The World at 21 Degrees

In the midst of a dream – a good dream – Eva heard the alarm. At first it was incorporated into the dream itself. Reneé had been happily banging on her new toy and Jason was sitting behind her, showing her how to tap the hammer on the xylophone. Then the banging became rhythmic, pounding. Soon she couldn’t hear Reneé’s laugh or Jason’s gentle voice. Finally, even their images faded and it was replaced by a pulsating redness, and she knew that if she didn’t make it stop, she would never wake up.
But it stopped. At long last, Jason reached over and slammed his hand down onto the clock. 5:00 am. He had just enough time to shower, grab a cup of coffee, and then head to the lumber mill. Eva rolled back onto her left side—she, on the other hand, could fit in two more hours before Reneé woke up.
Unfortunately, when she closed her eyes, all she heard was the spackle of water ricocheting off the tile and Jason humming something they’d sung at church last night. He had a voice made for hymns.
Eva finally decided sleep was currently not an option and in a single movement, threw off her comforter and jumped to the closet to put on her terrycloth bathrobe. She trundled to the kitchen and turned on the light with a yawn. At least Reneé was sleeping through the night now; the colic had kept them both up regularly. Jason never got enough sleep as it was, so she’d volunteered to oversee most of the night shifts.
Eva spooned coffee grounds into the French press and clicked the switch on their electric kettle to heat. She wasn’t hungry, but shoved two pieces of bread into the toaster. As she waited with her eyes closed and arms hugged around her chest, she heard the water shut off and Jason rustled around their room looking for the clothes he’d laid out the night before.
The kettle began bubbling and she poured the water into the press. Jason walked in as the toast popped up.
“Hey, what are you doin’ up?” he asked as he stretched his arms wide and closed them around her waist from behind, and snuggled his chin into her shoulder.
“Weird dream. And your dumb alarm. Do you realize I wake up to that thing before you do every time?” Eva grumbled. Her eyes still weren’t open all the way.
“I’m sorry, love.” He kissed her cheek and straightened up. “Coffee smells good.”
“I made you toast.”
“Perfect! Now all I need are some Fruit Loops, an egg and some bacon, and I’ll be on my way,” he laughed.
Eva smiled half-heartedly. “You’re the reason I have to go shopping all the time—you and your lumberjack appetite.”
Jason laughed and opened the fridge. “Any more raspberry jam?”
“Check the lower right shelf.”
Jason grunted in affirmation and pulled it out, placed the toast on a napkin, and began smothering both pieces in glistening purple. Eva pushed down the press and reached for a mug. Warm aromas filled the air as she poured two cups.
Jason sat down at the table and Eva was about to sit opposite him, when he reached out and pulled her into his lap. “Much better,” he growled, and shoved a bite of toast into his mouth.
Eva smiled and wrapped her arm around his neck and nuzzled his wet hair. Gosh he smelled good.
“Guess what tomorrow is, hon,” Jason said stickily.
“Too early for guessing games, Jase.”
“It is our three year anniversary,” he announced with a grin.
Eva sat back with furrowed brow. “Uh, hon, we only celebrated our two year anniversary three months ago. Don’t you think you’re a little early?”
“Nope. Three years ago tomorrow, I kissed you for the first time, and you finally admitted that you loved me.”
“Ha! That doesn’t count,” she said as she sipped her coffee.
“Yuh-huh!”
“Nuh-uh! If you celebrate everything, then nothing’s special.”
“No sir,” he replied. “If you don’t celebrate every memory, you’ll lose ‘em all. We should have champagne every night, we’re so blessed.”
Eva smiled and helped eliminate some of those pesky crumbs all over his lips.
#
“Babababa,” Reneé babbled. “OOO-goohoo.”
Eva was feeding Reneé lunch, and Reneé thought her normal sounds were much more interesting when spoken through mushed rice.
“Bbbbbbrrrooooomm,” Eva sputtered as she swooped the plastic spoon through the air and into the giggling pink mouth.
Just then, the phone rang. Eva let Reneé clutch the spoon protruding from her face, double-checked the highchair, and turned to grab the wireless.
“Hello?” she asked.
“Hello, Mrs. Trathen?” a deep male voice answered.
“This is she. Who am I speaking to?”
“Ma’am, I’m John Gold from Ferndale Insurance Company. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but your life insurance policy lapsed yesterday. We sent you a letter, but didn’t hear back from you. Are you interested in renewing? After reviewing you and your husband’s age, financial situation, and health, we are excited to offer you the incredibly low monthly rate of $60.00 for you and your husband.”
Eva sighed. The man sounded friendly; she hated friendly salesmen—too hard to hang up on. She remembered the little yellow envelope she’d received a month ago. She began to silently weigh the expense, but one look at Reneé decided the matter for her.
“Okay, go ahead and renew our policy,” she said.
“Wonderful. All of us here at Ferndale wish our clients the best of health—” Eva smiled. I bet you do. “—but if anything should happen, please call me at 605-778-1225.”
“605-778-1225,” Eva murmured back as she hastily scrawled it on the back of a bill. “God willing, I’ll never have talk to you again,” she joked.
“Yes, ma-am. God willing.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Eva turned back to find Reneé happily dumping the jar of mushed rice into her lap.
#
Reneé had just gone down for her 4:00 nap when the phone rang again. Cursing all noisy ring tones, Eva closed the nursery door behind her and scrambled for the phone.
“Hello, this is Eva.”
“Hey, Eva, this is Jill, down at the factory,” replied a somber female voice. “Eva… there’s been an accident.”
Eva blinked. “Go on.”
“Well, no one really knows what happened, but it seems that a crane claw slipped and…” Jill paused.
“And what, Jill?” whispered Eva vehemently.
“…and Jason was trapped underneath it.”
“Oh God.”
“The paramedics arrived within minutes, but, I’m afraid they were too late.”
“What do you mean, ‘too late’?” Eva was trembling.
“They said he probably didn’t experience much pain…” Jill mumbled.
“What do you mean, ‘too late’?!” Eva screamed.
Jill burst into tears. “Jason’s dead, Eva. They just pulled his body out from under the log and are driving it to the hospital. He died about 20 minutes ago.”

In that moment, Eva’s earth slipped several degrees. Eventually, she would become accustomed to the change, but forever after, she walked on a slanted world.

“…Eva?” Jill sniffed. “Eva, are you there?”

No, Eva was not. All she could see was a red pulse. That beat. That throbbed. That stopped.
#
Reneé had been driven to Eva’s mom’s house several miles away for a few days. Jill and some ladies from church had taken turns staying with Eva and taking care of the details that arose. Eva sat on the couch in her living room in navy blue sweats, staring at a tuna fish sandwich someone had placed in her hand. She didn’t remember taking that bite.
A strong knock resounded on the front door.
“I’ll get it!” Jill exclaimed and jumped up from the magazine she’d been reading.
On the doorstep stood a tall man, early-thirties, with already graying dark hair.
“Hello, may I help you?” Jill asked.
Eva’s gaze returned to her sandwich. Someone had foolishly put celery into the tuna.
“Well, ma’am, I’m John Gold, and I’m here on behalf of Ferndale Insurance.”
“Oh yes of course,” Jill answered. “Hold on a moment.” She turned and walked over to the couch. She sat down next to Eva and put her hand on her arm.
“Eva? There’s a gentleman here to talk to you about…”
“Yes, thank you, Jill, I know. I called him.” Eva shivered and stood up. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Gold. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you,” Gold replied. He sat on a kitchen chair and said gently, “You called me yesterday. I’ve already talked to the mortuary and they are taking care of the funeral. I believe you said the service would be held at your church…?”
“Yes, that’s right,” she answered.
“There are a few forms to sign, but other than that, my company is here to take care of you and you daughter. Aside from the paperwork, I’m here to express my sincerest condolences and if there is anything more we can do, all you need do is ask,” he smiled. He had a good smile; slightly timid, but calm and reassuring.
“Thank you, Mr. Gold, you’ve been most helpful,” Eva said with her first smile since the phone call.
“Please,” he responded. “Call me John.”
#
As the pall bearers left the church and Eva followed them down the aisle, she was struck by the horrible, backwards parallelism: a happy day, a white dress, walking towards the altar, contrasted to this sad day, in her black dress, walking away.
To her right, sitting in the second to last pew, she noticed John Gold, sitting in a dark blue suit, watching her with compassion. Tiny wrinkles were beginning to accent his eyes, but the deepest crease today was between his eyebrows. When she glanced at him, a hint of a smile of encouragement lit his eyes, then she looked away.
She didn’t see him at the reception and she thought it was odd that she should notice his absence. Jason’s presence had settled onto the person of his little daughter, but she kept expecting to find John at the drink table, waiting to offer her a glass.
Her mother found her instead.
“Eva…” her mom whispered before tearing up. “Eva, I’m so sorry.”
Eva, catching even herself off guard, managed to squeeze out a smile. “I’m alright, Mom. Listening to the Reverend speak was… soothing.”
“Yes, yes,” her mom replied. “He is definitely in a better place.”
Eva cringed. Better than here? Better than with me and Reneé?
“I know this may be too soon,” her mom continued. “But have you thought of what you’ll do now?”
“Yes, Mother. It is too soon,” Eva murmured through clenched teeth.
“Well, I just want you to consider leaving Reneé with me for a couple more days; you know, while you look for a job…” her voice trailed off at the look of horror on Eva’s face.
She’d have to get a job. She’d be a working single mother. Reneé would grow up in those ghastly, impersonal day-care centers she’d heard about from other parents.
Eva, without a second glance, walked away from her mother and up the stairs into her bedroom and shut the door.
#
Single moms are rarely afforded the luxury of prolonged grief. After rejecting her mother’s offer to care for Reneé – she’s all I have left – she’d committed herself to helping the child readjust to the loss of a parent. She woke up Thursday morning at 7:00 am, just like normal. She turned on the classical music station to help Reneé wake up slowly, made coffee – she accidentally put in two cups’ worth of grounds – and threw out the box of Fruit Loops. She ate Cheerios and stared at the words, “Gas Prices Skyrocket” on the front of the Belle Fourche’s Gazette for at least ten minutes. Then she woke up Reneé and began… life.
On Friday, the doorbell rang and Eva opened the door to see Mr. Gold on the front step.
“Hello, Ms. Trathen.” He shifted his weight and instead of the briefcase he’d brought last time, he held a well-creased sheet of turquoise paper in his hand. “I, uh, am here to see how you’re doing.”
Eva took a deep breath and considered. “As best as one could hope to be, I suppose.”
Gold nodded and stared down at the paper in his hands. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again with a quick exhalation.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Gold?” Eva asked.
“Well, see… there’s this event, uh, a concert, at my church down the road, and I, uh…” Gold swallowed, hesitated and thrust the paper towards her as he blurted out, “…and I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”
Eva had not been expecting that to follow. She paused, and accepted the paper. It read:
“Fourche’s First Presbyterian Church proudly presents Haroka Yi May, first cellist of the South Dakota Symphony Orchestra.” Below were listed several classical artists, of which she only recognized Vivaldi.
She looked up and returned the paper to him. As his face began to fall, she said, “I’d love to.”
#
The concert was wonderful, as was the hot chocolate they shared afterwards. And the following week, Eva had enjoyed John’s company when they went to see a film about penguins in Antarctica. Within a month, he was stopping by for dinner at her apartment once or twice a week.
The most important thing in Eva’s life was Reneé. Fortunately, the insurance and her mom and Jason’s folks were all helping to support her, so that no urgency was attached to her cursory searches through the Classifieds, and Reneé could stay at home. The women of her old church stopped by occasionally to drop off meals and chat over tea, and each day Eva found it a little easier to wake up in an empty bed. Reneé hadn’t formulated the word “Dada” but she knew he was missing and had been subdued for quite some time afterwards. She no longer looked up from her toys when someone walked into the room.
After dinner one evening, Eva mentioned this briefly to John, as she watched Reneé sit in her baby chair and stare at her video “Babies and Baby Animals.”
“The thought of her growing up without Jason makes me nauseous. All the parent guides say that a father is critical in the development of a daughter’s life,” Eva complained.
“Yes, it is hard,” John sipped on his coffee and his brow furrowed again.
Eva realized this might be an awkward subject and began to apologize. “I’m sorry, John, I didn’t mean to—“
“Eva, please don’t apologize. To tell you the truth, it’s something I’ve been thinking about quite a lot recently.”
“Oh?” Eva asked.
“Yes.” He stopped, held the mug a little tighter, and said, “Eva, I’ve come to care for you and Reneé quite a lot in the past few months, and I…” He stopped again.
Eva held her breath. “What?” she asked.
John shook his head.
“No, please, what were you thinking?” she pressed.
“Well, as you know, I’ve never been married. One broken engagement seemed enough for quite some time, but… I’d really like to be able to care for you both, somehow.”
He looked up at her and stared at her intently.
“I guess what I’m saying is… I wonder if you’d consider the possibility of marrying me,” he continued.
Eva sat back in her chair. Then got up and began pacing. She knew that every second was agony to John – it was for her as well – but she could not answer. On one hand, her heart was still Jason’s, but Jason was gone. Reneé needed a father. Eventually the insurance money would run out and she did, in fact, like John. But could she marry him? Could she marry anyone else? She put her hands on the sink and dropped her head.
“Eva…” John asked.
She waved at him to stop. Eva Gold. Reneé Trathen Gold. And the scales shifted. She looked back at him, and whispered, “Okay.”
He looked at her with surprise, and then a smile lit up his face. He stood up and walked to her at the sink.
“Are you sure? I mean, I know this is sudden. If you need more time to consider…?” he asked.
John had blue eyes. Eva had never noticed that before. She liked his eyes.
“No, John. I don’t need anymore time. My answer is yes, I would like to marry you,” and a smile slowly took control of her mouth.
There were no fireworks, no airy castle… Just his arms, wrapped around her, and his head resting on hers.

Metaphor and Memory: Understanding God Through Narrative

My assignment this evening was easy: talk about Abraham and Isaac in literature. Unfortunately, the only literature I could think of that utilized the story of the sacrifice of Isaac were the Middle-English mystery plays entitled “Abraham and Isaac.” I say “unfortunately” not because they are poor literature – on the contrary, these medieval plays were masterful, community-created works of art that reflected the highest knowledge and sentiments of their time – no, I say “unfortunately” because they complicate the matter I will be speaking on. First, they require a bit of translation, as I will illustrate soon. But secondly, and more importantly, these plays introduce the ideas of symbolism and metaphor which impacts our theology, epistemology, and the future of theatre.

I don’t expect many of you to be avid medievalists, thespians, or Catholics so let me introduce these plays with a little historical context and then I’ll hopefully illustrate why my assignment tonight is no longer easy.

Way back in the 13th century, a Belgian nun – St. Juliana de Mont Cornillon – felt that the Blessed Sacrament (better known to Evangelicals as ‘Communion’) needed a day of celebration. She consequently presented her idea of a feast day to a bishop, a cardinal, an archdeacon, the patriarch of Jerusalem, and finally the Pope himself. Consequently, in 1264, Pope Urban IV issued a papal bull instituting the feast of Corpus Christi on the Thursday after Trinity Sunday—“Corpus Christi” means, of course, “The Body of Christ” which the Blessed Sacrament was believed to represent. However, it was not until Clement V ordered the implementation of the feast in 1311, that observances became widespread. By 1318, Corpus Christi was adopted almost universally throughout England.
In order to celebrate the feast and catechize a largely illiterate audience, priests began putting on dramatized renditions of Bible stories, commemorating the Blessed Sacrament. These soon became so popular that the Guilds within various towns began producing them instead. (what we’re doing here tonight has historical precedent!) Each year, the tailors and the bakers, the carpenters and the fishmongers, the shoemakers and the smiths (as well as dozens of other tradesmen) would present “cycles” of plays, generally presenting 20 to 50 dramas at a time. These cycles narrated the history of the world from Creation to Doomsday, with central climaxes in the Nativity and Passion of Christ. These plays have been preserved primarily in four main texts: The York, Chester, Towneley and Coventry plays.

Now here is where things get interesting. The Eucharist is a symbol by which we remember Christ, and symbols without knowledge of the thing they symbolize are ineffective. So, in order to truly partake of the Sacrament, one must know Christ. However, knowledge is dualistic by nature—there is a “knowledge of the head” and a “knowledge of the heart.” Reason directs action, but the heart inspires action. Christianity has always sought to communicate a complete (both rational and heart-felt) knowledge of Christ and His work, because it is a truth-based, life-changing religion.
So! Long before Jesus was born, God used a father and a son to tell a story that would allow all believers to understand the Passion more fully. The tale of Abraham and Isaac, since the beginning of the Church, has been viewed as a prefigurement of God surrendering His Son to be killed for our sakes.

So what do we have? We have an event (SLIDE 1) – the Passion of Christ, which stands at the cornerstone of history. On one side of the timeline (SLIDE 2) we have Abraham and Isaac looking forward towards the Passion… and on the other side of the timeline (our side of the timeline), we have the Sacrament (SLIDE 3) looking backwards to the Passion. And now we have a play (SLIDE 4) that celebrates the Sacrament (CLICK) which represents the body of Christ (CLICK) by re-enacting the story (CLICK) that prefigured the Passion.

By placing the written story on stage, in a sense, by incarnating the word, the playwrights and actors were offering sound intellectual theology in such a way that it aligned the audience’s emotions to properly respond to the Eucharist and the One who instituted it.

All extant plays of “Abraham and Isaac” are rife with Biblical teaching. However, I really like the Chester version of this play and it offers insightful, orthodox commentary on the nature of God, atonement, faith, and the sacraments.

First, the relationship between Abraham and Isaac as Father and Son is a key element which is emphasized repeatedly. After meeting with Melchisedek, Abraham asks God for a son and God says (SLIDE 5)

“Loke [look] that thou be trewe to me,
And forward here I make with thee
Thy seede to multiplie.
So much more further shalt thou be
Kingis of thie seed men shall see
And one Child of great degree
All mankind shall forbye [redeem].”

Abraham is identified by his name and this promise…he is the Father of nations. Also, Isaac is the Promised One – the Long-Awaited Only Son – who had a miraculous birth. Sound familiar?
And then, just in case the audience was completely clueless, the expositor steps on stage at the end and says (SLIDE 6)

“By Abraham I may understand
The Father of heaven that can fand [try]
With his sonnes blood to breake that band
The Devil had brought us too.
By Isaac understand I may
Ihesu that was obedient aye,
His fathers will to worke always,
His death to underfonge [endure].”

And what about the Holy Spirit? Well, he didn’t really fit into the allegory as a character, so the playwrights had to make sure their doctrine was correct in other ways. The messenger who introduced the play said that the play is done – forsooth – in worship of the Trinity. Abraham and then Isaac both pray to the Trinity. And lastly, to make sure you’re not confused about the multi-person nature of Trinity, Melchisedek says, quite randomly, “Blessed be God that is but one!”

The second theological component of the plays is the teaching of the nature of atonement. The idea that “without the shedding of blood there is no remission” is outlined more clearly in the Brome version of the play than Chester. Blood, sacrifice, and the need for a living animal is repeated at least 15 times. However, in Chester, the always-helpful expositor says (SLIDE 7):
“In the olde lawe, without leasing, [lying]
When these two good men were lyving,
Of beastes was all their offring,
And their sacramente.
But sith Christ died on the roode tree
With bread and wyne him worship we.”

This leads directly into the play’s teaching on the sacraments. While we may not agree with the Catholic understanding of the importance of the sacraments in salvation, the doctrine propounded in the play relates fairly closely to our own, Evangelical understanding. The town of Chester managed to incorporate teaching on tithing, baptism, and of course, communion.
First, Abraham offers a tithe of his wealth to Mechisedek, who represents the Church. The Expositor says he did this in signification of our own “sacrifice”, and because Abraham did so, he was well loved by God.
Second, the topic of baptism is address by linking it to the institution of circumcision. God, while promising Abraham a son, says (SLIDE 8)

“I will that from henceforth always
Each knaveschild [on] the eighth daye
(will) Be circumcised, as I saye,
And thou thy-self full soon;
And who is not circumcised
Forsaken [shallbe with me] i-wis, [indeed]
For disobedyent that man is.
Therefore look that this be done.”

Abraham agrees, and the now ever-present expositor comes on stage to explain (SLIDE 9)

This was sometyme a sacrament
In the old lawe truly taken.
As followeth now verament (verily)
So was this in the Old Testament;
But when Christ dyed, away it went,
And Baptism then began.

And lastly, in honor of Corpus Christi, the Blessed Sacrament is found imaged everywhere throughout the play—in Melchisedek’s offering of bread and wine to Abraham, in the expositor’s explanation that we take communion instead of sacrificing animals, and lastly, the blood and body of the sacrificed Isaac.
(SLIDE 9)

Alright, so the plays themselves were theological sound. But what about the way they were communicating this truth. Was it right for them to use theatre, which had originated in the Hellenistic celebration of false gods on specific feast days? Is it Biblical to communicate truth through inherently deceptive means? Do you understand what I mean? Theatre seeks to convince its audience that something is real, which isn’t. Should grown men dress up like patriarchs, or worse, fill the role of God on stage? Interestingly, it this story of Abraham and Isaac that provides the “Christian apologetic” for drama. You see, God initiated this story for two reasons. First, because it was good for Abraham’s faith that God tested him. Keep that in mind, this was for Abraham’s benefit first and foremost. But secondarily, God was putting on a play. And it’s not the first time—think of the Passover. The Jews were told to re-enact the story of their escape from Egypt as a means of remembrance. In the case of Abraham and Isaac, God was acting out a prophecy. Instead of remembrance, it was instituted to inspire hope, and after the work of Christ was completed, to inspire faith.

Now. Just because God can put on a play, doesn’t necessarily mean we’re allowed to. So let’s look at it a little bit differently. I want to remind you that although plays are intended to be acted out, they’re still considered literature. In a sense, they’re a metaphor. But what is a meta-for??
A metaphor is a poetic device by which one thing is identified with another thing in order to describe the first thing. For example, when a lover says to his beloved, “You are the world and I am the moon which encircles thee,” he is certainly not saying, “You are a spherical globe of dirt and molten rock and I am a celestial satellite stuck in your gravitational orbit.” No, he is trying, hyperbolically, to say that she is the center of his attention. Unlike similes which are used to illustrate particular similarities, “metaphor establishes an identity between diverse things.” Let me repeat that: metaphor identifies one thing as a different thing altogether. Typically when metaphor is used in literature, the author assumes that by describing one thing as another, he is not losing the identity of either, but allowing the reader to understand the first thing in a new way. This ability to associate images is crucial when working with religious ideas because it allows one to communicate what is unknown, or in God’s case, cannot be known, by what is known. Calling God ‘Father’ or ‘King’ is metaphorical, because we are describing the ineffable nature of God in earthly terms. It is not the full expression of his personhood, but it is an adequate metaphor.
Metaphor is used extensively in the Old and New Testament history of the Christian atonement. Isaac and the lamb were often referred to as ‘types’ of Christ. The Eucharist is the final, and perhaps definitive example of a metaphor that unifies two distinct identities, because it is a symbol that actually partakes of the substance of the thing symbolized.

All that to say—plays are metaphors and God likes metaphors. Metaphors allow us to understand things we wouldn’t otherwise be able to understand and when metaphors like plays become annual traditions they are useful for remembrance.

Few people are willing to listen to and learn from a sermon, particular in the 14th century, when the Mass was given in Latin and English was spoken by the masses. By incorporating theology into entertaining art, the producers of the play cycles presented Biblical truth in a way that excited and directed the audience’s emotions.
In this play, the goodness and youth of Isaac are stressed multiple times. Almost universally, childhood is understood as an image of innocence. We, as an audience member, have heard God order Isaac’s murder, we watch them walk to Moriah, and when Isaac asks, “where is the quick beast I know well must be killed?” we all cringe in recognition of Isaac’s impending doom. We hold our breath as Abraham holds the shining sword, poised to strike his son. When the angel comes, we want to jump out of our chairs in joy.
The pathos evoked moves one to react with proper horror at the injustice of the death of innocence and to rejoice when Isaac is symbolically resurrected, granted life. The only thing we don’t understand is why this had to happen. Why was Isaac symbolically killed? Well, the expositor tells us it was for our sakes. Christ’s blood was shed in order to break the devilish bonds on our soul. We recognize that an innocent man died for our sin and should respond with repentance. Finally, in Isaac’s “resurrection” we rejoice and find hope for everlasting life.

Echoes

I set down my glass and leaned back into the worn leather seat. Everything in England feels old and vaguely superior, as if carefully maintaining its sense of propriety, especially against the intrusion of a jean-clad American collegiate. Smoke swirled through the air. I’d hated it three months ago, but now I couldn’t imagine a pub without the haze. A Townie girl with a green apron wiped down the bar while a television blared a game between two foreign soccer teams. At least it wasn’t cricket.
I looked down again at the newspaper in front of me. Two rapes last week in Headington Park, which, unfortunately, stood between me and my home. I mentally shrugged off the shivers and swilled the last sip of my bitter. I pulled out a 50p to lay on the table, remembered the British No-Tip policy and returned the coin to my pocket. Back to the library.
“Thank you,” I called over my shoulder as I passed out the front door. The bar girl nodded and turned back to the game.
I pulled on my gloves and buttoned up my jacket. Whenever that wind bites, I remember I’m still just a southern Californian wussy. The street lights were turning on and I looked at my watch: 3:55 pm. Each day gets a little bit shorter.
I wandered through some back roads and passed Oriel to arrive on High Street. I carefully looked to my right, then my left, and jogged across the cobblestones. I ducked onto Queen’s Lane, because it’s the shorter way to the Bodleian; unfortunately, it’s also small and winding. To my right, in what might have been the doorway of a church four centuries ago, a man stood with his back to the alley. He was taking a piss. Unbelievable. Charles II or Lewis Carroll might have walked on these very stones and he’s urinating all over them. Not to mention, he’s doing it in public. Oxford is a strange place.
I hadn’t noticed anyone enter the alley, but after I turned the corner, I heard footsteps behind me. Clop-clop-clop-clop; they seemed to follow my own walking pattern. I walked a little faster, and so did the shoes.
Shadows had engulfed the crooked street. I could look up and see the last traces of the navy blue sky or look down and make out the faintest outlines of the stones. I looked at my own feet swinging out and falling back as they propelled me forward. I hitched up the bag at my side and tried to ignore the beat of the soles behind me.
Was she a woman in high heels? Perhaps a professor off to give a lecture, wearing hard, black loafers. My sneakers definitely didn’t make that sound. The echoes bounced around, making it sound like there were five of us walking between the high stone walls.
I wanted to turn around; it would be easy enough. Just turn and look over my shoulder. Or, cough and glance surreptitiously to the side.
A street light, the only one for a hundred yard stretch came into view as I turned to the right. Whoever it was would see me clearly as I passed under it. The trick would be to see them in return after I’d passed through.
I walked on, gauging how far behind me the shoes were, but the echoes made that almost impossible. The orange puddle of light washed over me and I continued on. Four more seconds and the shoes would reach the lamp.
Just then, a third pair of shoes joined us in the alley. They were around the next turn, coming closer. A man stepped out, carrying a backpack slung over his shoulder, eyes on the ground. I realized I’d missed the opportunity to look at my follower; the footsteps were past the light now. This man in front of me, however, might give me a clue as to who was behind me if I could watch his facial expression. I trained my eyes upon him in the gloom, waiting for him to look up. We were within hand-shaking distance when he finally glanced into my face—just a flash of dark eyes, and then his gaze returned to his steps.
Only one more turn to go before I reached a street that had both streetlights and human beings. Something eerily kept me walking, walking straight ahead. The opportunity to look back was gone. Now it was just a matter of getting to the light as fast as possible.
I suppressed a panicked desire to sprint the rest of the way. I lengthened my stride and felt my heart pump in time. Those shoes filled my consciousness; they were louder than he church bells, tolling out the time. Why couldn’t they stop walking or turn back? Clop-clop-clop-clop—the walls threw them at me from every direction.
Five yards. Two. At last, I turned left and saw the Bridge of Sighs silhouetted before me. I panted with relief. Soon the Clarendon building was in view. Then I was under the bridge and I felt the superstitious tension pass from me. I looked backwards… Backwards into an empty alley.

Casserole

It was the second time that week Karen had dropped something. First the groceries and now a vase. It seemed odd, since she wasn’t a typically klutzy person. Of course, she had a good reason to be distracted. Kevin’s proposal had come out of no where and she still hadn’t given him an answer. They’d known each other a total of three months and although they had hit off from the very beginning, she hadn’t really anticipated things progressing so quickly. Neither had her best friend. After the romantic dinner, Kevin had gotten down on one knee right there in the restaurant, and Karen had somehow awkwardly gotten him back into his seat before excusing herself to the restroom. She’d called Beth from the small foyer and hurriedly explained the situation.
“He did what?” Beth had exclaimed. “Just like that, before dessert, he popped the question?”
“Yeah, and the ring is gorgeous. You’d flip, Beth; it’s almost a full carat yellow diamond. I mean, I knew Kevin had been enjoying his job at Morgan Sterling Bank, but dude…” Karen had trailed off. She knew she wasn’t ready to say yes, but having that rock around her finger was awfully tempting.
“So he’s buying your consent? What, is he gonna give your dad a pair of oxen?”
“Actually, I’m sure my dad would prefer a sailboat.”
“Well, whatever. What are you gonna say?
Karen had gotten out of the way of the door as a middle-aged woman in a paisley dress had come into the bathroom. “I have no idea. I’m not going to say yes, but saying no is huge, like ‘Thank you for the ring, but get out of my life’ huge.”
“Yeah. Well, maybe you should stall. Ask for a week to think about it.”
“You’re allowed to do that?”
“Sure! It’s a big deal.”
“I guess… alright. I’ll talk to you about it when I get home tonight.”
“I’ll be up preparing my history lesson for tomorrow. I want all the details.”
“Of course.” Karen had clicked shut her cell phone and walked back to her table.
And now she was cleaning up small shards of blue glass, five days later and she still didn’t have an answer. What was her problem? This was a Yes-or-No question and for other people it was easy. So what if she didn’t know him as well as she might’ve liked. Charlotte Lucas from Pride and Prejudice resounded in her head: “Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance… it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.” Karen put the dustpan away and sat down on the sofa. She stared at the ceiling. Silhouettes of dead bugs littered the inside of her fluorescent light. She envisioned herself as Mrs. Kevin William Brocker. And then she imagined herself single. She saw herself walking down the aisle in a white veil, and she saw herself sitting at home, studying to be a dental hygienist all by herself. Time to call Mom.
She reaches for the phone and punched in the number.
“Hello?” her mom answered.
“Hey Mom. Guess what!”
“You need money?”
“Well, maybe. But no. You remember Kevin? You met him last month at Dad’s birthday party.”
“Oh yes, of course. Tall, brown hair, nice clothes. Banker. I liked him.”
“Well, good. How would you like him as a son-in-law?”
“A what? Did he propose?” Karen’s mom squealed.
“He did. Last Friday actually.”
“Last Friday? And you didn’t call me? Well, when’s the date?”
“See that’s the problem. I haven’t answered him yet.”
“Ohh…. I see. And what do you want to say?”
“I don’t know.” Karen paused, pursed her lips, and then said, “Well, actually, I think I want to say yes.” Karen let the word linger in the air as she felt little tingles crawl from her scalp to her hands. She shivered and smiled. “Right before you called, I didn’t know, but I think that I want to say yes. I want to be engaged.”
“Yes, but do you want to be engaged to Kevin?” her mom pressed.
“Ya know… I think I do. I hadn’t really planned on marrying him, but he’s a great guy and he’s obviously not afraid of commitment and he mentioned he wants to have three kids, which happens to coincide with my views on the subject.”
Karen’s mom laughed. “I see. So are you going to call him?”
“Nah. I’ll sleep on it and talk to him about it when he comes over tomorrow night. I told him I’d cook. Speaking of which, I told Beth I’d make dinner tonight, and she’ll be home in a half hour, so I better go. Talk to you later, Mom.”
“I love you, darling. Call me after you speak with Kevin. I’ll wait to tell your father until it’s all decided. Although it might be nice if Kevin asked for his blessing…?”
“Yeah right, Mom. We’ll see. I’ll call you Saturday. And thanks for listening. Love you—bye!”
“Bye!”
#
Karen heard a car park and hurried to the window. She watched as Kevin got out of his car, locked the doors, and began climbing the stairs to the apartment. She was feeling a little giddy. She hadn’t told him anything; he’d given her the requested space and come at the scheduled time. He would be so happy.
He knocked at the door and she threw it open with a grin. He’d brought her daisies – her favorite – and kissed her on the cheek.
“Hello, Beautiful.” He stared into her eyes with a huge question mark carved into his forehead.
Karen stared at the wrinkles with a vague feeling of revulsion, but answered sweetly, “Hello, darling, please come in.”
She held open the door and Kevin led the way into the kitchen. He took his coat off and laid it on the sofa. They stood somewhat awkwardly until Karen thought, “Flowers. Water. Vase” and turned to take care of the blossoms.
“Something smells…” Kevin sniffed and then grimaced. “Burnt.”
“Oh crap!” Karen set down the pink mug she’d filled with daisies and turned to the oven. “Well, there goes our casserole.”
She turned and held up a porcelain dish with a black crust and laughed self-consciously. He took it from her hands and carried it over to the sink. He pulled a spoon from the strainer and began scraping off the charred section. As each spoonful plopped into the sink, Karen cringed. Now he thought she was a bad cook. Maybe she was a bad cook. Maybe she didn’t deserve to be a wife. Because wives cooked. He didn’t want to marry a woman who baked burnt tuna fish casserole. He wanted a wife who could compile gourmet meals while helping the children with their homework. And she didn’t really want three children. She wanted four, and who was he to decide that they should only have three? It seemed like she had as much right to choose in that decision as he did.
Kevin finished salvaging the casserole and turned with a smile. “There, all fixed!”
“I want four children!” Karen blurted out.
He looked at her in confusion.
“And you only want three, so… I can’t marry you!” Karen went on.
Now Kevin looked even more confused. “Wait… Huh?’
Karen opened her mouth to explain her train of thought, realized that somewhere the train had jumped the tracks, and shut her mouth. “My answer is no.”
“Because of the burnt casserole or because you want an extra child?
“Both. Neither. I don’t know.” Karen whimpered and slumped into a kitchen chair.
Kevin sat down opposite her and reached out to take her hands. “Karen, it’s okay to be confused. I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I think maybe I went too fast. I love you very much, but if you need more time… I’m okay with that.”
Karen looked up at him with pathetic hope. “Really? Because I like you—and maybe even love you—but… but more time would be nice.”
Kevin smiled, “More time it is then. You let me know when you’re ready either way and I will just be patient. Now… How about some casserole?”

Nine Years Old

William sat on the park bench, sneakers dangling from its stone edge. The top of his teddy bear, Maxwell, was moist—an unfortunate side affect of being used as a handkerchief. The snuffles were beginning to subside. Tall eucalyptus trees rustled overhead, and Will felt that they were whispering about him. Will wondered how long it would take for his dad to notice he was missing. It felt like he’d been waiting for hours, but the clown-clock in his red wagon informed him he’d only left home 28 minutes ago.
The trouble had all started three days ago, the day before his birthday. He’d received a brown package in the mail from a mysterious “Uncle Raymond”. Inside was a brightly wrapped box of pirate legos. Dad had glanced at Mom in a way Will had never seen before; Mom had explained to Will that Uncle Raymond was an old friend from college and wasn’t it nice he’d bought him a present? Dad had not stopped looking at Mom and Mom was wearing a smile that made Will feel a little uncomfortable. Will retreated to his room to build a ship and entertained himself for the next two hours, throwing small grey cannonballs at his GI-Joes, muttering “Arrgh!” every few minutes.
At lunch, Dad was missing.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Mom said. “He had to go get some food for your party tomorrow, but he’ll be back in time for dinner.”
She placed a tuna fish sandwich and a Coke can in front of Will and wandered into the living room to chat online. She’d been doing that a lot lately.
Will pried open his soda with a fork; it was warm. He drank just enough to wash down the white bread and then walked into the living room.
“Hey, Mom, can Shawn come over and play with my legos?” he asked.
“Sure,” she murmured, not taking her eyes from the screen. He’d already punched in 5-4-7 before she snapped to attention and said, “Why don’t you ask if you can go over to Shawn’s house? I forgot that I needed to buy some more stuff for the party. I’ll drive you, if you want.”
Will looked at her with insulted pride and hung up the phone.
“It’s across the street and I’m practically nine years old, remember? I can walk by myself.”
Mom beamed and signed offline.
As Will stuffed his new legos into a Yu-Gi-Oh backpack, he heard his Mom talking to someone on the phone. He had already unlocked the front door when she came out of her bedroom wearing a new blouse and lipstick. She kissed him and he wiped off the pinkness.
“Make sure you’re back by 5:30 for dinner!” she called as she got into the car.
Will nodded, waved, and crossed the street, looking carefully both ways.
#
Shawn’s mom stuck her head into the bedroom.
“Hey, Will, it’s 5:45. Didn’t your mom want you home at 5:30?” she asked.
“Oh cra—I mean, fudge!” Will stammered. “Sorry, Shawn, I gotta go!”
He gathered up some disembodied heads and a few spare blocks and raced outside.
He called back, “Thanks, Mrs. Gartury! See you tomorrow, Shawn.”
Back at the house, Mom’s Saturn was missing, but Dad’s white pick-up was sitting in the driveway. Will breathed a sigh of relief and wandered into the house.
“Hey, Dad! I’m home!”
“In the kitchen, Will,” Dad replied.
Dad had recently taken up cooking as his latest hobby. Several months ago, it’d been model airplanes. Before that was philosophy, and Will could just remember when Dad had had a fetish for stamps. At the moment, he was adding chopped carrots to a large wok and pouring peanut oil over them.
Will sat down at the kitchen table and asked, “Where’s Mom?”
Dad’s jaw clenched. “I dunno. Did she say she was going out before you left?”
Just then, they both heard the garage door open. A moment later, Mom waltzed in with several plastic bags.
“Wait til you see what I got for the party!” she squealed. “Small pirate hats for all your friends and a sword for you, Birthday Man!”
She placed a black, plastic tri-cornered cap on his head and held forth a sword triumphantly, as if she were about to loot and pillage some unsuspecting village.
Dad turned with the garlic press still in his hand. “Did you get the plates, forks, cups, napkins and tablecloth?” he asked.
“Well… no,” she replied. “But who needs those things when we can dress-up!” At which point she pulled out a black eye patch and striped bandana from another bag.
“Did you order the cake and the balloons for me to pick up tomorrow morning?” Dad pressed.
“No, I did not,” Mom said, tersely. Her eyes flashed. “I’m surprised you even remembered. You seem to have been rather careless lately about other things.”
Dad chopped an onion with especial vehemence. “Well, I’m glad you at least made it to the store before coming home.”
Will’s emotional barometer dropped to his stomach, and he slipped out of the kitchen with his backpack in hand. He didn’t come back out till Dad announced that dinner was ready.
No one said much during dinner. Will pushed his rice and steamed bok choy around in circles. Dad asked him if he needed help with any homework. Mom mentioned how excited she was about tomorrow.
“We can bury a treasure chest with candy in it, and make a treasure map and then maybe we could…”
Will let his mind wander. He figured he’d be lucky if he actually got the sword she’d purchased.
#
Will placed the last dish in the dishwasher, and he looked around for anything else that could be loaded up. He noticed an open bottle of wine on the table. Mom had been sipping on a glass during dinner. Maybe she was still working on that one.
Nope, he’d already loaded her dinner glass into the dishwasher.
He went into the living room and kissed her on the cheek.
“Goodnight, Mom,” he said.
She seemed startled and downsized an internet window. “Oh, goodnight, sweetheart! Only four more hours and you’ll be nine years old!” She grinned and kissed him, and then dismissed him by turning back to the screen, taking a sip of her wine.
It took awhile to find his dad. He was up in their bedroom, reading from a fat, picture-less book with an unpronounceable name on the front cover.
“Goodnight, Dad,” Will murmured from the doorway.
Dad looked up and set down the book. “Come here, son. Are you excited about tomorrow?”
Will sat on the bed and let his dad place his arm around him. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“You guess so? I thought you’d be enthusiastic about turning nine! What’s the matter, Bud?”
Will shrugged. His dad pulled him close to his chest and held on a little longer than normal.
“It’ll be alright. It’s gonna be great,” he whispered into Will’s brown hair. He sat back and sighed. “You get to sleep and dream of storming castles and saving princesses.” Dad grinned and poked Will right where it tickled.
Will squirmed and smiled. “I don’t need to save no girls. I’m gonna be a pirate.”
“Guess knights in shining armor are out of style nowadays, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Dad tousled his hair and said, “Alright. Off you go. See you in the morning.”
Will wandered out of the master bedroom to his bathroom down the hall. He stared at himself as he put toothpaste on his toothbrush, and he thought about tomorrow as he put on his pajamas. Finally, he climbed into bed, turned out his lamp, and with Maxwell clutched under his arm, and stared at the darkness until he fell asleep.
#
The next day had been a success. Will and Dad had come home from church to find the house decorated with black streamers and they heard a boombox chanting, “Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate’s life for me,” in the backyard. Mom had been busy.
They found her in the backyard, burying what looked like a spray-painted shoebox near the fence.
She finished and stood up, wiping her forehead with a dirty palm.
“Hello! We are just about ready. I’m gonna go change and the guests’ll be arriving in a half hour.”
He and Dad stuffed hornblowers and gold coins into party favor bags. Will sat down to watch cartoons and Dad started pulling out his fruit salad and the hamburger patties. He hadn’t made the cake, because Mom had specifically wanted a “pirate cake”.
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!” Will exclaimed. He turned off the TV and leapt for the door. It was Shawn and his mom.
“Why, hello, Cindy,” Will heard his mom say from behind him. He turned as she sauntered forward in a yellow dress with a low neckline. She swished past him and kissed Shawn’s mom on the cheek. “You are simply going to adore the decorations,” she said as she led Cindy into the kitchen.
He and Shawn followed and were soon properly accoutred in pirate gear.
The day went well, overall. Shawn’s dad showed up later and helped Dad at the grill. At least a dozen more boys were soon romping around the small house and even smaller yard. A little while later, as he and his friends were discovering “the treasure”, Will noticed a new guest, an older man, had entered the back yard. He was standing awfully close to Mom.
“Hey Will, look at this!” Shawn crowed. “We’re rich!” And he threw a handful of candy and plastic necklaces in the air. Will laughed and was enjoying a bite of chocolate when he heard shouts from the other end of the yard. Dad was telling Mom’s guest to leave and Mom was furiously telling him to “Behave!” Dad paused and then motioned towards the house. He, Mom, and the dark-haired man walked inside and Cindy came over to initiate a game of pin the parrot on the pirate.
A little while later, everyone sat down around the table, munching on fruit salad, hotdogs and hamburgers. Dad came in from the front yard and said, “Who’s ready for cake and ice cream?” He smiled, but all Will saw were teeth. Mom entered alone behind him and whispered in his ear. He stared at her angrily, glanced at Will, and smiled again.
“You know, you’re probably not hungry yet, are you? Let’s start with presents,” he said brightly. Mr. and Mrs. Gartury acted like their seats were too hard, but the boys raced to the living room with a general “Hurray!”
By the time Will had opened his last gift – a clock in the shape of a clown (some poor mother must have been desperate and stopped by the Dollar Store on her way to the party) – there was a rectangular, pale blue cake sitting on the table, encircled by plates.
After cake, most of the boys left. Cindy stayed to clean up while Will and Shawn sorted through the birthday loot. Soon the Gartury’s left, and Will carelessly glanced through the manual for the clock, though he had no idea what time it was. He hadn’t seen Mom in awhile. He found her crying in her room. He put his hand on her shoulder and she reached out to hug him.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I hope you had a good time.” She reached for a lavender Kleenex and blew her nose.
“Yeah, sure, Mom. It was great.”
“I love you, kiddo. You know that don’t you?”
Will nodded.
“Good.”
#
Will woke up at 1:14 am to the sound of yelling in the kitchen. He scrunched his eyes tight together and held Max against his ear. Not again.
#
The next morning, Mom was gone and Dad had stayed home from work to walk him to school. Will didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t really want to know.
After school, he was supposed to hang out at Shawn’s house, but instead, he went home. He lifted up the edge of a red pot and pulled out the spare key Mom kept that Dad didn’t know about.
Will let himself into the front door and shut it carefully behind him. He headed directly to his room and started stuffing things into his backpack – a shirt, clean underwear, a pair of socks – then went to the kitchen. He grabbed a box of cereal and loaded everything into a wagon that stayed in the side yard. He was about to leave when he remembered Maxwell and the clock. He knew he might not need either, but it was handy to know what time it was when living at the park, and even though he was nine, he couldn’t begin an adventure like this without his fuzzy friend.
And that’s how he’d ended up on a park bench.
#
When Will woke up, the sun was getting low. He shivered and realized he’d forgotten his jacket. He’d have to go back for that. And the cereal was stale. And Max was lonely.
Suddenly he saw his Dad walking hurriedly towards the park, looking around frantically.
“Here I am, Dad!” Will called, and waved.
Dad ran forward and nearly smothered him. “Where have you been? When I got home and you weren’t there and Cindy said you hadn’t come home with Shawn, I got scared. I called your mom and she thought you might be here. Oh thank God you’re okay,” Dad sobbed.
Will had never seen his dad cry. He was pretty sure he never wanted to ever again. They sat there, both crying, for awhile. The sun set and they remained on the bench, staring at the horizon where the sun had slipped away.
“Hey Dad?” Will whispered.
“Yes, son?”
“I think I want to be a knight.”
Dad smiled and they started home, red wagon, clown clock, and teddy in tow.

Tea With Mrs. Retfield

The doorbell rang and Mrs. Retfield trundled out from the kitchen, past the stairs. With arthritic hands she smoothed her white hair and unbolted the front door.
“Good morning, Mrs. Retfield!” announced a tall boy through the dusty mesh. “Would you like me to bring your groceries into the kitchen for you?”
She held back the screen, and replied, “Yes please Jimmy. Just set them on the table; that’ll be fine.”
He flashed her a bright smile full of perfectly aligned teeth and carried in two brown bags, enshrouded with white plastic. Once the third was in as well, she thanked him and handed him two dollars.
“Oh that’s not necessary. Free delivery is Beverley Market’s way of thanking our valued customers.” A second grin accompanied his patter.
She smiled in return and nodded, “I know, I know, but you college students need a little something extra every once in awhile.”
He accepted the bills. “Thank you, Mrs. Retfield. I’ll see you next week!” and with that, he turned and headed back to his small red Neon. The engine revved and he rolled down her steep driveway, crunching the dried magnolia leaves strewn across it. She waited until he turned left at the stop sign, and then shut the door.
Nice kid. She remembered when his parents moved in several blocks down and came looking for a babysitter. Her daughter had volunteered, and a relationship between the families had begun. But it had been several years since they had moved to Pennsylvania. She’d been pleasantly surprised when Jimmy showed up at her door delivering groceries. He’d returned to study at the University of Delaware.
The idea of delivered groceries had been her daughter’s idea. During one visit from California, Anne had carried in a small grey laptop and set it on the table. In a week, she’d had a dial-up service installed in the old house and had painstakingly shown her mom how to type in the name of a store, fill her “cart”, and complete the credit card information. Mrs. Retfield had also learned how to send an email, but she preferred old-fashioned paper letters and the knowledge of Hotmail had soon faded from her memory. But having groceries delivered… well, that was a luxury which had become a necessity after she’d sold the car. Her next door neighbor, Glenda, had offered to drive her wherever she needed to go, but she knew Glenda was busy with PTA meetings and soccer games, and tried to inconvenience her as infrequently as possible.
Mrs. Retfield had just placed the fruit in its bowl and the milk in the refrigerator and was about to sort through bathroom supplies when she heard a knock at the door.
With a puzzled look, she set down the toilet paper and shuffled across the linoleum. She peered through the lace curtains at the side window and saw a young lady in a white sweater and dark blue jeans. With her eyebrows still knit together, she undid the locks and opened the door to find a cheerful face with wide-set green eyes and a delicate mouth staring at her. She looked slightly exotic with her loose black hair and tanned skin, but she spoke without a hint of an accent.
“Good morning, Mrs. Retfield. I’m here at last! Are you ready to go?”
Mrs. Retfield became even more confused. “Go where? Who are you?”
“Why, I’m Death. I apologize for not letting you know I’d be stopping by earlier, but after Hezekiah, I decided spontaneous visits were better for business. May I come in?”
Mrs. Retfield held open the door for the second time that morning and pointed dumbly at the living room to her left. As they crossed the carpet and the young lady who called herself Death sat down on the faded green sofa, Mrs. Retfield’s instinctual sense of hospitality found a voice.
“Would you like some tea?”
“That would be delightful!” Death exclaimed. “It’s so rare to find tea drinkers on this side of the Atlantic.”
In the kitchen, Mrs. Retfield set water on the stove to boil and pulled down her rose teapot with matching cups and saucers from the cupboard. She measured two heaping teaspoons of Earl Grey into the pot and scrounged in the pantry for her sweet rice crackers. Soon the water had been poured over the leaves and everything was arranged nicely on a wooden tray.
Back in the living room, she found her big black cat, Bagira, sprawled in ecstasy across Death’s lap. She was scratching his ears and his tummy at the same time and the rumble of his purr was audible across the room.
“How surprising!” Mrs. Retfield said. “He doesn’t usually take to strangers,”
“Oh, I love cats. They are always smug and condescending until I tell them all the places I have been and the things I have seen,” Death smiled. “Then they realize they are just kittens and warm up accordingly.”
Bagira meowed in agreement and rolled over to stare at his mistress who had just begun pouring the tea.
“How does one go about, well, ‘going’?” Mrs. Retfield asked as she handed Death a cup with a tiny silver spoon chinking against the porcelain.
“Well now,” Death said as she blew little ripples across the dark brown lake. “Each person goes a bit differently. I humor myself by making predictions every time, but the only thing predictable about mortals is their uniqueness! You absolutely must do it your own way. Take your grandmother, for instance. She was a woman who knew how to keep angels on their toes.”
Death took a sip and leaned over the cat to the sugar bowl. In went one teaspoon, and then another. Mrs. Retfield forgot about her tea completely and moved to the edge of her paisley armchair.
“Fought me nearly everyday of her life. First, she survived scarlet fever, and then nursed her mom through it as well. After her first son joined me, she was determined not to give up another. Finally the cancer set in, and she held me off for a year, a week, two days.”
Death paused and asked, “Do you know what finally convinced her to let go?”
“No.”
“Your Grandad.”
Mrs. Retfield looked at her in disbelief.
“Truly. He said, ‘May, you gotta go. The Old Man is callin’ you and you’d best not keep Him waitin’.’
“Your grandmother looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded and asked to be dressed in her Sunday best—the lavender dress with the pearl buttons, and her straw hat. ‘This is how I’ve been meetin’ the Lord for 67 years and I don’t intend to go to Him lookin’ like trash at the end,’ she declared. She told her husband she loved him and laid down on the bed. I reached out to take her hand. ‘Oh, is you all?’ she asked when she saw me. ‘If I’d known you were such a lady, I might’ve been willin’ to leave a little sooner.’ With that, she clasped my hand and nearly led the way out the window.”
Death chuckled. “Quite a lady.”
Mrs. Retfield stood up. Then sat down. She began to speak, and then stopped.
“Tell me about Grandad,” she whispered.
Death sighed and sat back. She stroked Bagira’s fur thoughtfully for a few moments, summoning up the memories. They hung in the air, Mrs. Retfield staring at them one way, and Death examining them from another.
“What do you remember?” Death asked.
Mrs. Retfield’s voice trembled as she spoke. “I remember sitting next to him on the swing, listening to the crickets on the lawn, listening to the creaking of the chains. We would stare at the hills as the sun began to set and watch the lightening bugs mimic the stars. I would wait, wait for him to speak, but he never spoke, and I never understood.”
Death stared intently at her. Swirling green eyes meeting misty grey. She waited until Mrs. Retfield continued.
“It was hard on Momma. She brought Grandad to live with us after Dad left. Said we needed a man around the house. She told me stories of Grandad working in the fields and dancing with my grandmother. She said she missed my grandmother, too, but it was different with Grandad. She said he lost the thing that most people mistake for their soul.”
Mrs. Retfield motioned for her guest to excuse her for a moment and stepped over to the upright piano where a small box of Kleenex rested. She pulled a couple out and gently dabbed at her eyes. Only one tear made it past the tissue and spilled down the rumpled sheets of her cheeks.
“The war made things tough, but the depression made things even harder. Even now, I find myself rationing sugar and only using three sheets of toilet paper at a time. Momma was determined to keep me in school, so she left for work before the sun rose and didn’t come home until supper was cold on the table. Grandad and I spent long afternoons and evenings gardening and cleaning the house. There were days he’d smile and days he wouldn’t, and I loved him on both.’
“Then one morning, as I got up for school, I realized there was no coffee smell steaming from the kitchen. No slippered feet on wood. I wriggled out of Mom and my’s bed, came down the hall, and knocked on Grandad’s door. When he didn’t answer, I twisted the doorknob and stepped inside. I’d never been inside his room before. The threadbare drapes filled the room with an eerie red dusk and I crept over to the bed. Instead of his normally heavy breathing, silence filled the room.’
“‘Grandad,’ I whispered. I sat gently on the bed and touched his crinkled brown hand that rasped like paper under my fingers.’
“’Grandad,’ I said much louder.’
“I didn’t go to school that day.”
Death bowed her head. “I waited,” she said gently. “I waited for him to speak. It would have been better if he had. But he didn’t know how. He, ironically, waited for me, and finally I came. He was much heavier to carry than your grandmother.”
A heavy stillness settled in the room, interrupted only by the snores of the cat in the sunshine. They were both mourning, but perhaps for different reasons.
Finally, Death stood up and dusted cracker crumbs from her lap. “Time to go, Mrs. Retfield.”
Mrs. Retfield stood up. She looked around the room and thought about the orange juice getting warm on the counter. She ran her fingers down Bagira’s spine and realized there was nothing left to detain her.
She reached out and clasped Death’s warm hand. She unbolted the front door and they stepped out into the sunlight together.

For Allison

I sat back against the wall and counted the little jade squares under my bare feet. Eight and a half tiles long, four wide. Their coolness was soothing.
Two girls from down the hall wandered into the bathroom.
“Thank God Friday is over,” said a voice I recognized as Andrea, accompanied by thin ankles and fuzzy pink slippers.
“Seriously. Brian and I are going to the beach tomorrow. It’ll be cold, but gosh I miss the sand,” answered a pair of Family Guy slippers with Stewie’s football-shaped head wobbling precariously on the toes.
They switched the radio from classic rock through the murky land of static to “Starfish – K 102.7” and No Doubt’s whining keen filled the room.
“Haw laung ha’e you an’ Brian been going ou’?” asked Andrea through her toothbrush.
“Two months,” replied the other girl, whose name continued to escape me. It started with an S.
I heard her slap water onto her face and then the paper towel dispenser banged up and down a couple times. They didn’t interrupt Gwen until Andrea said “Goodnight” and S---- said, “Yeah have a great night!” Soon she too had gone.
Time to go.
I got up, unlocked the bolt and stepped out of the handicapped stall. In the hall, I turned right and stooped over the water fountain, careful not to touch the spout with my lips. Like avoiding cracks in sidewalks, it’s a kindergarten habit turned life-ethic. The icy water swished around my mouth; I kept it there for a moment then let it slide down my esophagus. It hurt my teeth and I walked back to my room. I avoided the mirror as I slipped into my XL “Led Zeppelin” t-shirt. I turned on my desk lamp, turned off the florescent and crawled onto the top bunk.

I was surprised to find myself awake two hours later when my roommate returned from work. I kept my eyelids half closed and watched her tiptoe around the room. Bree is one of those girls that even girls can’t help but like. Her waist-length ponytail reflects light in varying shades of red and gold. She’s tall and slender and looks like a ballerina even those she’s never had a dance class in her life.
She spilled her bath caddy with a crash. I stretched and groaned.
“Sorry, Case, it’s just me. Go back to sleep.”
“How was work?” I asked.
“Good. While training a hostess, I dropped a tray. It seems I’m irresistibly klutzy tonight.”
I smiled. My roommate not only fell down stairs, but up them as well. “Just tonight, huh?”
“Ha, ha. Oh! Josh and I are going to a movie tomorrow night, wanna come?”
I briefly relived the last time I’d gone to see a movie with them. Leaning as far into the left arm rest. Staring resolutely at the screen, tempted to erect a concrete wall between me and the sucking noises.
“No thanks. This third wheel needs to study for a bio-chemistry quiz at six-bloody-early-in the morning Monday.”
“Oh c’mon. You’re not a third wheel! Josh and I love hanging out with you. And it’s Saturday! You have all day Sunday to study—you can spare 90 minutes.”
I grunted an I’ll-think-about-it and turned to face the wall.
“Goodnight, Casey.”
“Night.”
#
I don’t set my alarm on Saturdays. Getting up before noon is like violating the Sabbath. So I cursed Bree with death by stampeding Dromedary camels when her cell phone started ringing at 8:30 in the morning. Interestingly, Bree managed to sleep through the increasingly noisy fairy chimes until I yanked Mr. Teddy from under my stomach and threw him at her face.
“Bree, answer your phone!”
She rolled over and grabbed the cell phone.
“Hello?” she growled. She sat up. “What?” A long pause and then, “Is she okay? …yeah, I’ll be right there.”
She rolled out of bed and started pulling on sweats.
“Hey, Casey. My little sister’s in the hospital. I’m gonna drive home. I’ll try calling Josh, but if you see him, let him know I can’t make the movie.”
“Sure thing. Is she alright?”
“They don’t know… She didn’t wake up this morning. She still hasn’t woken up. I’ll call you.”
With that, she grabbed her Kate Spade and keys and rushed out the door.
“Please let Allison be okay,” I whispered at the ceiling and then went back to sleep.
#
I made it to the Cafeteria just before they closed for lunch. I was starving and filled up a tray with soup and French fries and a muffin and chicken and… salad. It was a lot, but I hadn’t eaten breakfast. And I’d eat less at dinner.
Josh came up as I was sitting down, and asked about Bree.
“Did she call you?” I asked.
“Yeah, she left a cryptic message on my phone about her sister being in the hospital.”
“That’s all I’ve heard, too. Sorry.”
He seemed distracted and I asked if he wanted to sit down.
“No thanks, I’ve got baseball practice in 10 minutes and I have to run back to the dorm. If you hear from her, you’ll let me know?”
“Definitely.”
#
I finished up with a brownie and some soft serve, then went back to my room to study. Not long after staring at small diagrams of mitochondrion, I started to feel kinda nauseous. Why in the world did I eat so much at lunch?
Oh gosh.
I dropped the book and walked to the bathroom. Like one at the guillotine, I knelt before the toilet. I watched my reflection flicker in the bowl. I gagged and then…
I flushed the toilet.
Back at the room, I noticed a missed call. Bree’s number. I called her back.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Hey Bree, it’s me. How’s Allison?”
“She’s awake. Mom found an empty prescription bottle under her bed and they pumped her stomach. She says her throat is sore and the doctors have asked us not to question her too much yet.”
“Had she mentioned this… ‘desire’ to anyone before?” I sat down on the sofa, directly opposite Bree’s full-length mirror.
“No. Her friends had said she’d been acting weird lately, but nothing that couldn’t have been explained by ‘that time of the month.’”
“Yeah,” I answered, and pulled my bangs out of my eyes. “It’s hard to talk about sometimes.”
There was a pause and I thought I heard a sob.
“Bree, are you alright?”
“Yeah,” she replied.
“Liar. What’s up? Talk to me.”
“It’s just… I don’t know. She’s my little sister! Good lord, what if she had succeeded? We’ve been so close all growing up and since I came to school I haven’t even had time to send her a weekly email. I feel like it’s my fault.”
“Stop it. Allison had issues she had to deal with, and instead of asking for help, she decided to cop-out.”
My reflection looked at me pointedly.
“Yeah, but we should’ve asked. She didn’t just cop--”
“Hey! She’s seventeen, Bree. And she’s safe. I’m sure your parents will encourage her to get some therapy. Maybe now she’ll be more open about what she’s struggling with.”
“I hope so.”
“Have you called Josh?”
“Not yet.”
“You should; he was worried.”
“Yeah. I should be home tonight. I might be late, so don’t stay up on my account.”
“I never do,” I smiled and hung up. My hand stayed on the receiver for second.
I stood up and stared at the mirror. A Clint Eastwood soundtrack played in my head and my fingers itched for a six-shooter. Too bad tumbleweeds don’t grow in suburbia. I turned to close the blinds and locked the door. I stripped down, continuing to stare down my arch-enemy. I had never volitionally stared at myself naked before. I turned to the left, and then the right. I nodded and pulled the clothes back on. Up went the blinds and I opened the door.