Sheriff Frye stood with a queasy look, over the dead body of Josiah Presley. Frye had dispatched Deputy Hanson to fetch both Doc Quimby and Undertaker Lewis.

“Got himself a scratch about a month ago, been going downhill since. Tetanus. Does terrible things to the body, see how his back is arched, fists and feet clenched, arms tucked up like a baby. And the jaw, locked down tight as a matron’s corset.” Said Doc.

All four men stared at the hideous corpse, the law men grimacing uneasily.

“Let’s break his back so we can stuff him in the box.” Said Lewis.

Disclaimer: This is a true story. No ghosts, and I mean NO ghosts were spotted during this experience. But the next day…..

In January 1988, I was dispatched to Wabasha, Minnesota to conduct an audit on a local business. I lived in Lacrosse, Wisconsin at the time. That’s 61 miles, a one-hour drive on dry pavement. I arrived at 10:00 a.m. Things with the audit were going well, when at 2:00 p.m., Paul the manager popped his head into the small conference room where I was working.

“It’s snowing pretty heavily, just so you know. They just reported on the radio, the storm status has been elevated to a blizzard.”

“Hmmm. I am coming back tomorrow, I can finish up then. Thanks for letting me know. I will wrap this up by 3:00 p.m. and head out.” I responded as I gazed out the window, now thinking how the drive home would be more like two hours. Soon, Paul was back in the doorway.

“Ah, we have a situation. Over eight inches of snow has accumulated in the past two hours. The Department of Transportation is closing Hwy 61, until the blizzard passes which is not projected to be anytime soon. The only hotel we had in town is closed and up for sale. There is one bed and breakfast, it is technically closed for the season, but I could call the owner to see if she might open it for you.”

“Well, I guess that is about the best solution available. Thank you Paul. Yes, please do call her.” I responded. He came back a few minutes later.

“Okay, let me give you directions to the B&B, you’re all set. The owner has gone to the house to turn the heat up for you and she’ll meet you there.” He said “Oh, interesting factoid. The house served as the primary funeral home in Wabasha for decades.” He winked at me. I am thinking he enjoyed this part, as he was the audited party.

“Okay, well. I think any port in the storm is the order of this night!” I smiled. “Thanks for arranging this, I’ll see you in the morning.” With that, I closed up the paperwork for the day. I was oddly calm about having to sleep in an old funeral home. In fact, I was a bit curious if I might have any visitors.

This struck me as funny considering I am the same person who upon seeing a large toad in the shower of a rented cabin in the Sierra Nevada mountains, screamed like a grizzly bear was after me. In all fairness, I was nude and standing in the shower. The toad moved from behind the shower head and there we were, five inches apart face to face! I nearly fell out of the shower stall trying to back away. If I saw the same toad in my back yard, I’d try to pet him. But, I am not naked in the back yard, at least not often.

I found the B&B easily, though the night’s darkness was descending, the blizzard’s snow whirled and the wind howled. As I plowed through deep snow with my booted feet up to the home, I recognized a classic Victorian facade on the large house. A porch light was glowing, welcoming me and someone had swept what snow they could off the stairs and entryway. The owner, Cindy was awaiting me at the door.

“Welcome! Come in from the storm.” she smiled warmly. “What a night, huh?” she said as she motioned me into the home. I looked around to see a beautifully kept house embellished in traditional Victorian decor. Antique furniture, lush draperies.

“Wow, what a beautiful place you have here. I am so grateful to you for having me here tonight. This blizzard came up so quickly.” I scanned the room curiously.

“I will be keeping the heat low in most of the house, besides your room. I’ll only charge you $25 since you will have only partial use of the house.” Cindy shared. “And I will be back at 6:00 a.m. to make breakfast for you.”

“You don’t stay in the house? I mean, I am here alone?” I asked, thinking about the home’s former use. I hadn’t realized I’d be alone.

“Yes, I have my own home just down the block. It’s smaller and cheaper to maintain. If you need me, you can call. Just dial one.” She handed me a cordless phone.

“Was Paul teasing me? He said this was a funeral home for a long while?” I asked.

Cindy smiled. “He wasn’t teasing you. The house was a funeral home for many decades, that is true. However, I’ve not had any issue with the house. I haven’t had any guests report any issues either. I really do believe you are perfectly safe, dear.” She did seem very believable and sincere. I decided then and there, I hadn’t any choice anyway, so I may as well relax.

“Alright, I will take your word for it. And I will call if I need to.” I smiled at Cindy.

“Come on up to the room.” She guided me up the stairs. “It’s really more of a master suite. You have an attached bath, a sitting area with a gas fireplace and then your sleeping area.” She opened the door and warmth oozed out into the hallway. A fire was indeed blazing away. The radiators were clanging, a sound I love from my youth. And a lovely food smell greeted us.

“I have a crock pot going for you, homemade stew for dinner. I knew all the restaurants in town would close early with this storm. I’ve put out a small coffee and tea service. And of course, wine and chocolate because it’s what every girl needs on a stormy night.” She indicated the buffet spread out on a small bureau in the sitting area.

“You are an angel from heaven!” I laughed. “Really, I don’t mind paying the regular rate, Cindy. This is too generous.”

“No need. Kindness given is kindness received. It all works out. Now, I will leave you to enjoy your evening. Call if you need anything.” After showing me how to operate the fireplace, Cindy closed my door and I was alone.

Alone, overnight in a funeral home. I had known a girl when I was growing up whose parents operated a funeral home; the family lived above the business and she had said while she didn’t enjoy being near the autopsy room where her parents worked downstairs, nothing ever happened upstairs in the living space. I decided to bank that.

Eventually I settled into the overstuffed bed, all fluffed out with comforters and pillows. I phoned my husband to say goodnight and have him tease me about my predicament. Then, I fell asleep and did not wake until 5:30 a.m. when my alarm went off. I quickly readied for work and bid farewell to the cozy room. I found the kitchen downstairs at 6:00 a.m. to find Cindy in the warm kitchen baking cinnamon rolls and preparing scrambled eggs for me. Hot coffee was poured and I relaxed. I told her that my night was simply lovely, very relaxing and not one guest showed up.

A knock came at the kitchen door which opened up to the back porch. Cindy let a woman in. She was introduced to me as Sandra, a neighbor. Sandra grabbed a coffee mug and soon the three of us were chatting. I was finishing my eggs when Sandra squealed.

“Oh! Stop squirming!” Suddenly, she thrust her hand down the front of her sweater.

“Oh no, what have you got in there?” Cindy asked.

“Just a baby that I found. Poor little fella, it’s the only way I know to keep him really warm!” Sandra responded. Then, she withdrew her hand from the sweater. As she opened her hand, I saw that she cradled a little black bat. Yes, a bat.

“Oh, Sandra! You have got to stop picking up any creature you find! That thing could be rabid! You take that over to the vet clinic or somewhere. Get it out of my kitchen, please!” Cindy didn’t look amused.

“No problem.” Sandra said cheerfully as she shoved the baby bat down into her bra, I believe that’s where it was resting. She zipped up her jacket and said goodbye, then out the door she went.

“That woman, sometimes I think she’s bats!” Cindy laughed.

Perhaps the ghosts didn’t want me to leave disappointed, so they sent over the Bat Lady of Wabasha.

“We are birthed through a sack of slime, after death we decompose in a slimy way. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Slime to slime.” Said the preacher.

“Geez,” whispered Charlie to Mick “That’s a bit grim, I’d say.”

“Disgusting.” Mick whispered back.

The Preacher paused, looking up at the crowd. “Each of us ends up in our own little compost pile. Yep, no way ‘round it.” He closed his book and muttered “Amen.”

Charlie and Mick walked to the saloon in silence.

“Two whiskeys.” Charlie told the bar keep. He turned to Mick, they raised their glasses. “To Slippery Pete, may he slime his way smoothly into eternity!”

Charlie and Mick were finishing a toast to the memory of their buddy, Slippery Pete. The saloon doors swung quietly, just catching Mick’s attention. Mick elbowed Charlie.

“Here’s The Ghoul. Slinkin’ in to toast his work on Pete.” Both Charlie and Mick gawked at the Undertaker Mr. Lewis, who was used to being a focus of disdain. Up until someone needed a stiff tended to. Then, they wanted his talents, fast and cheap. He wandered down to the dark, lonely end of the bar. Lewis stood in the shadows sipping whiskey, this mystique keeping the mongrels of Tombstone at bay.

Little Tommy and Sally, please sit right down and get comfy. I’ll tell you a tale. There once was a little girl who held wonderful childhood memories that took place at a baseball park. She had seen Hammerin’ Hank Aaron play there! She met him up close one day, right behind first base. Who was he, Tommy? Hank Aaron was a very nice, friendly man. He was also a superstar baseball player, a home run king! The team was the Milwaukee Brewers. This was in the 1970s when life was a little simpler than it is now. Yes, you should be mad about that, Sally. It’s a legitimate complaint you have there. Ask your parents to explain all that, okay?

Now onto the story. The little girl didn’t get on with her father all that well. Yes, Tommy, I am sorry to say there are children who don’t have good feelings about their parents. In fact, there are tons of these children. You’ll see this as you get older and I hope you don’t end up being one of those children. But your parents are pretty nice, huh? Awe, that’s great! Like I said, the little girl wasn’t too impressed with her father. He always managed to have expensive box seats right behind first base at the ballpark, but said he couldn’t afford to pay his child support. Her mother worked a minimum wage job, that means a hard job for not much money, with lots of overtime hours and still there wasn’t enough money for the little girl to get needed things, like enough food, warm winter clothes or new shoes. Yet her father drove a new car and had box seats.

This was all very confusing and annoying to the little girl and one of many reasons why she didn’t admire her father, but she decided not to complain because Mother had tried to gripe about it, even had him arrested but things only got better for a short while and then went bad again. Regardless, the little girl did like baseball so she went along to the ballpark. Only once did the little girl put up a fuss at the ballpark and it was a whopper! I will tell you about that first, it was kind of funny.

The father didn’t eat much food. He drank beer after beer and smoked cigarettes. However, the little girl did eat food and looked forward to having a frankfurter at the ballgame. Well, one day the father pulls out this paper bag and hands it to her. Inside is a baloney sandwich, with catsup and mustard on the bread. Yes children, yuk indeed! This mess of a sandwich symbolized two things to the girl. First, her father had decided to cheapen up on the her lunch. It was typical of him, he always had what he wanted and didn’t care about anyone else. Why? All I can tell you Sally, is some people are that way. It’s called selfish and uncaring. You can ask your mother about that later. The important thing to understand is, because someone is like that doesn’t mean you have to be too. It’s best to not pay much attention to those people, they lose interest and go away eventually, which is just as well. You must go ahead and be nice to people and good things will come your way!

Now, this sandwich incident really flipped the little girl out, she asked for so little. The other thing was, get real! Who puts mustard and catsup on a baloney sandwich? When she saw this she became furious. She stood up, turned to her father and yelled “No! No way! What is this supposed to be?” Her father tried to pass it off as “it’s just like a hotdog; bread, catsup, mustard and a frankfurter. A frankfurter is nothin’ but a rolled piece of baloney.” The girl knew baloney from a frankfurter; and she knew he was trying to feed her two kinds of baloney right now. She wasn’t having it. “No! Nobody makes a baloney sandwich with catsup and mustard, nobody! No!” If I recall, she even stomped one little foot to emphasize that last “No”. Well, the father was not at all used to this little girl putting up a fuss. He was shocked and embarrassed. In fact, he was embarrassed enough to call the hot dog vendor over and correct the situation, immediately. There were no further incidents surrounding her lunch, ever.

Nope, the girl didn’t like her father at all. However, her mother asked her to go with him to the games because he didn’t have anyone else to go with. Her mother was nice like that. She wasn’t selfish. Plus, like I explained earlier, the little girl did like baseball. During the game, the girl and her father would sit next to each other and not speak. That helped a lot! It’s hard to disagree if no one talks. The ball park was kind of like Switzerland, you know, neutral. Neutral? Ask your parents to explain neutral, okay? Anyway, what’s important to this story was the game of baseball had figured in the little girl’s life as happy, happy times. The little girl decided to store these memories as good times with her father. You gotta have some of those, right? You need to grab them and hold them tight.

Baseball, she loved the crack of the bat on the ball. She loved it when a player would steal a base. She loved the home runs! She loved the chants and rants. She loved the box seats! She loved that the shortstop was only 10 years older than her! Rockin’ Robin Yount was 18 years old. I’ll tell you what kids, the three of us will go to a game someday soon, then I can explain about the stolen bases and everything.

Something you need to understand about baseball. The whole idea is for the team to win games. All the games if they can. Then, the team is eligible to compete in championships. Yes, that’s right Tommy, the team could win the big trophy. The biggest championship for baseball is called the World Series. No, I don’t know who decided to call it that, Sally. You are correct. It’s not a game played by everyone in the world. Once upon a time in America, we thought we were hot stuff, like we were the center of the world. These days well, maybe we aren’t hot stuff, more like just stuff. Something you can ask your parents about, they will thank me for all these topics. For now, we will call it the Whirled Series, just for fun, okay?

Back to the little girl. Many, many years passed by. The little girl now is an old lady. She lives far away from the ballpark. Her father died long ago. She always keeps one eye, her good eye, on that old ballpark and whatever group of young men, who are universally known as “The Boys Of Summer” (because you don’t play baseball in winter) currently make up the team. The team itself is now 56 years old. And it has been 44 years since this team has been eligible to play in the Whirled Series.

There are two important lessons from this accomplishment I want to share with you. First, the team has a very wise manager, he’s the boss. He’s taught the team to focus on the now. This means, don’t worry about what happens in an hour or tomorrow. Just focus on what you need to do right now. This helps the young players stay calm and do their jobs. And the other lesson is that when you are young, you don’t know yet that you can’t do something. You think you can, which is good! So if we combine focus and a good attitude, it may lead to success. Remember that now, okay? It may help you succeed in life.

Alright, back to the old lady who was excited about this team competing in the Whirled Series. She had watched all the games she could get in her viewing area. Well, Sally, the viewing area is whatever the grown-up orders on cable TV. Or Satellite or some dang thing. Getting sports games on TV is getting very, very expensive. The old lady is a pensioner now. She can’t spend money willy-nilly on television. You’d think with all the property and income tax she’s paid throughout her life, she’d have free TV about now, but no that just isn’t in the cards.

In the cards? Well that’s referring to Tarot which predicts your future or playing cards which tell how good you are at gambling. Yes Tommy, gambling is bad. Your Dad says I gamble? Haha! He was just kidding you.

Okay, can we stay focused on baseball? So the end of this tale ends in happiness. The old lady’s team did win the World Series! Boy, she wanted to shout out to the world that her team even played in the World Series. Then, they won! She decided to write this little tale so she could sneak it into a posting on Substack and brag to a bunch of writers who didn’t give a hoot that her Milwaukee Brewers just won the freaking World Series! For the first time, ever! Ever!

That’s how the world works. Sometimes, you try to pass off a baloney sandwich as a frankfurter; sometimes you pull unsuspecting readers into a silly story and all they can do about it is unsubscribe! Hard cheese! Oh, and cheese doesn’t belong on a frankfurter either. That’s called a perversion. Ask your parents.

Well children, that’s the end of the story about the little girl, thoughtless adults, The Boys of Summer, the old lady, selective memory and how to build a captive audience. But mostly this story is about having the most fun in the whole, wide whirled!

Rap, Rap, Rap. Rapping upon my condo door, at midnight last Friday. I figured one of the zombies from next door had once again, mistaken my condo for their’s. This happens a lot with zombie neighbors. They just roam around in a daze. Arms extended, feet shuffling, dead eyes staring, moaning to themselves. They’re harmless enough, but they often end up walking circles in my back yard, sitting on my doorstep or rapping at my door at all hours.

I rose from my chair were I had been grooving on some Poe. As I was about to open the door, violent banging reverberated through it and someone was now laying on the buzzer, long and hard.

“Alright! I’m coming!” I yelled out. I flung the door open to find Mitch waving a clipboard in my face. He’s a skeleton who lives on the other side of Hollow Cheeks Condominiums. He was flanked by Joe, a vampire who lives just down my street and three ghosts whom I didn’t recognize, although I admit they all look alike to me. I know that Mitch and Joe are HOA board members and I assumed the ghosts were also.

“What the heck is going on out here?” I asked as I stood, hands on hips.

“You are facing some serious charges, Missy!” Mitch snipped at me. “First, these pumpkin decorations are far too fresh. It’s inappropriate to flaunt nearly live vegetables in front of an Undead population. And that brings me to the more severe concerns about you!”

“Oh, yes? Like what, you babbling wind chime.” I don’t like to call others names, but his aggressive approach just set me off. I don’t take kindly to shake downs, put downs or low downs. Especially, from someone who in the Living world, would be nothing more than a bag of dog chews.

“Ramoana the clerk at the Top Zombie Market, said she heard you breathing. Excessively breathing, like a Living. And another witness has stated he distinctly heard a heartbeat coming from your chest. You are accused of unauthorized living! This entire complex belongs to the Undead. No Livings allowed!”

“So, who is this big eared witness who claims he can hear a heart beat?” I demanded.

“Never you mind, this is not a trial. We have the authority to evict you here and now, I advise you to start packing.”

“Is that so, you dusty bag of bones. Where do you get off telling me to pack?” I was stalling for time, truth was I had been evicted from the Land of the Living and faked my “Undead” status to get into this gated community. To live outside the gates, well it just wasn’t an option for me, on a count of being on the lamb.

Oh, lamb. How I wish I could have fresh lamb. Those stupid zombies are the only ones who eat chewable protein around here. Their Market is full of brains and guts. The vampire Market has, you guessed it, blood and plasma. The ghosts and skeletons eat nothing. Generalized monsters are not allowed in the compound because of the chaos they cause with their erratic behavior and werewolves are out because of the no dogs policy. Witches are always brewing up something, but they just conjure up their ingredients, kind of an ancient Door Dash. Everything is herbal, are they Undead or not? Hmmm.

“Who am I to tell you?” Mitch was now saying. “I just happen to be the HOA President, that’s what! And I am telling you to pack it the hell up!”

Just then, I remembered something I saw Mitch’s girlfriend, a skeleton named Bonetta, doing outside a house owned by a ghost family.

“Hey Mitch. Before you get so smart with me, why not talk about what your girl Bonetta, has been up to. I saw her outside the Ghoulies’ house, over on Spooktacular Boulevard one night last week. She was shimmy shaking like an earth quake, right outside the bedroom window of the Ghoulies littlest ghouls. You and I both know it is very impolite to bone rattle a ghost, it scares the Beelzebub out of them!” I glared with mean eyes right into his empty cranium.

Then I turned to the ghosts. “And you three, you there on the right. You have had your eyes squeezed shut tight, not opening them once, what is that about?” I asked. None of the ghosts responded.

Vampire Joe spoke up at last. “These ghosts are, See No Evil and he’s in death denial. Hear No Evil, she’s a Pride and Prejudice fan and suffers from both. Speak No Evil, he serves as See No Evil’s emotional support ghost. Basically, they are useless but we need a consensus of five on any eviction and they are very easy to sway. See how they are swaying right now?” He waived his arm in the general direction of the ghosts. He was correct, they were absolutely silent windsocks.

“Well, I for one will not have my lovely Bonetta discussed like this, she would never rattle her bones for anyone but me! You’ve been warned. Pack and be gone in the morning.” Said Mitch.

With that, Mitch and the spectral Moe, Larry and Curly abruptly left. Mitch jingle jangled his way down the street, waiving his clipboard and mumbling to himself. The ghosts dissipated into the night. Only Joe stood before me.

“Listen, Love. Let’s level.” He said. “I know that you were evicted from the Land of the Living.

You’ve been hoping to fake it as Undead. Bottom line, I smelled your blood a mile away. If it wasn’t for the high quality stuff I get at the Blood Market, I would have tapped you ages ago.”

“What can I do?” I asked quietly.

“You know what to do, sweet thing. I can help you with this whole mess, you just have to ask.”

“Alright.” I sighed. “How ‘bout you come in for a drink?”

“Good morning, Young soul. How is the Lake feeling today?” Old soul asked.

“The Lake is calm, seems to be sleeping.” Young answered, gazing out across the still water that shined like glass.

“And, are you also calm today, Young?” Asked Old.

“I am trying to be. My human is restless and I don’t know how to help her. I am not sure I’m succeeding.” Young answered.

“It’s your first assignment and that can be very tough for all souls. You came into the job expecting challenge and happiness. You heard stories from the experienced yet pie-eyed souls; who have a habit of forgetting the troubles they have encountered as they guide their humans. Sometimes souls react to their assignments similar to a female human who has experienced a very painful birthing; after a short while the euphoria of caring for the newborn overshadows the pain. The reality is, our jobs are not easy. As a soul, you must absorb your human’s worries and because you are inexperienced; you are not sure what to do with those feelings and how to help. This does not mean you are failing. You are learning on the job.”

Young glanced at Old, wondering how long, how many assignments it takes to gather enough knowledge to see things more clearly, to feel less uncertain.

“Do you ever wish that your current assignment would end?” Asked Young.

“Oh, the longer I am into an assignment, yes I sometimes do. You see, there isn’t much that thrills me anymore. I have been here many, many times. There are patterns that emerge, I can anticipate the next human event pretty accurately. Not many surprises left as they age. If there is a surprise, it’s usually not very enjoyable. Especially towards the end of an assignment, the surprises tend to happen to the human’s body and often are most unpleasant. The best I can do, is steady my human by influencing his emotion, help him relax, adjust and accept the situation.” Old responded.

“I guess I feel a little empty. Maybe that’s not the right word.” Young tossed a stone into the lake, causing a small ripple effect within the still water.

“Young, I believe you are growing weary. You have, along with your human, been exposed to a painful reality called “disappointment”. That’s the challenge of a soul’s first assignment. To absorb the never-ending disappointments that this world does inflict upon the human experience. A trusting young soul like you was not expecting the disappointments to be so painful. I can assure you that after many hurts, you will toughen up and grow scar tissue, then the pain is less.” Old said reassuringly.

“Well, that’s something, I guess.” Young smiled slightly. He thought this over, as the souls sat side by side in silence for a long while.

“But, that seems sad in a way too.” Young’s brows were knitted. “What I have to look forward to is growing scar tissue and feeling things less intensely?”

“Yes, Young. I am sorry, but yes.” Smiled Old. “You see, you are experiencing another truth along with disappointment. It’s called “loss of innocence”; it’s one of the most painful experiences to push through. Your human no doubt has had this happen, you experienced it with her but you most likely did not recognize it as such because of your inexperience. It could have been finding out that Santa Claus is not real or that her Grandmother is capable of lying. You are still in your childhood as a soul; each disappointment is very painful for you and it is a long, dragged out process when innocence is lost. Each bruise from a disappointment remains very fresh. It’s heart breaking, some use the term soul crushing. You will survive it. You must. Your current human has and will experience many disappointments which you must endure with her. On your next assignment, you will not endure such acute pain. Your loss of innocence will have been won with this assignment. Your next human will still need to endure their own innocence lost, but you’ll recognize it as such and be able to react appropriately. With the next assignment, you’ll start out with scar tissue. That makes things easier for your next human, too.”

“It’s all so much to think about.” Said Young, tossing yet a larger stone into the lake to effect a larger ripple. This ripple reverberated a long while. Both souls watched it until it was no more.

“Well, my human will be waking soon. I must return.” Said Young. “Maybe I will see you tomorrow, here on the beach?”

“No, Young. You will not. My human will not be waking again. His time is expiring. I will be starting a new assignment. Because of my experience, my next human will be born with a seasoned soul. That life will be more enjoyable for me and for my human. We will manage the hills and valleys easily. You will be with your human a long while yet, try to relax and enjoy your time with her. Try to help her work towards peacefulness. And remember the lessons you use with her. Bring her to the beach with you sometimes.” Old smiled at Young. “And Young, never hesitate to throw stones into the Lake. The bigger the stone, the bigger the ripple. And the large ripples are the ones that give you time to think as they take a while to smooth out. Plus, it’s good exercise for you and her. Experiencing life through a human is no easy feat. It helps to throw a few stones!” Old winked at Young and smiled.

Old sat alone on the beach a long time after Young walked away. Until the sun went down. A human child would be born at daylight and Old would accompany it on its life’s journey.

Life’s so much less disappointing for the humans with an experienced soul. Each assignment is more enjoyable than the last. Old smiled to himself, he still had enthusiasm for his work and for that he was grateful.

Young was there when his human awoke. They stretched and yawned together. The human walked to the window, and Young helped her admire the rising sun. He inspired her to remember better times and influenced a bird to stop on the window sill to sing. This made the human smile. Young smiled too. He was glad he could help her. They had much growing to do, together. They gazed at the bird, the sun and the start of a new day. His human started humming a happy tune and Young knew all would be well in their world.

We had a part-time cat named Scamp. He seemed to be homeless. My husband Craig, refinished antiques and said Scamp was great company in his shop. He adopted Scamp and installed a cat door in the heated workshop. Craig took him to the vet and $230 later Scamp was vaccinated and had flea protection. Then we found out the neighbor knew him as Pete. She served him roasted chicken breast every night. The kids next door knew him as Lucky, he was “their cat” but their mother wouldn’t let him in the house. What a Scamp!

Nothing much good comes from snooping out a window, especially in the middle of the night. Yet sometimes, that’s all a girl’s got left. It had been nineteen days since the sun was out according to the sad faces drawn on my wall calendar. Yet it was as hot as if the sun had forgotten how to set. The lake spewed humidity which was then captured by the low clouds and held close like a squirming, sticky child. I couldn’t afford to run the air conditioning, it was steamy in my loft. I drew a cold bath and stripped, then soaked and plotted how I might emerge triumphant from a rather gnarly predicament. I had a growing pile of bills and a cell phone I was increasingly reluctant to answer. The rent was due in two weeks. Mr. Hanson was a nice man, but he’d be looking for that payment just like everyone else.

I hadn’t had a real job that required I punch a timecard in a very long while. I’d been living the freelance writing life in my isolated tree top world, ghost writing for an author who was struggling with alcoholism. It was our little secret, even her agent didn’t know. She paid me cash and foolishly; I had not required a contract to be signed. Sadly, she died unexpectedly. I was unable to convince her agent and her editor that I had written nearly every word for her over the last few years. I received no further pay nor work from them. The daylight was waining as I abandoned my bath and slipped into my thinnest night shirt. I perched upon the wide window ledge of an east facing window, it offered the best evening breeze. I’d developed a habit of sitting there in the dark at night, figuring I’d save money on electricity. I was in need of inspiration, maybe a story would be born. The window faced the alley and provided a prime view of the back door lives of my neighbors.

There below, existed the Almosts. These folks came dragging home every evening from a gawd awful job somewhere in the dank city. They were the elite in the alley life pyramid, having houses with backyards and garages. My view took in the garages for the most part. They often appeared frazzled as they unloaded their vehicles. Grocery bags, crying babies and toddlers who had been handed over to strangers all day, older kids that went to private schools, got out of the car before it was fully parked and never helped unload. Later, one of the parents would be yanked down the street by a leashed dog who had spent a long day locked in the house. Inevitably, there would be one bedroom light that stayed on until all the others went out. The parents no doubt glancing at each other, nodding the “catch ya next time” indicator and dropping exhausted into bed.

The next tier on the pyramid was comprised of the Workers, blue collar people who used the alley for a short cut from the bus stop to efficiency apartments at the opposite end of the alley. Occasionally there would be an unfortunate single parent dragging an even more unfortunate little kid through the rain. Those with teens saw little of them, either because the kid worked a job after school to help out or had a long commute back home from a school on the good side of town. Adult and child alike, they’d come home from their long day to a 600 square foot apartment, eat a dismal dinner and try to relax a bit before drifting off to sleep on their Murphy beds. The next day, they got the thrill of doing it all over again. All of their bluster and bother had usually subsided by 9:00 pm.

That’s when I’d grab a snack and come back to the window in time to see the beat cop walking slowly down the alley, glancing behind garden gates and garbage bins. After the cop, the first of the Creatures would appear. Most often it was the female prostitute who typically wore red platform shoes and carried a yellow handbag, reminiscent of Ronald McDonald’s colors. She was small and pale, her make up mirroring Ronald’s. Some nights she’d wear a blond wig, the next a red. I knew her routine. She’d stand about at the alley’s end and soon a car would roll up. Occasionally, other hookers would meander through her territory on their clunky heels, not one looking happy to be there. If any of them got hurt, at least I would be there to call the cops. Adolescent gang initiates would sometimes break up the monotony, tagging a few garage doors. The older teens engaged in less frivolity; conducting drug sales, transference of stolen goods or performing a shake down of someone who owed money up the chain. Bosses had long ago done their alley time. They send the minors in to dispense the products and beatings. Occasionally there would be a gun shot from somewhere, then a police siren.

This night was about the same as every other, I was perched on the window sill Gollum-like, knees up and arms wrapped about them. My head had fallen forward, I drifted in and out of sleep until I awoke to a woman’s scream. My habit is to glance at the glowing red numerals on the digital read out of my microwave, I noted the time 2:20 a.m. as I looked out into the alley, in fact sticking my head out of the window to get a better view. I noticed the air was cooler, the fog had lifted and the moon shone brightly, yet I saw no one. I ducked back into the room and stood in the dark wondering if I’d been dreaming. This thought was dashed by footsteps pounding down the alley towards me. I retreated further into the darkness and steadied my gaze on the lit area between two garages. The runner stopped there for a moment, a tall man, white skinned, dark hair, young and thin. His gait was off, like one leg was injured. He slipped between two garages peeking around the corner of one. After a moment, he moved further down the alley and disappeared from my view. I stayed still as to not be observed in the shadows.

Two large police officers walked quickly and quietly down the alley, casting flash lights in every possible hiding spot. A police car approached from the other direction, the officers exchanged a few hushed words. I saw a police helicopter drowning the surrounding blocks in light, as they not so quietly patrolled from the night sky. This had become a man hunt, I wondered what had gone down. I really hadn’t heard anything besides a scream. I had seen the young man running and hiding. Who was he running from? A bad guy or a cop? Maybe he was the bad guy. But I didn’t yet know if any crime had been committed. Any pertinent news would be all over the streets by daylight. The helicopter gave up and so did the officers on the ground. Soon, the sun would start poking into the horizon. Time for the Creatures to scurry back to their vaults. I decided to wait until morning to share my observation if necessary; with the police.

I woke up around 6:00 a.m. and figured I’d go sleuthing. I dressed in old cutoff jeans and a tank top, it was still sweltering although the morning lake fog had rolled in and felt refreshing on my skin. A coffee run would be my best excuse to start snooping around the neighborhood. Hamidi’s Cafe had the best coffee. I treated myself to a rosewater and walnut baklava-type pastry along with the coffee. Mr. Hamidi and his wife Aliyah were too busy for small talk with all the Workers getting their to-go orders. I continued walking down the street towards Shanghai Bakery and Grocery. Mr. Li the owner, was out front sweeping his sidewalk. Like the Hamidi’s, the Li family lived above their business. I loved that my street was just around the corner from the business district. Between Mrs. Li’s pork bao and Hamidi’s sumac chicken, I rarely cooked.

“Good morning, Mr. Li.” I smiled.

“Good foggy morning to you, young lady!” He laughed.

“Yes, it doesn’t seem to let up lately, huh?” I kicked at the clean sidewalk with the toe of my high top. “Hey, Mr. Li. Did you see that helicopter last night?”

“Sure, I was trying to sleep. The police in the sky. I came out here after I saw a cop walking around, he said a guy was killed in the alley.”

“Oh, no. That’s not good. I wondered what was going on. Well, you stay safe Mr. Li.”

“You watch out, young one. Don’t be outside at nighttime.” He scolded gently.

I wandered over to the park, one block east. Some of the Almosts had their dogs out getting an early morning leash-free romp and chatting with their neighbors. The Wanderers were moving around the outskirts, in the bushes surrounding the park. Relieving themselves, mumbling to themselves. These were the permanent homeless, the drug damaged brains who wandered like ghosts never making eye contact, only seeing the hauntings of hallucination. And the severely mentally ill who no one would or could take control of. I noted the two Wanderers that I especially watch out for. One I call Sunshine. I don’t know her real name, she won’t say. But she smiles a lot and is polite. I think she is mentally ill, she mumbles and never baths, that is her crime. I was able to buy her a pair of sneakers last year, she was still wearing them. The other I call Marge, but not to his face. In fact, I don’t talk to him, I don’t think he’d know I was there. He’s “out there”. I do make sure he has a bottle of water and a banana if he’s looking particularly ragged. I just set it down on “his bench”. He is a bit more volatile than many, I suspect drug related brain damage. He curses and shouts at the wind, especially during these hot summer days. His hair rises up into a great towering afro, like Marge Simpson. This morning, I note they are both alive and sort of well, Marge has a cough that is troubling, but it doesn’t seem to worsen. I hear the Almosts talking about a “murder” in the alley. The police have not yet identified the victim, pending notification of family. That could eliminate the Wanderers and many of the Creatures as the possible victim. They often had no family to notify. The victim might be a Worker, if not an Almost. Maybe an Outsider or a male prostitute.

I saw my neighbor Sandra ahead.

“Good morning, Sandra.”

“Hi, Tia. Oh! My sister had the baby and she’s in the hospital, will you still check in on Milo for me, could be for a week or so?” Said Sandra.

“Sure, Milo and I are buddies. No problem, I’ll be here all week. I love Milo, he’s a cool cat.” I honestly meant it. He is crazy cool, he’s part Burmese and has a gorgeous chocolate brown coat and a groovy sort of growl-meow that makes me laugh.

“Thanks! I am going to her house this afternoon and I’ll stay until she’s home from the hospital and maybe a few days after so she doesn’t have the whole load on her right away. Her husband has to work and the kids are little. You’ll be alone in the building, except for Milo. Mr. Hanson is on his fishing trip. Are you okay with all this, considering the murder last night?”

“Sure, I don’t hang out in the alley at night, so I don’t expect to be murdered. Although, does anyone ever expect that?” I joked.

“Isn’t that something? I know a guy over at the police station, he says the victim was stabbed to death. Apparently, I family man from one of those houses over there.” She pointed to the back of the row of homes where the Almosts live.

“Why would a guy like that be out in the alley during the night?” I said, sort of to myself.

“Exactly, why indeed.” Sandra responded with one eye brow up. We both continued to gaze at the houses as if they would give up a clue any minute now.

“Well, got to get back to the apartment, throw my suitcase in the car and head out. Milo has two weeks of vittles. You know the litter box routine. I owe you a bottle of Chardonnay.” Sandra hugged me.

I wandered back down the business section of our street. Mr. Li was busy stacking fruit in the shade of his storefront. He smiled as I went inside to buy fresh pork bao from Mrs. Li at the counter. I goofed around in the pharmacy enjoying the cooled air for a little while and did find a squeaky mouse for Milo. Now that there was a confirmed murdered person, I would go home, call the cops and share the little bit that I heard and saw. Voices were coming from behind the second floor security door as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. I hesitated momentarily because I noticed that Sandra’s car was gone. I stood considering if I should retreat when the door opened and I saw an officer. He blocked the doorway with his big body and the badge he was now shoving towards my face.

“We are looking for tenants of this building, do you live here?” He asked.

“Well, yes. Right in there.” I pointed past him, to my door. “How can I help you?” I asked.

“I need your name, apartment number, phone number. And where are you coming from just now, where were you last night between midnight and 6:00 a.m. What’s in that bag?” He glanced at my hand. I was taken aback by the inquisition but answered him.

“I am sorry, but you’ll need to explain to me why? What is this all about?” I heard Milo’s jazzy meow down the hallway.

“Open the door to your apartment.” The officer stated.

“Nope. Not doing it. Tell me what this is about at once. I don’t mean to be difficult, but I wasn’t born yesterday, or the day before that! I expect procedure to be followed, like do you have a warrant?” I heard myself and realized I was very close to talking about my tax dollars, which is not a subject for me to broach considering I haven’t declared income in a while.

“Who is this?” A plain clothes type had joined our little party. He was an older, rough looking man, yet he spoke with a calming, quiet voice and wore a cheap but very tidy suit.

“Who are you?” I responded. “This officer is insisting I give over private information, let him inspect my apartment and my supper which is in this bag; I want to know what the heck is going on in my building.”

“Ah, let me explain, Miss. Alright, officer. I will talk with this young lady. Can you please check the other apartments for occupants?”

“Ok, right.” The cop glowered at me.

“I can tell you there are only the four apartments in this building. Downstairs, the north apartment is our landlord and building owner. His name is Hanson, but he’s on a fishing trip until next weekend. The apartment to the south of him is vacant right now. I’m in this loft here and my neighbor next door is Susan Riley. I am supposed to watch her cat for a few days, she’s off helping a family member with something. The cat’s name is Milo, if you want to interview him.”

“I’ll be checking that all out!” Said the big cop.

“You do that.” I said.

“Go on, Joe. Check out what she said about all four apartments.”

“Yes, sir.” Joe shot down the stairs, no doubt eager to catch me in a lie.

I wanted to yell something sarcastic like, “slow week, Joe?” Nah, give the public servants a break.

“Alright, Miss. Let’s start over. I am Detective James Simmons. There’s been a murder nearby, maybe you’ve heard. We are combing the neighborhood to gather any information that might help us with this investigation.” The detective paused.

“Detective, please come in and we can talk more comfortably, leave the door ajar in case Officer Joe wants to join us.” I unlocked my door and we went into my small kitchen area. I poured two glasses of iced tea. “My name is Tia Rosales. Actually, I was headed home to phone you, well not you specifically, phone the police department. I do have a little information about activity in the alley last night.”

“The alley is where the murder took place, so anything you heard or saw maybe very useful. Walk me through your evening, especially tell me anything that was out of place.”

“Well, I am an unemployed writer. I was in a bit of a funk last night, sitting here in the dark, drinking wine trying to figure my way out of this jam I’m in.” I found myself telling him about the ghost writing gig, the fact that my rent was due soon. All of it. This man seemed to have the power to make me confess, like a priest in a confessional. Maybe the stress I’d been holding helped break the damn, too. I spilled.

Detective Simmons sat quietly, taking it all in. Then he smiled. “Okay, and whilst you sat sulking in the dark, did you hear or see anything unusual?”

“Yes and well, sort of no.” I hesitantly offered.

“What, exactly.” He said.

“At 2:20 a.m. I heard a scream, I think it was a woman’s scream. You see, I had sort of drifted off, sitting there on the window sill. When I woke, I glanced at the microwave clock. That’s why I am sure of the time. Next, I looked out the window, sticking my head out and looking all around. The fog had lifted and the moon was very bright, so I could take a good look. I did not see anyone out there. Then I heard footsteps running up the alley, I ditched it back into the room to stay in the shadows. Sure enough, within a few seconds, I saw a young man stop between the garages, just over there.” I pointed to the location with the light post. “After stopping briefly, he took off running again. He had a hitch in his giddy-up, you know sort of a limp-run. Two officers came walking along, I suppose beat cops from up on the main street. Next a squad car, then the helicopter with search lights blazing. After that, things had gotten quiet and I fell asleep on the couch.”

Detective Simmons was looking thoughtfully out the window, up and down the alley. I sipped my tea, offered him more.

“The body was that of a man who lives in one of the houses across the alley, down that way.” He pointed southward. “We are unsure what he was doing half a block down from his house, in the alley after 2:00 a.m. His body was found by a prostitute. She was wrapping up her tour of duty when she spotted him, lying just off the alley between some garbage bins, down there.” His hand waived off to the north this time. “You have no idea who the young man was that you saw? Never saw him before?” He asked.

“No, no idea.” I sighed. “I suppose the hooker was the woman I heard scream?”

Detective Simmons shrugged his shoulders, “Could have been. I will be speaking with her again, I will ask about it.” Officer Joe was now lingering in my doorway.

“It all checks out, sir.” Joe reported.

“Alright, Joe. Please make sure everything is closed up and wait for me downstairs.”

“Miss Rosales, thank you for your time and the information. Here is my cell phone number. If you see that man again or think of anything else, please call me anytime, 24/7.”

Later that evening, I opened a bottle of wine and settled into the growing darkness. As I sat, I realized I was the only person in the building tonight. That creeped me out just a bit. I’ve always lived in the city and understand the perils. Yet, when a murder happens so close to home, it can set one off their normal vibe. To think, a life was taken, just out there, down the alley, for who knows what stupid or cheap reason. I decided to take a quick look around the building, both floors, make sure Joe the cop hadn’t left any doors unlocked. After I inspected the building, I entered Susan’s apartment. Milo was delighted to see me and I decided to move him down the hall; he would be my guest for the week. To be truthful, I was feeling like I could use another being around, even a little fury one would do. After Milo finished inspecting my apartment, his food bowls, litter box and my bed, he decided to sit in the window sill with me. He promptly fell asleep and purred like a newborn kitten. The soft vibrations of his purr soothed me and I started to drift off too. It was now past 10:00 pm. The beat cop had walked his alley route, the Ronald McDonald doppelgänger had taken up her post. Nothing seemed very unusual so far tonight. Around 1:30 a.m. Milo was wide awake and having a great time with his new stuffed mouse. I watched his moonlit show for a while until I fell asleep on the couch.

At 8:00 am, someone was knocking on the outside door downstairs. I had locked it up tight since no one but me would be coming and going for a few days. I opened a window and peeked down to see Detective Simmons below, surrounded by a light morning fog.

“Morning!” I called down. “What’s up?”

“Can you let me in please, I have an update and need to speak with you.”

“I’ll be right down!” I stopped by the mirror, my hair was in curl-horns atop my head, I grabbed my brush from the bathroom and gathered my robe. I bounded down the stairs, cinching the tie on the robe. I unlocked the door and opened it, now brushing my hair.

“Sorry if I woke you.” Detective Simmons stammered, trying to not look at my disarray, but still somewhat doing so.

“C’mon up. I’ll make coffee.” I scampered up the stairs to start the coffee maker. “So, what do you know this morning?” I asked.

“We are bringing in some men that may have been in the alley that night, we’d like you to come to the police station this afternoon to view a line up. I realize you didn’t see him up close, but sometimes a witness might spot a trait that gives weight to other clues. It’s important that you take a good look from different angles and tell us honestly if there is anything that jars a recognition.”

“Well, yes. I guess I can do that. What time should I be there?” I asked.

“If you would like, I will send a car for you at 1:30. The line up is at 2:00 pm.” He drained his coffee cup and stood up. “We appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Rosales. Right now, any bit of assistance is important.” Said Detective Simmons. “Oh, and the woman’s scream you heard was from the woman who found the body, the prostitute you call Ronald McDonald.”

Good to his word, a plain clothes officer and unmarked car retrieved me at 1:30. A uniformed officer processed me through Security and dispatched me to a small conference room. Within minutes, Detective Simmons entered the room. He explained how the line up process would flow and we moved to the witness chamber. I was hidden behind an observation window, so I could take my time looking at the five young men lined up. I closely observed the body movement and characteristics of each man as they slowly turned left then right, one at a time. Back view, front view. I requested a second full round of movement. I turned to Detective Simmons upon its completion.

“Number four is too thick, too chunky. Number three is too short. Can you remove them and repeat the movements one more time with the remaining three men, plus have them walk a few steps back and forth?” I asked. This request was met and I carefully observed the last three men.

“The man I saw in the alley, he had a certain gait. And, when he peeked around the corner of the garage, I saw his side facial profile in the light. I saw the brow, nose line and chin. Numbers one and two have very similar facial features and unfortunately, neither of them exhibited a walk like the guy I saw in the alley.” I exhaled with a bit of stress, figuring this identification wasn’t enough to help. Detective Simmons assured me that getting down to two men from five, was still helpful.

That night, I woke up to the sound of breaking glass. I sat up, looked at the time on the microwave, 3:10 am. I could still see pretty well in the moonlit room. I froze for a moment, wondering if the sound was outside or in the building. Then, I heard the security door creaking open out in the hallway. I found my phone and dialed 911. As I was whispering my concern, address, etc. to the operator, my apartment door burst open. I dropped the phone and dove behind the kitchen counter. I had a fire extinguisher under the counter, so I grabbed it and stayed quiet. I heard someone moving about in the dark, opening various doors, until I heard the person nearing the kitchen.

I steadied myself on my feet firmly, griped the extinguisher and rose up slightly to see a man with his back to me. I moved forward and brought the extinguisher down on his head as hard as possible. He cried out as he staggered from the apartment and from the next sounds I heard, had tumbled down the stairs. I saw twirling police lights in the alley, switched on the kitchen light and called out to the officer below.

“Whoever it was went back down stairs!” I yelled.

The officer acknowledged this with a wave of the hand and ran to the side of the building. By then more squads had arrived and the search was on. After inspecting my door, I wondered how the heck I’d lock it up later. I turned on a hall light for the officers, then started looking around for Milo. Detective Simmons called out a greeting from the hallway as he was ascending the stairs.

“Miss Rosales, you okay up here?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Some guy came in here to do who knows what!” I said in astonishment.

“Well, the officers outside have the intruder in custody now. He’s bleeding profusely from his head. Know anything about that?” He asked me.

“Well, he shouldn’t have broke into my apartment, I hit him with a fire extinguisher.”

“Alright, good job. But Ms. Rosales, he was seriously out to hurt you. He is one of the two men you selected from the line up. We think he knew you glimpsed him that night in the alley, might of seen you up here in the shadows. We’ll detain him and you won’t need to worry about him getting out anytime soon. Keep your eyes on the newspapers, the whole story will be out. We shouldn’t have to divulge your name. He will be charged with breaking into this building along with the murder. Maybe he’ll confess to that at the station. Or we’ll put our case together from what we have, which is plenty.”

“Well, okay. Thanks. I need to somehow figure out how to lock the door for the night. Poor Milo is hiding somewhere. I need to find him and give him a bowl of milk.” I muttered inanely.

“I am assigning two officers to secure the building until morning when repairs can be made.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hanson has repair people that he uses, I have their numbers. I’ll call first thing in the morning. But, I appreciate the officers staying until then, I really do.” I added.

“ One officer will be outside and one will be in your hallway, right outside your door. You get some rest. Do not hesitate to phone me if you need anything else. I know you’re here alone for the next week or so and I don’t want you worried. We will talk soon.” Detective Simmons exited.

The following week the newspaper reported that the male alley victim had been murdered by his own son. The son had been working for a drug dealer, his father became suspicious and went to the alley to confront his son. Sadly, his own boy attacked him, they scuffled and his son stabbed him to death. In the skirmish the son had injured his leg, thus the limp I noticed. He had since confessed to the murder and to breaking into my apartment.

I had been crafting a storyline for a fictional account ever since I heard the woman’s scream. With the additional facts of who the murderer was and the break in at my apartment, I now had emotion to infuse besides just gory details and was typing away, when I heard knocking on the downstairs door. Once again, Detective Simmons stood below my window.

“So, Detective James Simmons. You need help with another murder? C’mon up!”

“Well, Miss Morales I had lunch with a friend yesterday and your name came up.”

“My name? Why? What did I do now?” I smiled as I waived him to a kitchen chair and poured a cup of coffee for him.

“Thanks.” he sipped the coffee. “He recently retired from the force. In fact, he was my boss. He always kept a journal with the idea of writing a series of detective novels someday but as he says, he is not a writer. If you’re interested, you could be listed as co-writer.”

“Wow! Really? You told him about me? And here I thought getting mixed up with the cops was the worse thing that could happen!” I was astonished. “Thank you, that’s fantastic!”

He pushed a slip of paper across the small kitchen table towards me. “Here’s his name and number. He’s a good person and he wants you to call. His wife is already planning a menu for when you come meet them.” He smiled. “She’s a great cook!”

All the lit candles, stand in a row.

Loved ones come and then they, go.

One last grasp to bridge the gap.

A desperate hope, they might come back.

Don’t light a candle for those not missed.

If they come back, they may be pissed.

Armed with a candle, it’s you they’ll attack.

Hot wax dripping down your neck and back.

Their teeth will flash while laying the curse.

They’ll laugh at you in the back of the hearse.

Their taunting will reach you, six feet below.

“Hey, you got matches in there fellow?”

Your one desperate grasp, avoid this dark doom

You strike that match, you feel Kaboom!

Gee, this casket is very hot!

The gas main runs right through this lot!

I’m buried, I’m ashes and I don’t care!

The worms can go fish, no food for them here.

Happy Halloween!

The web is a wonderful tool to assist a man who has lost his mind. In no time at all; I had created an emergency leave request to send to corporate, booked a cabin at a camp in a place where something howled and made an appointment with an Angel.

“It’s a magical place, where I live.” She had explained on the train.

I believed her. I had never been so drawn to a woman; our conversation was easy and natural. Her scent was of the forest; moss, evergreen, oak and rain. Her dark hair shimmered under the club car’s coach-light as it framed her serene face which was accentuated with eyes a mesmerizing shade of amber. My heart was racing, I felt it fracture a little as we approached the Omaha station.

“This is my stop, I’d like to see you again. My name is Paul Jensen, what’s your name?”

“My name is Angel. Why not come visit me sometime?” She whispered.

I thought I’d black out as she suddenly leaned upward towards me to kiss my cheek. She then reached for my hand, slipping something into it. She smiled and waived goodbye as she walked back to her compartment. As I grabbed my satchel and disembarked from the Zephyr, I looked back to see her one more time but the train had lurched forward and zip; she was gone.

A taxi driver inquired with his eyes and I jogged over to secure a ride. After I settled into the back and stated my destination, I examined the card she’d placed into my hand.

Angelica Donavan

Spiritual Advisor

Northwoods Spiritualist Camp

Wonewoc, Wisconsin

I paused and reread it a second time. Who does she advise and what does she advise whoever; to do? I knew nothing much about Wisconsin and what is a spiritualist camp? I laughed at the fleeting thought of writing her off as a crackpot. I’d known the minute I met her, I had to see her again. Sitting in the back of the taxi smiling like a fool, I became aware that I was barely breathing; every muscle in my body was tight so I took in a deep breath. I exhaled slowly, trying to clear my head and relax before I’d pass out.

I couldn’t have imagined her. I mumbled to myself.

There could only be one truth. Only one. She was my Thunderbolt! She had to be what my Grandpa had told me about through an Italian tale when I was 15 years old.

“One day you’ll meet a fascinating woman who impacts your soul immediately, right down to its inner most depths, as if she has always been a part of your life and a vital one at that. You never pass up a Thunderbolt, young fella. A woman like that comes along in a man’s life just once, if he’s lucky! The secret is to recognize her when you see her. And act quickly, because she’s like a spirit who can disappear in the blink of an eye!”

At my apartment, I couldn’t fall asleep, my mind raced back and forth between Angel and my Grandfather. He had never steered me wrong, not once. I reviewed my work schedule. I decided to clear it entirely after Wednesday and free myself up for an impromptu trip. After all, Grandpa had emphasized to not miss my chance. A quick on-line search told me to head towards southwestern Wisconsin. The name “Wonewoc” was a loose interpretation of an Ojibwa word indicating “where they howl”. There was a Spiritualist Camp over 100 years old located on bluffs overlooking the village which was slightly older than the camp. The camp did have a spiritual advisor named Angelica Donavan. They also rented cabins.

The minute I’d cleared through my clients on Wednesday, I headed home to pack my overnight bag and break the news to Mac, my dog. He was always happy to stay with the neighbors and hopefully they’d be around to host him. I’d be taking off first thing tomorrow. It was a seven hour drive from Omaha to the village of Wonewoc. I slept restlessly that night, like all the others since the day I had met Angel. I dreamt about a howling place, amber eyes and a wild, dark forest. The next morning I stuffed Mac’s meager canine belongings into a paper bag and we walked over to Sue and Doug’s house at 7:00 a.m. Doug stood on the porch with a steaming cup of coffee.

“Morning, Paul! So I hear old Mac is going to hang with us for a couple days, huh?” My neighbor said as he fluffed up the black fur on Mac’s big Labrador head. You must have urgent business somewhere.”

“Yeah something like that.” I smiled at Doug. “Thanks for watching him and please tell Sue thanks and I’ll bring her something from Wisconsin.”

“Well if it’s cheese, smoked Gouda is her favorite. With a glass of Chardonnay of course.”

“Both can be arranged! What can I bring you?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing. He’s a good walking partner.” Said Doug as he looked down at Mac.

“Great, he can use the exercise. Thanks again, Doug. I know it’s short notice.”

“No worries, neighbor. Have a safe drive.”

“Be a good boy, Mac. You stay here and I will be back as soon as I can.” I patted my buddy on his head. As they walked to the house I heard Doug plotting with Mac, “how ‘bout we talk Sue into making her great pecan pancakes?” Mac’s tail was wagging and I was forgotten.

As I drove past the drying corn fields of Iowa, my mind replayed the brief encounter with Angel over and over. Maybe I was unhappy being single and had never slowed down long enough to notice it? This was more than a physical attraction. It was a crazy yearning drawing me to this woman. I felt a suffering type of misery for every moment I wasn’t near her. Actual pangs in my stomach! I hadn’t told my friends or family that I was off to Wisconsin. I didn’t know how to explain this behavior. Grandpa would have understood, I doubt if anyone else would. He had been full of Italian fables from his mother and Ojibwa stories from his father. He always had a story available to teach me a lesson. In fact, he mostly spoke in the story telling way of the Ojibwa elders he grew up around. When I was older I had asked him if Grandma was his Thunderbolt.

“No, you don’t marry a Thunderbolt, Paul. She’s too hard to keep long term. She has an independent spirit like an eagle. But don’t try to fight the attraction! Just understand you’ll hurt afterward. No, you don’t marry a Thunderbolt. You marry a girl you can love and build a life with, like your Grandmother. She’s a wonderful woman and I love her, always have. A Thunderbolt is different. She is one that feels like, well, you can’t live without. Like, you’ll die if you don’t see her again! That medicine is too strong! When a Thunderbolt strikes, you sit back and enjoy the thrill. She’ll move on quickly and you’ll have had a once in a lifetime experience. Like catching a glimpse of a white buffalo or a falling star. Just be damned glad you got it once!” Grandpa winked at me.

“Mine, she was like a dancing spirit, full of light.” Then he smiled to himself and said no more. His Thunderbolt memory belonged to him alone to cherish. He took any other wisdom on the subject to his grave.

It was late September and as I crossed over the Mississippi River, I admired the beauty of the maple trees ablaze in red, orange and gold. The sumac was blood red and just now turning to deep magenta; a magnificent autumnal display of color set against the innocent shade of powder blue that is a Midwestern sky. Harvest was full throttle and the road was busy with tractors and haulers. Apple stands with tote bags brimming full of cold weather apples and little cash boxes graced the ends of farm driveways; the honor system confidently in place. The road was narrow with two lanes that hugged curves and hills. Thick forest grew close to the road where there wasn’t a farm field. This area was known as the “drift-less” region. A section of southwest Wisconsin that had remained untouched by the slow moving glaciers and the deposits they’d left behind elsewhere. The land remained as it had always been; a beautiful hidden and primitive gem blessed with hardwoods, pines, rivers and streams. Deer were abundant and crossing the road wherever they liked and more than one flock of turkeys took their time crossing the road.

I slowed down a bit to keep an eye out for a store or cafe. I hadn’t eaten and was in need of both food and water. A left turn onto Highway K led to Wonewoc, ahead 8 miles. A dairy farm’s cheese store advertised “retail sales and deli”. I pulled into the gravel lot and parked. I had ample time before my 4 p.m. appointment. As I walked up to the store entrance I was greeted by chickens, barn-cats and two Shepard mix dogs. I like animals and I spent a few minutes petting the dogs, cats and two extremely friendly hens. Finally, I broke away from the crowd of curious creatures and ventured inside. A handful of Mennonite women were hard at work. I asked if I could use the restroom and washed up hoping I hadn’t picked up fleas, ring worm, or bird flu (or something even more diabolical) from the greeters. Next I found the cheese counter which was packed with extraordinary cheeses. The ladies chatted me up, fed me samples and sold me more cheese than I needed. I protested that I wouldn’t be home for days, I couldn’t buy a lot.

“Not to worry for a mere $3.00, we provide a small styrofoam cooler and dry ice!”

I selected a variety of items for Sue and Doug and placed them in the cooler. After the ladies heard I had driven all morning, they insisted I sit at a small table behind the counter and presented me with a complimentary lunch of apple juice, homemade pickles and a roast turkey sandwich on cranberry bread. At the cash register I grabbed bottled water, a fresh apple pie, homemade dog treats and a molasses cookie. I said my thanks and goodbyes to the kind ladies.

It was now nearing 3:00 p.m. About two miles outside of Wonewoc I spotted a nice shaded spot to pull over and enjoy the cookie. I still had excess time, so I parked the car and strolled around the park-like setting. A small pedestrian bridge crossed the babbling and lively Baraboo River. On one side the river was bordered by the lazy country road I had traveled. The other side was flanked by tall grasses that lined the riverbank and grew into the shadows thrown from the steep bluffs that soared above. A small sign instructed that visitors were welcome to fill water bottles at the small spigot that jetted out of a rocky embankment from a natural spring near the bridge. A posting stated “The Village of Wonewoc tests monthly to verify spring water is safe for drinking”. Clean spring water alongside the rattling of quaking aspen made me think I could fall in love with this beautiful place.

After a few minutes I resumed my drive into the village. I passed old craftsman style homes for a half mile before passing two small churches. Then a sharp left curve took me onto Main Street. Here I found a quarter mile of old buildings with date stamps going back over 100 years. Many buildings were occupied; a cafe, hardware store, bakery, etc. The next quarter mile showcased more impressive homes in Queen Anne and Gothic Revival styles, presumably built by the successful village founders of long ago. There was a secondary street squeezed behind this row in the shadow of the bluffs that showcased small saltbox homes. Leaving town, headstones marked the passing of villagers who now lay in shadowed and sleepy graves under the bluffs. Across the road modern times were encroaching on their eternal rest in the form of a mobile home park and senior citizen apartments, an auto repair shop and the town’s one gas station.

I turned the car around to drive back through the village and look for my destination. There were few people on the streets at 3:30 p.m. That’s when I saw a small arrow shaped sign pointing up a steep gravel road. The sign read Spiritualist Camp. I had not forgotten why I was here. Not for a moment. I stepped on the pedal to ascend the steep curved road. As I drove up higher, my anticipation grew. The forested beauty engulfed me on both sides of the road. At the top, the road leveled out and the camp entrance came into sight. My heart now beat just a bit faster. It was 3:45 p.m. I drove into the camp slowly and carefully so as to not hit any sapling. They were everywhere, as if no one intended to maintain the drive but instead maneuver around them forever. This crazy maze of trees went on for a while before I saw a pole with multiple arrow shaped signs nailed to it. After some deciphering, I decided where I’d likely find the front office. I lucked out on the first guess and parked the car. Inside the cabin marked “office” I found one old man.

“Greetings, friend. How can I help you?” A broad smile spread across his face.

“Hello, my name is Paul Jensen. I have a 4:00 p.m. appointment with Angelica Donavan”.

“Oh, sure! You rented a cabin too. I’ll walk you over to Angel’s cabin and point your’s out on the way. Your car is fine right there overnight.” He said as he handed me my cabin key.

We passed two cabins on the right and then he pointed to one on the left.

“That’s you right there number 4. Now I need to get back for the phone calls and visitors. You walk on down to number 7, that’s Angel.”

“Alright, it’s zero hour” I said to myself as I approached cabin number 7. My hand trembled a bit as it pulled open the rickety screen door. I was greeted by a tall thin woman about sixty years old. She wore her graying blond hair twisted into an “updo” fashion, that’s what my Mother would call it. Her thin hand emerged from a voluminous purple sleeve to gesture me in.

“Welcome to Wonewoc, I am Angel.” Her smile was warm and inviting. I began to look around for another Angel. There had to be another Angel. Maybe this was her grandmother?

“Hello, I’m Paul Jensen. I’m looking for Angelica Donavan.”

“That is I, dear. How can I assist you?” This older Angel asked me.

I remembered the business card in my pocket and began fumbling to produce it. There was nothing in my pocket. I frantically began searching other pockets only to come up empty handed.

“There is no other woman here named Angel? Are you sure?” I pressed her.

“No, I am the only Angel here. At least, that I know of!” She smiled. “I am sorry.”

“She was young and…I don’t understand.” I said quietly, my face in a lost frown.

“I am sure you do not.” She smiled. “All the same, I do think I can help you.”

“Come sit with me Paul; I’ll attempt to explain.”

Old Angel escorted me to a small table by a window in her one room office. With a flick of her wrist she indicated that I should be seated in one of the two chairs at the table. She soon occupied the other. She reached her hands out across the table towards me.

“Please, one of your hands.” She enveloped my left hand in hers as she closed her eyes and sat quietly for a minute or so. Her hands were small and soft. Her breathing was peaceful and rhythmic. She seemed to be meditating. Suddenly she dropped my hand as her eyelids fluttered open. She looked around in a startled manner for a moment before she spoke.

“Please tell me everything about why you have come here today.”

This request from her annoyed me considerably; I was already freaking out that either one or two Angels were messing with me. And I was seriously disappointed that there apparently was no young Angel. I was confused and felt more than a little foolish, having driven all this way. Besides, she’s the “spiritual advisor” shouldn’t she know why I am here? I kept that to myself. I tried to relax as I began.

“I was minding my own business in the Zephyr train’s club car enjoying a beer on Sunday afternoon. In comes a woman named Angel and we started talking. She was charming, gorgeous and smart. About my age. We hit it off so well it felt like I knew her forever. All too soon we were at my stop. We said our goodbyes and she gave me her card. Since then she has been constantly on my mind. I thought she was my Thunderbolt”. I looked down, somewhat embarrassed at that last part. Old Angel smiled and did not ask “What the heck is a Thunderbolt?” It seemed she already knew.

“Alright, then I am going to tell you about my journey to Wonewoc. This may help you to understand what I believe is happening with you. I ask for your patience, Paul. It’s a somewhat long and incredible tale.” She poured us both a cup of tea.

“Thirty years ago I was a young woman living in Chicago. I had graduated from Loyola and had recently passed the Bar. After accepting a junior position in a prestigious law firm, I attended a cocktail reception and celebrated with my friends. On the way home we witnessed a fatal traffic accident. What occurred at the crash site is directly related to me coming here to Wonewoc.” She sipped her tea and hesitated for a moment before looking into my eyes.

“You see, all of my life I have had the ability to communicate with those who have passed over. I am a Spiritualist, not the fortune teller you assume that I am. And this place on this hill, has long been a center of spiritual messaging. The native people of the area come here every Spring to confer with their ancestors and have done so for centuries; to ask for council on preparing for the upcoming year. And many farmers swear by the accuracy of our readings, to help them in crop planning. Many say it’s more accurate than the Farmer’s Almanac.” She paused a moment.

I’ve heard dozens of native storytellers share mystical tales and visions; some I believed and others, not so much. Now I wondered if she could read my sarcastic mind, as I listened without interrupting her. Maybe she was a bit psychic but mostly a nut, I figured I’d see how long before her train derailed. She continued.

“The dead do not all communicate the same way. Some are very subtle. A soul might send a message intended for a person, through another’s dream. A dream that comes to me, perhaps. And sometimes the person who is to receive the message comes here because a nagging idea wouldn’t let them rest. We then sit here together and often I am able to deliver the message.

Occasionally, a departed soul will find a way to draw a loved one to Wonewoc for things besides receiving a message. I’ve seen it many times over the years. We have people living in the village who were drawn here by various means. Sometimes the draw begins with them hearing a distant howling. The sound of canines that is only audible to them. That is common for many who live within a hundred miles or so of this village. Outside that parameter, the stories tend to be like yours. A bold visual or symbolic indication. And in more than one instance the person was drawn here by meeting a mesmerizing stranger who invites them in.”

Angel stood and stretched. Gazing out the window, she continued.

“In my case, I met what I thought was a stranger at the crash site. She turned out to be more like a guardian Angel. She told me to “Go to Wonewoc for your true work”. I was struck by how adamant she was about this before she disappeared. I knew instinctively that she was a spirit. Long story short, I did investigate Wonewoc. Reading the village’s history, I realized why I was being summoned. The Spiritualists. I had not heard about this place and the idea that I’d meet others that had the same ability as me was far too strong to resist. I came, I saw and I stayed. My parents were furious with my waste of an expensive education and my friends thought I was crazy to give up a promising career. I never thought twice. I’ve been satisfied and happy every day I’ve lived here. The way that I am able to assist people through this work is far more important and satisfying to me than anything I could have done with a law degree. And I found love and happiness here also. As I said earlier, local farmers come up here to confer with the psychics about planning for next year’s crops, how much insurance to secure for those crops, etc. The man I married was a farmer who was walking around lost in the camp and we spoke. It was love and yada yada, next thing we are married. And very happily.” She smiled. “Anyway, here you are and now we must figure out why. I do know one thing, he was wrong. Come back tomorrow at 2:00 p.m.” With that I was dismissed as she gestured towards the door.

I stood up and walked out the door without saying a word. My head ached and my stomach was tight. I went to my car to grab my stuff. As I mulled over what Old Angel had talked about I realized she had mentioned “he was wrong”. Who was wrong? What the hell did that mean? Cabin 4 proved to be set up as a one bedroom studio with a kitchenette and a small bath. It was bare bones but clean and had everything I needed. Well of course it has everything I need, I muttered crazily to myself, they’re psychic! Along with my satchel, I lugged the food from the car into the cabin. A sign in the parking area warned about food items left in vehicles attracting bears or other wild animals. I made a pot of coffee and checked my messages. Then I found a fork in a kitchen drawer and settled down in a chair by the window with coffee and the pie. I spent a long time wondering how and why I was here. I see a pretty woman on a train and run after her like a school boy? Is that really who I am? Worst of all I felt like I was mourning a lost love. There was no Thunderbolt Angel. I don’t recall a time when I felt more discouraged and confused.

My sleep was restless and I was up by 6:00 am. I walked into the village to see if the cafe served breakfast. Walking down the steep hill into the village below, I passed an older couple who were walking up. They were holding hands and laughing. They greeted me warmly like we were old friends. As they continued up the hill, I marveled at how effortlessly they did so. Barely a huff or puff between the chatter they shared. In the village, activity was slowly coming to life. A few old ladies were talking outside the tiny post office. Two young boys were stuffing their mouths with donuts as they sat on a bench outside the bakery, their bicycles propped against the building. The cafe’s front door was propped open with a big rock and as I stepped inside, I was surprised how many people were there. Nearly every table was occupied by groups of ladies, families or old farmers. As I made my way through the tables people greeted me with “hello, there!” or a plain old “good morning!” I smiled and nodded, feeling like a very welcomed local. I sat at the counter with a couple of other single men. They acknowledged me with the customary head nod.

And then, she came through the swinging kitchen door and walked behind the counter, grabbing an apron en route to the coffee machine. My heart nearly stopped as I watched her deftly gather her hair into a tie-up and secure the apron around her slender waist. She grabbed a coffee pot from the burner and started her way down the counter as she topped off mugs, smiling and greeting each person. She got to me and looked up. Those gorgeous amber eyes sparkled.

“Morning! Are you having coffee? Turn your mug up please”.

She was shorter than I remembered and more curvy. She smelled like pine forest and moved like a cat. There was that strong sense of familiarity. I could not speak. It seemed to be “her”, my Angel. But yet, she was different. She was warmer, more real and less ethereal.

“How about something to eat?” She asked, still smiling amusedly. I remained mute and probably two shades of red.

“Maybe eggs and bacon for you. That’s what you want.” Now she was blushing, no doubt embarrassed for me. She flipped the coffee mug up and filled it, looked at me a moment then walked into the kitchen and placed the order she had selected for me. I sat there like an idiot, but now I could feel a smile on my face. By the time she set the plate in front of me, I had found my voice.

“Hi, I am Paul. I’m visiting your fine town for the weekend. How about showing me around?”

“Well, you can speak. Marvelous!” She held her hand out to shake mine. “I guess you really needed that coffee!” She smiled, letting me know she forgave my prior idiocy.

“I am Ava. And I could give you the 5 minutes tour. I mean, seriously, that’s about all there is to the town!” I held her hand as long as I could before she gently pulled it away.

“C’mon back around noon. I’ll be closing up here by then.” Her smile was beautiful and genuine.

“Great, I will be here!” My smile was probably moronic, but I didn’t care.

Good to her word, we walked around the town, chatting happily the whole time. We agreed to dine together that evening. Meanwhile, I went back up the hill and rented the cabin for a month and kept the 2:00 p.m. appointment with the spiritualist, Angel. I wanted to know “who” was wrong and about what?

“Your Grandfather.” Angel explained. “He wants you to know he was wrong about a Thunderbolt. He says you can hold onto one and yours lives in the village. He sent the spirit-woman to the train, to lead you here so I could deliver the message. He says it’s now your job to find her and hold onto her tight, forever!” She smiled triumphantly. “Oh, and he says he loves you.”

I was amazed that she knew about the conversation I had with my Grandpa so long ago. My heart was touched to think he’d send me a message, to bring me my happiness.

“Angel, I have found her! We just spent two wonderful hours together. Her name is Ava.”

“Sometimes I really love my life and my crazy gift!” Angel exclaimed. “How wonderful for you!” She clapped her hands together and laughed happily.

Things between Ava and I progressed at a whirlwind pace. She, eventually admitted she sensed an immediate draw to me, just like I had to her. She said when she reached out and shook my hand that first morning, her arm quivered all the way up. We still laugh about these crazy events, but we are so grateful they happened. After a few days, I returned to Omaha to get Mac. I moved out of my apartment, quit my job and updated my family and friends. I never worried about the future, nor looked back to the past. This abrupt change to my life went smoothly, considering it came about by some sort of other worldly interference. I’m forever grateful to my Grandfather and to Angel. And to the spirit-stranger on the train. I love my Ava, our kids and the life we’ve built together. Mac loves life in the country and has embraced the responsibility of being a proper farm dog, keeping critters out of the garden and greeting every arriving visitor with a few friendly barks.

And somehow, he has learned to howl like a wolf.

“What this town needs is a seamstress or tailor. There’s not anyone who can even take up a hem, for heaven’s sake.” Mrs. Kingston sighed as she finished wiping her glossy kitchen counter top. “Every alteration requires a minimum of two trips to Unionville. Fifty miles per one round trip. One hundred miles for the tiniest fix!”

“Good morning, Mother.” Amanda smiled as she realized, her mother was talking to an empty room. If Mr. Kingston had been there, he was no longer. Looking out the window, his car was not in the driveway.

“Oh, Amanda. Good morning.” Her mother stopped a moment, glancing out the window towards the driveway with a knitted brows. “I think it’s time for you and I to do a bit of dress shopping. You need a new fancy dress for Prom. I appreciate your offer to simply have the old one altered, but it’s just not necessary. Driving all the way to Unionville, twice! Besides, you should have a new dress for your Senior Prom.”

“Not going to Prom. I told Dan and Steve, no thanks. Yes, I had two offers. But I am just not interested, it’s a silly tradition and I don’t want the family spending money on a goofy dress I will wear once. And neither Dan nor Steve are that fascinating, trust me.”

“Oh no, Amanda! Don’t short yourself on this memory! You may regret it one day.”

“Not likely, Mother. Don’t think of it again please, I have decided not to attend. But, this conversation has given me an idea that will solve one problem, thank you!” She kissed her mother’s forehead and headed for the door.

“What idea?” Mrs. Kingston called after her. “Darn it, everyone leaves in the middle of conversations!” Mrs. Kingston noticed splotches of something, maybe juice, had dripped down the front of the refrigerator. “Nope, can’t have that!” She headed over with her cleaning supplies.

With the completion of her high school career approaching, Amanda Kingston was pondering her future, jobs were scarce in her small town. Nature occasionally bestows upon a person, a curious lack of curiosity about the outside world. Amanda was one of these people and had long held a suspicion that life need be only as complicated as a person chose to make it. As far as leaving town to perform a job, she certainly did not want to join the commuters of the world who engaged in non-productive hours behind a steering wheel; creating nothing but ozone, profit for oil companies and possible road kill. Alas, she was heavy with common sense yet light on mirth and merriment.

“Dad, I need to borrow the car tomorrow to purchase a used sewing machine in Charlesburg. I will also need the car every Tuesday evening for the next couple of months to attend a sewing class at Unionville Community College.” Amanda announced decisively at breakfast, the very next day.

“Sure, fine.” Mumbled her father over his coffee. He did pause from his magazine long enough to gaze at his clever daughter, wondering what she was up to.

“I didn’t know you had any interest in sewing, Amanda.” Mrs. Kingston said as she paused from scrubbing the kitchen sink; delivering an inquisitive look along with her comment.

“I don’t have any interest in sewing, Mother. However, I knew it would make you happy and it is what is needed, someone in the family has to figure out how to sew. Plus, I can take in work and make money until I figure out what I will do with my life.”

“You are the most remarkable person I’ve ever known, Amanda.” Her mother replied with admiration. Her father smiled, he was not surprised as Amanda had always been a problem solver, a self-spinning top. This was a classic, Amanda-type solution to her mother’s quandary.

“Truly an outstanding idea, Sweetie.” Mr. Kingston said to his daughter. “You will be a great success at whatever you tackle in life and you can count on me for any help you need.” He gave her a wink.

On the walk to school, Amanda thought about her mother’s remark regarding “an interest in sewing”. Not once had she considered whether or not she would like sewing until her mother had mentioned it. It wasn’t about sewing or about what she would enjoy. It was about answering a need. She listened to the kids at school talk about careers that were fulfilling or socially aware. Many expressed concerns about seeing the real world or the apparent horrors of not seeing it. The popular believe seemed to be that money bought happiness and therefore acquiring masses of cash was what life was about. And one had to do this far from home. Amanda had quietly suspected this formula might not lead to what she desired. She loved her town and liked the idea of looking about to see what her community needed before trying to save the whole world.

The rest of the school year flew by, as did the Tuesday night sewing lessons. The sewing instructor, Mrs. Wells approached Amanda as everyone was saying their goodbyes.

“Amanda, I do wish you’d join my advanced class. We have a condensed version during the summer, you could complete the entire course in the month of July. You have a real knack for handling fabric and the machine.” Mrs. Wells explained.

“Oh, no. I don’t think it’s necessary for me, Ma’am. I just wanted to learn the basics so I could help out folks around my town with easy sewing fixes. I have to start looking for a job, there’s not a lot of prospects in my town and that’s where I want to stay.”

“If you want to stay in your town, why not open your own alteration shop? You really do have a talent for sewing, Amanda. Much more so than any of my other students. Your attention to detail and the quality of your stitching, both are quite impressive. In the advanced class, I cover design and pattern making, etc. There’s more latitude for creativity. I think you would really excel. And the college does offer business classes, including self owned business basics.”

“No, no thank you, Mrs. Wells. It’s very nice of you to say, but I don’t think so.” Amanda’s eyes looked down, her face awash with a warming blush. She couldn’t imagine herself running her own shop. What would make this woman think she could? How would she even start?

“Well, should you change your mind, you can sign up on line until next Friday. I hope to see you again!” The instructor smiled warmly.

Amanda now found herself with no more high school to report to and no Tuesday night obligation to attend sewing class in Unionville. Another Monday morning rolled in and she decided to go for a long walk and do some thinking. Sunday she had perused the small town newspaper for work, nothing much available. As she walked through the town, she saw many people she’d known her whole life. It seemed everyone stopped her to say congratulations and to ask “so, what’s next?” Indeed, what was next?

As she approached the end of town, she noticed the for sale sign by old Mr. Sandstone’s house. He had died the previous winter. There was much talk about the house by the townspeople but there wasn’t much interest in anyone buying it because it was less than a thousand square feet and rather run down. The roof sagged. Worse, the lady who cleaned for the realty company said it smelled like a very old Mr. Sandstone, no matter what cleanser she tried! However, it sat on three acres of land that offered the quietude of being next to the State Forest and it came with an oversized out-building that was in very good shape including a solid foundation and a relatively new roof. It was in much better shape than the house. And it had heat, electricity and water to it. No one was sure what Mr. Sandstone had intended with all this, he never used the building. She had heard two men discussing these positive facts outside the hardware store earlier that day. One had commented,

“I’d buy it myself just for that outbuilding if I was younger, start up a shop of or something.”

Amanda stood gazing at the property before deciding to walk up the driveway. She was curious to see what was in the back yard. She found five beautiful and healthy fruit trees. Most of the blossoms had fallen and it was too early in summer to see the fruit, but the bark, branches and leaves looked in good shape. She’d paid attention when she worked at Mr. Johnson’s orchard. Amanda peeped into the house windows, the place was dreary but it looked clean. She noted the old carpeting, most likely the culprit holding the scent of old Mr. Sandstone. The outbuilding was indeed the prize. Someone could build a business in that place, she thought off handed.

“What’s next? She asked herself aloud. “Well, let’s think that through. Mom and Dad are in their late sixties and it wouldn’t do to move away and start a life, only to be needed back here in ten years or so to care for them. It would be easier to be in town all along. Plus, I love this town! What is needed, that’s the real question.” The conversation with the sewing instructor Mrs. Wells, had been lingering in the back of her mind, but not very far in the back. She decided then to sign up for the other classes.

The summer passed quickly. Her additional classes were completed and nothing had came of further job searches. Amanda arrived at the breakfast table the next morning, as usual. However, she was more chipper than normal and smiling broadly as she addressed her parents.

“There simply are no jobs to be had long term in this town, at least none that I am interested in. After listening to Mother’s concern about the town not having a seamstress, I initially did the sewing thing kind of as a fluke, an option to maybe do it as a second job. Now, the idea has occurred to me that I could start my own business, and I’ve completed a self owned business course. I will stay here in town to help you both when you’re older and it will save the family from spending money on a four year college degree which I have no interest in.” Amanda expounded with Spock-like logic. Her parents listened in stunned silence.

“What I need is for you to co-sign a loan so I can purchase old Mr. Sandstone’s place. I intend to live and work in the outbuilding, until I save enough money to fix up the house. Dad, I’m hoping I can rely on you to help me build temporary living quarters in the back of the building.”

“Well, I must say it sounds like a well thought out plan. At last we will have a seamstress in this town, run by a most efficient person!” Said her mother excitedly. She kissed Amanda on the top of her head, then sat down at the table.

“I have you Mother, to thank for the idea.”

“I am delighted to know someone listened to me! And, it’s sweet of you to consider our later years, although it’s not your responsibility. I love you, dear.” A teary look clouded Mrs. Kingston’s eyes. Amanda smiled.

“I’m proud of you, Amanda. Your thoughtfulness of the town’s need and our bank account is much appreciated.” Her dad smiled again. “And I am happy to co-sign for you and help you fix that place up. I like the idea of getting your business up and running first, just like my Amanda to have a detailed plan for success!” He felt lucky to have two wonderful women in his life.

Amanda’s business was indeed up and running by the end of summer. Mr. Kingston made a big sign for the front of the building. He had suggested “The Alteration Station” and Amanda approved. He painted a spool of thread and a gleaming silver needle on the sign. Mrs. Kingston had taken it upon herself to do light landscaping around the shop, a few miniature blue spruce type bushes and mulch. Amanda strung tiny white outdoor lights on the bushes and around the windows. She soon hired her first employee; an orange tabby cat who had taken to hanging around the shop. She named him Amigo. He was very well mannered and was willing to catch and remove any stray mouse that got into the shop. She installed a pet door and out he would go with the mice. He also used the outdoors as a litter box, this made him self sufficient and Amanda admired that trait. He quickly earned permanent water and food bowls, a perch in a sunny window and a warm place in Amanda’s heart. She was soon swamped with work. She had lots of repeat customers by Christmas. And word was beginning to spread to nearby towns, there was a “new alteration shop, quality work done quickly and at fair prices”.

Amanda worked on credit for folks who were experiencing hard times, like Tom Jensen who had been released from prison after twelve years. He had very few pieces of clothing and all were now ill fitting. Mostly, because he’d been a mere boy of eighteen when he was arrested and hadn’t yet filled out into a grown man’s body. His pants were now too short, his shirts too tight. He sheepishly asked about cost. Amanda quickly calculated a total for him, split that in half (which she didn’t mention) and told him he could pay it “when you can.” He was grateful and did pay his bill promptly after getting work. Bobbi Simon who had been in rehab for drugs now needed to find work. Bobbi had bought a few skirts and blouses at a second hand store in Unionville to wear to job interviews. They didn’t fit very well and Amanda knew money was an issue. She used her reduce by fifty percent but don’t tell the customer math and offered to take payments. Ms. Simon promptly found work and paid her debt. Bobbi sent a heartfelt holiday message to Amanda every year, she’d not forget the kindness shown.

One day Tom Jensen came in with a dog. The dog was so friendly and joyful, wagging its tail until his whole back-end jiggled.

“Amanda, please meet Lefty, he is a stray that is following me around. I can’t keep him at my sister’s house, maybe he can stay with you? Provide you protection?” he said laughing.

“Protection from boredom if not thieves!” Amanda smiled. “Why do you call him Lefty?”

“Watch him walk, he lists to the left, like a ship about to keel over.” Tom said. “I took him to the Vet and they examined him, even did an Xray. There is no reason for the list, he just does it.”

“Well, I could use a front door alarm so I know when someone is waiting. And, he is kind of cute, isn’t he? Alright, Lefty can have a shot at being my new security guard.” Amanda said as she pet his large black head, through his Poodle-ish hair. The mixed breed dog was friendly, mellow and fit right in. She noticed his tail wagged if she played jazz music and it became the music of the shop. He liked chasing Amigo out the back pet door (which he had to squeeze through giving Amigo a head start) into the big open yard and right up a tree. Before deep winter, she and Lefty moved into the house.

At Christmas, Amanda had a holiday party at her shop for the town. All day, folks drifted in and out, dropping off food to share, plates of sweets, fruity punch. Amanda took the opportunity to let everyone know she was making space in the shop for a clothes tree. This was a rack where people could select used clothing in good shape for free. She let the town folks know she was open to donations of cleaned clothes, she would fix them up as needed and hang them on the rack. Towards closing time, the contractor who had worked on her home, stopped by to wish her Happy Holidays and see if she was satisfied with the house. He brought his son along, his name was Thomas and was about Amanda’s age. Curiously, the contractor had driven his own truck and had to quickly exit, leaving the handsome and eligible Thomas standing at her counter.

“So, my dad says you are a great tailor and quite an entrepreneur.” Thomas commented.

“Well, that’s nice of him to say.” Amanda looked around, realizing everyone else had gone.

“Yes, he speaks very highly of you.” He smiled.

“So, are you home visiting your parents for the Holidays?” Amanda asked. Meanwhile, her mind was asking “why is he still here?”

“Yes. Well, actually I am moving back to the area. I’ve been working in Chicago. Dad’s getting on and he offered me the company, I am a contractor also, he taught me everything. I’ve decided to take him up on the offer. He can work part time if he wants and I will be closer to help him and Mom as they get older.” He had a great smile. Amanda felt her face warming. She hoped she wasn’t blushing, but supposed she was.

“That’s really great. I like being here too, my folks are getting older.”

“Anyway, my dad said you are the nicest woman in town who isn’t married. Maybe you will let me take you do dinner? Maybe Saturday?” Thomas asked.

“Yes Thomas, I will have dinner with you on Saturday.” Amanda heard herself saying.

“I’ll pick you up at 6:00pm. We will go to Unionville if that’s okay with you.”

Amanda nodded in agreement. Thomas smiled that great smile once again. Then he was gone.

Amanda locked up the shop. She walked into the back office and stood staring at Amigo.

“What the heck did I just do?” She asked the cat. He flicked his tail back and forth and licked a paw. “Oh boy, what did I get into?” Amanda laughed. She stroked Amigo’s orange coat and shut off the light. She went across the yard to the house. Lefty swaggered over to her from the back porch and wagged his tail. “Lefty! I think you have competition. You may not be the only fella in my life anymore.”

The next day, her very first customer was waiting for her to open up the shop. It was Jenny Powers, a young mother of three.

“Good morning, Jenny. You’re up bright and early!” Amanda said.

“Amanda, I am so excited about your clothes tree idea. I went through the boys clothes early this morning, I brought extra hangers too, and I brought a little book case to display shoes, and boots on. Is that okay? It’s wonderful of you to come up with this idea.” Smiled Jenny. “It really is needed.”

“Jenny, how nice of you. I hadn’t thought about boots and shoes, I have more than enough room.” Amanda said.

While Jenny was leaving, she passed the next customer, Louisa Denton. After the sixteen year old girl’s last visit, Amanda had muttered “Poor Louisa”. She had brought in a pair of pants to be let out. The girl seemed genuinely perplexed as to why she was gaining weight. That fact, coupled with a profusion of sudden onset acne had the girl all but flummoxed.

Silly girl, thought Amanda, it seems she hasn’t a drop of common sense and soon she will realize that Prom is not her biggest problem but that in fact, she is pregnant. While saying nothing of this to the girl, Amanda had mentioned to Louisa that she might tell her mother that her waistline was expanding, assuring the girl her mother would be able to help. Now Louisa was back.

“Hello, Louisa. What can I help you with today?” Amanda asked.

“Well, I am wondering if there are any used maternity clothes on the rack, you know why.”Louisa blushed a little but also smiled. “You were right about my mom, she did help me.”

“I am glad to hear it, Louisa. No maternity clothes yet, but I will call you if any come in.”

As evening approached, she folded the graduation gown she’d been working on for Sam Williams who was finally finishing high school after attending an extra semester.

His words, “I had to serve a longer sentence.” He had shared, eyes downcast.

“Better late than never, Sam. There’s no shame in that. Be proud, you’ve earned that diploma. What’s your next challenge, Sam?” Amanda had asked encouragingly.

Sam explained “I need to get more hours at the grocery store, save some cash and buy a vehicle. I’m interested in a job at the power plant outside of town.”

“Keep me posted on your progress.” She said with genuine interest.

Saturday afternoon slowly expired and Amanda closed up the shop. She rushed over to the house and put on the dress she had made in Mrs. Wells advanced class. She fixed her hair, did her makeup and called her mother.

“Hi, I want you to know that I am having dinner out with a friend tonight, so if you or Dad stopped by, I wouldn’t want you to worry that I am not answering the door.” Amanda explained.

“Oh, honey. How nice. Anyone I know?” Her mother inquired casually.

“I don’t think so, Mom. How about if I stop by tomorrow and tell you all about it?”

Amanda did stop by her parent’s house on Sunday. She couldn’t hide that she was excited about Thomas, so she did explain that she’d been on a date with him. She didn’t exactly tell them “all about it” after all, she and Thomas were consenting adults.

Two months later, Amanda hired Thomas’ crew to build a two stall garage next to the house. In it was room for her lawn mower, snow blower, gardening tools and her old pick up truck. The following month brought a new car to park in the other stall. The truck was demoted to outside. Sam Williams stopped in one day.

“Hi, Amanda. Guess what? I have an interview at the power plant!” Sam said.

“Well, now that’s great! Have you found a vehicle?” Asked Amanda.

“No, I am a little short on cash yet, but my dad will borrow me a car until I can buy one.”

“Do you have $100?” She asked.

Sam said, “Yes. I’m not that poor!” He laughed.

“See that old pick up out there?” Amanda pointed to the driveway. “Here’s the keys. It’s for sale, $100. You’re welcome to take a look, drive it around the block.”

“Seriously? That truck is worth more than $100, Amanda.”

“Check it out if you’d like.” She said, ignoring Sam’s concern about the low price.

Sam soon had himself a reliable old truck and Amanda had another friend for life.

Amanda and Thomas dated for many years. They were good friends. They were lovers. Neither ever mentioned marriage. Obviously, neither thought it was necessary. Sadly, Thomas died of cancer just after his 50th birthday. Amanda was 45 years old. She had lovely memories of Thomas, private memories that she held very dear.

On the thirtieth anniversary of opening the Alteration Station, Amanda quietly observed this milestone with Lefty III and Dos Amigo, the third round of her dog and (second) cat duo. Too bad they live such short lives, she always thought. She smiled at the remembrance of the original two as she closed the shop, walked into the office and opened a bottle of champagne. As she sipped a toast to her successful life and a nod of recognition and gratitude to her now deceased parents, she thought back to the beginning. She had strove to be self-sufficient and useful to her community. She felt accomplished and was genuinely satisfied and happy. She had taken a chance at love with Thomas. She had been loved, too. “Cheers!” She said to no one in particular.

Years passed, Amanda sewed on. She replaced pocket linings and buttons in sacred old work coats for hard working, busy farmers. She resized clothes from big kid sizes to smaller sizes to help single moms save money. Each piece of clothing that left her shop symbolized her usefulness and independence. And as years went by she realized, each piece of clothing had meaning. Sometimes deep meaning. An antique baptismal gown to honor yet another newborn. Refitting Magnus Scofield’s Santa Claus suit, because his real waistline had finally surpassed his fake jelly belly.

One day, a distraught mother arrived with a wedding dress that she wanted Amanda to alter, to be worn as a burial garment for her deceased eighteen year old daughter who had tragically died. The young woman had eloped with her new love, bypassing the dress and church ceremony. Shortly after the elopement, she became ill, had an emergency surgery from which she never recovered and suddenly, she was gone. Her mother couldn’t cope, she insisted her daughter had a right to wear a white gown. Somehow, the idea seemed to promise peace for the heart-broken woman. Amanda said alright, she’d visit the funeral home. After speaking with the mortician, they agreed that a couple of measurements could be taken by him and provided to Amanda. She would make the alterations, he would dress the tragic bride. For the grieving mother, this answered the call for what was needed.

Some pieces of clothing came in with silent stories. A gentleman’s slacks that required a discreet inside patch to the knee, from where he fell down while in a drunken and traumatized state after losing his job. The local deputy whose uniform shirt sleeve was ripped while pulling a dying man from a burning car. People rarely addressed the situations they had endured bravely with humility and perseverance; and Amanda never inquired. She knew the tell tale signs of trauma from caring for people’s clothes after many years and each time these painful, silent messes were repaired, she was reassured of her usefulness.

She kept everyone’s secrets, a sacred trust. The town’s population grew to appreciated Amanda. They relied upon her. She never joined a club or attended a church. No one could recall when she had closed the shop for a vacation. As years had passed, her parents died. She had no siblings, no nieces, no nephews. She buried her love, Thomas. She was a friend to all, but not a close friend to any. She surely was not monetarily rich, she hadn’t increased her fees much throughout the years. She was a puzzle. She was always available to repair shades or curtains for the town hall, the Mayor’s office, choir robes for any church or school, always for free. In later years, Amanda dedicated a section of her shop to a classroom setting. She had amassed many sewing machines by then. She put up a sign in the window, “free sewing classes, Wednesday evenings”. Many people asked why. She said, “I can’t work forever and I don’t want to leave the town with no one to take over the business.” She eventually found her muse. A young man named Irving who excelled at every thing she taught him, including the accounting side of the business. She eventually hired him and reduced her own hours to a mere four per day.

Amanda lived a life of silent service. It wasn’t showy, or wrapped in awards. She was a happy and content citizen of her world. She was useful and independent. Amanda Kingston died peacefully in her sleep one night, just after the 60th Anniversary celebration of her business’ opening. She was not quite eighty years old. The whole community turned out. Years before, the Garden Club had built her a landscaped Japanese style garden in her back yard to show the community’s appreciation for her many selfless acts, community involvement and quiet displays of kindness. Now a remembrance ceremony took place under the garden’s Japanese Torii gate.

“Amanda knew I was pregnant before I did, but she never said a word to a soul. Years later, I asked her why.” Louisa Denton-Shyde shared with the crowd. “Her answer was, Louisa you were still a child at age sixteen. I knew it wouldn’t be long before you would wake up to the changes your body was going through and you would go to your mother for help as a girl should. It wasn’t my place to share your news, not even with you. She smiled at me then and hugged me.” Louisa smiled at the memory. Many people had similar stories of gentle guidance and kindness.

At the reading of her will, it was revealed that Irving had inherited her business, home, the entire estate minus a specified cash amount that would be given to the animal shelter. Irving kept the name of the business, The Alteration Station to honor her memory. And he kept the tradition of a dog and cat duo to help him man the fort. Irving was lucky in love, married and soon two toddlers were running around the large yard, their mother watching attentively and father glancing out the shop window now and then, to see their antics. If Amanda’s spirit lingered, she surely was smiling at this development.

The community purchased a headstone with customized engravings. One small tabby cat in the upper left corner, one large, curly dog in the lower right corner. In between, it read:

Miss Amanda Justine Kingston

Our Town’s Seamstress and True Friend

We honor her 60 Years of Community Service

Amanda Always Knew What We Needed

Here I was, 11:55 p.m. Once again, waiting for the real estate broker to call back with the thumbs up or thumbs down. The buyer was furious with my latest negotiation. She wanted me to sign an extension of her offer to purchase my home, she hadn’t sold her place yet and needed time. My stance was that I had already closed on my new home and needed to unload this one. I wasn’t willing to take on two mortgage payments. She stated the same.

I said, “so, sorry but, well…not my issue to handle for you. I have another offer I can accept.”

I had her on a legal technicality. I was not obligated to accommodate her request. Begrudgingly, she agreed to close the transaction on time, as agreed.

However, before the business was settled, she did as much damage in our small town as she could to my reputation. It didn’t hold because people knew both of us and I had more positive relationships in town than she did. Regardless, I was sick of this bitch. Right down to my bones. Her pettiness and inability to see that business is business, pissed me off to the core. So, even though I had “won” technically, I pulled out one of my Granny’s curses and I laid that baby on this woman as thick as icing on a birthday cake. To mirror her pettiness, I selected the Vanity Curse.

It is a spiteful, childish curse that I am almost ashamed to admit I used. Almost. It brings eternal acne and greasy hair. It is a curse mostly used by a woman onto another woman. Really, it’s one of the lousiest curses a woman can be the target of, short of serious illness. Misery. I quickly had confirmation that my work was top notch. Each time I saw her, she had a face full of acne and sad assed limp hair. And it stuck, my Mother In Law confirmed that after I moved away; whenever she saw the woman, her face was hosting an acne convention. And her greasy hair couldn’t hold a curl. Diabolical. Still makes me laugh.

Yes, petty. I did think I was quite “the thing” for a while. Until one day, I noticed an itch on my back. Even at the young age of thirty, my arm couldn’t bend quite enough to reach it. Neither arm could reach it. It was right between my shoulder blades, just out of reach. Quite maddening. I was visiting my mother and she saw me struggling to scratch the spot. We started talking, her asking how long I’d had this itchy spot. Finally, she smiled.

“You’ve got yourself a Boomerang Curse. I told you not to fool with Granny’s curses.” Mother said, shaking her head disapprovingly.

“How do I get rid of this?” I asked.

“You don’t, you wicked girl. Hope it was worth it!” Mother replied.

Believe me, it was.

The ER doctor had explained to the family members what a dead brain stem means in reference to a serious alcoholic deciding to go cold turkey and how that concept just doesn’t always work. Next, a nurse addressed the group on how they might say their final farewells. Each person would need to choose; say goodbye before the ventilator was turned off, while it was shutting down or after the process was complete. Or stay in the waiting room and skip the goodbye completely. Nearly all the family members opted to see him before the machine was turned off.

“I want to remember him the way he was.” Whispered around the waiting room.

What rose colored glasses do people wear? The choice to view the body before the machine was shut down would allow the creation of a false recollection; an as he was veiled memory that would serve as a temporary mind trick, not bringing lasting peace. To choose to watch the body as the machine shuts down, perhaps fulfilled a “watching him die” satisfaction. To view the body after its actual expiration; dead as dust. That seemed like true, permanent closure.

“Oh, that’s the ticket! I’ll wait until the machine is off.” said Petra.

I want to remember him as he was. Really? Petra marveled at this popular selection. Did that mean the way he was when he was beating her mother? While pounding on her sisters? When he was kicking the dog? As he shoved Linda down a flight of stairs? How about when he was lying drunk in the road and the neighbors stepped over him, laughing? When the cops were (again) arresting him for domestic abuse? While he referred to his wife and daughters as “whores” at the top of his drunken lungs out in the front yard? Or maybe, when he embarrassed everyone again and again at wedding receptions and funerals with his drunken outbursts? How about in a sober moment, to relieve his guilt, he lamely apologized to Maggie for fracturing her jaw during a drunken episode? Or, one of Petra’s most vivid recollections; him spewing profanity at her very elderly grandmother?

Petra’s husband Eddie chose to watch the machine being turned off. As did her sister Linda. Eddie despised him by proxy, he considered Petra’s father to be not only a poor example of a father, but indeed as a man and human being. As for sister Linda, it was easy to understand why she’d choose this option. She had bore the brunt of the punches thrown. She spoke up to him and he despised her for it. Once, he was screaming that he was going to leave them all. She retrieved his suitcase for him. He was so enraged, he shoved her down a flight of stairs fracturing her leg. She was, as the saying goes, small but fierce. And she was Petra’s hero. Yes, to see the breath leave him would prove to aid in Linda’s healing, an excellent choice for her.

Eddie and Linda came out of the room, Linda gestured to Petra with a small smile and a flat line hand motion, her confirmation that it was over. That he was over.

“Are you sure?” Eddie whispered in Petra’s ear.

“Oh, yes. I need to see that he’s dead. Off the machine, just dead.” Petra replied.

He’d sort of been dead to her for so long that this felt more like a morgue visit, to identify the corpse. The nurse pulled back the curtain and escorted Petra in. The body was covered with a sheet up to the neck. A shade of gray-blue was creeping ever so slowly from the neck to the face. Petra watched, fascinated as the colors crept over the chin, nose and cheeks, ears, closed eyes and finally the forehead. Now the color was adding a green tinge. A monster green, in fact. Petra asked the nurse to please expose the left arm. She needed to view an Army infantry tattoo that existed between the elbow and wrist. Petra examined the tattoo thoroughly before muttering,

“Yes, that’s him.”

“It’s alright to touch him.” Nurse said.

“No, thanks!” Petra said with a laugh.

Petra continued to gaze at the arm with its ugly, green tattoo while she thought about how many times she had seen that tattooed arm come down on her Mother and Sisters? The arm used to heft glasses of beer to his mouth, making him meaner and meaner with time. The arm with it’s perpetual cigarette dangling from its fingers, burning scars into Petra’s tender little arms more than once, all while pulling her close to “give you a talking to” with breath stale from cigarettes and beer. That arm and the rest of the filth that was him; had committed many foul sins.

He had violated every rule expected of a father and husband by failing to provide food, clothing, shelter, and safety for his family. Safety from his violence and abuse. Verifying that tattooed arm assured Petra that the monster under the bed was at long last, defeated. She could now live a light-filled life forever more. She laughed out loud to herself. The monster was puny. Puny and definitely dead. Smiling, she thanked the nurse who looked disturbed as Petra turned to walk out of the room.

Miss Nurse, I wish I could explain, maybe you’d understand.

The life support was shut down on a day that happened to be Linda’s birthday. The body was interned into the ground five days later, which happened to be Petra’s birthday. This irony was not lost on the sisters. They took these coincidences as a message from a higher power who earlier, did not intervene in human matters. This final offer of empathy and acknowledgement from the universe was accepted and appreciated.

Petra rarely thought about her father after he passed. Her mind was cleared of the lingering cobwebs that occasionally clashed with her positive thoughts; by simply verifying that tattooed arm on the sheet covered gurney. And when she does think of him, she still laughs at the recollection of a front porch confrontation from many years earlier.

He’d been incommunicado for over 3 years (probably imprisoned) and Petra was twelve years old. Suddenly he was back and phoning while he was drunk; each rant ending with “I’m going to kill myself” or worse, “see you on Sunday” and then most times he’d be a no show, nor did he kill himself. If he did show up he rarely spoke to her and Petra didn’t understand why he bothered with her at all. Further, her older sister Maggie had mentioned to her that the old man seemed to keep a distance from Petra and always had. Maggie suggested that their father had Petra pegged to be the one who would go to the authorities about any abuse. She was quiet and introspective and she watched him with a serious countenance; she was glad he disliked her and considered it a blessing.

Because he didn’t pay his child support, Petra had taken a job at age twelve at the pet shop near her school. Her mother worked a minimum wage job and worked all available overtime, yet her pay check did not provide a two-week supply of groceries. Petra went to the pet shop every night after school to work for one hour, changing out the water in the animals bowls and wiping up messes. Each Saturday, she worked 6:00 a.m. until noon, scrubbing floors and cages. This required her to arise at 5:30 a.m. and walk a mile to the shop. Sunday was this twelve year old’s only day off and the pleasantness of that anticipation was ruined each Saturday evening, with the possibility of a visit from him the next day.

Petra had grown weary of the uncertainness, until one Sunday he did show up and she met him on the porch. She told her father that if he is coming by because he thinks she wants him to, he’s wrong. He need not bother. He looked a bit surprised, then shrugged his shoulders and walked back to his car. Petra went into the house, looked out the window to confirm he was gone and marveled for a moment on how simple that was and how quickly it was over. She wished she’d thought of it earlier. He really didn’t like her and that was fine. She then thoroughly enjoyed an old classic movie on the touchy black and white TV. After all, it was her day off. The image of seeing him walk away from her home, in essence seeing the backend of him, became her favorite recollection of her father.

Like a spectacular scene from a morality play; a twelve year old child realizing her strength and standing her ground on what was acceptable to her, while watching a full grown person shrug his shoulders and walk off relieved from his responsibility. It was absurd and final all at once. She experienced the same level of finality when she saw him lying on that gurney; powerless, grey-green and scrawny. Surely, what little time one has in this life is too precious to spend dreading Sunday monsters who may never show up.

It was early Autumn when Althea Johnson was unceremoniously transferred from the Juvenile Detention Center to an old mansion named Newberry House, now a group home on the East side of the city. Eventually, the car driven by a court appointed social worker named Miss Gold, turned onto a beautiful boulevard with a grassy strip down the middle where people were walking dogs and sitting on benches. Huge, old trees shaded them and lined the street on each side. Miss Gold pulled over and parked. Althea looked at the big, dark red stone house on a corner lot. There were fancier homes on the street, but Althea could tell that this house was functional. Perfect for the attorney who built it for his big family nearly one hundred fifty years before. It was also perfect for stashing orphaned, unwanted or problematic girls today. It was a bit gloomy looking with its dark windows that gave no clue to what was inside.

“Newberry House?” Althea asked Miss Gold. The case worker nodded yes with a smile.

Miss Gold handed Althea her small box of belonging and a grocery bag full of her clothes. Miss Gold walked ahead up to Newberry House. She opened the front door, holding it for Althea to pass through. The door was huge and made of heavy old wood and large window panes with criss cross pale pink and faded green stain glass designs at the top. There was an entryway and then yet another door. The entryway itself was bigger than the bathroom she shared with her mother back home. The inner door popped open and there stood the first of four, live-in counselors that would introduce themselves to her over the next few days. Miss Gold said they were psychology graduate students from the University. This counselor’s name was Carla. Next to Carla were a few teen girls standing there, gawking at her. One small girl stepped forward.

“Hi, I am Sydney. I’m your roommate, c’mon I will show you our room.” Sydney grabbed the grocery bag from Althea and headed up the massive staircase. Althea started up too, with her small box.

“Come back down soon, Sydney can give you a tour of the first floor.” Carla called out.

Althea had just finished exploring the house with Sydney, when Carla announced dinner, during which Carla explained that every girl was required to attend the evening meal every day unless they were excused to attend a job or a school event. After dinner, Carla escorted two girls into the kitchen; they had clean up duty that week. Althea visited with the other girls in the living room. It was a big room with a fireplace, lots of sofas and chairs and books shelved along one wall. One of the girls mentioned there was television available “back there” pointing to a dark room that was on the other side of the dining room. The rest of the first floor held a bathroom, a huge kitchen and what was once a back porch, now enclosed as a laundry room. No one seemed interested in TV. The girls were talkative and the evening passed.

After making up her small bed with her new sheets, putting away her new fluffy towels and her clothes in her own dresser, Althea lay in bed in the dark marveling at how her life was unfolding. The bedroom windows were open just a bit and the smell of fall was comforting. She was used to the sounds of the city. She felt lucky to be here. Sydney, who was fourteen, fell asleep quickly. She was a nice girl and Althea was glad she was her roommate. Sydney shared that her mother had died; she was an orphan and had no other family. She cried a little telling Althea about her mother’s death from cancer. She had been a good mother, they had been very close. Every Newberry House girl had a different tale and in time, Althea would learn that each story was immensely sad. Althea pondered how dark and gloomy this house looked from outside, maybe it absorbed some of this sadness from the girls. The old house was sure full of squeaks and creaking, she noticed. She wondered if it was a happier place when the Attorney’s family lived here, all those little kids running around. They no doubt had a maid and a nanny, too. They were probably happy kids, she decided.

The next evening, most of the girls were talking in the living room. A girl named Jessie came crashing out of the television room; hysterical and crying. The girls surrounded her, comforting the girl as she cried. Althea stood there, sort of embarrassed to ask what was going on because she was still new to the group and didn’t want to pry. Sydney filled Althea in.

“Jessie was in the tv room and the ghost was teasing her.”

“What? The ghost?” Althea asked.

“Oh, yes. The place is full of them! Gee, I am sorry, I’m so used to it, I guess I didn’t think about it. I only think about them when one acts up.”

By now Jessie was calming down and talking about what had occurred.

“I was on the couch and it sat next to me! Right next to me! The couch moved, like it does if someone sits down. I looked at the cushion and it was dented in! I jumped up and as I was running out, the rocking chair started moving. I hate that!” Her hands wringing each other mercilessly. The other girls started laughing, some kind of nervously. Jessie took a deep breath, smiled and shook her head, she seemed to be feeling better. “Ick!” She squeaked. Now she shook her hands out at her sides.

“I’m sorry, Jessie. That’s happened to me in the TV room. too.” Sydney said.

“You should be sorry, you brought one with you when you came.” Trina added.

“Hey, c’mon Trina. That’s not nice.” Counselor Paul interjected.

“Oh I don’t care what she says.” Sydney said. Trina rolled her eyes and went upstairs.

“Maybe you could bring me up to date, please?” Althea asked.

“All of us, the counselors included, have had experiences with something. We think there is more than one entity, none that are harmful, mostly they like to play with us.” Paul explained.

“Yes, and Trina is part correct” said Sydney. “My mother’s spirit does stay near me. And she does check in on me sometimes in our room. She’s not scary, I promise.”

“It seems that when Sydney is around, sometimes things move and we think her mourning drew her mother’s spirit and maybe a poltergeist also”. Paul added. “The TV room and hallway noise occurrences were always here, before Sydney moved in. But the physical manifestations of the rocking chair, compression of the couch cushions and the TV turning itself off and on, that all started after Syd got here.”

“But there were always noises? Like what?” Althea asked.

“Mostly, the sound of the front door slamming and footsteps running upstairs, usually in the dead of night. Banging inside the walls in the downstairs hallway between the laundry room and bathroom. And, it’s not plumbing, we’ve established that. Also, the TV room has always been active, a sound like the door is opening and closing, but no one is near it. And foot steps, sometimes accompanied by what sounds like person sighing. I’ve heard that while sitting in there, it’s creepy, I will admit.” Paul paused, wondering if Althea was getting worried.

“And, we tried to have a cat for a little while, but she wouldn’t leave the kitchen, she seemed afraid so Carla took her to her apartment, she is fine there.” Paul shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s all pretty weird, but I’m glad to know about it so I don’t think I am crazy if I hear something. Do you guys “see” anyone?” Althea looked around and everyone was nodding no.

“When my mother visits, I smell her perfume and she holds by hand. If you smell the perfume, then you will know she’s around.” Sydney shared.

“Alright. Wow, it’s all fascinating. I’m wondering why I haven’t heard anything.” Althea said.

“Come on in the TV room with me” Jessie said in a spooky voice, laughing.

“No thanks, I’m good right here. I guess that’s why no one seems to watch TV much?”

“Correct.” Sydney said and the others nodded in agreement.

The first week or so went by quickly. And quietly, no spooky sounds at all. Althea had classes at the local high school. Even so, she was free by 1:30 pm everyday. She snagged a part time job at the local library assisting the librarian from 2:00-4:30 on school days. She made it to Newberry House for dinner at 5:00 pm easily. She then found another part time job for nights and weekends, at a bakery one block from the house. She intended to save as much money as she could before she had to strike out on her own and a busy schedule kept her out of the house. While everyone was nice, she simply wasn’t used to living with more than one person and to suddenly have nine siblings and a different house parent every other day was a bit much.

A week later on a lovely Spring afternoon, Althea stopped by the house after school because the library floors were being cleaned and the librarian told her to leave early. She found the door was locked so she used the key she had been issued. She walked around the first floor, no one was home. “Cool, I have the place to myself!” Althea smiled. Each girl was allowed one special request for a snack from the grocery store per week. Hers was always the same, cheese and crackers. After putting away her books and washing her hands, she went into the big kitchen and made her snack plate. She poured a glass of iced tea and sat at the kitchen table, smiling and thinking how nice and quiet it was. Suddenly, the television was blaring. Althea walked down the hallway, passed the bathroom and entered the TV room. Just then, the television turned off. This was an old style TV, it had an ON/OFF knob, a channel select knob, a volume knob. No remote. She went to the TV and saw the knobs were set to “off, channel 18 and low” volume.

“Ok” Althea said aloud. And turned around to walk back down the hall. The TV again blared loudly. She turned to see the rocking chair moving wildly and the TV was now set to “on, channel 4 and high” volume. Althea stood a moment, stunned. Then, she felt anger bubbling up inside. She had one lousy afternoon alone after all these months, one quiet and peaceful afternoon and no one, not even a ghost was going to screw it up for her! She stomped over to the television. She turned the volume to low. Then Althea stared at the rocker.

“If you want to watch tv, go ahead! But be polite and keep it down in here!” She yelled.

Althea went back to the table and by now she was realizing how weird this all was and started freaking out a little, so she picked up her plate and glass and took her lunch outside onto the big front porch. As she closed the front door behind her, she noticed the television was again silent. She had been told that the girls should not congregate on the front porch, as to not upset the posh neighbors with a bunch of kids hanging about. However, nobody could say one girl eating cheese was an offense. After a while, Susan the counselor, came home with groceries.

“I know I am not supposed to be out here, but no one was in there except a TV loving ghost.”

“Oh, I understand!” Smiled Susan. Althea helped her unload the car and carry in the groceries. She told Susan how she had handled the ghost and Susan laughed.

“That is a brilliant way to deal with it. I’ll bet that old ghost was surprised.”

That night around 1:00 am, the sound of the front door slamming vibrated through the large home and many of the girls and Counselor Susan woke up. They bolted out of their respective rooms, Susan flipped on the stair light. Boom, boom, boom! Heavy footsteps ran up the stairs towards them. Again, no one was there. After a bit of startled quiet, Susan looked down the stairs into the dark below and shook her finger.

“You go to bed! Be quiet! We are trying to sleep up here!” All the girls looked at Susan with surprised faces and Althea laughed. Susan winked at her. Everyone went back to bed and there was no further noises that night.

The sixteen months breezed by for Althea. Now and then, noises would occur, a pretty fragrance would fill the air, and the TV continued to activate mysteriously. But, when it was too much, too loud, one of the livings would gently scold the ghost and everyone lived in harmony. Althea would come to treasure her time at Newberry House. She had learned how to live with others, human and not so. She had laughed hard, more than once at the other girl’s antics as they made new, happy memories for themselves. She worked hard, saved money, graduated early and secured a studio apartment in the same neighborhood. She attended the nearby University, her Newberry House counselors continued to mentor her until she found her way at school and gave her great tips about living on her own. Althea had holiday dinners with her mother and grandmother. She’d visit her sisters and their families on weekends. Occasionally, she’d stop by Newberry House to visit Sydney. And before she’d leave, she always dropped by the TV room to say “hi”.

Winter song is full of mysterious, distorted sounds at our Minnesota home. Winds howl and grow colder as they bounce between frozen moisture air particles, becoming little thieves of cold air that steal breath. A sound that seems a quarter mile away, is really two miles. I hear a car coming down the road, frozen rubber slapping the icy asphalt. The vehicle sounds close, but it’s a full minute later when the headlights come into view. The earth pops and bangs as temperature fluctuations create expansion in the soil frozen with ground water. A snow plow noisily clears the road; each large orange beast is bestowed a contest winning name like Han Snowlo and Scoop Dogg. Surviving deep cold necessitates embracing silliness. Snowmobiles zip across frozen lakes; the heartiest folk watch them cruise by from their ice fishing holes. Winter song drives our dog Greta, crazy. She seems unsure of what and where the enemy is. Only the howl of the wolf leaves her with no question, as she heads back to the house.

Spring song trumpets in the warming air with joyful bird song. Woodpeckers, chickadees, nuthatches and finches celebrate the end of cold nights. Robins and orioles return from the South and noisily repair winter damaged nests. Distant honking geese announce their return. Horrific nightly screeching emits from the woods as raccoons, fox, and bobcats make Spring love to start their broods. Turkeys are a noisy mob as they careen around fields, after descending from nightly rest in their tree branch roosts. White tail deer mothers escort their spotted fawns through the woods as silently as any mom can guide a stumbling toddler. Human teenagers rev the engines on cars older than them and bikers zip by on motorcycles; roaring down the road clad in leather. The happy sound of a farmer’s tractor prepping her field promises prosperity, security and food for the coming year. Greta’s paws squish through thawing mud puddles; time for the rinsing bucket.

Summer song is war-like with heavy artillery practice at the tank command training field, fifteen miles to the West. Each Howitzer blast rattles the Dresden dolls in my curio. Our windows vibrate as huge cargo planes practice flights. The law cruises the sky in helicopters looking for illegal marijuana crops. Greta is busy barking along the fence line as chatting bicyclists visit with each other; they peddle maddeningly slow as they trespass on “her road”. The neighbors, a half a mile away, have the nerve to barbecue in their yard playing a radio. She’s the most exhausted family member at the end of a Summer day. Ten miles to the South, the dulled roar of race cars invades country evenings and fireworks celebrate the winners. Summer storms thunder in; showcasing spectacular lightning and booming rumbles. The same storms blow out of the area via wild winds that menace all life on the expansive prairie and into the big woods. At sunset, a chorus of coyote kitts yip-yap themselves to sleep and young raccoons practice fighting.

Autumn song rolls in on morning ground fog; created in the clash of cold temperatures trying to get the best of the waining summer heat on the prairie. Crisping leaves jingle in the trees. The traitorous honking of Southern bound geese fill the air, as they leave the rest of us behind. We no longer hear the black bear rustling through the wild raspberries at the edge of the woods. Autumn song brings remnant sounds of drumming and singing; ancient songs of a long past indigenous settlement. Their descendants thrive here still, yet modern celebrations happen mostly on the reservation twenty miles to the East and not at 5:00 a.m. Greta and I both cock our heads, we are hearing the past, I am sure of it. It’s beautiful and haunting. I include these ancestors in my prayers and thank them for caring for this land, praying for their forgiveness of the costly and irreversible changes that have been made to it. Soon the big freeze will be upon us and we’ll listen to another winter roll in.

“I am endlessly fascinated by your ability to twist the truth, Miss Lita.” Delphine said as she continued to iron Lita’s summer frock. This comment was a non accusatory statement of fact.

“Well, thank you for that.” Lita smiled into the mirror at Delphine’s reflection. “You know, I could teach you that skill too. The skill of deception. A twist of truth as you have so eloquently phrased it. I’ve taught you lots of things, why not that as well?”

“I am unsure if I could ever master it to your level, Miss Lita. I fear that my capabilities may limit how far I could go with dishonesty. It’s not in my DNA.” Delphine explained.

“Yes, silly girl, I am well aware what is and is not in your DNA. I did read the entire brochure when you were delivered. The fact is that sometimes total truth can become extremely boring. It would amuse me to see you with a more challenging personality.” Lita stood up and turned to embrace Delphine. “You are everything I wanted in a sister. You are exactly what I wanted and I have grown very fond of you. I will contact Thumbs Up Incorporated and ask about an upgrade.” Lita now stood, arms outstretched as Delphine helped her step into her dress and find the sleeves.

“I would like that, Miss Lita. Especially if it pleases you.” Delphine was careful as she zipped up the back of the dress. Next, she would see that the shoes, hand bag and accessories were all suitable for Miss Lita.

“I believe it will please me, dear. A great deal. Making friends has always been a challenge for me. I’ve always been attractive, even when I was a young girl.” Lita stopped to check her reflection in the mirror. Smiling with approval, she continued. “Other females do not always appreciate my beauty. Therefore, making a female friend can be nearly impossible.” Breaking her self-adoring gaze from the mirror, Lita looked directly at Delphine. “Considering we will take a step forward in our relationship with your upgrade, you will call me Lita. More friendly, don’t you think? Miss Lita is much too formal. And you will now be known as Delphine Moresset, my younger sister. We will be sisters, friends and best of all, we will forever be young and beautiful. Your eternal youth is guaranteed by Thumbs Up Incorporated. Mine is guaranteed by a certain team of brilliant surgeons and chemists in Sweden.” Lita chatted on and on without slowing down to gauge Delphine’s response because, it simply did not matter.

Lita Moresset had long ago given up on mastering a winning personality. She realized her own short comings. She was vanity incarnate. There simply was no one as good looking as her. This was after all, a fact. Why argue a fact? She suspected that she was indeed shallow in her thinking, having embraced a myopic view of the world long ago. If something in this wide world had no direct impact on her welfare, then it had no place in her purview. She was just smart enough to realize this about herself, but not smart enough to outmaneuver the parochial outcome. Lita with her tiny world view was in reality, one huge bore. A snooze, if you will; unable to carry an interesting conversation. This she did not realize. But the rest of the world most certainly did.

Lita Moresset was attractive with her lithe form, long lovely legs, delicate arms and petite hands. Her face was quite beautiful with light green eyes and full lips. Her face was framed with flowing strawberry-blond hair. She also had inherited a very handsome fortune. With all this and the fact that the world at large seemed to be impressed with looks and wealth, why worry about a flawed personality? Her one constant deficit remained; her inability to make even one, true friend. Exasperated with this fact, she had decided to fix the issue. She had bought a friend. Robotics had advanced and humanoids were now nearing perfection. Lita selected a female model, a bit younger than her, a bit less good looking and with a very high I.Q. She didn’t want to be stuck talking to a simpleton. Lita had no idea what her own I.Q. was, however she assumed with her superior genetics, it had to be quite high. The model she had selected was perfect for a little sister type, someone she could meld. Someone with whom she could share her knowledge of fashion, travel, fine champagne, all the knowledge a bon vivant like herself possessed.

Enter, Model 23-A3. A female model, attractive in a wholesome sort of way, petite, would be fun to dress up. Fair skinned, auburn shoulder length hair that would look good in an updo or down in loose waves. Green eyes, like Lita’s. Lita would name her new friend, Delphine. A name reminiscent of the sea, a dolphin to be exact. A sleek, playful and graceful yet strong creature; able to swiftly cut through rough waters. A friendly and entertaining companion. An amusing and devoted creature who would understand her place at Lita’s side and ever so slightly, in her shadow.

The name Delphine derives from the ancient town of Delphi, an earthly sanctuary of the Greek god Apollo. Lita had long admired Greek mythology; especially the tales of the Oracle of Delphi. The Oracle, also known as High Priestess or the Pythia; had occupied an important seat at the Temple of Apollo at Delphi. Humans had waited in line each day to ask for guidance from Apollo. This advice was dispensed through the hypnotic state assumed by the Oracle. Lita fancied herself to be special, like the oracle. And so, in Lita’s mind, the perfect match was made. Lita (the oracle) and Delphi (the swift, playful porpoise) would be sisters for life. Life would be so wonderful. Because that’s how Lita’s mind worked, her story was about a winner. And every chapter would have a happy ending.

After Delphine came back from her upgrade at Thumbs Up Incorporated, Lita had exciting news.

“Guess what, Delphine darling!” We are going to Greece for a lovely vacation. A cruise is in order; to celebrate our newly heightened relationship. To celebrate my newly improved little sister!” Lita announced with enthusiasm. Lita embraced Delphine warmly.

“Well, how very intriguing and exciting.” Remarked Delphine. “When will the thrills end?”

“You don’t seem very interested.” Lita stated. She was eyeing Delphine with new interest.

“Why, dear sister, what could you mean? I am simply delighted at the thought of a cruise with you to the Greek Islands.” Delphine stated with a small smirk on her face.

“Alright, well. I am excited about it. We will leave on our cruise next Monday.” Said Lita, still observing a noticeable attitude adjustment in Delphine. She did ask for a bit more umph, a bit more assertiveness in the upgrade. Perhaps that’s what it is thought Lita.

“Spectacular.” Delphine said through terse lips.

The next few days flew by as arrangements came into fruition for the cruise. Packages arrived every day, new hand bags, new shoes, skin care products, and a package from Thumps Up Incorporated. This, Delphine took receipt of it at the front door herself. The housekeeper had stepped out to the market, Lita was no doubt parked somewhere upstairs in front of a mirror and Delphine had seen the delivery van through the window. She got to the door before any doorbell could be rung. She took the package which was addressed to Lita, into her room and closed the door behind her. Delphine understood a bit more about deception now and figured, it wasn’t necessary for Lita to know about the package until she, Delphine, had time to examine the contents. After doing so, it was apparent that she had her own preparations to make before Monday’s departure. It seemed big sister Lita intended to hide an ace up her silken sleeve.

The cruise was off to a magnificent start. Sailing out of New York had been, well…smooth sailing. No issues at all. The sister’s double suite was perfection. Each had their own bedroom and bath, only the common area was a shared space. That and the balcony which ran the length of the suite. A butler was available 24/7. The Moresset women would want for nothing. Dancing every night with a handsome man after enjoying a gourmet meal was nothing short of heaven. Lita noticed that since the upgrade, Delphine seemed more outgoing. More approachable, more human than before. And men seemed to flock to her. Even though, she was definitely not the prettiest of the two sisters; she seemed to be making up for it in her new, outgoing way.

Delphine had also taken to telling fibs, little white lies. At first, Lita was delighted at these little attempts at deception. It did make Delphine more interesting. Delphine was being more “little sister-ish” every day. One morning, Delphine got up earlier than Lita and wore Lita’s intended ensemble to breakfast. She claimed she ate alone, but Lita fully expected a man was involved. Over the upcoming days, Lita spent more and more of her time trying to find Delphine on the huge ship; Delphine was continually giving her the slip. By the fifth night of the trip, Lita had lost both control and track of Delphine. She couldn’t find Delphine in any of the community areas on the ship and she was not in their apartment suite. Lita was at first concerned, perhaps Delphine had malfunctioned somewhere. Maybe she became the victim of foul play. Lita stood on the balcony wringing her hands, wondering how to proceed.

Then she recalled the tracking ability she had on her phone. She had installed the Thumbs Up Incorporated assistance application when she purchased Delphine. She fumbled through the application until she found the tracking feature. After a few data entries, a map popped up showing where she, Lita was standing and where Delphine should be. Lita was baffled. The two locations were identical. Lita stood frozen, staring at the screen trying to understand what she was seeing. Just then, Delphine spoke from behind Lita, who turned to see a smiling Delphine.

“Oh, what lovely timing. I see you are planning to fiddle around with the controls. Time for me to flip the switch, my dear, dearest sister!” Laughed Delphine. Her soft auburn hair cascaded around her wild eyed and slightly wicked face. Delphine snatched the phone out of Lita’s hand and entered a sequence of numbers into the still open Thumps Up Incorporated assistance application. This set off a remarkable transference; a re-boot procedure that transferred “live” mode from Lita into Delphine. Big sister Lita had intended to utilize this application to nullify Delphine’s upgrade if it became problematic. The upgrade surged alright, but into the wrong recipient.

Pretty Lita Moresset would be left with the submissive and flat humanoid personality that she had originally ordered for Delphine. Lita would draw the short straw today and forever more, as she was now a mere replica of her old self. And the newly energized, gloriously assertive and brilliant Delphine was no longer a playful porpoise, she was now as powerful as Apollo himself. She had that added umph that makes a woman stand out. She had bested the nincompoop, Lita.

“Lita, you now will be my companion, my devoted older sister. How delightful!” Smiled Delphine, giving Lita a generous hug. Lita’s arms hung at her sides, as listless as her smile.

“Whatever you like, dear sister.” Responded the monotone Lita, as she repeated in her new flat voice. “Whatever you like, whatever pleases you.”

“I believe you will please me.” Stated Delphine. “Yes, my upgrade was worth every penny you spent on it!” Delphine said with a smile. “Now, put on your pajamas and get into bed. I’ve a party to attend. Tomorrow we have plans to make and you’ll need your sleep.” She smiled.

“Oh, and Lita dear, don’t bother to wait up!”

The Passion Of Mina Harker

June 10 1893

Today, I became Mrs. Jonathan Harker. I was born Wilhelmina (Mina) Murray. My name has changed, like so many things about me as of late. I’ve no one to confer with now that Lucy is gone. I cannot share my inner thoughts with anyone else, especially not my husband. My musings are so very dark in nature, I cannot sufficiently explain them even to myself! Therefore, I shall continue to keep my journal. Sometimes, I do not understand why I bother. Will I ever want to revisit the past, especially the most recent past? In this last year death, blood and degradation had become my companions. I cannot remove the scent of them from of my nose, the sounds from my ears, the images from my poor eyes. Deep emotional wounds remain and I doubt they will entirely heal, no matter the length of time. While the unrelenting terror I lived has begun to diminish in intensity, coming to me now numerous times per day instead of every few minutes, the sorrow from the loss of my beloved friend Lucy Westenra seems to grow with each passing day.

August 6

I move through the corridors of my new marital home as quietly as a private thought. To move without sound is now natural for me. I cannot shake the draw of the stillness, the formlessness that had surrounded me during my days in Dracula’s web. The ability to slip silently in and out of existence was empowering. Privately, I long to once again embrace the power of anonymity that had become beloved to me in a very personal way. In Dracula’s world; few words were spoken, no questions asked and no answers required. The doomed moved silently and endlessly each night, reacting to a deep hunger until the sunrise. There had been a strength in my stillness between life and death. Dracula’s minions bowed low to me, I had been elevated to royal level as the next bride. No one was entitled to set expectations upon me, only the Master would have that right. In the living world, I have so very little privacy. I am bombarded with constant inquiries about my health, my feelings, my whereabouts, my very thoughts. My power has diminished considerably now that I am back in this world. As a woman, I am expected to smile, sooth, placate, agree and never show displeasure. Constant grinning and agreeing is tiresome for any intelligent person. I suffered miserably to conform to the expected submissiveness during my adolescence. To live through a second act of adjusting to these societal expectations, to hold my thoughts and tongue incessantly, crushes my soul and aggravates my restlessness once again. Though the experience was dark, dreary and horror filled as I knew my fate was not only death but un-death for eternity, it was incredible to experience my own fortitude. Thinking back upon those days, I cannot help but admire the traits in myself that were forced into the light. I emerged stronger than I knew, smarter than I suspected and more resilient than I would have imagined. To have had but a quick taste of individuality and privacy, albeit overshadowed by the ever lingering doom that my association with Count Dracula had offered, has only made me more exasperated by the non-ending, emotional and spiritual uplifting I am expected to provide the men around me. I am the sunshine and I must always be shining to sooth their troubles.

October 26

The crows came again today to sit upon my windowsill. How they remind me of my days at the Castle. I spend much time admiring their shiny black feathers, their inquisitive looks. How they study me! Are they admiring me as well? They do make me smile. It must be wrong of me to miss Romania, given the horror of the experience. The situation was gruesome yes, but wildly exciting. The dust of all that excitement has now settled. I am no longer part of a team, I am relegated to the fluffiness of female existence. Alas, even my beloved Jonathan, whom I thought saw me for more than a physical shape to adorn with the latest fashions, even he expects me to once again smile and nod in agreement to his every thought, whether it be a good one or not. I am to “forget that awful experience in Romania” and instead be delighted with a walk in the garden, dazzled like a child by the mere presence of a blue bird! As recently as six months ago, the people in my life praised my bravery, intelligence, compassion and overall value as a human being. This fact is not lost to me. I find myself once again receding into the shadows, reduced to a pretty little thing, much like a lap dog. Dr Van Helsing once called me courageous. Now, he all but pats my head. I am to concern myself with reading books, playing piano, embroidering a pretty swaddling cloth in preparation of a child I will be required to produce in the near future. Ah, and my crowning achievement is instructing the household. Queen of all I survey. Completion of these tasks are to fulfill my intellect, to bring a sense of satisfaction. They do not. They cannot. Instead, they inspire a silent scream of frustration that may live in me forever.

December 8

Oh, Lucy I miss you desperately! To be with you, walking and speaking our thoughts freely. To dream up absurdities that we could laugh about. Discussing my fantasy of owning a vineyard, and your dream of owning prize race horses. Both of us grow wildly, independent and wealthy, free to travel the world. I am now alone without even the comfort of laughing at our impossible aspirations. The idea of finding another friend with such insight seems unlikely. Women come in two styles; one are those who are repressed so fully, they are unaware of any other way. They smile and agree. They ignore insulting, belittling behavior. They never speak of abuse they’ve suffered, instead accepting it as their lot in life. The second style of woman has initially fought repression, got slapped down either physically and/or emotionally and are now broken or psychotic. And often institutionalized. Neither type of women are entertaining to invite to tea.

Thus, I am back in the real world, under achieving and smiling. How can I be satisfied with this mindless monotony? I have seen too much, I know too much. I have smelled and tasted the blood of others. Dracula’s death released the curse that was upon me, but I am forever changed. I am no longer posies and lace. Is this life of constant dullness preferable to the imprisonment I suffered with Dracula? As disgusted by him as I was, he did open up a world of unlimited power to me that was intoxicating. And I miss him as a man. He was stately, worldly and wildly talented as a lover. Jonathan cannot ever know this, of course. Yet I will never experience anyone like Count Dracula again. Nor will I ever feel the elements of passion so acutely, the adrenaline gushing through my body as my heart raced. This fact in itself leaves me with a dull, sickening pain because my depravity exists in a lingering desire for the heart, soul and body of a monster. I will forever cherish that last look of peace upon Count Dracula’s once horrifying countenance as he lay dying. The evil and suffering upon it dissolved at his last breath, along with my revulsion. His face, now handsome and peaceful. My final thoughts of him will forever focus upon his sensuality, his strength and his hunger. And mine for him.

January 16 1894

The sun has risen. Another upsetting night in the marital bed. Jonathan seemed distant, disturbed with me at breakfast. I fear my displaced passion may have been apparent, I bit his lip hard and then greedily licked off the blood as the smell of it aroused me, allowing me to fully enjoy the pleasures offered. Jonathan however, left our bed quickly afterward and did not return during the night. As I lay awake, pondering these developments, Lucy’s spirit visited me. It sat on the edge of the bed, delicately surrounded by the draping bed curtains. The lace canopy dispersed warm, flickering light from the fire, upon its pale grey face. Without words, it spoke of the grave and its cold emptiness. Upon Dracula’s death, Lucy too was released from the curse of the undead. Sadly, being mortally dead she has remained so. Her spirit seems to be in a lost state, not sure where to travel. Yet, I could sense that it was happy for me. I felt a cold hand tap mine, lovingly. I knew then. Lucy’s spirit had come to deliver news. I was suddenly and completely aware that I was with child. A child conceived from the unholy alliance with Dracula. A female child that I shall call Lucia. The marriage date of Jonathan and my union should suffice for any wagging of tongues. I am unsure if Jonathan will realize any difference in the baby. If so, he will need to adjust and be a loving father all the same. Perhaps he will eventually suspect me of evil and fear both myself and my child forever. For this, I pity him. We all have our demons to contend with. He with his, me with mine. And mine will require Jonathan to be bit again and again. I will no longer live a life unfulfilled in this lust.

January 21

I confided to Jonathan that I am with child. He was delighted, believing that it is own offspring. He is quite convinced it should be a male child, he has already decided we must name it for Quincy Morris, teller of tale tales and fallen by the hands of Dracula’s Romani Castle Guards. When the child’s birth reveals she is female he will allow me to name her. There is no reason to debate this triviality with Jonathan. Lucy assured me of this. Dr Van Helsing has stayed on with us. I do enjoy listening to his endless ideas, he possesses such interesting knowledge of every style of science. His grasp of the occult is acute. He above all, is the one I must always be cautious with. He will know if anything is amiss in my ways. I attempted to converse with him today. If I ask a few questions, he is amused by my interest. If I ask too many, he becomes suspicious of my keenness. Thus, I must be ever aware to balance my quest for knowledge with the right amount of female frivolity.

Feb 10

Last night, Jonathan returned to our bed. I thought perhaps he could learn to accept my preferences. Alas, he recoiled once again. I am dejected to the deepest depths of my soul. After he bolted from the room, a look of repulsion upon his face, I wept with sorrow. Indeed, I carried on until the sun began to rise. About then, the sorrow began to swirl into a slow, churning anger. Who is he to reject me? I am his wife, he took a vow. He must see to my health and welfare. My anger grows, seething deeper all through the daylight hours. I am convinced he is a coward as he has not confronted me. Now I am angry and disgusted by him. I will not tolerate this fool too much longer. Truth to oneself is a duty, a right. My heart has hardened at the knowledge of what I must do. It was wrong of him to test me. I must have a replacement, a father for Lucia. A lover for myself. After an appropriate time of mourning, I will search for one with dark eyes. One who will abide my wishes and desires. One not driven by hysteria. He will be my special one. He need not aspire to be my master. That would be yet another man making a serious mistake.

Feb 16

Jonathan spoke with me last night, to suggest that we sleep in our own bedrooms until the child is born. I feel he uses my condition to excuse him from his duty to me. He spends much time in his photography darkroom these days, each evening after dinner he has one brandy with Dr Van Helsing in the parlor and then he is off to the this room. I have noticed he sometimes takes a brandy in with him. He seems to be increasing his intake of brandy. I have instructed Collins, the Butler to increase the household’s purchase.

I mourn the loss of intimacy with my beloved Jonathan. I will not skip along the garden path of life believing that all is perfection. Believing that if I am a very good girl, lovely things will come my way. Instead, I will see to it that good things will come to me as I plant my own garden path, with the seeds of the passions of my choosing. My eyes will remain wide open. My soul is resolved to survive. My heart will attempt to love, but not at the imprisonment of my brain. Along with a new boldness, I absorbed strength and darkness from The Count. And I will see that his child thrives. Our daughter, Lucy will be raised to roar like a lioness. Heaven help whoever attempts to bring her sorrow or repress her spirit.

April 30

As I feared, the most horrible event has happened. Jonathan’s increased drinking has indeed been his demise. He confused liquids in the dark of his darkroom, he is dead. And I am now a young widow expecting her first child to be born soon. I am at least relieved that there is no contesting of the will, Jonathon’s estate is now entirely mine. Dr Van Helsing seems particularly concerned about Jonathan’s death. He is most inquisitive about what I had observed with Jonathan’s drinking, his habits. My response was one of complete incomprehension. I have no idea why Jonathan increased his poor habit. I’ve implored to Dr Van Helsing that I need his help. I’ve asked him to stay on indefinitely, explaining that he is my one true friend. He accompanied me to the solicitor’s office today. Dr Van Helsing will inherit my estate should I pass and he has agreed to raise my child as his own. Dear, dear Abraham! What would I do without him?

August 27

Things have been peaceful and pleasant now that Dr Van Helsing’s clever mind is eased. No more questions, just indications of care and empathy. As all should be. I do believe I will begin the hunt for a prize race horse. I will name him Count. I have put the gardener, Ellison onto looking into grape vine tending. Should all go well, I may have that vineyard in the South of France within the year. After Lucia is born, she and I will move there and close this gloomy English estate once and for all. Of course Dr Van Helsing will be welcome to come with us. All in time, I will share the news with him, he tends to be so very cautious. When I spoke with Ellison, I admired his beautiful floral display of daisies, roses and fox glove. Ellison is doing well on his grapevine study. I am enthused to think of the future. The child is to come soon, I am most uncomfortable and tired.

September 20

Lucia has arrived. She is beautiful, with dark eyes. I see The Count in the tiny furrow upon her brow, the way her lip curls a bit at the sides. She has black curls upon her perfectly formed head. She smells sweet, like alfalfa. I adore her. After a few months, we shall both be stronger and I shall take the search for the perfect vineyard estate more seriously.

May 15 1895

Alas! I have lost my one true friend. Abraham Van Helsing is no more. Oh, what shall become of me? His heart, it gave way to death. I am bereft beyond consolation! He is now at peace. No more worries about this world, or about me. He need not fret about my future. He completed his task, having seen us through the move to France. I am sorry that it seems, the strain of all this may have been too much. I will concentrate on building a beautiful life for the two of us in here in France upon my new vineyard. Ellison moved here with us from England. He is a delightful, handsome young man and has created the most beautiful garden. And he is devoted to serving us, absolutely devoted! The foxgloves in the garden are glorious. I am so glad Abraham was able to enjoy them before he passed. I am truly delighted with the property, it has horse stables. I can now pursue fulfillment of my beloved Lucy’s dream

Ipswich is a witch, leave her on her own.

Spin around, you’ll see her hound, offer him a bone.

Her drowsy cat, always fat, never leaves his home.

Sleeping sound, lay around, he is not to roam.

Purple broom, goes “varoom!”, fastest broom she owns.

Takes her here, takes her there, always brings her home.

Witch’s doom, crash her broom, ravens cry “kaboom!”

Leave that witch in the ditch…she’ll find her way back home.

A mummy’s tomb is filled with gloom, and witches have no place.

The mummy trips, his bandage rips, he skins his knees and face.

A pirate dreams of treasure found, he sleeps as sound as death.

A pirate dreads no X in red, until his dying breath.

A zombie moans, jangles bones, wanders in the frost.

To his chagrin, a fog rolls in and suddenly he’s lost!

And so you see, there must always be a witch or two around.

To bandage the mummy, wake the pirate, and help a zombie be found.

On your street, is it Trick or Treat? But you have no costume to wear?

I’ll be you and you be me, our neighbors will all be there.

We’ll laugh and run with the setting sun, “hoo hoo” the owl will cry.

Ipswich soars high in the sky. Wave hello and then goodbye!

There once was a diminutive agent whose code name was Stinging Nettle. In the community of agent assassins, she was known simply as Nettle. She was now a senior agent, having dominated her field for more than thirty years. Nearing fifty-five years of age she barely cast a shadow at a mere 5’3”. Having always been thin, she now weighed in at 100 pounds. It was said that if Stinging Nettle turned sideways, she was invisible. The only contemporary left in her ranks was her handler Robert Cleary who was a touch younger at age fifty-three. She was by far the most skilled agent that he handled. Mr. Cleary knew from the start, he could have easily been working for her all these years, but she had declined a leadership position. Nettle enjoyed her work in the field. She never seemed to tire of it, never complained, rarely took a vacation. There were all sorts of bad hats to be dealt with in the world and she was happy to deal with them all.

Mr. Cleary had recently received instructions from above to do something about Nettle. This was code for him to persuade Nettle to retire. If she wouldn’t do so voluntarily, he needed to force the matter. Even if this meant her permanent exit, from life itself. A Handler enjoyed a good work life up until this particular task would arise, which it did from time to time. As far as Nettle, this issue had been brought to Mr. Cleary two years ago by his superiors. He went through the paper maneuvers diligently, until his superiors were confident he’d broached the subject. They then let it drop for the moment. He had banked on their predictability. Sure enough, they were now back at it. This time, there would be no amount of shuffled papers that would buy Nettle more time. The expectation was clear, Nettle was aging and she needed to retire before an error occurred due to one forgotten detail, one dropped ball. There is no room for error in an agent’s world. Too much at risk. Indeed, Mr. Cleary had but one choice.

He needed to send out an agent that Nettle wouldn’t recognize. Nettle knew everyone, except the newer employees in the HQ complex. He had one agent, a thirty three year old female, who’d recently passed all requirements to enter the field. She’d spent years in Logistics and Intelligence. Mr. Cleary’s secretary Missy, had the job of naming agents. She had bestowed the code name Jewelweed upon this new agent, she’d be called Jewel for short. Jewel was smart as a whip and certainly not a shrinking violet at 5’10” and a solidly fit 150 pounds. If nothing else, she could whittle Nettle down to a mere human level of energy and deadliness by simply unleashing her heft upon Nettle. The Agency did allow agents to retire, however it had been anticipated in the case of Stinging Nettle, she may refuse. Nettle was old school, perhaps she wouldn’t know how or have the desire to stop tracking targets and killing them when necessary. Catching up with Nettle wouldn’t be easy. She was as elusive as a Congressional Representative at a town hall meeting.

The agency knew only the identities of Nettle’s current tracking list. She dealt with the execution of her work load as she saw fit. No one micromanaged an agent of Nettle’s caliper. So far, in this twelve month period, Mr. Cleary had received confirmation via old fashioned postal mail of one name crossed off the list. Disposition deceased. Therefore, Nettle would currently be working on either of the remaining targets. That would put her in London or Amsterdam. Or, she could be following one of the named, anywhere in the world that they were traveling. Jewel was now on month two of attempting to track Nettle. Mr. Cleary needed to hear from Jewel soon or he would need to move onto another plan. Finally, on a gloomy morning, Missy poked her head into his office.

“Mr. Cleary, Jewelweed is on line one.” She stated.

“Finally! Thank you, Missy.” Mr. Cleary responded as he picked up the call on line one.

“Sir, Jewelweed reporting in. I’m at a hotel in Rothensburg Ob De Tauber, historic region. I’ve the mark in my sites. Tiny, older Caucasian woman, dyed brown hair, expensive silk blouse, dazzling triple strand pearl choker, the pearls are the size of blueberries! And she holds her cereal spoon like a duchess!” Exclaimed the excited young woman. “She appears to be with a tour bus travel group.”

“You expect me to believe that one of the most effective agents in the world, is on a Blue Hair vacation tour in Rothensburg, Germany? That sounds a bit off, Jewel.” Mr. Cleary said wearily.

“Maybe so, but should I follow her, sir? Every piece of evidence has lead me here and right to her.” Jewel waited for his response.

“Shish, I suppose so. It seems to be all we have. Report back with any detail worth reporting, and I don’t care about blueberries and spoons.” He hung up with no goodbye.

“Yes, sir.” Jewel said into empty air, trying to catch her breath. She was delighted to finally have spotted her mark and receive approval to follow Nettle. She was reasonably sure this was her, Nettle. More specifically, Stinging Nettle. One of the most elite agents of all. This was so exciting and she couldn’t call anyone to brag about it!”

Jewel’s travel story would be that she was a new widow, mourning a young husband who died tragically. In fact, she was not now nor ever had been married. She had needed to concoct some form of lonesome identity that would explain her traveling alone; mourning creates a naturally quiet and private demeanor. This was a classic widow maneuver, trying to forget one’s heartbreak by taking a vacation while still wearing the wedding ring. Somewhat puzzled, Jewel had noticed Nettle was wearing a wedding ring too. Was she also utilizing the widow persona? The bosses’ secretary Missy, had cleverly suggested the name Jewelweed; it being the one plant that can nullify the stinging effect of nettle. This put more pressure on the young agent than the job itself, somehow. Now she needed to be as effective as a plant. Try meeting a plant’s standards, ask any botanist and they’ll say, good luck. Plants are more adaptable and rugged than they look. A tough standard to meet for a mere sprout.

Jewel was now keeping one eye on Nettle, who was standing by the breakfast area doorway. To appear natural and at ease, Jewel visited the complementary breakfast buffet one more time. Not knowing what the day might bring, it was a good idea to be prepared. She made a quick sandwich and grabbed a banana. The buffet hostess frowned disapprovingly but being a plump lady herself; she didn’t say anything. Jewel wrapped her bounty in a napkin and wandered into the small crowd in the lobby. Nettle said a few words to the tour bus driver and then retreated to her room. In her absence, Jewel asked the bus driver about a couple of locations she saw in a brochure and managed to extract where they were headed next on the tour. He was very chatty. This was the last site-seeing spot on this run. He was returning Nettle and her bus companions back to Nuremberg that afternoon where they’d head to their various destinations.

Jewel quickly checked out of the hotel. She then had enough time to retrieve her rental car from the parking area and position herself within view of Nettle’s tour bus, which the driver had parked in front of the hotel. After that it was as simple as keeping a respectable distance behind the bus. There were a few stops along the way, Jewel read a book in the parking lot of Wolfstein Castle. She ate a snack in the lot at Nuremberg Castle. It was now a full four hours since they’d left Rothensburg and she was glad she’d packed a lunch. It would have been fun to join in on the tour of these imposing fortresses but she didn’t intend to introduce herself to Nettle quite yet. The caravan of tour bus and covert vehicle, finally reached a hotel in Nuremberg around 3:00 p.m. This appeared to be a dropping off point. The bus driver placed Nettle’s baggage next to her on the sidewalk. She waived away the hotel bellhop. She then placed a call to someone from her cell phone. A few minutes later, a man drove up in a black Mercedes sedan, it appeared to be a hired car and driver. He placed Nettle’s luggage in the trunk and escorted her to the back seat. Jewel followed this vehicle for just over an hour.

Nettle’s next stop was the city of Regensberg. To be specific, the walled and medieval enclave within the city. The Mercedes stopped at Hotel Bischofshof Am Dom. The driver helped Nettle out of the vehicle, retrieved her bag and escorted her into the Hotel. Jewel parked her car in the courtyard and walked behind them. The driver deposited Nettle and her bag at the front desk. She paid him, said a few words and then he was gone. Nettle was booked at this hotel and would be staying for a few days. The hotel clerk placed an antique brass weight with an attached room key in front of Nettle. Jewel noted the room number on it.

“I see you have requested a room in our historic section of the hotel. Have you been with us before?” The clerk asked Nettle.

“Yes, many years ago. And I have such fond memories of my stay.” Nettle purred like the sweetest of grandmothers.

“We are delighted you’ve returned.” Other niceties followed. A young woman came around from behind a wall like a magic gnome and scooped up the baggage.

“Follow me, please.” She said to Nettle. They headed for the elevator.

“Hello, may I help you?” The desk clerk asked Jewel.

“Yes, please. I heard you mention a historic part of the hotel? Would there be a room available for a couple of nights, preferably on the second floor?” Jewel inquired.

“Yes, I do have just the right room, I believe.” The clerk responded.

After moving her car into the underground garage, Jewel set off to find the hotel’s historic section and her room on the second floor. It was spectacular! Part of the wall in her corner room was over 1000 years old according to an information sheet lying on a table. Built by Roman soldiers, along with the local streets and a bridge that crosses the Danube River, one block from the hotel. Jewel found that she was only two door down from Nettle’s room. She quickly used her bathroom, unpacked her luggage and inspected the views from the windows, keeping her door open, in hopes of hearing activity from Nettle’s area. She didn’t have to wait long. Nettle had come out into the hallway and was closing her door. Jewel grabbed her room key and rushed to catch up.

“Hello.” Jewel said as they awaited the elevator.

“Well, hello. Do I detect an American accent?” Nettle inquired.

“Why, yes you do! You also?” Jewel asked, somewhat taken aback by this unexpected civility.

“Well, same continent. I am from Vancouver.” The Stinging Nettle lied. Her bio had revealed she is from Chicago, by way of Cleveland, Ohio.

“I am wondering about a snack. It’s not quite time for dinner. Do you know if the pub is open downstairs?” Jewel asked.

“It is and the beer garden as well. I am headed that way myself. They brew their own beer in this hotel and have for nearly 400 years. Best beer in Germany, if you ask me. And I have had a lot of German beer.” Hmmm. An interesting tidbit into the life of a legend. She’s a beer girl.

“May I join you? I am a native of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. My grandfather was a brewmeister for Pabst Brewery for many years. Won a blue ribbon, you know?” Jewel winked.

“Certainly, I find that a beer and pretzel schneck is the perfect afternoon activity.” Said Nettle.

Jewel walked along side her hero and thought how this situation could become a tough one. She wasn’t lying about Milwaukee, her grandfather or a genuine fondness for beer. Jewelweed never dreamed that she’d be making small talk with Stinging Nettle. All her day dreams were about talking her into retirement or worse. How does she socialize with someone she may have to exterminate? The interaction could be hard for Nettle too, considering Chicago is only one hour by freeway from Milwaukee. Would she be able to keep her Chicago pride under wraps? Jewel had yet to meet a Chicagoan who could. Down to the beer garden they went. It was early autumn and still warm enough outside to sit in the sun. They placed their orders. Then it got quiet and the awkward smiling at each other started. Nettle outlasted the youngster by simply smiling at her. Jewel found this unnerving and caved. Exactly as Nettle intended.

“What brings you to Germany?” Jewel asked.

“I am on sabbatical of sorts. I am considering retirement. Not sure if I am ready for that or not, but I have the years in and sometimes I feel like it’s time. How about you?” Said Nettle.

“I am on this trip to distract myself. You see, I recently lost my husband. After he passed, I couldn’t return to regular life immediately. Because it feels anything but regular. So, I booked the first flight that came up on an internet search for best deals. It was a first class ticket to Frankfurt, so I took it. I rented a car there and have been site seeing. Time alone is always good for my mind, to sort things out.” With this, Jewel paused to consider the tale she had just spun.

“That’s most interesting. I did see you this morning in Rothensburg and wondered how it was that you suddenly appeared down the hall from me in Regensberg that same day.” She said smiling. Nettle paused to let this bomb drop completely, explode and allow the debris to fall where it may. She continued looking into Jewel’s eyes as her smile lilted. Jewel tried to smile and meet her gaze.

“So, you are the lady who I saw this morning at Altes Brauhaus Hotel. I had noticed your beautiful pearls. What a small world! Well, a small country, really. Germany I mean, compared to USA or Canada.” Jewel babbled, she could feel the flush of her face.

“Yes, very small. I guess you needed to park in the lot at Castle Wolfsburg and the Nuremberg Castle too. How very coincidental.” Stinging Nettle was no longer smiling. She then shook her head slightly and lowered her voice. “Before we bullshit each other any farther, I am not interested in touring St Peter’s Cathedral or walking the roman bridge over the Danube with you arm-in-arm or engaging in any other pretense. What exactly is it that you want with me?” Nettle said with no charm. No charm what so ever. But plenty of sting. Jewel started spinning a spider web-like lie.

“Fine, I will level. I really am on vacation. I am not, however a widow. When I asked for vacation time it was with the idea of tracking you down. I work in Logistics with the Agency and have been for a while. I am interested in field work. You are legendary at the Agency. I aspire to be as good as you, if not better someday. I want you to mentor me.”

She then shut her mouth and struggled to stay silent.

“Lord help you, if you are still bullshitting me.” Stone faced Nettle muttered. They sat in silence a few more minutes. Finally, Nettle spoke.

“Let’s enjoy our beer and forget about this for now. I truly am on a sabbatical and am not concerned about a little piss-ant like you. I’ll deal with you when I am ready.” Her gaze shot Jewel down to size, who attempted to not over react, although she was deeply rattled by this candor. The young agent paused momentarily before foolishly deciding to dig herself in deeper.

“I am a little piss-ant and I KNOW it! That’s just the issue. How will I ever be taken seriously without some coaching, training. And you are the best!” Pleaded Jewel. The false praise landed somewhere in the vicinity of Nettle, but had not landed directly on her. Her face was closed, lips tight, eyes narrow.

“Like I said, shut up about it now. Prost!” Nettle raised her beer stein. They drank beer and talked about travels a while. Suddenly, Nettle called the beer garden waitress over.

“Please put this expense on my room tab. Princess here (pointing to Jewelweed) will take the tab for dinner. Can you please move us to the dining room now, I am starved.” With that, she stood abruptly and walked inside the hotel. After they were seated at a table, Nettle ordered a very expensive bottle of wine.

“And what are you drinking?” Nettle asked Jewel.

“Hysterical.” Jewel responded. She ordered a second bottle of the same wine for herself as the waitress smiled amusedly.

They proceeded to enjoy a marvelous dinner and had lots of conversation about places they’d both been, bosses they’d worked for and colleagues they knew. Jewel was amazed that she was dining with the Nettle. She decided to ask Nettle about the wedding ring.

“So, is your wedding ring as fake as mine?” Jewel asked with a smirk.

Nettle’s face grew still and quiet. Then, she looked right into Jewel’s eyes.

“I was married. I never reported it to the Agency, it was no one’s concern. I’m widowed and I miss him terribly. He was a lovely man. Smart, handsome and kind. An artist who lived in Dublin. Ours was not a traditional marriage, obviously. We spent time together when we could. We had started out as lovers but found it just wasn’t enough. He was the only man I ever wanted to call husband. And he wanted to call me his wife.” She smiled to herself, now twisting her wedding ring on her finger a bit. She sighed longingly.

As Jewel gazed at her face, she could see that even a stone cold killer could find deep, true love. This woman was interesting, no doubt about it. They sat quiet for a while and sipped their wine.

“You know dear, you are a nice looking girl. You could do with more stylish clothes.” Nettle had decided to change the subject.

“Oh, really. Well, nice of you to share your opinion.” Jewel stated light heartedly.

“I’m serious. Take some time off, do some shopping, visit a spa. Learn to take care of yourself. In the end, it’s all you’ve got. I should know.” She smiled. With that, they adjourned.

Jewel woke early the next morning. She inquired at the hotel desk about the whereabouts of Nettle after not seeing her in the breakfast nook.

“Oh, you must be the lady in the Porta Praetoria Suite? She’s left a note for you.”

Jewel took the note to a table in the breakfast room, got a hot cup of coffee and prepared to see how she had been bested. The note read:

Dearest Jewelweed:

Please understand, the most jewelweed can do is sooth the sting of nettle. It does not cure it or kill it. Don’t be discouraged. You did a dandy job of tracking me for these two months, I really didn’t put you together until Rothensburg. You were just a little too cozy with the bus driver, dear. DO learn to be a tad bit more discreet. I think you have oodles of potential. Please let the boss know, I am done. I have decided to retire. The fact that you tracked me a while before I caught on, says enough for me. I’m not what I once was, nor do I even care to be. I really do want more time for pretzels and beer. I’d suggest you make time for that too.

Regards

Stinging Nettle

That afternoon Jewel enjoyed a beer outside in the sunshine. She then phoned the Mr. Cleary.

“Jewelweed has soothed the sting of the Nettle.” Jewel reported into his answering machine. Next, she phoned his secretary Missy, whose voice mail requested she leave a message which she did. Jewel reiterated that Nettle was null and void.

“Please process Stinging Nettle’s retirement. And let the boss know I am using personal leave for another two weeks. Thank you, Missy.” Hopefully, these messages would be received.

Jewel checked out of the Bischofshof Hotel the next morning. She had decided to drive back to Frankfurt, return the rental car and find a hotel room for one night. She’d fly to London and do some shopping. The next morning taking a cue from Nettle; she hired a private car for transport to the airport. A black Mercedes arrived at the scheduled time. She didn’t draw the handsome young driver that Nettle had, instead a short blond woman lugged her suitcase towards the car. The driver set it down, opened the back door for Jewel and waived her in. Jewel heard her bag land in the trunk and then off they went. She was intently reading news articles on her cell phone when she noticed the car was rolling to a stop. Jewel didn’t see any sign of the airport, in fact it seemed they had exited the freeway and were instead now on a side road. Maybe the driver knew a short cut. The driver glanced in the rear view mirror.

“Miss, I believe I’m having a mechanical issue. Please exit and stand away from the car.”

“Alright, do you think this will take long? I do have a plane to catch.” Jewel expressed her concern. She got out and stood a few feet away from the car. “Can I help?” She asked.

The driver didn’t respond as she popped the trunk open; she was now moving bags around.

Jewel resisted a nagging feeling that something was amiss. However, when the driver finally asked for assistance, Jewel walked up to the trunk. What she saw amongst the baggage, shocked her. The small, gagged and very angry face of the notoriously famous Stinging Nettle. Jewel felt a jab in her neck and the world began spinning as she was shoved into the pile of baggage alongside Nettle. The blonde driver gazed down upon them and just before she slammed the trunk, she said:

“You have failed, Jewelweed. As I figured you might. Too bad, Stinging Nettle thought you had oodles of potential. But, I’ve got more. Let me introduce myself. I am Missy, from Mr. Cleary’s office. I am weary of serving as his secretary. With you two out of the way, I will be a more appealing candidate to fill the agent position that your demise will create. I cannot have you blocking my path. And Nettle’s had her time. By the way, Missy is short for Mistletoe. And Mistletoe is a parasitic plant that thrives by stealing the water and nutrients from any plant around it. Merry Christmas.” With that, Missy slammed the trunk shut.

She started up the engine and continued on with the journey to the Frankfort Airport. As she drove she laughed thinking about how she, Mistletoe, would indeed see to it that these two “weeds” were deprived of water and nutrients, along with oxygen. She would park the Mercedes in the airport’s long term parking. Jewelweed and Nettle would die in the trunk, paralyzed and unable to call out. The chemical injection she had administered would see to that.

In the trunk, it was of course a dark, bumpy and loud ride. Jewel tried to concentrate on the speed, direction, anything she could glean from the ride, to give her an idea of when they may be slowing down. She couldn’t use her numbed limbs, but she was able to scoot over towards Nettle. She found Nettle in the dark, felt her move a bit and her a mumble. They lie side by side for a few moments, resting and thinking. Suddenly, Jewel felt a sharp jab in her thigh. A needle like jab!

“Ouch!” She slurred. What the hell was Nettle doing? Within minutes, Jewel began to feel her limbs wakening, had Nettle injected her with a neutralizing chemical?

“Nettle, I think I’m getting better! Jewel exclaimed. With that, she raised her arm and groped to find Nettle’s mouth. She found the gag and yanked it out of Nettle’s mouth.

“That sneaky little bitch!” Were the first words Nettle sputtered. Her mouth was dry from the nasty rag. “Are you bound?” She asked Jewel.

“No, she injected me with a paralyzer and shoved me in here. I saw that you were bound and gagged. She didn’t paralyze you?”

“Yes, but that has begun to wear off.” I always carry a neutralizer in my pocket. She caught me off guard. Like I said, it is time for me to retire. But not quite yet, that bitch is gonna pay.”

“As soon as you have the strength, get these ties off my ankles and wrists. We haven’t much time. You will be able to find the back seat latch, I being the smaller of the two of us, I will wiggle through and get her from behind.”

Jewel worked quickly at freeing Nettle. Just as she was working on the back seat latch, the car began to slow down. Both trunk occupants lay still and listened. They felt speed bumps. “We must be approaching the airport. Let her park the car, we don’t want to draw attention.”

Nettle coached.

Within a few minutes, they felt the telltale left, right, left and slow roll of approaching a parking spot. They must be in long term parking. The tires were grinding on flat out gravel, no inclining pavement indicative of a roofed temporary parking structure. This was definitely long term. They heard nothing else around, no other cars or car doors slamming shut. The car came to a halt.

Jewel released the back seat latch, Nettle shimmied through the small opening and quick as lighting, injected a chemical into Mistletoe’s neck. Meanwhile, Jewelweed popped the trunk from the inside with the safety latch and carefully peeked out. Slowly, she climbed out and looked around as she removed her and Nettle’s baggage. The few vehicles that were parked in the lot were not occupied. No security cameras were mounted anywhere. She walked to the driver’s side door where Mistletoe lie still. Nettle looked up at her, saying nothing. Jewelweed opened the driver’s door. She easily lifted the unconscious Mistletoe out of the seat, carried her to the trunk and unceremoniously, tossed her in along side her baggage. She turned to Nettle.

“Do you have all your baggage, Auntie?” Smiled Jewelweed.

“Why yes, dear I do. And I see yours is also accounted for. Shall we catch the shuttle over to the terminal?” Stinging Nettle smiled as Jewel slammed the trunk shut. As they approached the busy shuttle station, Jewelweed tossed the Mercedes car keys in a trash bin.

“How long does that paralysis agent last without an injection of neutralizer?” Jewel asked.

Nettle stopped walking. She turned to Jewel and said,

“Darling, I’m a grown ass agent. I don’t play. Mistletoe will never resurrect, she is dead.

She was a piss ant. She could only score paralyzer. My clearance allow me full access.”

Jewelweed stood wide eyed a moment. Nettle turned and continued walking.

“But, I’m a piss ant!” Jewel said quietly.

“Yes, I do believe we established that fact earlier. Do TRY to keep up, Dear.”

They rode the shuttle in silence.

“Ah, this is my terminal.” Announced Nettle. Jewel helped her get her bag down from the shuttle rack. Nettle turned to her and held her arms out. Jewel hugged her tight.

“Alright Jewelweed, remember. Next time you kiss your sweetheart under the Mistletoe, think of your Auntie Nettle and our adventure together.” Nettle winked and off she went into the crowd.