unrest and I thought only to get away from him.  I realized why now the peddler had caught my attention that day and why he was here now.  Before I had ever seen him, I knew him. Before he spoke I understood.  He had seen more than he had been shown, and I feared him for that reason.  He revealed now his understanding.

"That was your idea", he replied. If it were possible for a puppet to grin, he would have grinned when he said it, but his voice held sarcasm. "You are the one who has made your persona, you have chosen.  And in so doing you have left her deserted and alone."  He pointed to the puppet of the woman.

"I have never even met her before."

"You won't meet her, you mean.  Yet, you have taken something from her and you refuse to give it back."  The puppet raised one hand accusingly.  "You are responsible for her mourning. "

"What have I taken from her? How have I done this?" I waved my hand at the woman, who was on her knees, face groundward, sobbing.  "How am I responsible for this?"

"You took her beauty from her, you stole from her the right of every woman to be beautiful to her inner eye.  You gave her only ugliness and sorrow, you robbed her of her vision.  See how she hides her face.  She is unable to bring herself to show it, she is convinced of its imperfection.  All because you selfishly made her hide it, told her to keep it hidden lest your belief in her beauty betrayed you."

 An anger rose inside me, was all that I had been through only to bring me in for accusations?
Was I now to be called robber and thief?

"Am I here to be tried for some crime?" I cried out.  "Are my crimes so great?"

The puppet of the peddler crumbled to the stage as the hand that animated him relinquished its grasp.  I heard another voice, like the peddler's but steadier, the showmanship gone out of it, as a man stepped from behind the curtain.

In physical appearance he was the peddler but his garb was different, more subtle.  Gone were the ruffled shirt and jacket with the oversized lapels, replaced with a plain dark suit, old fashioned but it looked neat and new.  There was no trace of the glib salesman now, the voice that hawked wares and told fortunes.  Instead his voice was slow and determined.

"I have brought you here to save you, not to punish you", spoke the Wizard.

She did follow us, just as before.  The rest of the troupe was falling into an easy camaraderie, enoying the trip and each other.  The scarecrow sang his snatches of songs. The tin man told stories that made us weep, tales of battles and scars.  I kept my eye on the shadowy figure that flitted into view here and there.  For some reason I wanted to be sure she kept up.  There was something she was missing too and I felt a need to help her find it.   Occasionally, I read the words written on the road, and floods of tears rose up threatening to break loose upon me.  I realized now that I walked at an ever-slowing pace.  I didn't want to meet the wizard anymore. A fear I could not put a name to walked beside me.  I sang along with the scarecrow to drown out its whispers.

After only a few hours, I suggested we stop and rest for a while.  The boys were unwilling to lose travel time, they had developed an anticipation of the possibilities a wizard might signify.  My suggestion met with much opposition and getting agreement on only a short break to find lunch, we soon moved on again. The sanguine attitudes of my formerly morose companions irked me somehow now; they could not see what I saw, they did not read the words on the road.  I took each step now with a strange heaviness and foreboding. The sky in sympathy dressed itself in dark clouds and a slate edging ran along the horizon. Still we walked on.

We were running out of woods.  The trees were thinning every yard.  I tried not to look too often at the hooded figure that attempted to shield herself from view with what was left of the disappearing forest.  She fought a losing battle and soon there was nothing to hide behind.  I quietly instructed the boys not to look at her, to pretend she was still invisible to us.  We studiously avoided the view and she for her part, acted very much as if the camouflage was still there, ducking and stopping, furtively peeking out from her hood and then continuing.  It seemed almost indecent to sneak even a sideways glance, her pain at her exposure was so clear.

It was then that the road culminated in a T-intersection, running off to the left and right but straight ahead it stopped completely.  This had not happened before at any point along the road, but it was not this that struck my eye.  At the end of the road stood a canvas covered caravan and beside it a tiny theatre, a minature stage with a black curtain backdrop. Emblazoned on the canvas was a bold advertisement: "Prospero - Seer, Magician & Wizard Extraordinaire".  And although there was no audience, a show was being played out on the stage.

The road went on and on and we saw  nothing that seemed a likely place to find a wizard,  We walked until evening and as the waning light made it difficult to travel and as we were all growing weary, we stopped and made a makeshift camp in a clearing at the edge of the woods that now lined the road.  I slept deeply although I was unused to sleeping on hard ground. I had always dreamed in black and white before.  Dreams came to me in vivid colors now, but they were all tinged with tragedy of a sort I could not express.  

A sliver of light cut a swath through the branches and landing on my forehead  burned into it until the searing woke me.  I called to the  others to get up so that we could get an early start on our journey although I had not been given even a map for my destination, let alone a timetable.  The truth is I was tired of the journey and was not even sure why I was making it.  "And just how long will I have to walk before I find this wizard?" I asked aloud.  An answering voice in my head reminded me "you will find him when you need him".  

The tin man and the scarecrow had gone off in search of food while I made sure what was left of our little campfire was well out and no longer smouldering.  I heard a rustle to my right and my eye caught the impression of movement.  I assumed it was one of my two friends returning but no one emerged.  For several days I had experienced these fleeting moments where I thought I saw something watching us from hidden points beside the road.  The road went through areas of increasing vegetation and forest and I decided that the shadows were playing tricks on my eyes.  
But then again, a brief image of something flitting behind the trees caught my eye and I stopped this time and stared to try to catch a better look.

A shadowed figure moved through a pillar of light that streamed between the trees and I called out "who's there?" It seemed to hesitate then in a quick movement was gone before I could reach the spot where ithad stood, watching me.  

It was at that moment the boys returned (I had taken to calling them "the boys" as they seemed to act like brothers almost and my heart was glad to see the tin man find a companion finally).  They had found some apples and berries and proudly showed me the "fruits" of their labors.  I suddenly felt like the head of a family and wondered how I had become responsible for two such odd creatures.  I had no idea where they would go or what I would do with them when our journey ended but now I was happy to think that they might at least, have each other.

"Look", I said.  "Someone or something is following us.  I wasn't sure before but now I realize that it has been following us for days.  I don't know who or what it is or why it follows us, but if you see anything at all, you must tell me right away."

"Why should anyone follow us?", asked the scarecrow.  "We don't even know where we are going."  The tin man nodded his agreement and I myself was perplexed, but worried.

After a little breakfast supplied by my two friends we started on our way.  I was the only one who felt any sense of urgency as they viewed the entire thing as some great adventure and any journey was better than the stagnation they lived in previously.  We had walked about an hour listening to the scarecrow sing some song to which he didn't know all the words (naturally) when I again sensed someone watching us from the woods.

"Listen, that person who is following us is over there".  I said this with a carefree smile on my face and cautioned my companions to not look in that direction.  "I want whoever it is to think they are not noticed.  Not yet, anyway."

The scarecrow and I made a strange looking pair walking along.  I found it passed the time pleasantly enough to listen to him read off stray thoughts as he plucked a strip of paper here and a scrap of paper there.  At first I was concerned he might undo himself entirely but there appeared to be an endless supply of unfinished thoughts and so I learned to just relax and enjoy the exercise they gave my mind.

As we travelled, my raggedy companion and I, the landscape began to change and we came upon a thickly forested area just as a burst of rain began. We headed under some nearby trees that were heavily foliated to escape the sudden drenching.

It ended quickly enough and we began to emerge from our leafy shelter.  I caught my foot on a tree root and went sprawling to the ground.  My left hand plowed a muddy rut but my right hand hit something cold and hard.  I would have thought it to be a rock if it were not for the strange noise that rang out and when I looked it was shiny like steel and smooth.  Clearing away the branches of some low-growing brush, I saw it was a foot. As my eyes traveled upward it became apparent that the foot led to a leg, which led to a torso, which led to a head, and all was made of metal.

“Here, come have a look at this”, I called to my new friend.

The scarecrow was busily removing a layer of damp paper where the rain had caused the ink to run.  He came over and stood by me, staring as I was at the strange sight before us.

“What is it?” he asked.  “A suit of armor?”

“I don’t know, it looks like a man made entirely of tin.  I don’t think it is a suit.”

“I don’t know what it is either”, offered the scarecrow.  “But it is making noise.”

He was right, just the slightest squeaking emanated from the head and was audible amongst the sound of water dripping from the trees.  

The scarecrow came over and stood on the other side of the man, and we both tilted our ears towards him as the squeaking continued. The creature was trying to communicate with us, but none of the sound made any sense.  The scarecrow who exhibited much more intelligence than he professed to possess, had already determined what the man was saying and started rummaging about the shrubs until he found the item the creature had been calling for.

"This is what he wants" he stated, handing me an oil can.

"Where did you find that?", I asked him.

"It was lying over there with an axe and a bag", he said. "I started to think about how dangerous rust would be to a tin man and wondered how one would counter that danger.  It seemed likely that he would carry an oil can for maintenance."

"Yes", I agreed. "That does seem logical." I did not point out to him that he had thought of that all by himself.

“Ah, so this is what you were trying to tell me?" I smiled apologetically at the frozen man in front of me. "So sorry, I can only imagine how frustrating that must be.” I quickly oiled the man’s mouth and after a few screeching scrapes of metal against metal, the joint of his jaw began to move smoothly and he was able to speak.

 “I thought I would be standing there forever until you happened along. Of course it may have been for the best”, were the words the tin man first uttered. I quickly went about the task of oiling the joints of his limbs, freeing him from his immobilization.

“How did you get into such a state to begin with?” asked the scarecrow.  

“Well, it was a strange set of circumstances and a very long story” he began.  “But my life has been one of battle always."

"When I was born, I had a twin brother who came forth stillborn.  His cord was wrapped around his neck and around my left foot.  It strangulated him and it also caused my foot to be very deformed.  In fact, the blood supply was compromised in such a way that the entire foot became gangrenous and had to be amputated.  When I was older, my father had the tinsmith fashion me a prostethic foot out of tin, so that I would be able to walk. He had the idea that a tin foot would last me longer than a wooden one. That was the beginning of it."

"My mother died of complications giving birth to us and my father never got over it", he continued.  "When I was ten years old, he left me with my mother's older sister and joined the crew of a sailing ship.  I never saw him again."

"My aunt was a spinster and unused to the ways of children and so there was no play and all chores.  I don't blame her that she could not love a child she blamed for the death of her sister and found a burden she did not ask for. It was a lonely life and I often thought of the brother I might have had and how he was meant to be my life companion.The other children found me freakish and a target for their cruel remarks.  I could not keep up with them in games and so did not attempt to cultivate their company but spent my days alone in the woods. I learned to wield an axe well, and was able to make some money selling firewood to the villagers. One day while felling a tree, I misjudged the angle of my cuts into the trunk and it fell in the wrong direction coming down at me instead of away from me.  I escaped but my left arm was trapped underneath and crushed.  The tinsmith was again called to repair me."

"When I was of age, I turned over to my aunt a tidy sum I had saved of my earnings to repay her for her care and joined the army. My life had already been one of many battles and this seemed to be a natural move. Through the years I suffered more than one disfiguring wound.  Wherever I suffered injury, the flesh was replaced with tin until after many years, I had become tin from head to toe.  However, there was one thing that was irreplaceable.  My heart.”

“A heart”, he continued, “is one of those things that once damaged is very hard to mend. The tinsmith was not up to the task I am afraid. These plates of tin that saved me also made me cold and rigid.  I found I did not have much communion with others who viewed me as a freak and heartless.  So with my axe in hand, I returned to the woods.  Unfortunately, before I could build myself a shelter a rainy period began that lasted several days, and you have witnessed the resultant rusting.”

Something like a sigh came from him and as he spoke, he turned his head.  I got the impression that it was so that we might not see him weep and yet there were no tears. “That was many years ago, I cannot say how many now.”  

I am not certain how it was that the tin man fell in with us on our trip.  It may have been his lack of company for so long that led him to agree rather more quickly than he normally would have to my suggestion he accompany us.  It may have been that the mention of a wizard made him think of magic and magical cures.  However it was, I know that for several hours we walked in silence, the heaviness within him weighing on us more than the weight of his construction could ever impede his gait.

After traveling some distance over rolling hills I came upon a crossroads where the road went off in several directions.  I paused, puzzled by the different avenues.  To the right were words from unfinished poems, to the left, the road seemed to be made up of lines from short stories I had started but abandoned when I lost belief in the idea.  Standing with my hand to my chin, I thought aloud. “Which way am I supposed to go?”

“That has always been your question”, a voice answered.  “The answer is, and always has been, that you can go both ways but you will always love one better than the other.”

At the sound of another voice I snapped my head around quickly.  I saw no one, just flowers to my left and a small cornfield to my right.  I had seen no other living creature except the occasional bird in the sky since I began on this road.  Who had planted a cornfield?

“Who said that?” I demanded in a loud voice.  

“Why, I did”, the voice answered.

Standing in the middle of the cornfield was a man, dressed all in rags.  Shredded paper protruded from the cuffs of his shirt and the tops of his boots.  More shredded paper poked through holes in his hat and the worn knees of his pants. He ambled towards me with a stumbling and gawky gait.

“Who are you, and what do you mean I will love one better than the other?  Which one?”

“I am just a scarecrow, set here to keep the crows from the corn", he answered. “I don’t do very well at it; and I don’t know what that means.  I think it was written on one of these strips of paper I am made of.”

As he spoke, he pulled a strip of paper that stuck out at his wrist.  He read it with a blank look on his face, crumpled it up and tossed it behind him, shaking his head.

 “Nope. I don’t know what anything of it means; I am not smart enough to think it through. I guess that is why they are all just scraps.  Nothing much written on any of them. I suppose I just never finished a thought.”

“Why do you stand here?" None of this made any sense to me.  "I don’t see any crows.  I don’t even see any people.  Who planted the corn anyway?”

“Come to think of it, I have never seen any people either.  No idea who planted the corn.  I did see a crow once, but I can’t remember when that was.”

“Then why do you stand here?” I asked.  

“I’m not sure”, he said, scratching his head. “Where else would I go?”

“You could go anyplace you wanted to, just make up your mind and go”.

“Well, that is the problem, you see.  I can’t make up my mind. Why do you think I have all these unfinished thoughts hanging out all over the place?” He pulled at a few of the scraps of paper hanging from various openings in his clothing. “Which way are you going?" he asked brightly. "I could go with you.”

He was a strange character but he seemed harmless, and I admit I was a more than a little happy at the thought of some company; at least he would be someone to talk to.  I decided it wouldn’t do any harm to invite him along, at least for now.

“Well, I have to go see some Wizard guy”, I said.  “Apparently I have to follow this road, but see here it has gone off in two different directions and I don’t know which is the right way.  But you’re welcome to come along, if you feel like it.”

“I don’t mind if I do”, he smiled as he said it.  “As I said, I don’t know very much and I am not clever about things, but I don’t see why we oughtn’t to just go that way.”  He twirled around with an outstretched arm and closed eyes and when he stopped we headed down the path his arm pointed to.  Since I had no idea where I was going, this seemed as good a plan as any and I was glad to have someone else to blame it on should it turn out to be the wrong way after all.

The scarecrow and I walked on for some time and I found him to be excellent company.  He found us some fruit and berries along the path and so we had some sustenance.  Occasionally he would pull a strip of paper off of his body and read it aloud. It was true that most of the thoughts seemed unfinished but they were interesting ones nonetheless.  A few of them sounded familiar somehow.  I wasn’t sure I agreed with his self-assessment.  It appeared to me that he was much more intelligent than he gave himself credit for. At least he knew how to find food.

As we journeyed I told my new companion of the world from which I had come and the method of my arrival in this place.  I left out the part about the peddler, as strange as all of this was, to me that seemed to be the strangest part of it.  I was on a journey to find a wizard and until I did, I wouldn’t know why I was here or how to leave again.  

“Well, I can’t say I understand it”, the scarecrow said.  “But I don’t mind going along with you.  I am pretty directionless as you can see.”  Once again he pointed to his overflow of bits of paper.

“I don’t know about that”, I replied.  “It sounded to me like you have some good ideas in you, your thoughts are very interesting.  You just have to finish them, that’s all.”

He gave a small nod of resignation, pulled a strip of paper off himself, read it and tossed it aside.

“Nope.  It definitely won’t be that one that I finish first.”

I chuckled and hoped it didn’t make me look unfeeling to his plight.  He was so pleasant and amusing that I no longer cared if he finished a thought or even a sentence.  I was that glad not to be alone on this strange road.

I awoke with a tremendous headache.  The kind that makes you hold your hand to the back of your head to keep it from coming off.  The kind that reverberates as if you just struck your unprotected cranium against a cement block.  I struggled to focus my eyes and orient myself.  The image of the peddler came to my mind  and I remembered the storm. But nothing else.

I blinked my eyes once and then again.  The images coming through them were confusing.  I was lying by a road, a strange looking road that began in a concentric circle.  Everything was strange looking, yet pleasant. No, it was more than pleasant, it was exciting, enticing, inciting to the senses.  The grass was so different from the sky, both vibrant and dazzling. Nothing blended one into another but with differing hues carved strict delineations. The road was the same shade as the light that struck the treetops and the sun blazing in the sky.  I forgot my headache for a moment and stared straight into the sky, the light mesmerizing me with its brilliance until a white ball formed in front of me and floated in my field of view.  Too much light, I have damaged my eyes I thought. Then in a flash, the ball of light exploded into a million streaks and there emerged a human figure in the midst of it.

The figure moved closer, it floated more than walked and as it approached I saw it was a woman.

She was clothed in layers of the sky, flowing behind her as she floated towards me.  Her hair was brilliant and shining like the light that she emerged from and it hung about her in long tresses that reached the hem of her dress.  She came within inches of me before she stopped; and when she spoke, her voice was like the music of angels.

“Welcome, we have been waiting for you”, she said. A chorus of voices rang out from around me.  They chanted, “Yes, yes”.

I was unable to speak and would not have known what to say if I had been able.  I wondered about the identity of this creature and as the question formed in my mind, she spoke as if she were answering my thoughts. 

“I am your muse.  Do not look at me strangely for I am always with you, although you do not always see me or hear my voice.  Those” she said, waving a tapered hand around in a wide circle “are those who await what lies within you”.  I saw nothing but again a chorus of voices chanted in the affirmative. “Yes, yes, waiting.”

“What is this place?” I asked, finally managing to speak.

“Come here”, she answered, “and I will show you”.

She motioned me to the center of the circle of the road, a long, delicate finger pointing to the beginning.  “See there, what is written”.

I had to kneel to read the tiny inscription, which began at the center and spread out around and around growing larger as it continued.

            I

             sleep

              only to

               invite half-broken

               dreams of you (and me)

             always Leaving doors ajar

           Keeping the darkness incomplete

         Shouting down the imperfect silence

“I…I don’t understand”, I said.  “I wrote this.”

“Yes, you did.  You have written much when I have come to you, but you hide it from others and even yourself.  You bury your words in notebooks and papers under the bed, continuing to live in indistinguishable dreariness, as is everything in your world.  Yet, this road is paved with your words, it is they that have created this world and brought it to life.  It is here you must make your journey, along this road.”

I traced the words imprinted on the bricks with my finger and memory flooded over me as I read the poem, long forgotten but now alive and forcing its emotions back into my consciousness.

“It is time you made your start”, she continued.  “The Wizard is waiting for you.”

“The Wizard? Who is the Wizard?” I turned quickly to look at this apparition and the throbbing in my skull intensified.  I began to wonder if I had fallen and hit my head, if this hallucination was the result of a closed head injury.

“It is he who brought you here.  Follow your road, it will lead you to him.”

“What if I don’t want to meet him?  What if I just want to leave?” I demanded.                                                                

“Oh my, it is much too late for that and you know it”, she said with a little laugh. “You have seen the colors you have created and your road is set. Make a start, here.  Follow on, you will find him when you need him.”

At this she gave a little wink and her brilliance compressed into a little speck, the light falling in upon itself until she finally disappeared.

I found myself alone and in a strange place, the only familiar things were my writings imprinted upon the bricks of the road that lay around and before me. It seemed the only thing I could do was to follow them.  Certainly there was nothing to do here, no one to inquire of and definitely no food.  In fact there was nothing around but blue sky and grass and trees and this impossibly designed yellow road. 

It ran in the beginning circle for only a short time and then spread out long and wide before me.  The sun never ceased to shine as I walked.  Soon the expanses of green fields gave way to lush bursts of flowers in such brilliant hues and shadings that I lingered here and there to admire them.  But after tarrying a few moments, the pull of the distance led me onward; it was unknown but must be conquered. 

That day started the same as any other.  I awoke in a familiar, quiet, and muted world.  There are a lot of things to be said for a black and white world, I was always pretty happy there.  Picking out clothes, for instance is a snap; everything goes with everything.  I think I looked younger then too.  But that was before my fateful trip, before my world disappeared in a maelstrom, before I met the Wizard.

I was on my way to take the dog to the vet for his shots.  It was a nice stroll through town; the sky was a smooth, clear grey as always.  It was then that I saw him for the first time.  He had a little stand set up on a corner, peddling some wares, handing out some pamphlets and telling fortunes for a small fee.  I watched as most passed by him, throwing disapproving looks.  A couple of elderly ladies with their shopping bags clucked and shook their heads as they walked by, obviously unhappy with his appearance on their neat and staid streets.  They walked until their delicately shaded forms blended in with the background and disappeared entirely. 

The man intrigued me and I stopped to listen.  He intrigued me from his ruffled shirt and old fashioned suit with the wide striped lapels to the amazing sleight of hand he displayed as he shuffled a deck of cards, inviting passing pedestrians to test him at his extra sensory skills. I watched him and I noticed him watching me.   I decided to slap down four bits and let him read my fortune.  He smiled like a Cheshire cat; it was what he had been waiting for.

"You sir, will know that what I say is true", he started.  "There are stories inside you waiting to be born, great adventures you secretly dream of, a journey you have been afraid to start".

I looked at him with as blank a face as I could muster.  He spoke in a low and unhurried tone, as if he were casting a spell. 

"There is a place beyond here, sir.  A place you will find yourself at the end of a great storm, and there you will find your journey".

I mumbled a "thank you" or something similar.  “I have an appointment to keep”. I started to walk away, backwards at first, then turned and increased the speed of my gait as if I were rushing to get away from him. The truth was that his words disturbed me. They echoed in deep places within though I tried to shake them off.  He called after me, my figure already beginning to disappear into the sameness: "Do not be afraid, you will find friends to make the journey with you".

I hurried down the street to the vet's, my small dog under my arm.  The sky was darkening and the clouds were no longer white but slate in the sky.  I dropped the dog off and stepped back out into the street just as the sky opened up.  The rain fell in drops so large and heavy that they kicked up dust clouds wherever they landed and the drumming on the awning overhead was as loud as if a bucket of pebbles were being emptied onto it. But the sky was the strange thing, the wind picked up and nearly carried my feet, the clouds swirling into a close dancing embrace.

I still thought I would make it home when the wind, pushing under my heels elevated me right off the ground. 

 

Amy leaned forward and her hand brushed her just-poured and steaming cup of coffee, nearly spilling it all out on the table. A burning splash landed on the back of her hand and a few drops splattered on the letter it held.  Amy had always been a klutz.  That is just how it was and there was no getting around it.  She couldn't get around much of anything without tripping or weaving or falling down. She had never had a sense of balance, but years of practice had given her a unique style.

There is an art to being a public spectacle. Naturally and painfully shy as a child, she shuddered at the very idea of drawing attention to herself in any way, to the point of never being brave enough to raise her hand to ask the teacher if she could go to the bathroom.  She simply sat in agony for hours, until the bell rang and they had a break or lunch or the end of the day.  She resisted anyone knowing she was there, and retreated into the world inside her head.   But one day she realized that the stubborn refusal of her limbs to accede to her demands was growing worse as years went on, causing more and more instability.

Once she went face down in the frozen food aisle at the supermarket.  She regularly leaned over to grab a door handle and lost her balance falling headlong into the door.  She soon realized that people viewing her antics didn't laugh at her as she had always feared they would.  It was much worse than that.  They pitied her. Pity was just too bitter, and she refused to drink from its cup.

Going into a convenience store, her foot did not clear the threshold.  She stumbled and fell forward, propelled by gravity and no amount of quick thinking could save her.  An arm flying out to catch herself, instead caught the Hostess Twinkie display and took it down with her.  She faced the crowd of shoppers, standing, mouths agape and  frozen in a corporate "O" as they tried to process the correct response. Was it to laugh at the very amusing scene? Or would that be unfeeling, what if she were hurt?  Amy felt the great responsibility of easing their social tension, to arise amidst the massacre of spongy snack cakes and to blithely brush off her embarrassment with a brightly spoken "and my mother wasted all that money on ballet lessons".  And with that, she had created herself anew.

Or so she thought.  Because tonight, sipping a mug of coffee that had long gone cold and reading his letter over and over, she found she kept stumbling and tripping over the words.  She had fallen and this time no quick quip or bright remark was going to rescue her.  She struggled, but once again, she had lost her balance.

Amy pulled the car into the drive-thru line which at this time of morning extended out to the street. She had made sure to leave early and the traffic was light, she would have time. As long as she got there by 8:00 she would find parking and court didn't open until 8:30.  She hadn't taken time for breakfast, she was afraid to have anything on her stomach this morning.  Besides, it was full already; jumping and growling at her, a thousand little worries marching through it.  

Her intestinal revolt notwithstanding, Amy decided that a cup of coffee was necessary to steel her for the morning ahead. The sky was full of indecision; clouded, but lightening up here and there, never threatening rain but never promising sunshine. She glanced at the paper in her hand, not really reading it.  The director of the daycare  had handed it to her with apologies when she dropped her son off this morning and told her what it said.  The facility was closing as of Friday and she would need to make other arrangements for her son.  Amy placed the letter face down on the front seat of the car.  There was enough to think about today.  "This little stress with just have to wait its turn", she thought.

Ahead of her in the long line sat an ancient pick-up truck. It may have once been yellow but now had a myriad of colors, an unmatching red door, white primer over patches of "Bondo" and a bumper that seemed to consist mostly of rust.  Every time the line moved forward, the driver had to start the engine which rumbled and shook the truck so that she thought it might just wiggle forward.  When the line stopped moving, the truck shuddered and the engine sputtered and stalled out again.

On and on it went, the line moved often but not far at one time and the old truck would roar and rumble, shudder and shake until it sputtered another last breath.  Amy found herself being more impatient than usual in the slow-moving line.  It gave more time for the dread inside her to build to a crescendo.

The image of her ex-husband filled her mind.  It was like him to force her back into court for no reason, filing ridiculous motion after ridiculous motion.  Filing for reduction of child support he hadn't even bothered to pay in two months.  Filing for visitation he knew the court could not allow. She prayed the court could not allow it anyway.

The line jerked forward again, finally the noisy truck and its stops and starts had passed the ordering station and had advanced around the corner to the pick-up window.  Amy ordered just a small coffee and cursed herself for sitting in this long line for one item.  She drove up to the window, getting out her wallet as she pulled up close to the uniformed man leaning out, her coffee in hand. She pulled a five dollar bill out and attempted to hand it to him.

"You're all set.  It's all paid for", he announced, refusing her waving bill.

"What do you mean"? Amy asked him, feeling slightly confused.

"The guy in the truck ahead of you paid for your coffee". he answered.  "He said to to charge him for whatever you ordered".

Amy just stared at him.  The truck was just at the exit to the drive thru now, miraculously not stalled out. She wondered what he wanted.

The guy in the window kept talking.  "He said to tell you, that you have everything a woman should have except a smile".

The words cut like a knife.  Amy took the coffee and mumbled a "thank you".  She noticed the truck just leaving the parking lot as she drove up to the exit. Suddenly she was suspicous and anxious.  But as he drove off he headed to the onramp of the highway and continued on as she exited and went in the other direction.

She drove on into the day ahead, sipping her coffee and thinking about the strange generosity displayed by a unknown man in a truck that barely ran. Someone who gave something and wanted nothing in return.  He could not know of the weight of life she carried.  She thought about what he had said: "everything except a smile".

 A slight shock of pain rippled through her chest as she thought of the stranger, who with only a few backward glances, was able to sum up her life in a cup of coffee.

Ricky paced the short distance back and forth across the studio apartment, one hand holding the back of his head as if it might come loose.  The wail of a siren down in the street caused him to rush to the window and peer furtively through the blind.  It was only an ambulance passing through the maze of cars below.  They hadn't come for him yet but he knew enough to expect them.  The phone suddenly rang out and he jumped.  With each jangling cry Ricky's panic grew.  He picked up a book and threw it at the wall.  It hit with such force the lamp shook and the flickering light made shadows on the wall tremble as if stirring to life.  He collapsed on the floor and drew his knees up to his chest, long arms wrapped around them, muttering "Damn... damn... damn..."  until the ringing stopped.  He knew it was only a matter of time before they came.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way, nothing was supposed to happen.  No, that was not true, something was supposed to happen, but not this, not this.  Why did he let Joe talk him into this? And why did Joe bring his kid brother Cory?  Joe could have handled himself in this situation but  Cory was just a kid, he would talk.

Why did he let Carrie get mixed up in this?  "Oh God, Carrie, I'm so sorry".

From the first time he saw Carrie, he knew. That day he was at Joe's house, just hanging out with Joe and a couple of friends watching the game on TV, just killing another Saturday. They had a few beers and tossed friendly insults back and forth in the accepted ritual of male bonding.  It was then that the sing-song sounds of female chatter and laughter preceded Joe's sister Marie and two friends into the room.  His eyes immediately went to the petite girl with hair the color of honey and the big brown eyes that were so soft and gentle.  She smiled at him when Marie introduced him and he thought his heart would explode within him.  

He started hanging out at Joe's house every minute he was off work.  Even Joe was starting to get sick of him.  He hoped every day that she would come and a few times she did.  Each time he planned to talk to her and each time his nervousness overruled his plans.  Then one day she just came and sat next to him, making small talk that turned into long discussions about baseball and work and movies, he couldn't even remember what they talked about.  They talked for hours and somehow he ended up walking her home and somehow he found the courage to ask if he could call her.  Amazingly, she gave him her number and he did call her, nearly every night, his heart always sinking when she wasn't home as he imagined her out with someone else.  It was weeks before he managed to ask her out.  He remembered later her putting a hand to his cheek and joking "I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to ask you".

Last night, he held Carrie in his arms and his world was full of her smile and excitement as they planned, talking about what they would do when they had the money.  She wanted to travel, she wanted to move to the country.  She wanted to marry him, she said so; and the thought that she loved him had spurred him to go ahead with the plan despite his misgivings. He had nothing to offer her, there was no big future in his job at the video store.  He wasn't smart and he wasn't rich and he wasn't the handsomest guy around but she loved him.  She was so beautiful. She was his world and he would do anything to make her dreams come true.

It was supposed to be easy.  Joe knew some people who knew some people.  There would be a car waiting, he had the easy part. The car would be waiting, he would take it to where Joe would be waiting.  All he had to do was run the "stolen" car into the side of Joe's car and leave.  That was it.  Joe would then report to the police that there was a hit and run, the police would find a car reported stolen just that morning, but not the driver who had run off so quickly that no one could give a detailed description of him.  They had gone over it a half dozen times until everyone knew the story well enough to tell it accurately.  "That's where they trip you up" Joe said, "the details".

 Joe knew some people who knew some people.  Some lawyers.  Some doctors.  There would be insurance money.  They just had to say they were injured, they just had to show up to the clinic. Joe's insurance would pay off for "pain and suffering" under the Uninsured Motorist coverage on his policy because it was a hit and run. They would all be rich.  He and Carrie would travel and move to the country.  They would get married.  It was going to be so easy.                         
                           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That morning Ricky woke before his alarm sounded .  A hot shower did nothing to relax the tension of the fear and anticipation.  He dressed quickly in nondescript jeans and hooded grey sweatshirt then waited by the phone for the call. When it finally rang he nearly jumped off the edge of the bed.  The message was brief.
 
"Hello"?

"It's a go" was all he heard Joe say, and then *click*.

Ricky walked across town, his legs taking up the distance in long strides.  Dawn should have been just showing signs of lightening the sky but the clouds were heavy overhead and scattered drops of rain polka-dotted the sidewalk, foretelling the storm that was brewing. The car was just where it was supposed to be.  It was at least ten years old and bore what he assumed were the evidences of many arranged crashes, dents and scrapes covered every inch of it's faded blue paint.  Ricky found the key inside as expected.  It started with a grouchy roar that he feared would be heard and investigated in a neighborhood suddenly awakened.  But no one looked out of windows, no movement suggested anyone noticed him at all.  He drove to where Joe would be waiting, ignoring the ever-growing fear that gripped him and the nearly audible pounding in his chest.

He approached from Washington Street, it sloped down into the intersection.  It wasn't until he got to the bottom that he realized the car wasn't slowing down. He pumped the brakes expectantly at first, then in a panic as he realized that there was no response.  Joe had pulled up into the intersection just then and obviously didn't notice how fast Ricky was coming down the hill. It was too late, Ricky couldn't control the impact of the collision and Joe, still in gear, lost control.  Ricky's body got thrown forward so hard the breath was knocked out of him but the collision stopped the car.  Joe's car careened off and with horror, Ricky watched as it crashed into a telephone pole.  

 Ricky shut off the engine but the car wasn't going to go anywhere, the left front was heavily damaged and the fender was pushed in against the tire.  He clambered out of the car and ran across the street to where Joe's car had come to a halt.  Reaching  Joe's car he managed to get the driver's door open. He was overwhelmed by a sickened feeling at the sight that greeted him inside and he wretched , his head down .  Joe's head had hit the windshield, he was unconscious. Cory was crying and moaning.   Ricky reached back into the car, his eyes down. He couldn't look at the passenger seat.  He rummaged Joe's pockets for his cellphone and handed it to Cory, screaming at him to call 911.  

And coward that he was,  Ricky ran.  He ran and ran until his chest heaved in vain attempts to take in oxygen and his leg muscles seized beneath him, and when he couldn't run any further he crumpled to the ground in a dark alley and the cry that came from his soul resounded throughout the alley and echoed his pain until dawn.

He expected the police to be waiting for him at his apartment.  He had approached the building from behind, checked out streets for two blocks in either direction and not finding any  cruisers waiting or blue uniforms, he had gone up the back stairs to his floor and entered his apartment.  Now that he was here he realized it was the last place he should have gone. But where would he go?  He didn't have a car, he didn't have any money.  If only he could talk to Joe, he would know what to do.

What was he thinking? It was Joe who got him into this in the first place.  But Joe knows some people.  Ricky didn't even know where the car came from, he had nothing to barter, he didn't know anything.  There was nothing he could do except wait.

                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They came, he knew they would. He was waiting for them.  Ricky went along with them, quiet and submissive, to the police station.  He sat alone in a room with a table and two chairs and waited. The walls were stark and stared back at him with a unflinching white glare.  He waited and he paced and then he waited some more.  The chair was cold steel.  When the detective came finally, Ricky understood they knew it all.

  Watery blue eyes fixed their gaze on him while the machine recorded.  Ricky's eyes filled with water and ran.  He said it over and and over as if to make it not real. " It wasn't supposed to happen this way".

And then he told him everything.  He told them about the plan, about Joe's car  going off the road  He told him how the pole had sliced through the right front of Joe's car, right where Carrie was sitting. He told him of Carrie's face; a permanent wide-eyed grimace, her honey hair matted with blood and wrapped around her mouth as if to stifle a scream.  But she had never made a sound.

He told him that with Carrie pinned lifelessly between the dashboard and her seat, with Joe unconscious, with Cory hysterical and sobbing, with all their lives destroyed in one greedy moment, when he saw the lights of another car approaching that early morning he had run.  But now he wasn't running.

Without Carrie there wasn't any place he wanted to be.

Four hundred and thirty seven miles and she had been chasing the sun all the way. It glinted sharply off the side mirror like a dagger pointed at enemies unseen. Except that Leah's enemies were not unseen, they were all too real and she counted herself amongst them. There was a reason she was here, but what was it? For a moment only she struggled to remember, then let the pain and the weariness wash all traces of acknowledgement from her.

The radio blared as it always did, she kept the volume high. The glare on the windshield formed a white tunnel in her path. She stared down into it, and found nothing. The light turned green but she kept her foot to the brake, unable to form the intent to move. A few seconds only and the first anxious motorist honked his horn, just once, as a friendly reminder, the kind of honk that means only to redirect the attention of a driver who has temporarily been distracted by the kids in the back seat or a ringing cellphone or who has momentarily looked down to change the radio station. A gentle honk and not insistent. It went unnoticed.

In life, Leah went unnoticed. That was her gift, invisibility. In ten years of marriage, he had never seen her. For ten years she had traveled down that tunnel, getting smaller and smaller until finally she had disappeared entirely. Eventually her presence didn't even cause a wrinkle in the huge bed. It increased in emptiness each night until she would not lie down on it for fear it would swallow her in its coverings.

The honking of the car behind her increased, and others joined. Cars began to find a path along the right of her where no cars were parked and slithered by before the light again turned to halting red. A considerate man unsure of her reasons for not proceeding, came out of his car to inquire. He knocked at her window but she stared ahead, did not acknowledge his presence. He shouted to her "Are you alright? Do you need help?" and his words going unanswered, he returned to his own vehicle. The light was green again, and more cars were finding an opening to go around, cutting across adjacent streets, traveling parking lanes, daring oncoming traffic.

The light lasts three minutes, she decided. Only three minutes to decide where you are going, to choose a direction. How many places had she been? There was nothing ahead, just that empty tunnel and everything behind weighed her down until she was incapable of movement. She had filled the tank with gas and checking the bank balance had set out to drive, to be in another place where no one knew her name. Today, she had lost even the will to run away, she simply had no place left to go. There was no point in going forward, even as the lights kept changing and the chaos around her increased, even as the sun began to move across the sky taking the glaring tunnel with it, even as the radio played music that sounded like her dreams, there was no going forward.

Another three minutes and yet another. Life ticks by predictably, you are always losing time. She had lost decades, struggling against the disintegration of her being. She had lost so much time, living in her prison. The struggle to be wears you down so that by the time you are free to go, you have lost the will to leave.

A cruiser weaving its way through the snarled street stopped near her, another stopped in the intersection to direct cars trying to negotiate the tangle of traffic. A uniform was standing outside her window shouting at her in some incomprehensible language, his voice growled and barked. The voices on the radio were now just plaintive moans. Someone was crying it seemed, and their tears were dripping on her cheeks and leaving their salty taste on her lips. The dusk had stolen the glaring tunnel yet, lights flashed incessantly. There was no escape now. Leah opened the car door, and stepped out.

The uniformed one was still barking and snapping. He forced her against the car, grasping her arms behind her and fastened some chain to her wrists. He then pushed her and threw her into his open cruiser door, closing it behind her. It resembled a cage with the wired screen separating the front from the back area where she was now being held.

People gathered at the side of the street, they stared at something. Leah looked around to see what the commotion was and saw a mass of cars jammed up. A uniformed man stood in the middle, trying to guide them around a car that was unoccupied, apparently abandoned. A tow truck valiantly attempted to remove the obstruction. She watched the traffic lights, waving in a wind that seemed to threaten their tenuous wire suspension. They changed from green to yellow to red. The lights changed every three minutes, and for some reason Leah couldn't remember, that seemed important.