Llewellyn’s Child

Like constellations of fading, falling stars, nations collided, governments defaulted, civility exploded, and the magma of mankind ledged above a tear-salted sea. And yet in hundreds of boroughs, towns, neighborhoods and homes across America, fidelity to God, family, and country survived. No. More than survived. It thrived. To the parade of flag wavers, fidelity was not measured by political rhetoric, legislation, conscription, or empty promises but by a reverent, heartfelt pledge of allegiance. Truly kept, it signified deep-seated commitment—forever a reminder at home and abroad that liberty is won and preserved through sacrifice and service. Patriots stood tall along a crowded Main Street and the band played on.

The O’Dwyers of rural Abilene typified many who clapped and sang as the American Legion Band marched by, playing “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” Caleb couldn’t carry a tune, not even when Gemma accompanied him on the old Ackerman and Lowe upright; but when grounded on the parade route, he crowed when the banner of freedom burst around the corner and flooded his eyes. Then he choked up. Every time. Caleb ‘s silent sermons spoke volumes to each of his children—line upon line, page after page—all bound together by example, encouragement, and correction. Indelible growth toward maturity refused to be calculated by a penciled mark on the back of a closet door.

When chores were done, the family regularly gathered around the oval, oaken table. Caleb sat at the helm and Gemma—pragmatic, unpretentious, and assuredly not bashful—provided the ballast. But this is Jinny’s story, the story of good times that ebbed, flowed, or splashed back and forth off the wallpaper of a safe harbor—the home. Now together, but soon, too soon separated, all were expected to toe the line, and none was immune to heartache, conflict, and tragedy.

04 July 2001. 09:45 HOURS

“Jinny, do you see Mama up ahead?”

“No. she’s gone, Papa.” Saddled on Caleb’s shoulders, the five-year-old jockeyed for a position at the rail, squoze her legs against her father’s neck, and anxiously waited for the pedestrian light on the far side of Pennsylvania Avenue to glow green.  A horn beep-beeped. “Stay. Wo horse.” Jinny watched the air-conditioned tour bus accelerate from a no-loading zone and spew exhaust though a vertical pipe into the humid D.C. air. She pinched her nose and mumbled, “I sure mith Kanthis.” No one heard her yammer, but the bus gasped, cars brakes squeaked, and trucks of all shapes and sizes got everyone’s attention as they noisily downshifted and rolled to a stop.  The pedestrian light glowed green. Go-go-go.

Caleb whinnied, checked to his left, right, and then hoofed off the curb. “Tuddly-hump-tee-dump. Tuddly-hump-tee-dump.”  Jinny’s brunette pony-tail bounced behind as they and cantered across Constitution Avenue in pursuit of Gemma.

“Faster Papa. Go faster.” Fat chance. Jockey and steed were boxed in by sixty well-fed islanders—each fully engaged in the race, each decked in colorful aloha attire, and wearing a red-white-and-blue striped lanyard. The minute hand circled twice, the horse and jockey fell behind, and Caleb’s knees wobbled and knocked when they topped the thirty-ninth chiseled step. They pulled up and gazed at the magnificent Corinthian columns and thirty-seven-foot-tall bronze doors glorifying the entrance. But the entrance to what?

“Awesome, huh, Jinny? Now, wouldn’t these doors look good on our barn?” he quipped. Jinny strained to hear over the din. Somewhat unnerved by the jostling, she grasped Caleb’s ears and slowly reined him in until the leather-necks ahead began merging into a chute, stalling both thoroughbred and jockey at half a furlong behind Gemma. “Easy on the ears, gal. I’m not a horse, you’re not a drover, and these folks aren’t a herd of bawling bovine . . . Oh, good, there’s Mama. Wave.”

“What’s a bovine, Papa?”

Caleb was tired of the cattle-drive metaphor, but he loved sports, and so he grinned when Gemma enthusiastically cycled one arm like a third-base coach. Come on home. Come on home. It wasn’t going to happen. All the brightly colored floral motifs—every flowered shirt and every palm-treed muumuu—fancied being first to score. But Jinny rested her chin on her Papa’s pate. “Are we going to ride on or what?”

Her question went unheard. Caleb called time by pulling a wrinkled neckerchief from his collar, wiping his forehead, and signaling his wife. Message received. Crowded from behind, Gemma executed a brisk about-face, moseyed up the three steps leading to the roped-off entrance, and read aloud: PLEASE WAIT TO BE ADMITTED—POR FAVOR, ESPERE A SER ADMITIDOS. But the sign said nothing about music.

Without invitation—or provocation—consorting ukuleles ganged up on a David Chung melody and bounced it off the walls of the annex and domed National Archives Rotunda—and interrupted the cowboy metaphor. Jinny didn’t like it, but branded Islanders’ hips swayed back and forth like bamboo palms being coaxed by an erotic off-shore breeze.

“TURN, let’s all turn to the right.

TURN, let’s all turn to the left.

Your eyes, your hands, your body express love.”

An unexpected shove from behind bucked Gemma into the crimson ropes and stanchions. Over they toppled like an uprooted, stomped, corral fence. The stampede was on.

“MAMA!”

Jinny’s eyes saucered as Gemma—clutching her purse, camera, and trying to maintain a modicum of dignity—was swept into the domed Rotunda like a chuckwagon without wheels. Cellphones flashed and reflected off Gemma’s bifocals, messaging her bewildered look as far away as Laie, while Caleb pushed on through the crowd to the rescue of his subdued, teary-eyed companion. She was still on her feet. Jinny patted Gemma on the head, jabbered something unintelligible to anybody but a mother, and stroked her mama’s mane.

BANG. A door handle cratered the wall and dislodged a chunk of plaster the shape of a horseshoe. The crowd cowered before a fuming, lone figure who filled the Security Office doorway. Taller than Caleb, the steely-eyed docent pinched his Cary Grant chin and lasered a poison stare at Gemma. Lady-you-got-a-lot-a-nerve. She peaked from behind her husband while the giant surveilled the downed barricade—his coal-black eyes blinking like camera shutters methodically documenting the damage—until Jinny broke his concentration. The five-year-old leaned forward in the saddle and with unharnessed aplomb declared, “Papa, I think we’re going to jail.”

The broad-shouldered docent condescendingly unzipped his lips, rolled a nod in Jinny’s direction, and then smiled. His upper incisors sported a gap large enough to accommodate a straw through which he could slurp a milk-shake with his teeth clenched, but to Jinny he didn’t look thirsty. Not at all. The man exuded the confidence of one who had hosted—if not hoisted—many a tourist, and yet after many years still valued the gravity of his calling. He was outfitted in a pressed white dress-shirt, black tie, pleated tan slacks, and shiny black boots; his gold badge, lettered in black, read Colin. His appearance would have impressed any five-year-old, even without the holstered handcuffs, canister of pepper spray, and cowboy boots.

Colin’s smile-lines contorted when he spotted and hailed a stoop-shouldered middle-easterner, nervously standing alone near an exit. “You there, hold your horses. I’m coming over.” Jinny turned in the saddle and, in tandem with sixty-two sets of eyes  profiled the sallow-complected foreigner. He stiffened, apparently undecided about whether to stand his ground or flee the roundup.

Colin strode toward him and without taking his eyes off the loner announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, you are still three minutes early for the tour; but anticipating the first question you will likely ask, I answer—no, National Treasure was not filmed here in the Rotunda. Hold the rest of your questions and please stand in place. Better yet, take a minute and assist this lady in righting the ropes and stanchions . . . Ma’am.” He passed by Jinny, Caleb, and Gemma, and dipped his head as politely as if he’d been wearing a Stetson. Gemma blushed and looked at the shiny marble floor to escape the docent’s gaze.

The salty sea of colorful shirts and muumuus rippled apart to let him pass—as if in deference to the arrival of King Kamehameha. Otherwise, the Hawaiians just gawked, as inert as popcorn over low heat. Perhaps they hoped Colin would invoke his prowess at taekwondo and chop down the suspicious foreigner. Seeing no one lift a finger to help the O’Dwyers, the tall docent spoke as if from atop Hawaii’s volcanic Mauna Kea, “HELP HER. NOW, PEOPLE.”

Instead of accosting the stranger, Colin linked arms with him, turned toward the tour group, and waited until the barricade had been restored to order. He asked, “How many of you hail from American Samoa?”

No hands.

“Hawaii?” All but three raised a hand, as if expecting a freebie.

The wrestless loaner leaned over and unsuccessfully attempted to whisper, “Coloho, coming today was a bad idea. I can’t breathe in here.” He made a feeble attempt to disconnect from his friend, who then whispered in his ear and guided him through the murmuring multitude to the Charters of Freedom—under glass and on permanent display between American Flags. A stunning sight. Even to a five-year-old from Abilene. Colin held up his hands and waited for the string of islanders to lap around him like a lazy tide. Even the air-conditioner fell quiet.

Jinny stretched forward far enough to look into Caleb’s left eye. “Papa, is it time for ice cream yet?”

“It is hot in here,” Caleb whispered back.

“You’ve got that right, Mister,” interrupted an over-exposed, middle-aged tourist, who topped out at five-feet-four-inches. He wore sandals, chinos, and an unbuttoned blue and white hibiscus print, soaked with sweat. His forearm was inked with a Confederate flag, and a twisted name tag covered his belly-button. He wasn’t Hawaiian. As if sauntering to the mound for a confab with the pitcher, Mr. “X” removed his Falcons souvenir cap and brushed back a few strands of greasy hair. He cupped the cap over his mouth and slurred to Caleb, “Mister, do you see the bulge under that A-rab’s shirt? That bearded dude is carrying. Better get your kid outta here.”

Jinny plugged her nose. “Pee-hew. What smells?”

Bristling, Mr. “X” looked up, shook a finger at Jinny, and glared through blood-shot eyes. “Mister, somebody forgot to teach your little haole some manners.”  Caleb nonchalantly tipped his head from side to the side, shrugged his shoulders, and betrayed no emotion.  But Gemma reacted as if she’d been slapped by a sapling. Her nostrils flared, and she was ready to go ten rounds. Clenching her fists, she growled, “Mister, I think you’d best be moving on.”

“What’s the matter, Red? Got a bee in your bonnet?”

Gemma felt Caleb’s firm hand on her shoulder.  “Easy dear. Easy does it; don’t puncture; pollinate.” She wrenched free and stepped toward the interloper.

Realizing he’d aroused the queen bee—stinger and all—Mr. “X” waggled the same finger at the O’Dwyers. “Wo, wo, wo, wo.” He turned clumsily around and staggered sideways to the left, and then sideways to the right, his voice trailing behind. “Just remember, I warned you. I warned you.” Half-amused, Jinny watched the drunk change course three or four times, mis-triangulate, spiral out of control, and flop to the floor beneath one of two large murals displayed on the Rotunda wall.

Immortalized in muted majesty and very sober, Thomas Jefferson held the Declaration of Independence in outstretched hands; Jinny counted his companions using her fingers. “. . . Twenty-six, twenty-seven. Did I get it?”

“Yes, Jinny, and so did they—every man.” Gemma retracted her stinger, relaxed her brow, and smiled. “Happy Independence Day and happy birthday, Jinny. Are you excited about seeing fireworks at the Mall tonight?”

“At the mall?”

After Gemma’s explanation, Caleb chimed in, “We love the Fourth of July, don’t we Jinny?”

She yawned. A few moments later her reply terminated a pensive silence. “Papa, I want down. I’m thirsty.”

“Ready to dismount? Dis–mount.” His imitation of John Wayne’s voice needed practice.

Jinny chuted to earth while Gemma retrieved a sippy cup from her purse.  Jinny looked askance at the plastic yellow duck’s shiny blue eyes with white dots, orange bill, and tummy half-full of apple juice. After pressing it between her lips, she paused and looked up. “I am five today, you know.”

Gemma kissed her second-born and attempted to straighten the hair-tie around her shiny, dark brunette pony-tail, but the rubber band broke, zinged, and—like a horsefly—stung a hairy-legged Hawaiian on the hiney. Jinny feared a stampede and cried, “Up, please.” Gemma  lifted. Colin spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this Rotunda is permanent home of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution of the United States, and the Bill of Rights—three documents known collectively as the Charters of Freedom. Together they have secured the rights of the American people for nearly two-and-a-quarter centuries and have forever altered the course of human history.” Colin, his arm still linked with his self-conscious friend, snugged close and continued, “Before inviting you come forward and view or photograph these treasures for yourselves, I want to introduce my life-long friend, Babak Nishapura. He is one of my heroes, having laid his life on the line to keep Americans free and independent.”

Babak nudged Colin in the ribs. “Enough, Coloho. You’re embarrassing me.”

“Babak is—another nudge—is not enjoying this occasion.” Colin grinned. Babak remained as stone-faced as George Washington at Mount Rushmore. “Major Nishapura is a decorated Special Forces veteran, having served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”  Babak tried to pull free. Colin held fast and upped the speed of his delivery. “We went through school together, but Babuk went through hell without me.” That disclosure riveted all eyes on Babak—except for the eyes of the downed drunk, which were closed.

“That’s enough and goodbye.” Babak jerked free. Limping, he pushed his way through the crowd and brushed by the O’Dwyers. He failed to see Jinny, who had pressed a hand to her heart and continued watching until, dwarfed by the bronze doors, he exited the building.

The docile docent finished his monologue, answered a few questions, and then stepped aside to watch most of the tour group, including Gemma, hightail it out of the Rotunda into the annex gift shops to buy stuff, or skip down the steel-lipped basement steps to the vending machines. Caleb, and Jinny lingered, long since accustomed to being left in Gemma’s dust. Caleb took Jinny by the hand and passed from one document to the next, gently touching his fingers to the glass.

“Papa, up please.  I can’t see the pictures.”

Back in the saddle again, Jinny repositioned her hands-on Caleb’s face, leaned around and kissed his cheek. This time it was salty wet. His attempt to communicate in old Irish brogue failed, but his sentiments were genuine. “Jinny, me wee one, are ye still up thar?”

“Yes, Papa, you know I am,” she giggled. “You sound like a pirate. Speak American.”

“What you see here under the glass is, I must tell you, sacred. See these signatures?”  He gestured first at the documents and then at the grand mural ahead and to their left. “These names belong to those twenty-seven men . . . some of the best of their generation—noble patriots. And like them, your great Grandpa Llewellyn pledged his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor . . . so you and I could grow up free in this wonderful Promised Land.”

“Is Abilene the Promised Land, Papa?”

Caleb choked out an answer. It was heard. Father and daughter moved on, but the memory stayed put—Jinny’s memory being just a few bytes shy of photographic.

“Holy Smoke—unbelievable!  What just happened?  Did you see how high he jumped? Where did I hit him?  Wasn’t that biggest buck you’ve ever seen?  Did you see him drop?”

Conor had fired but one shot at a five-by-five whitetail—head-on—from thirty-five yards.  Both he and the deer had nearly jumped out of their skins, but only Conor stood stroking his unshaven chin with a free hand.  It was shaking and so was Jinny’s head.

“Buck fever. Buck-buck-buck. You missed, big brother. You flat-out missed.”

Conor levered back the bolt, ejected the spent brass from the chamber, and snapped, “Breaker, breaker. Head calling tail, head calling tail, over? I didn’t miss, so zip it.  Maybe he’ll hole up in the chaparral  above Flag Rock.” Jinny shouldered her rifle, scrunched her nose  to re-position slipping sunglasses which she didn’t need and continued slogging up the draw behind her brother, mumbling, “Don’t kid yourself. That buck’s halfway to Texas. And you, believe it or not, have a medical condition called buck fever.”

Conor triple-tongued a burst of exasperation between his lips like an Irish setter trying to spit, but he kept walking.  On the other hand  his seventeen-year-old sister’s tongue kept popping holes in his ego.  “Say Conor, want me to take your temperature?  BUCK-buck-buck-buck—fever.”

Conor grimaced and shoved his free hand into an open pocket. “You know what, Jinny?  Sometimes you gnaw like a chicken on a rubber dog. Enough already?”

It was December 31, the last day of the hunting season, and the first snow had yet to fall in rural Abilene.  A tiny stream meandered down Thrush Hollow, rolling over and tickling smooth pebbles into  song.  Speckled fall leaves fanned out in colorful kaleidoscopes, blanketed the ground, and crunched under-foot.   To Jinny, fall was a deciduous delight.  She watched dust devils swirl here and there, drawing her eyes toward heavenly stacks of cumuli, all lined up like little Bo-peep’s sheep across the blue Kansas sky.  But Conor wasn’t looking up or waiting up.  He was fed up, and Jinny knew it.

“Your nerves got the better of you this morning, big brother?  Well, take heart, you only missed once.”  That didn’t help.

“We’ll see, won’t we?  Let’s keep after him.”   Conor balanced the Winchester on his forearm, ejected another cartridge from the chamber, and stomped ahead not realizing he had dumped a live round near his spent brass in the stream-bed.

Wanting to close the breach between herself and her brother, Jinny paused to search, and then squatted twice over shimmering gold streaks bottomed in a frigid pool.  She popped Conor’s brass from between the rocks with a stick and then with nimble, ungloved fingers retrieved the live round.  Wiped dry, the peace-offerings cheerfully clunked in her pocket.

“Conor, wait up.  Got something for you, Bro,” Jinny teased as she shouldered her .257 Weatherby—purchased after last summer’s work on the farm.  Now fifty yards ahead, all Conor heard behind him was a chattering  magpie who’d gotten tired of sucking eggs–Jinny.  “Conor, I said, wait up.  I just thought of something.  Did you hear what Uncle Albert said last night?  He had a coy expression on his face, so I’m not sure if he was serious or joking when he claimed that a patch of blue large enough to make a Dutchman a pair of trousers means the weather will clear.  Do you believe it?  Conor, did you hear me?”

He hadn’t heard, but Mother Nature had.  A stiff south-wind dipped into the hollow,  crawled beneath Jinny’s corduroy collar, and wriggled down her neck.  “Burr.”  Turning her back on the invisible intruder, she removed and pocketed her wrap-around sun-glasses, snugged the hoodie over her pony-tail, cheeks, and then knotted the tie under her chin.  “Mother Nature, it’ll take more than a cold wind to make me quit the hunt,” she tittered.

Still miffed, Conor disappeared behind an outcropping of layered red and tan-colored sandstone grumbling that his sister had spooked every deer within a mile.  Jinny followed, sure-footed as a doe springing from rock to rock, back and forth across the creek.  She called it, The River of No Return.  Never a river, ever a creek, like most things it failed to dry up her effervescent imagination.

“Jinny, come quick.”

“Yes, uh-huh.  Right. So you can jump out and scare the bejeebers out of me, you ding-louie?”

“No, come quick. I found fresh blood.”

“For real?”  Jinny bounced around the protruding sandstone and sidled up next to her brother, who sat, knees pulled under his chin, on a rock at the base of a steep aggregate of clay and gravel.  Privately, he lamented the fresh tear in his quilted, down overcoat, but he covered it up and bit his tongue to keep from smiling.

“Blood spatter, right there on the rock.”

“So where? Show me.”

Conor pointed and nodded.  “Right there. Told you I didn’t miss.”

“Well then, you win the prize.”  Jinny retrieved Conor’s brass and bullet from her pocket, dropped them in his hand , leaned forward, and sniffed  the spatter. “Yep, that’s blood alright, but I’ll bet it didn’t come from a deer.”

“And you can tell by sniffing like a dog?”

Jinny shelved a saucy comeback.   “Move your hand. Whoa! So how did you tear your jacket . . . and new plaid shirt . . . and your arm?  Conor, your arm!”

“Barbed wire.”  Conor pointed over his shoulder at the drooping,  rusty villain.  Jinny’s mood mellowed.  She unzipped her fanny pack.  “You may need a tetanus shot.  Take off your coat and sit still while I clean and bandage this for you.”

Conor complied.  He removed his coat and rolled up his torn, long-sleeve shirt.  “I didn’t dress for this wind.”

“The wind doesn’t care how you dress.”

Lightening up, Conor chuckled.  “Very funny, gunny.   Let’s hike down to the road and follow the fence-posts home before we freeze in place like they have.”

“Agreed.  I shouldn’t be operating right here anyway.  You do remember this spot, don’t you?”

“I don’t see spots, Jinny.  Do you see spots?”

“Now you’re sounding like me, but I’m speaking of last April–this spot–right here.” Twelve  cubic yards of clay had collapsed into the hollow, damming the spring run-off and leaving four or five dislocated posts dangling by their necks, cruelly noosed together with barbed-wire.  The no-account  fence bordered the eastern extremity of Galey Corker’s property, and the O’Dwyer family had hiked up to help Galey’s grandson, Curly, clear a path for the stream.

Anxious to relocate, Jinny zipped her fanny pack and looked across the hollow. “What in the ding-louie is that?”

“Don’t you mean, who’s that?”

A Goliath-sized shadow materialized on the hollow’s far bank, dwarfing even its owner, who stood—sun to his back—gaping from the ridge above and behind Jinny and her brother. Charles “Curly” Corker leaned precariously forward, bared his large front teeth, smiled with his mouth open, and continued to chew.  Then he spat a crush of half-digested apple and laughed when it dunged Jinny’s shoulder. “Yo, Conor, are you alright?  It’s me, Curly.”

“Oh really? Who could have guessed?” grumbled Jinny. “Let’s head home.  Now.”

Conor thrust his bandaged arm into his coat, jerked it up on his back, and mumbled indignantly, “Curly’s going through tough times.  We can’t just saunter away with our noses all pugged up. Try to remember, he’s been your friend for a long time, too, you know.  So, give him a break.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Disgusted, Jinny brushed the apple from her shoulder and, hoping Curly would get uneasy and skedaddle, she pawed the ground like a lathered-up brahma bull does after dumping its rider.  “He’s rankled my nerves since he turned eighteen and shucked his chrysalis, or whatever you call it.  And he smokes now, but you know that?”

Curly, a friend since first grade, was distinguished by an untamable blonde cowlick—a curlicue really—that fraternized with his forehead.  Occasionally, Curly’s mother, Candice, would apply the bowl, shear the hair, and the curlicue would disappear for a few weeks.  Like hair, Curly usually had too much time on his hands— or too little to do.  “You two climb on up here.  Come on, I’ll give you a hand.”

“We don’t need applause, thank you very much,” sassed Jinny.

“Huh?  I’m pretending I didn’t hear that.  But Conor, I saw your buck. He’s a granddaddy, if I do say so myself.  He jumped the gully ‘n leaped right past me.”

“For real?  See any blood?”

“Naw.  Come on up and I’ll fill you in.  And don’t worry about old Grandpa C. warning you off.  He don’t warn nobody off no more.”

Like his grandpa before him, Charles often patrolled the property line, pretending to be both owner and U. S. Border-Patrol agent.  He carried a beat-up J. C. Higgins .22 caliber bolt-action rifle—christened The Supper Snuffer—which his mother had purchased for his twelfth birthday while serving her life term in the basement at Sears.  Curly’s father, Hubert, was a no-account bum.  He had run a maintenance crew at a local refinery until his unrefined drinking habit finally got him canned.  Broke most of the time, he hung out “looking for work” over in Salina for days, sometimes weeks at a time.

“Come on Jinny, let’s do this.  You go up first,” Conor insisted.  “That way if you fall I’ll catch you.  And who knows, maybe my wounded buck will hobble by and ask for directions.”  Jinny sighed, complied, and slung the Weatherby over her shoulder— freeing up both hands.   With her eighteen-year-old brother as a safety net, she scrambled up a grade only a deer or mountain goat could fancy.  It was steeper than steep.

Clamoring to the top of the declivity, Jinny caught hold of Curly’s wrist but failed to detect the abrupt increase in his pulse rate when he glommed onto hers. “Easy now.” Pulling Jinny up eye to eye, Curly feigned surprise, grinned, and exposed a gap where one of his teeth used to occupy a parking space. “And who do we got here?”  he whistled. “Conor, is this philly your pack mule or another cousin?”

Jinny was indignant.  “You’re a real charmer, Curly, and you can add bad breath to the list of your finer qualities. You’ve been smoking again, haven’t you?” Jinny stomped on his toe.  Curly yowled, let go, and Jinny fell back, initiating a chain of events she would later colorize in slow motion at the dinner table:

“Curly lost his grip on my wrist, bumped me with his forearm and—succumbing to the law of gravity—I twisted back into a graceful one-and-a-half gainer, doomed to land head-first in the River of No Return.  But in the nick of time, Curly snatched my hoodie, then my arm, and hoisted me up safely onto terra firma—but NOT into his arms.

“Meanwhile, Conor, his fingers clawing  the clay, waited anxiously for a hand up.  I turned, he let go, and I think the expression used by bungie-jumpers is he free-fell down, down, down—splat— and landed spread-eagle on his back in a bed of soggy leaves.  Great stunt.  No camera.  Spectacular.  Oh, I wish you could have been there.  Unharmed and disarmed, Conor lay perfectly positioned to plow like a snow angel, if only he’d been patient for a few more hours.”

In truth, Jinny shrieked when Conor’s fall suddenly terminated within inches of the bloody rock where they’d sat.   He groaned and lay motionless.  “Conor, are you breathing?”  He groaned again, slowly tried to right himself, and then fell back.  Like a parachutist when the jump-light flashes green, Jinny passed her rifle to Curly, slid under the dangling barbed-wire fence and leaped, landed on her fee, as agile as a bobcat, and dropped to her knees.  “Oh Conor, what have I done?  I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Finally Conor’s lungs sucked air; his chest heaved and fell like magma crusted within a form-fitting caldera, and his eyes fixed on his sister. “Who are you and where am I?”

Panicked, Curly bawled out, “Jinny, should I run for help?  Conor, you are okay, right?”

Conor erupted.  “I’ve been ridiculed, gouged, punched, fallen thirty feet, landed on my back, and had the wind knocked out of me—SO WHAT DO YOU THINK, Mister Magoo?” Before Curly could kick his legs in motion and run for help, Conor ratcheted himself up on a bruised elbow.  “No Curly, stay put, I guess I’ll live, no thanks to you two.” He shifted to one hip, became aware of a lump under his legs, and let out a forlorn whoop.   “It’s broken.”

Fearing the worst, Jinny drew back.  “Oh no, you broke your leg.  Which one? Or is it your arm? Your ankle?”

“IT’S MY RIFLE! Confound you, Jinny!  Now you’ve done it.”  Conor grubbed  in the mud and hefted his prize Winchester.  It looked like a dinosaur bone salvaged from the murky La Brea Tar Pit in Los Angeles. The expensive Weaver scope, yet to be retrieved,  had been severed from its mounts. Conor refused Jinny’s outstretched hand, rolled to his knees, and slowly climbed to his feet.  Without scraping the muck from his rear-end, he  bent over, found the scope, and stomped down the gully toward Dummy Lane, limping a little for show.  As he rounded the layered sandstone outcropping, the wounded warrior looked back over his shoulder. “AND DON’T YOU FOLLOW ME, Jinny.  I’m done with you; I’m done with both of you; take a hike—A TWO-HUNDRED MILE HIKE.”

Jinny pressed an index finger against the tip of her nose, then pursed her lips, wrinkled her brow, and looked up at Curly.  His open mouth looked like a played-out mine.  He took off his woven cap and scratched his head. “Now what?”

Jinny tried to ignore the arterial pulsations in her neck while her mind finished rewinding her version of Conor’s fall from grace.   Then she replied, “So, here’s the deal, Curly.  I’m NOT scratching my way up to you again.  Hold onto my rife and hustle to the head of the hollow.  It’s about three-hundred yards. Go.”  And she was gone.

Curly shrugged.  “I know how far it is, gol-darn it.”  Without articulating the remainder of what he was thinking—a rare discretion for the lad—he snatched up the rifles, one in each hand, followed orders, and jogged along the twisted fence line, counting posts as he ran.

“. . . 35 . . . 37 . . . I mean 36, and here’s your gun.”

Still smarting from Colon’s rebuff, Jinny grabbed and shouldered her rifle, but none of the blame.  “You know, Curly, sometimes you really get on . . . never mind.”

“Never mind what?”  Curly wiped his nose on his sleeve.  Just then the wind picked up a few knots and a dust-devil spun dry leaves into a large swirl, causing Jinny to shield her eyes.  Too late.  She removed a glove, gently pinched and pulled forward an eyelid to scour a mote from her right eye.  Her blinking lashes reminded Curly of butterfly wings.  Beautiful butterfly wings.  Alone at last.  Curly shivered with excitement.  Playing the clown, he smacked his own buttocks and chortled, “If you ask me, Jinny, Conor just bruised his eggo.”

“It’s ego, and I didn’t ask you.”

“Huh?  You didn’t ask what?”

“Never mind.”

Hoping to hear better, Curly rolled up his seaman’s cap, allowing his large ears to pop out like doors on a taxi-cab.  “That big buck got within twenty feet of me without even looking up and then trotted on down the gully towards you.  Then blam.  One shot.  The bullet ticked an antler and spun him around.  Before I could get out of the way, he jumped the wash, and I guess you might say we had a confertation.  He stopped, grunted, and then he was gone.  Far gone.” Curly paused, then added sheepishly, “I almost peed my . . . well . . . since you never miss what you’re shooting at, I figured your brother had missed, but I hadn’t spotted you as yet.”

“You’re right, I never miss.  Conor was shooting uphill; he missed high.  The deer leaped five feet into the air and lit out of here like a bat out of . . . well you know the rest. “

“That’s what I was trying to tell you before Conor got all hot and toddled away.” Curly wasn’t sweating, but he dabbed his brow anyway, and then he pulled his cap back down over his ears.   The temperature was dropping, too.  “On a day like today, I’m sure glad bucko didn’t charge me.”

“Yes, that deposit may have been nonrefundable.”  Jinny’s impish smile made a brief appearance.

“Huh? Come again?”  Curly—realizing he was being made fun of—jerked off his knitted cap, fisted it against his chest, and narrowed his eyes at Jinny.  “You do understand, don’t you?  My .22 was no match for that big five by five.  Right?”

“Right.  So, show me where he came up out of the hollow,” she replied, hoping to avert a more problematic confrontation.

“Okay.  If you’re up to it, we’ll have to backtrack about a hundred yards. But I’m starved. Say, Jinny, didn’t I see a package of cookies sticking out of your fanny-pack?”

“That would be correct.  I have an extra sandwich, too, or perhaps you’d prefer picking up what you spit at me in the creek-bed?”  Jinny needn’t have asked.  She looked for a place free of weeds, grass, dirt, and spied a tilted, flat rock shaped like Arizona.  After laying out lunch on the city of Sedona, she sat cross-legged north of Flagstaff.  Curly plopped down south of Phoenix.  While he munched, Jinny mused aloud, “I can see it now.  As Conor stomps into the house—and after Mama tells him to get back outside and take off his boots—she’ll say: ‘Where the ding-louie is your little sister?  You didn’t leave her out there alone, did you?’ Conor will storm out of the room; Mama will send for Papa; Papa will whistle at Glycerin; Glycerin will whinny and come running; Papa will saddle up and come trotting up the Hollow—unaware that I’ve been kidnapped.”

“Huh?  Kidnapped?”  Curly ripped open and dumped an entire package of Oreos on the outskirts of Tucson.

“Well, let’s say it all depends on how you treat me.”  Curly’s cogitations were no match for Jinny’s calculations.  Even scratching his head didn’t help.

“So, what am I missing, Miss Jinny?”

“What’s with the, ‘Miss Jinny’?  Have you been reading Huck Finn?”  Before un-enthusiastically biting into her sandwich, she added, “Don’t answer that.  What Miss Jinny misses is her brother.”  Shared adventures had always included Conor—her hedge against Curly’s romantic notions.  She felt abandoned.

Clouds, tumbling across the sky in slow motion, dropped tablespoon-size raindrops that noisily pelted Jinny’s waterproof outer-wear.  As the creek puddled, her enthusiasm for the hunt dried up.  She shaded her eyes against the drippy sky.  “There’s a storm brewing.  It’s too cold, and I hate getting wet.  Let’s forget the deer and hightail it out of here.  I don’t care if it is the last day of the season.”  She looked up.  “So much for not having enough sky to make the Dutchman a pair of trousers, eh, Uncle Albert.”

“Come again?”

“No, not come again.  Let’s just go home.”  Jinny retrieved her rifle and slung it over her shoulder.

Curly hadn’t budged.  “You’re kidding, right?  You aren’t gonna hike four miles across open country in this rain?  Why not hunker down and huddle beneath Corker Rock until the storm passes?”  Jinny’s neck-hairs sprang to attention, aroused by a case of the don’t get your hopes up, buster.

She replied, “Corker Rock?  Bad idea.  Varmits and roly-polies hunker down under rocks, not O’Dwyers.” Jinny sprang to her feet. “I’ve got a better idea, Curly.  I’ll lasso and tame a bull elephant, coax him to his knees, and climb aboard.”  She started running downhill before adding, “I’ll be the goad-wielding mahout, of course, and I suppose you may ride behind me.”

“Great idea.  I got your back, Jinny. Wait up.”

“As long as we don’t touch.  Got it?”

Curly took thirty seconds to fill his pockets with cookies, inhale a sandwich, and refrigerate his romantic inclinations.  He looked up, surprised to see Jinny with such a head-start and riding a tail-wind for home.   “FORGET THE PACHYDERMS, CURLY. THEY AREN’T IN SEASON HERE.”

“Come again?  What did you say?  Confound it, Jinny.  Wait up, will ya?”

For years, Jinny’s vocabulary-rich imagination had had a way of tying Curly in knots. Square knots.  Even Conor had gotten tangled in the warp and the woof of his sister’s adventures.  At one time or another the threesome had tiptoed across a fallen log  adjoining two of the Galapagos Islands, a thousand feet above the surf; they had  shinnied to the top of the Statue of Liberty to see the sun stick its head from behind England and then rappelled to the ground to watch the same glorious orb again emerge and gasp for air; they had crawled through the jungles of Cambodia.  Such adventures were often hard on growing wheat and borrowed clothesline.  Fall afternoons were often spent playing Rook  beneath the seductive shade of a wormy apple-tree twice their age.  

The depth of Jinny’s imagination had yet to be fathomed.  When she proclaimed her intention to join the army and become a sniper, nobody had taken her seriously—except, perhaps, Caleb.  Initially, the O’Dwyers let the notion stand at ease, hoping soon to dismiss it altogether. Jinny was seventeen; Conor and Curly had turned eighteen.  Ahead lay an uncharted bend in the road, a tragic bend–more borders, more barbed wire, more fear, more mud, more bullets, more pain, and more death.  Much more death.

Jinny slipped from beneath the comforter and rolled out of bed onto her knees as she did most mornings.  After silent prayer she listened for the hushed cadence of measured breathing and detected but a yawn.  Isabelle turned over, and without opening her eyes, slept on. Jinny uncrossed her crossed fingers, felt for her clothes stacked on a chair in the dark, and concentrated on navigating the minefield of testy, pressure-sensitive floorboards without blowing her cover.  Given her well-tuned telemetry, the task seemed straight-forward enough.

She tip-toed to the kitchen and slid her folded clothes onto the table.  One leg at a time, Jinny pulled the skin-tight, faded red thermals onto her sculpted physique.  She downed a bowl of corn flakes, finished dressing, and jotted a cryptic message: “Mama—Gone to hollow to see the big buck—Back soon. Luv J.”  A magnet grabbed, snapped, and held the note to the refrigerator.  Its door—camouflaged with last year’s calendar, favorite quotes, and a few photos—was the closest Gemma ever got to Facebook. 

Hunting season had expired—Jinny knew the game warden hadn’t—and so her rifle remained on the rack next to Conor’s inside the cold, screened-in back porch. She fumbled with the door-latch, quietly backed out the door into the frigid winter, and nearly jumped out of her skin when a deep voice came shivering out of the darkness. “And what are you up to, soldier?”

“Oh, Papa! You scared me to death. Well, not quite.”  Jinny twirled around and they hugged.  Neither wanted to let go.  Caleb grunted.  Excepting Sundays, he worked from dawn to dusk, even through the winter.

“Aren’t you glad it’s just me?” he coughed and chuckled, cheering them both.

“No.  I mean, yes.  B-u-r-r.”  Jinny finished buttoning her coat and put on her gloves. “Do you need my help this morning, Papa?”

“Thanks, but I’ll wager that’s not why you’re up at this hour.  Weren’t you afraid of waking your mother?”

“I was careful about that. Very careful.”

“So, what’s up, besides you?  Have you forgotten today’s the Sabbath?”

“No. I couldn’t sleep.  I kept imagining that big five-by-five pawing the ground outside my bedroom window  steaming the window with his hot breath.  Once I even thought I heard his nose squeaking against the glass, so I got up and looked out.  I can’t seem to get him off my mind.”  Jinny shuddered then jabbered on.  “Curly said it was the biggest buck he’s ever seen, Papa.  Alright if I just hike up the hollow on the chance that I might spot him before vacation is over?  Please, please, please.  I mean, before church?”

“Who’s church? Yours or the bucks?”  Caleb’s cheery countenance glowed in the dark.  “It’s going to be a red-sky morning, gal.  Even city folks should take warning, and I don’t want you to get caught in the blizzard barreling our way.  K-D-O-N says it’s already snowing in Tulsa.” Caleb pulled up a sleeve on his goose-down jacket. “You’ve got two hours—and no ‘buts’ or ‘what ifs.’ Agreed?”

“Yes, two hours. Thank you, Papa.”  Jinny uncrossed her fingers and pivoted on her left foot, ready to disappear into the predawn gloom.  “I’d keep in touch on my cell-phone . . . if I had one.”

“Your timing’s poor this morning, Jin.  Now scoot before I change my mind.”  Caleb tipped back his cap, put a gloved hand to his ear, and listened to the crunch of footsteps crossing the frost-covered pasture until all he heard was silence.  He covered a cough and retraced his steps, mumbling over what he’d forgotten to do. “Your ability to forget improves every day, old man, and don’t count that as a virtue.”  He returned to the barn, and the one antlered clock-radio clicked on.

“G-o-o-d Morning Abilenos; and no, you are not experiencing poor reception, just the hoarse voice of Cowboy Rodney Flank, as recognizable in Dickinson County as somebody singing off-key in the church choir, and YOU are tuned to 105.7, KDON—of the people, by the people, and here for all you early risers practicing for the morning of the First Resurrection.

“Sylvie just handed me a bulletin: ‘The deer hunt ended yesterday.  STOP.  Our station manager is coming in with an announcement.  STOP.’ Here he is now. STOP.  Clyde, just ease in here behind the radio-stream control panel, don’t mess with it, and have a piece of gum.  STOP.”

“This is Clyde Okkason speaking; I know what I’m doing, so STOP.  Funny, eh Rodney?  No? Then from now on go outside to smoke . . . go on, git.  Now down to business.  Folks, believe it or not, Sheriff Banner called to let us know that after the city buttoned up for the night, somebody assaulted Moses out in front of the county courthouse and chipped off both his ears.   They knocked the Decalogue from his arms and then—crushing vegetation and leaving tractor tracks but no fingerprints—chained up and dragged the Ten Commandments face-down into the Dwight D. Eisenhower Memorial Rose Garden, of all places.  I don’t need to tell you how frost-bit we all should be over this desecration.  Sheriff Poindexter . . . did I say Banner? . . . anyhow, he needs help figuring out who’s been disrespecting our values, and so the mayor’s agreed to a town meeting.

“Come on over to the basement of the Elks Lodge at 6 p.m.  It’s time we got to the bottom of this ungodly offense before it’s too gol-darn late.  And before you say, ‘it’s none of my business,’ roll off your couch and look out on the front porch.  Has somebody re-strung your American flag upside down on the pole, like they did the mayor’s, or has it been stole altogether? And what’s next?  When tomorrow comes will I be announcing that somebody broke into Motel 6 and snatched all the Gideon Bibles? It’s time for action. Come on down and join us at 6:30. Light refreshments will be served.  For KDON, I am Clyde Okkason.”

“And I’m Rodney Flank.  Are you early-risers anxious to make tonight’s meeting clip along? Submit your written agenda items on-line, and I’ll consider airing them with my laundry.   What’s that Clyde?  Oh yes, STOP.  For your listening pleasure, here’s one of my favorites.  Guess who first recorded this one, give me a call, and mail you a free . . .”  Click.

Jinny had crossed the canal bridge, the county road, and continued south.  Looking back, the O’Dwyer homestead and barn were but an undulating mirage—spattered with wind-tossed hues of green and purple on a background of grey flannel.  Actually, what she saw was not a mirage, but that’s the way Jinny chose to describe it in her diary.

At dawn, the eastern sky blushed, and scrawled grey diagonals lined its rosy cheeks.  Looks like snow.  Good timing.  I’ll be at Church before it rolls in.  Jinny paused to eyeball the  Hackberry stumps lazing on fallow land to the southeast where they’d always been.  Long ago, Uncle Albert and his nasal-toned goose-call had hoodwinked Jinny into crawling eighty yards toward the stumps, 16-gaugeshotgun cradled in her arms, so she could surprise a gaggle of Canada geese.  “Fooled once.  On me. Fooled twice.  Not to be.”

She plodded on, zig-zagging back and forth up the draw and hound-dogging the ground for deer tracks.   Suddenly, Jinny jerked up as if she’d reached the end of her leash.  “NO, NO, NO.  NO TRESPASSING, WHOEVER YOU ARE.”  Jinny’s verve vaporized. She scowled at a large boot print in the mud, wagged her head, and howled, “I’d sure like to know whose size-thirteens trampled my morning expectations.  So now what?” Her voice trailed off.

Overheating, Jinny unzipped her coat and allowed her enthusiasm for the hunt to evaporate. She checked her watch and clicked her tongue against a thirsty pallet.  “Well Jinny gal, say so long to a short morning and a tall deer.”  But then the light of imagination irradiated her brain.  Looking again at the tracks, she imagined a bulky brute wearing an orange jump-suit stenciled KDOC, front and back. A surge of excitement rippled down her seventeen-year-old spine and tingled both young calves.  She still had some growing up to do. Warm air escaped her purple lips as she dipped her head sideways and spoke to her jacket collar. “Control, please be advised:  I’ve located fresh human tracks, and I’m unarmed.  Do you copy? “

JInny paused, awaiting an answer, and then continued, “The runner looks to be a heavy male, and he’s not far ahead of me.   Hold the hounds.  Let’s not spook this guy.  Maintain helo surveillance at eight thousand feet.  Over?”  She paused for confirmation and then replied, “Yes, I can track the runner for half an hour, but I need to be home before church or face a court martial.”   Jinny tucked her shiny brunette hair under the collar, re-zipped her goose-down coat, and only blinked twice before  alien tracks suddenly filled with fleeing feet.

A big man came barreling over arise,  puffing like a runaway slave, but in no way did he measure up to Jinny’s fancied fugitive—except, perhaps, for the big feet.   His black seaman’s cap was pulled over his ears, his worn jacket zipped in a choke-hold, and his blue denim trousers sported frayed duct-tape patches over the knees.  He spotted Jinny, stumbled, toppled head over heels down the incline, and rolled to her feet. “WO, Jinny?”

“WO yourself, Curly.”

Curly looked as surprised to see Jinny as she was sorry to see him.  Panting, he grinned.  “Howdy do, Rabbit?  I just about ran you over.”   

Jinny’s hollow reply revealed both disdain and disappointment.  “Hello and goodbye.”  She side-stepped Curly, then dosey-doed.  “Did you just call me, ‘Rabbit’?”

“Yep.  You’ve got all the moves,” he panted.  “And by the way, Rabbit, when I got home last night I started thinking real hard, and . . .”

“Take two aspirin and call me next year.”

“Huh?” Curly’s brow wrinkled up like a scrunched rug, but not for long.  After regaining his feet, he backed up a paragraph and started over. “What I meant to say was I’m not as surprised to stumble on you as you was to run onto that skunk yesterday while crossing the log between them Galapaghost Islands.”  Curly’s sniggered.  His snigger caught up with a cheerful giggle, and then he lost it.  Slapping his thighs, he bent over and laughed like the plastered fat lady above the Lagoon Fun House in Utah.  His face turned red, and he shrieked, “Was that funny or what? I almost split a gut.”

“Why don’t you just split?”

“You’re joking, right?”  His smile disappeared into his mouth.

Jinny looked wistfully up the trail.  “What I really wanted today was to see Conor’s buck.”

“So?  Ask if I’ve seen any signs.”

“Okay, have you seen any signs, Curly?”

“Only the one  staked by the road in front of my house—Slow Down:  Children at Play.”   He smirked. “Ha. You didn’t see that coming, did you?”

Jinny’s tried not to smile—and succeeded.  “No, I didn’t see it coming, but what I really need to get is GOING.  See ya later, much later.”  Hoping Curly would sprinkle some pixy dust on himself, twirl around three times, and vanish, Jinny briskly hiked fifty yards before glancing back, only to see her childhood chum standing as rigid as a pillar of salt.  She took a deep breath, tapped her lips with an index finger again, and concluded,“When Lot’s wife got left behind, she turned into a salt-lick.    Can’t have that.  No cows up here to lick. HEY, CURLY, ARE YOU COMING OR NOT?”

Curly came running.  “Thanks Rabbit.  For a minute I wondered if you hoped I’d go home and drown myself in the bathtub.”  Fortunately, neither could foresee the tragic irony dunked in his confession.

Jinny cringed. Curly perked up.  “This’ll be more fun than finding the city of El Diablo.”

“That would be El Dorado, not El Diablo. Nobody wants to discover the devil.”

“Oh yeah, I knew that.  Didn’t Dorothy L’amour write about seeing ET in the Ozarks somewhere?”  The conversation continued to deteriorate. The weather deteriorated.  To Jinny, all hope that they’d see a deer deteriorated.  But Curly’s resolve was fixed.  “How is it God’s four-legged creatures can tell when hunting season’s done?  Go figure, huh Rabbit?  They should come out to stretch their legs about this time of day, so keep your eyes open.”

Ten minutes later the duo had forgotten the deer. Curly found himself crawling behind Jinny in search of an al-Qaida outpost high in the Hindu Kush Mountains.   She paused, head down, as she neared the crest of Rocky Ridge.  It mattered little that Rocky Ridge is in Wyoming.

Curly alligatored up next to the more agile G.I.  “Should I go over first?”

Applauding the idea, Jinny pictured Curly, dressed in a soldier’s uniform, about to be wasted by a sniper’s round. “Be my guest.”  One day she’d regret even the thought.  Curly climbed to his feet ready to charge.

“CURLY LOOK OUT.”

A stiff had wind shifted into overdrive, and a tumbleweed the size of a tractor rolled across the barren pasture, collided head-on with Curly, and knocked him down.  His knitted cap soared fifty yards before snagging on a gnarly, leafless, cottonwood scrub.    Curly jumped to his feet and–to Jinny at least–he appeared to be airborne.  His flight  terminated at the tree, where he managed to disentangle, stretch on his tip-toes, and scissor the cap between two fingers.  “Gotcha.   . . . No-no-no.”  It danced away, bouncing once like a flat stone on a glassy pond, and then off it soared in the general direction of Colorado Springs.

After five scary minutes of tacking like a sailboat back to Jinny, Curly threw his arms around her, and they sank to the ground.  At first, she didn’t resist.  Furious quarter-sized hail pelted Curly’s head, but feeling warm inside he endured it with only three words— “Jinny, at last.” She tolerated the tempest within and without for as long as it takes to say, “Jack Frost” and then popped back her head and tagged Curly on the chin.  An elbow into the overenthusiastic hugger’s ribs completed their separation.

Home by eight, Jinny. Remember, no excuses.

She pulled the woolen scarf from her mouth, wiped her runny nose with a glove, and screamed over the din, “WHOA! OUR RECON JUST GOT CANCELLED. HOW THE DING-LOUIE DID WE HIKE ALL THE WAY TO ANTARCTICA?”

Hail stones sounded like exploding popcorn as they battered the ground. Curly’s scalp stung. He pulled up his waist-length cotton jacket and fashioned a makeshift hood.  Resolved to dodge the draft, he pointed toward Canada.  “THIS WAY . . . GRANDPA CORKER’S BARN . . . I THINK.  GRAB THE TAIL OF MY COAT AND STAY WITH ME.”

“YOUR COAT DOESN’T HAVE A TAIL.”

“GRAB IT ANYWAY.”  Caught in a white-out of hail turning to heavy snow buffeted by gusts reaching sixty miles an hour, Jinny kept her head bowed against Curly’s back and prayed for deliverance.  She struggled to keep in step with his slushy size-thirteens as together they tromped.  Progress became more difficult, conversation, impossible.  Curly quickened his pace when he spotted the barn twenty feet ahead. “WE’RE HERE.  JINNY, WE MADE IT.”  Because she was tailgating, Jinny plowed into Curly and down they went—too numb to laugh, too cold to cry.

The barn door— ajar enough to admit either the refugees or an icy breeze—was frozen in place. The musty interior was gloomy and ghostly dark.  Jinny shook off the wet snow like a dog, but she couldn’t shake an eerie feeling.  Curly put his shoulder to the barn door, but it didn’t budge. “Wow.  Monster storm, eh Rabbit?”  He shook icy water from his worn coat and then worked at shiver-control by slapping his arms in a warm self-embrace.

“Curly, this old barn gives me the creeps.  Let’s build a fire.”

“Good idea, but first I gotta show you my inheritance.  Follow me.” He felt his way into the darkness while the barn’s married, aging planks eerily creaked and swayed in unison overhead like a giant, dysfunctional parallelogram.  Leary of the senescent sanctuary, Jinny didn’t budge but let her eyes adjust and take in the vague outline of rafters, cobwebs, the loft, and the stalls.

Conor where are you when I need you?  “Undoubtedly not in church,” she exclaimed aloud.

“No, this isn’t no church.  Are you coming?”

On edge and ready to bolt, Jinny jumped.  “Curly, what was that?”

“You mean the scream?  It’s the wind.”

“No.  I mean that loud . . . well, it sounds like the barn is about to achieve lift-off and move to another county.”

“Yep, this old barn loves to rock and roll, but its tied down good. I hope.  It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

“I won’t be here long enough to get used to it.   Something tells me we need to get out of here.”

“Okay, but before we skedaddle, I have a surprise to share; but first . . . where did I leave the old kerosene lantern?  It’s over here somewhere.”  Curly, lost in darkness, mumbled, “Yes, here it is. Oops.”  THUD.  Jinny jumped.

“What was that?”

“Just one second, little lady.”  Curly pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket, lifted the lantern’s glass chimney, and lit the wick.  It purred to life and cast a phantom glow across his face.  “Come over here.  Come to me-me-me-me.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Sorry, i can’t help myself. There’s something I’ve been dying to show you, but to see in this light you’ll hafta come closer.”  He lowered his voice.  “And Rabbit, keep this between us, okay?”

“You’re starting to freak me out.  Show me what?   I’m uncomfortable enough standing right here, thank you.”  Jinny’s heart pounded against her breast-bone.  She sneaked a peak at the barn-door.  Still open.  Good!

“Come on, Jinny. It’ll only take a minute.”  Curly sounded anxious.

 “Tell me why.”  Still rigid, she clenched her fists.  Aim for his nose. 

 Curly pointed and slapped at something flat.  “I need help removing this heavy old cover.”

“Oh, okay . . . I think.”  Mildly relieved, Jinny nervously cleared her throat, filed her fears in an unbuttoned ammo pocket, and helped fling back a pigeon-dunged tarpaulin.  Beneath it rested a pick-up truck, its engine partially dismantled.  Even in subdued light, Curly beamed like an auctioneer who had just unveiled a polished, classic car at a black-tie gala—red carpet and all.

He clutched the lantern’s wire-loop handle with one hand, then outstretched the other hand, and chortled, “Ta-da.”  Curly waited one, two, three, four, five seconds for Jinny to express  adulation— although, he was unfamiliar with the word.  But Jinny was momentarily speechless, despite her gift of the blarney.

 With her vocal volume tuned way down so as not to offend, she mouthed, why all the hoop-tee-do?   Rust reigns; four flats; springs sprung; engine expired.  “Hey Curly, is this a relic from the early baroque period?  Or is it just broke, period?”

“Mind your manners. It ain’t broke.  It’s a work in progress.  So, what do you think, Rabbit?”

Jinny ground her teeth and snapped, “Don’t call me Rabbit.  Rabbits love to multiply.”  

Curly ignored the come-back and grabbed a shovel from the nearest stall.  Backstopped by cobwebs, he resembled a  grave robber on Halloween—the shovel in one hand and the lantern in the other.  Even in the dim light, his eyes betrayed his disappointment; he spoke volumes without moving his lips; his smile was perceptibly paralyzed.  “You aren’t impressed, are you?”

Taken aback, Jinny stammered and slowly began circling the truck, keeping it between her and Curly.   “Well . . . Chevrolet is a popular brand.  Or should I say, was?  What year is it, or was it?”

“I’m not sure.  1957 and 1958 models were almost identical, and it’s a Ford, Jin.  It’s a Ford.”

For Curly’s benefit, Jinny bit into the fingers of her glove, pulled it off, and rubbed her cheek.  She pinched her chin as if she were a judging 4-H pigs at the  Dickinson County Fair, and then quietly mumbled,  “Nice withers, Curly.  I see you’ve replaced the spark plugs and wires.  The fan-belt looks new. What else? Got it running yet?”  She had more to say but kept it to herself.  She didn’t want Curly to suffer a blow-out—not while they were stranded together, alone in a freaky barn.

“Nope, and YOU think I never will, but listen up.  I’m learning a lot about cars.” Curly retrieved a greasy, dog-eared Chilton: Chevrolet Repair Manual from the front seat and blew dust from its cover. “You probably missed the library stuff headed for Goodwill before Christmas break, but I rescued this little gem while helping Ms. Dewey load stuff in her trunk.  Boy, does she have a sweet set of wheels.”  He whistled.  “She was dooly-whacked when I snatched this off the cart.  ‘First book you ever checked out, Charles?’ she asked all snooty-like. ‘You know, son, the most valuable part of the human engine is the self-starter.’”

Jinny re-gloved her hand. “I thought you hated to read.”

“Well, most things, but not this.  There’s lots of pictures.  Shucks, even my Pap could read this.  I surely could use his help. He’s a good welder when he’s sober, but when he’s drunk he’s a good- for-nothing.”  Curly pulled off a glove with his own teeth, poked up five fingers and pointed at the crud under his fingernails.  “Here’s proof I’m taking auto-shop from Billy Myers over at the community college two nights a week.”

“Good. Perhaps you should have held up only two fingers.”

“Huh?”

A checkered metal thermometer, labeled Purina Feed and Grain, hung catawampus outside one of several frost-bitten stables; the mercury registered twelve degrees Fahrenheit.  Jinny—intentionally separated from Curly by one hundred and eighty degrees—circled the truck twice, observing as he pointed the shovel handle at parts he had recognized and tinkered with. “I got a decent battery out of Pa’s shop but still need some cash to buy cables, order hoses, and a new carburetor from Hagen’s; but she’s mighty sweet, don’t you think?” Without waiting for a reply, Curly continued.  “She should be ready to roll off the show-room floor real soon, but don’t you tell nobody.”

“I promise.”  An easy one to keep!   And all you’ll need is cash for a license, cash for registration, cash for personal injury insurance, tires, regular maintenance, gasoline, and someplace to go.  Jinny leaned through an open window and stared at the springs sticking through the rotted, musty seat fabric and asked, “Do you plan to pick me up for church when your truck’s resurrected?”

“If you insist. But I won’t wait till Easter,” he teased.  “And Rabbit, I get it.  I saw your face, but this truck isn’t as far gone as she looks.  I’ll get her running.  Just you wait.”

“That’s what I’d like to do.  Get running. I wish this storm would pass so we could.”

“Okay then, come climb up into the loft and check out the weather report with me.” Jinny counted Curly’s steps as he distanced himself from her and strode briskly across the dank barn floor toward the loft ladder.  “At least the blizzard gives me a chance to show you my hideout up here.”

“No, thanks, Curly.  I’m good. I’ve got the creeps, but I admit, this would be a swell place to throw a Halloween party—if I weren’t invited.”   To Jinny, peep holes high up in the rafters looked like rabid bat’s eyes glowing in the dark.

“Suit yourself. I’d radio down a weather report, but I don’t have a radio.”  Curly climbed quickly but skipped the sixth rung.  It was suffering from a compound fracture.   “You sure you don’t want come up and join me?  A feller can see a long way through the eye of a knot-hole,” he said as he topped out on level lumber.

“Through the eyes of a knot-head,” Jinny grumbled, aware that the wind had blunted her razor-tongued reply.  She concentrated on Curly’s fuzzy outline as he shuffled to the exterior wall and hovered in place.

“The view sucks today, Jinny.  I can’t see nothin’, but I perdict the chance of snow, snow, snow is a hundred percent guaranteed.” He whistled through the gap between his front teeth.  “I sure miss my cap.  Granny knitted and mailed it all the way from Toledo.”

Buoyant flakes of dust and straw scuffed from the loft through lighted gaps in the floor, pirouetted like fallen angels, and fouled the air.  Jinny stood alone near the unlatched barn door watching them fall.  She pulled the scarf across her mouth and listened to the howling storm—still demanding entrance.  “Will you please climb down here and build a fire?”  The barn leaned hard; prying nails screeched; one at a time, five shingles  peeled free of the roof and left the state.  The old parallelogram pitched again. The again. That did it. Jinny’s survival instincts blared:  Climb.  “C-o-m-i-n-g up.  Which rungs do I skip?” she cried.

“That would be number six and don’t let a rat climb up your pant-leg.”  Curly wasn’t grinning.  Jinny climbed, hesitating on each rung, expecting it to give way, and knowing that her decision to choose the loft was flawed.

She peeped warily over the landing and managed to say, “Nice place you have up here, Curly.  Not.” Curly sat huddled between two bales of straw to avoid the air-conditioned vents—the same knot-holes and cracks which emitted a little light into the barn.   Outside the storm raged on.  Jinny squinted, trying to see into the corners of the sagging, cobwebbed overhang, hoping nothing hung hidden in the shadows.  Her imagination was alive, but not well. “Any bats up there?” she pointed.

“You mean the swoop-down vampires that get tangled in a girl’s long, silky, dark brown hair?  Naw,” Curly sniggered.  “But be careful where you step.  Termites feast 24-7 on the deck boards.  When it’s real quiet at night, I can hear them chew.  At least, I hope that’s what I’m hearing.”

Jinny did a double take.  “Hold on, hombre!”  “Tell me you don’t sleep up here.”

“Yep. Like I said, it’s my hideout; but only when my Pap is on the warpath.  Ma says . . . never mind, I’m not going there.”

Not going where?  Tempted to ask a probing question or two, Jinny decided just to hunker-down and listen.  The wind sounded angry.  Curly’s tone mellowed.

“Ma wants to sell the barn and Grandpa’s property to Cow Town Construction—or whatever it’s called—over in Abilene. Pa won’t hear of it, but sooner or later, Ma will figure out a way.  She’s got to. So now you see why I gotta get this truck running and outta here, ASAP.”  Curly rubbed his sore head, hoping for relief.   “We’re a little low on cash just now, but Ma has always been generous . . . and she’s put up with a lot.”

“Yes, aren’t we—I mean, low on cash; but when spring comes there’ll be sowing-irrigating-weeding, feeding—you know, like last year.”

“Think your pa will even hire me on again next spring?  He don’t say much, and Albert sure don’t care for me.” Before answering, Jinny warmed a breath of frigid air between her cheeks.

“Of course, you know he will, and don’t mind Albert.  Most of what he says these days isn’t worth a plug nickel.  He’s changed. Papa will want you back, or should I say, he needs your back.  He says you’re as strong as an ox.”

When the wind pretended to circumvent Dickinson County for a few minutes, Jinny slid over, peered through the vertical cracks, and watched millions of parachuting snowflakes cooperatively touch down, scoot, land again, and climb on one another’s shoulders—each forfeiting its anonymity for the good of the whole.  The barn fell as quiet as a mummy wrapped to the wrists in white linen.

Curly  watched Jinny tiptoe around the scat, look anxious to bail out, pull the rip-cord, land outside, and run for home.  “Before you jump ship, I got something to tell you.” He snare-drummed his cheeks four times and marched out his plan:  “So as to make it more interesting, I’ll try to use some of your meta-thingies.”  He meant metaphors, which drew a quizzical look from his seventeen-year-old skeptic. Jinny decided to delay her departure for one minute.  She stretched, yawned nonchalantly, selected a double-stack, and sat across from Curly, waiting to see what he’d order up.  He squinted, as if he were reading a menu.  Jinny hoped she wasn’t on it.

Curly looked up at the rafters and stroked his unshaven Adam’s apple as if he were tempted to pluck it from the tree of good and evil.  And then, in one quick motion, he startled Jinny by throwing both arms into the air like a preacher about to damn his congregation to hell–or signal a touchdown—but not a touch-back, Jinny hoped.  “Did you know this hysterical old barn was built way back  by the good folk of Abilene after my grandpa’s accident over at the brewery. Mostly they is all dead and buried—what I’m saying is those who died got buried, of course.   Now, you may not know this, but one of them fellas by the name of Pierce become a famous artist. You may have saw some of his work; it still shows on the south side of the barn, but its fading fast.”

Just like my patience.  Distracted by the Oreo stuck between Curly’s front teeth, Jinny’s memory toggled back to the pumpkin-carving contest sponsored by the American Legion on Halloween. She visualized the humongous homegrown pumpkins, her family working together to scoop out the seeds, and three-year-old Isabelle’s bewilderment when she became the object of congratulatory clapping and the reward—a red ribbon.  The memories combined to elicit a preemptive smile, which Curly assumed to be in response to his historical histrionic.

“Oh, so you’ve saw the painted advertisement?  They say Dr. Pierce helped a lot of sick people, except my Grandpa.  He loved the stuff, but I think he showed too much appreciation and it killed him.  That would be my Grandpa Buckhave.   The painting says, ‘Dr. Pierce’s Tonic Will Cure Anything!  Rub It on or drink it.’”  Curly expected a comment.  He waited, and waited, and waited.

“Curly, I think it’s time we left this barn before it leaves the county.” Jinny made no effort to hide her exasperation or her sarcasm at being cooped up.   “I’ve let down my Papa, I’ve missed Church, and I sure wish I could skip Judgment Day.”

“Are you referring to your Ma?”  Jinny nodded. “On that point we think alike.  Someday, then, maybe you ought to join the army.  Mr. Chambers suggested I enlist in the Marine Corps after I finish my GED.”

Jinny lit up and sarcastically chortled, “Oh Curly, what a splendid idea.  I had a great uncle who served . . . in Leavenworth.”

For as long as it takes to reload a timer’s gun with blanks, they tensed on separate bales; then Curly slowly stood and stretched like a swimmer before climbing to the block ready to dive.  But outside the barn and inside Jinny’s gut the race was on.  Curly sauntered over and plopped down next to his heartthrob—to him, a gorgeous brunette with chocolate brown eyes, high cheekbones and a generally sunny disposition.  Presently at five feet seven inches—but shrinking quickly–Jinny was a stunning complement to anything beautiful; her slim, curvy build and glowing complexion shared in the features of both her parents, who agreed that she ran like a Rolls Royce but had the strength and endurance of a Bobcat front-loader.

Unnerved by Curly’s close proximity, Jinny raised her arms to firing position and imitated the recoil of a shotgun.  “Did I tell you my Wing Master dropped two roosters—pheasants, not chickens—with one shot last week?”

“You telling the truth?”  Curly cinched up  closer and grinned.

Jinny’s accelerated speech betrayed her anxiety.  “Sid Niebuhr—you know him—he lives in the house with the covered porch down the road. He witnessed the shot from his tractor; he laughed, cupped his hands, and yelled, ‘Annie Oakley lives again.’ Joe lost a leg in Viet Nam, and sadly, lost his family in Topeka.”  She paused to catch her breath.  “The amputation was permanent, but his sense of humor remains attached.  At least that’s the way Papa describes him.  Now don’t get me wrong, I never make light of our war heroes.  Some subjects are too sacred.”

“Whew.”  Curly’s admiration for Jinny—like a bough overloaded with snow—could be held up no longer.  His arm drooped around her shoulders.  His engine pinged and his heart purred like an oil pump, and so did Jinny’s, but for a different reason.  She pushed away, sprang to her feet quicker than a cow can say, “moo-ve,” and considered how best to restart a conversation without going into a stall.   For her, Curly’s fuel mixture was way too rich. He needed more air, more time to adjust his carburetor, and Jinny wanted out.

Curly yawned, leaned back against a bale, nonchalantly shut down the lantern, and acted like nothing had happened.  Pulling out a cigarette—secretly jacked from his father’s smelly glove-box—he clumsily lit up and offered Jinny the first puff.  “Shame on you!  Yes, now I remember the smell.  When did you start smoking again?  And no thanks.  Smokes are for chimneys, not for dry hay lofts.  Did you just douse the lantern?”

“Yes, to number two. And I guess you could say smoking is my New Year’s revolution.  It calms my nerves.” Dropping the lighter into his jacket pocket, Curly’s eyes went to the floor.  He put the fire-stick to his lips-inhaled-held it-exhaled through his nose-and coughed like he already had emphysema.

“Aren’t you afraid of starting a fire?”  Jinny asked.

Curly’s voice got raspy.  “I thought you wanted a fire.”

“Not here. Not now.  All I want is to go home.”

“Home.”  Curly blew a puff through his lips and settled back.  “Ma came into the kitchen crying this morning.  I was eating a cup of Graham Crackers for breakfast.  She walked up behind me, put her hands on my shoulders, and squoze.  I guess she didn’t want me to see her wet face . . . or the bruises.  ‘Charlie, I’m divorcing your father.’  That’s all she said.  ‘Charlie, I’m divorcing your father.’  I know I shouldn’t have stomped out and slammed the door, but that’s when I decided to hike up the draw.”

The wind took a breather. The lofty confessional fell quiet.  Neither parishioner spoke for a long time.  “It’s my fault, Jinny.  It’s all my fault.”

 Saddened, but not surprised, Jinny gazed sympathetically into Curly’s puppy-dog eyes— but kept her hands fisted.   “Here’s the deal, Curly:  First, remember the divorce is not your fault.  And third:  let’s get out of here before the storm blows us and the barn into the Land of Oz.  My folks must be worried sick.  I broke a promise.”

“But you left out second.”

“I reconsidered. My second point is none of your business.”

Curly jumped up and in a heartbeat snuffed out his smoke.  Instead of following Jinny down the ladder, he reached out, grabbed her by the arm, and jerked her to the floor on top of him.  “Curly, what the ding-louie are you . . .?”  They struggled.

Out front of the O’Dwyer homestead the wind denuded the aging sycamore tree and piled leaves where they would lay undisturbed until spring—on Uncle Al’s front porch.  Only the neighbor’s dog had taken notice and made a deposit to secure property rights.  Meanwhile, arthritis gnawed on Mama O’Dwyer’s neck in bed— a disingenuous but on-going love affair.  She rolled over and reached for Caleb but found his pillow cold like porcelain and missing a lid.  The wall heater purred, but Gemma’s stomach growled.

She had stayed up late playing phone tag with a ne’er-do-well parishioner whose mealy-mouthed-voice-mail still rang in her ears: “Will you teach my Sunday School class tomorrow, dearie?  I know it’s late, and I know those youngins are heathens, but something has come up. Click.”

Gemma fumed.  She wanted to offer the woman a piece of her mind, not peace of mind.  Her arthritic fingers had punched the keypad as she marched back and forth across the family room.  “Answer me or I’m going to hang up.”  At least she had Caleb’s attention.  His head swung wearily right then left as if he were watching a grudge-match at Wimbledon.

“Now, now, Gem . . .  let it go . . . Just let it go.”

“Well Caleb, Nadine said something has come up.  So, should I say, ‘Sorry dearie.  But when something comes up I suggest you swallow it again’?   Caleb, the woman needs a keeper, not a substitute.  If only I could . . .” One by one—like rain before the Great Flood–tears tantalized her cheeks, and she folded on the couch.

“Please just let it go.”

“Caleb, don’t fool with my neck.   My stomach’s what’s in a knot.”

“Sorry. I was just trying to . . .”

“I know. I know.  So, when Nadine answers–gulp—or, if she answers—gulp—I’ll relay your advice.  I’ll say, ‘Caleb told me to let it go, so go and find somebody else.’ Then I’ll hang up.”  Her tirade had wearied even the grandfather clock, which needed winding.

Gemma, still wound tight six hours later, jerked the covers over her face and tried to ignore morning until something crawled up her leg.  As if catapulted by a sprung spring, she leaped to her feet and pounded the critter through her flannel nightgown.  “Gotcha-Gotcha-Gotcha.”  The reaction left her wondering if a spider bite might have been less painful to her leg than the beating. Fueled by what remained of an adrenaline rush, she hobbled into the family room, turned on the floor lamp, and dressed it down, concluding with, “. . . so don’t you dare give me grief today.”   The lamp flickered.  Gemma stomped.  The lamp stood tall and for the first time in two weeks lit an overweight bookcase leaning against the wall.

Bending forward, Gemma eyed the sagging book-laden shelves and mouthed, “You look like I feel.  We share stiff spines, but some of us . . . well, admit it, some of us are more comfortable lying down Sunday mornings than standing on edge.”  It hurt to smile, even a little.  She gently patted the lump on her forehead with a cold palm, tongued a chipped tooth, and sighed, “I don’t remember having an accident.  Maybe I’m dreaming I’m hurt.”  For the moment her sighing trumped her complaining.

Gemma walked her arthritic fingers across some handwritten labels and paused to retrieve a cracked, leather-covered photo album.  Then she shuffled across the room, laid it on her antique student desk, and rubbed it shiny.  Strangely, the album smelled of Pine Sol.

It still hurt to smile.  Mama O’Dwyer’s countenance relaxed as she thumbed from one plastic-covered page to another, pausing to study each face, each scene—some in living color, others in black and white, some with yellowed edges, others date-stamped; some hosted red dots for eyes; others showed resolve.  For sixty ticks and no talks, time became seamless.  Jinny and Conor—the eldest of six children—smiled from a 4×6 inch ragged-edged school photo.   Each child held a crayoned drawing.  Jinny’s was a butterfly.

Suddenly, Gemma’s breathing hushed and her eyes saucered.  The wings of the tiny butterfly perceptibly undulated up and down, up . . . and down.  “I sure hope I’m dreaming.”  Lifting off the paper, the colorful creature performed a graceful Tour en l’air and flitted from the photo.  Jinny and Conor danced after it.  And then—nothing.

“Gong-gong-gong-gong-gong-gong.” Gemma mumbled, “Gone-gone-gone.”  She awoke with a start.  “Jinny! Conor?”   But all she saw was a sink trap—overhead.  She pushed her cheek from the cold bathroom floor.  It smelled of Pine Sol.  She shook her numb left arm and, bordering on incoherent, stammered, “Wake up Gemma. The kids will be home soon . . . NO, today’s Sunday.  What’s going on?  Oh, my head.  I must have coldcocked myself.”  She felt about her on the floor for the photo album.  Not seeing it, she leaned on the cold porcelain toilet, grunted to her feet, and staggered to the bookcase.  The dusty album, labeled, Baby Photos, hadn’t moved.

“Mama.  Mama. Where are you?  Gemma spread her arms and caught Isabelle on the fly.   Lance was right behind her.

“Bloody nose . . . again, Lance?”  A strip of toilet paper trailed him all the way from the bathroom, its leading end up his nose.

“Mama, it got on my pillow.  You should make Butch Beasley pay for it.”

Gemma sighed, ran a hand through Lance’s tousled hair, and offered a Kleenex for the nosebleed.  “We’ll talk about Bully Butch later, but now it’s time for breakfast, and then church.”

“That’s what you always say.”   Belligerent as a bulldog, Lance stomped toward the bathroom chanting, “I want tai Kwando lessons.  I want tai Kwando lessons.”

Gemma waited for a pause then called out, “Lance, please wake up Conor and ask him to fetch Papa for prayer.  I’ll set the table.”  Isabelle, will you please wake up Jinny?”

“She’s not in bed, Mama.”

“What?”

Jinny fisted a hand to snap back Curly’s head with a quick jab to the chin.  “Wo-wo-wo. Wait.  Listen, can’t you hear it?  Someone wants in.” Curly’s breath felt warm against Jinny’s cheek but chilled her whole body.  The barn door racked back and forth.  Weathered cedar slats scored the ground and retreated but a few inches with each angry shove.

“Papa!?   I’m up . . .”  Jinny tried to scream bloody murder, but the words cauterized in her throat. She tried again, but Curly cupped a hand over her mouth.

“Jinn, I tell you, it’s not your Pa.”

A specter appeared in the doorway below, his mouth pumping out short bursts of steam like a locomotive under load.  Jinny and Curly eyeballed one another, rolled to their knees, scampered deeper into the loft like penitent rodents, and hid behind some stacked bales of moldy hay.

A shrill voice whined above the panting wind, “I SWEAR ON MY MOTHER’S GRAVE—I THOUGHT THAT DUDE HAD A GUN. ENOUGH’S ENOUGH. STOP BADGERING ME.  AND I STILL CAN’T FIGURE OUT WHY WE HAD TO COME TRAIPSING CLEAR DOWN TO ABILENE.   WE’RE A LONG WAY FROM TOLEDO, DON’T YOU KNOW? SHOULDA JUST LEFT THIS STUFF IN THE TRUNK, BLOODY BAG AND ALL.  “

“SHUT UP AND GET OUT OF MY WAY.” Jinny watched first one shadowy hooded figure, then another, squeeze through the lighted, narrow gap and into the barn.  Each man brandished a flashlight. The taller of the two wheezed as he forcibly dragged something heavy toward a stall, pausing long enough self-embrace and brush Mother Nature’s winter welcome from his hoodie. Both intruders stomped their feet and blasphemed.  Both men were freezing.  The wheezer, his lungs starved for oxygen, disappeared into a stall and the dragging stopped.  Jinny could hear both men gasping for air. They sounded like mismatched bicycle pumps, frantic to fill a punctured tube.

“GIT BACK THERE AND SHUT THE BLINKING BARN DOOR.”

The whiner spat more profanity, left the stall, and tortoise-walked to the door. He pressed both his forearms and head against the quavering barricade, grunted, grunted, and struggled against the wind.  “YOUR STUPID KHARMAN GHIA MIGHT AS WELL BE PARKED UP AGAINST THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS MOTHER-IN-LAW OF A DOOR.  I CAN’T BUDGE IT. No, wait, I think I got it . . .  CANCEL THAT.  I DON’T GOT IT.  IT WON’T SHUT.”

“Apparently, neither does your mouth,” said the taller intruder, his deep bass voice booming through the darkness.  He peeked over the top of the stall.  “Do you smell what I smell?”

“Smell what? . . .  NO-NO-NO, I’M LOSING IT.  I’M LOSING IT.  HELP ME.”

The wheezer bolted from the stall, leaned into the barn door, and ordered, “PUT YOUR BACK TO IT AND PUSH, GOL DARN YA.”

“I AM PUSHING, GOL DARN YA.”  The men heave-hoed and the latch clicked.

The wheezer stomped his cigarette, and while lighting up another squawked, “I said I smelled smoke.  Didn’t you smell it?”

“HA. YOU SMOKE. I SMOKE.  THAT DEATHTRAP YOU CALL A CAR SMOKES.  WHAT DID YOU EXPECT TO SMELL? ONIONS? . . . Awe, now I’ve stepped in it.”

“Stepped in what?”

“DUNG.”

The wheezer coughed up a sour guffaw and offended his companion, who aimed a middle finger and fired off a defamatory curse point blank.  Neither Jinny nor Curly could see the faces of the contentious consorts, but Jinny made a mental calculation.  Based on the fire protruding from the wheezer’s lips, his trembling cigarette accounted for six feet of the brazen hoodlum’s stature, but Jinny estimated him to be taller; so, she imagined adding a short stack of poker chips to make up the difference.  “He’s about six-two,” she concluded, still not sure if either man had been born with a full deck.  “Curly, if you have to speak, use your tiny voice, or we may find ourselves with a losing hand.”

The whiner folded and walked toward the stall.  He paused long enough to hold his nose, point at his feet, and grumble, “Awe, grubs.  Have I had a streak of bad luck or what?  These boots are going to stink all the way back to Toledo.”

“Shush.  I thought I heard something.”  They paused to listen while the wheezer shined his light into the loft and arced it slowly back and forth like a prison searchlight.

“I see nothing. I hear nothing.  We’re alone.  It’s just me, you, and my donkey poop.

“And we’re going to L. A., not back to Toledo,” the wheezer declared.

Jinny watched the moving beam of light intermittently blink on and off between the closely spaced rails of the stall.  The wheezer exclaimed, “Where’s the shovel.  I put it right here when me and . . . never mind who . . . scoped this place out.  Go find it and dig a hole.  Right here.”

“Two halves make a hole.  I’ll dig a half; you dig a half.”

Jinny heard a scuffle and the shorter thug came flying out of the stall.  He landed on his backside—again in the dung.  Jinny and Curly feared the worst but couldn’t see the daggered looks exchanged by the fugitives.

“Tell you what,” snapped the whiner, “maybe I’ll just take my cut now and split.”

“Oh no, no, Dumbo.  We’re sticking to the plan—lay low for a few days, then the three of us will dig it up and ‘split,’ as you say.  I saw the shovel over there on that tarp.  Get it and dig.  Hurry, somebody’s been in here since me and my—that is—my associate, scoped this place out.”

Jinny and Curly remained kneeling like a pair of postulants sharing a vow of silence, and because the wheezer turned his back to them, they couldn’t make out the double-edged words slicing from his mouth.  “Because of you, Jimmy boy, we’re still a long, long way from Los Angeles.”

Curly whispered, “Did he say, ‘Jinny’?” Jinny didn’t even twitch, knowing that if she moved, dust, hay, and scat would seep through the cracks and pirouette to the ground.  A dead giveaway.  From behind the baled alfalfa, neither frightened teen could see the two men nor the hole being dug in the stall, but incessant complaining confirmed that the shorter man did all the shoveling.  And the whining.

“This dirt’s like cement.  I need a stick of dynamite or a pick.”

“You want a pick?  Pick your nose, stop whining, and keep shoveling.  It’s good exercise and don’t take all day.  I’m hungry as a hyena,” snarled the boss.

An hour later the cavity was ready to be filled. The whiner, done and done in, hadn’t the strength to heft himself out of the hole.   “Give me a hand up, Ozzie.”

“I told you NEVER TO USE MY NAME!”  The clang of  shovel striking bone sent shivers down Jinny’s spine.  Shivers must be contagious; Curly caught them, too.  Both were as terrified as two mice with their tails caught in a closed door. Ozzie cursed and yowled, “Check-mate.”  I promised you a fair split, and it killed you.”  Unseen by Jinny and Curly, Ozzie angrily put his hand to his ear.  “What was that, Jimmy boy?  You say I forgot the eulogy?  Okay, how’s this:  Here lies Jimmy Ray, who got his split, or so they say.   May his ma this gravesite lease, so he can decompose in peace. Amen and pass the shovel.”

Now a richer man, Ozzie dropped the duffle bag in the hole next to Jimmy.  “You two cozy up now.  We’ll be back to collect what’s ours when things cool down . . . I mean, warm up.”  Wheeze-shovel-wheeze-shovel.

“He sounds like a derrick pumping crude,” whispered Jinny calmly.  Curly continued to shake like a Republican conservative on the campaign trail in Vermont until Ozzie had expended three or four thousand calories filling the hole.  He tamped the ground, flung the shovel violently into the dank air, and cursed the darkness.  The shovel clanged with a thud on top of Curly’s truck.

Curly swore.

Ozzie poked up like a prairie dog sticking its head from a desert burrow, his shiny gun looking like a tail, and for three minutes he eyeballed the loft in veiled silence.  “Okay, Ozzie my man, it’s time to get cracking.  You’re leaving behind all this cash and barely five dollars in your pocket.”  He cursed.  “It’s always feast or famine with you, old man, but you can wait.  You can wait.”  He dragged several bales of rotting hay over the depository and then—flashlight in hand—left the stall and walked across the strawed floor.

Curly uncoiled from a fetal position, as scared as falling egg forty feet from being scrambled. With clenched teeth he mumbled incoherently, “Jinny, whad if he clines uf here to snoof aroun-d?”  The metallic clack of the door-latch releasing was followed by what sounded like the distress call of a wild boar.

“I think I better climb up and have a look-see so I can sleep tonight.”  Ozzie hastened to the ladder like a man on stilts and began to climb.  “Squeak-wheeze-squeak-wheeze-squeak-wheeze.”  Jinny tensed, ready to spring forward and body-block the hoodlum to the ground, but Ozzie paused on the fifth rung.  He held his breath, sniffed, and then rattled aloud, “RATS!  BIG, FILTHY RATS.”  He jumped from the ladder, tumbled over, righted himself and, chilled to the bone, yanked the door open and beat a retreat.

Curly lost his breakfast.

Seventeen-year-old Jinny stood up, stretched, and hurried to the air-conditioned barn wall. Through a knothole she spied the snow-caked Karmann Ghia as it fishtailed back and forth before disappearing from the pasture.  Within minutes, falling snow had covered the car’s tracks.  But not Ozzie’s deeds.

A satellite winked several times without feeling before fleeing the Kansas sky and vanishing eastward across the wide Missouri. Soapy water swirled in the sink between Jinny and the kitchen window.  It fogged her comely visage, but detergent bubbles alertly reflected her chocolate brown eyes and danced excitedly before popping on the toned muscles of her slender arms.  With a fixed gaze Jinny tracked the African Queen.  Shaped like a pea-pod, the fabled steamboat carrying Charlie and Rosie swirled round and round until it was sucked out of sight.

“Farewell, ill-fated friends—you were spared in the movie, but I am too tired to rescue you tonight. Take heart, at least the garbage disposal is still broken,” Jinny chortled.  She dried her hands, untied, and then removed the dark green apron covering her short-sleeved cotton shirt and fitted denim jeans. “Mama, I’m done.”

Jinny was anything but done for the night.  The window glass squeaked as she rubbed it clean.  She chuckled, “I beg your pardon? How rude.  PARDON? . . . Oh no! Papa, come quick!  I see sparks.  It’s a car. No, it’s a truck.”

“No, it’s S-u-p-e-r-m-a-n,” sneered Conor, who straddled a chair by the oaken table.

No again; Jinny had it right.  It was a truck that came barreled down the country road—headlights on high beam, the driver screaming, brakes pumping, and sparks flying.  No horn. A wheel hub intermittently scored the macadam and screeched like a feline’s claw being dragged across a chalkboard. The doomed pickup careened past the house, veered sharply to the left, clipped the curb, and lunged into a large, frigid, irrigation canal.

Spun free back up the road, the left rear wheel bounded and whirred toward the kitchen window where Jinny stood scowling at her brother. Thirty—twenty-five—twenty—fifteen feet before, as if guided by a hidden force, the wheel swerved right and collided with the face of an unsuspecting sycamore, asleep in the front yard.  The leafless tree reeled at the blow; the rimmed orb rebounded a few yards, spun like a dysfunctional yo-yo, and sizzled in the proximate snow that covered the grass.

Jolted from his dream, Caleb grabbed a torch from the drawer, climbed from the Lazy Boy, padded in his heel-less slippers out the front door, and showered the yard with light.  He spotted the tired wheel, steaming while being relieved of a fever.  “Jinny!  Conor! Come quickly.”

Jinny had already bolted to the screen door and been slapped in the face.  She paused, waited for her head to clear, and felt for the imprinted, tiny hashtags embossed on her otherwise perfect nose.  Her eyes watered, but she followed the sweeping beam of Caleb’s flashlight and rushed toward the canal.  Conor, his chair teetering on two legs, hadn’t moved, but words irreverently toppled single file out of his mouth.  “Relax, Ma, relax.  It’s just Jinny living in the twilight zone.  Do-do-do-do. You know the tune, don’t you? It’s from your generation.”

Gemma smacked the table with an open palm, startling, Conor, who sprang to his feet and dumped his school loose-leaf, spread-eagle, on the floor.  Rings parted, homework scattered, little Isabelle cried, and Lance slept on.  A hollow-sounding mechanical pencil rolled under the stove.

“Okay, okay.  I’m going. I’m going.  Relax, or you’ll have a stroke.”  Conor sidestepped Gemma’s attempt to swat him.  “Pa-a-pa, Pa-a-pa,” he cackled, mimicking Jinny. He darted outside and let the screen slam behind him, knowing it would further rankle his mother’s nerves.

Keen-eyed and quick as an osprey, Gemma crouched, gathered up, and scrutinized Conor’s homework, one page at a time.  A teacher’s posted plea, inked in red and smeared by a careless hand, was still decipherable.  Conor, my friend, you are falling far short of your potential. Remember, you need to pass my class to walk.  

Gemma blurted, “Conor, you’re supposed to graduate THIS YEAR!”

Conor had barely escaped Gemma’s blast radius.  He ducked toward the road, dragged a finger across a few inches of the gnarly, routed gash, and then followed its distorted arc toward the frothing canal, repeating, “Holy hammer-shark, this could be bad.  COMING POP.” The moon was full.

Jinny trembled, squeezed her bare, folded arms, and hovered behind Caleb, who was staring at the floundering pickup.  The driver, still alive, couldn’t get out.  Apprehending a tragic newspaper headline, Caleb turned. “We’ve gotta move fast. Conor, where have you been?  Run back to the house and tell Mama to call an ambulance.  Be quick about it!  Oh, and better get the sheriff out here, too.”  The word sheriff brought a lump to Jinny’s throat—a lump too large to swallow.

Jinny swiped at her brother’s arm and missed.  “Conor, is the truck a Ford?”

He stammered, “How would I know, it’s drowning,” and then raced toward the house yelling, “MA! MA!  POP SAID TO CALL FOR AN AMBULANCE AND THE COPS. AND KEEP THE KIDS IN THE HOUSE.” He stopped at the head of the driveway and muttered, “Message delivered,” and then ran back to the most excitement he’d had in years.

Upstream of the splash-down and unbeknownst to the O’Dwyers, the water-master’s son—a miserable miscreant named Jody—had cranked open a floodgate at the Haslam dam.  But so far, the concrete-lined canal betrayed no signs of what ominously surged toward the wreck.  Caleb feared the floundering vehicle could shift, break loose, and float downstream, so he handed Jinny the flashlight, clutched the cement curb with long trembling fingers, and slid gingerly into the frigid glebe.

“OH-kay!  I’m here son, hang on, hang on.  I’ll get you out.”

Jinny steadied the flashlight as best she could with both hands but couldn’t stop shaking; not because of the ambient temperature, but because she recognized the truck.

“CURLY! . . . PAPA, THAT’S CURLY’S TRUCK.”

Conor gulped.  “What did you say?”

“Oh Conor. That is Curly’s truck!”  Both frightened teenagers fell to their knees. “Please Lord, please, please, please.” Jinny laced her fingers and rattled out a prayer that Caleb would find a hand-hold and save Curly from being swept away.

“Steady . . . sputter. . . steady the light, Jinny.”  Caleb probed with his left foot until his toes found something solid.  “I’m on the wheel hub.”  He shifted his weight and let go of the curb with his left hand, still clinging with his right. “PRAY,” he gurgled, stretching toward the door handle visible above the water.

No one heard the onrushing surge sloshing over the banks of the canal until a moment before impact.  Curly screamed.  Caleb yelled, “KIDS GET BACK.”

Jinny dropped the flashlight and jumped back like someone who’d stepped over a log onto a sleeping rattlesnake.  Attacking head on, the foam leaped into the air, heaved over the banks of the channel, and bit the road.  Bone-chilling water slammed into and cascaded over both cab and Caleb, stripping his right hand from the curb, but not before he head-locked a door-post through the driver-side window with his left arm and braced himself for the collision.  His foot slipped off the hub, and his gangly body tailed off, undulating like a steelhead tethered to a fishing line, frantic to be free.

Jinny cried out, “Papa, hang on, hang on.  Oh, poor Curly.” The truck groaned, leveraged from the bottom, floated clumsily forward a few feet, and ground to a stop.  Struggling against both the current and fear, Caleb seized the handle with his right hand and tried to open the door.  It wouldn’t budge.

“Jinny! The light.  Shine the light.”  She scooped the flashlight from the ground and flicked the switch.  Off-on-off-on.  OFF!

“Papa, I dropped it.”

Conor wrenched the torch from her hand, shook it, and grunted like a pig in labor. “Now you’ve done it, stupid!  Papa can’t see, Curly’s drowning, and it’s all your fault.”  No one blamed the moon for bailing out when it was most needed.  It had slipped behind a cloud while, like polar opposites, Jinny and Conor stood paralyzed in the middle of the road, straining to make-out the blurred features of their father, who was being pummeled by the angry surf.  Consequently, no one saw the black tote—larger than a bag of potatoes, its mouth tied shut with a leather strap—bob and bump against the rear driver’s-side window, guzzle water, then sink to the back seat.

Caleb flutter-kicked, struggled, and regained his footing—this time on the truck’s running board; but not before his slippers floated away like abandoned lifeboats on a stormy sea.  He turned his head sideways and, desperate for air, filled his lungs and clung with one arm to the vertical door post, momentarily dislocating his right shoulder.  “Arrgh.” Gritting his teeth, he blindly thrust his left arm through the window and grabbed the thrashing driver’s overalls in an attempt to lift Curly’s head so he could cough-sputter-breathe and open the door.  It was useless.  Resistance. Resistance.  Resistance.  The door might as well have been welded shut.  It refused to yield; so, too, did Curly resist.  He thrust his tangled tentacles around Caleb’s neck and yanked his head into the cab.

 Lord, please give me strength to save this boy.

Frantically gulping water instead of air, Curly coughed up bubbles, relaxed his death grip, and went limp, allowing Caleb, exhausted and frustrated, to turn his head again to the side, push himself above the pounding surf, breath, and sputter, “Jinny, it’s Charles Corker.  I can’t, I can’t . . .”

Jinny looked on, starved for air because she, too, had stopped breathing.  “Curly!  Why, why? . . .  PAPA!”

“H-e-l-p,” Caleb gasped, as the pick-up began to roll over.  He slapped his free hand back and forth against the cab roof, desperate to grab onto something, anything that would help leverage him to safety.  Then it happened:  Unseen in the dark, a warm hand responded, grasped Caleb’s wrist, winched him free of the truck, and swung him to the curb where he hung on for dear life while Curly and his inheritance rolled over, scraped downstream a few feet, and bottomed out.

Sirens whooped. An emergency vehicle splashed across the flooded pavement, slowed, and stopped.  Bathed in its headlights, Jinny and Conor spotted Caleb’s hands, rushed to the water’s edge, and anchored him in place.  But it took both Sol O’Malley and Raul Costas to pull him from the canal. Time 19:23.

“Soaking wet and shaking uncontrollably, Caleb chattered, “Sol, who gave me the hand up?”  Sol looked puzzled.

“Your kids were hanging on when we rolled up, but me and Raul pulled you out of the drink.”

“But who . . .? “

Raul hustled back from the rig with a woolen blanket and slung it around Caleb’s shoulders. “Let’s get you in the cab.  I’ve got the heater going.”

Caleb glanced at the moon as it sidestepped from behind the cloud to see what was going on.  Caleb muttered, “Thank you.  Thank you.” He wasn’t speaking to the moon.  He wasn’t speaking to the EMT’s.

“You okay Papa?”  He reassured Conor and Jinny with a limp high-five, then accompanied Raul to the LSV, climbed aboard, and stared at his cherished children through the glass.  They looked marooned, frozen in time, the water still swirling around their ankles.  Caleb listened as Raul radioed the water master and heard him swear, but not before Curly and his inheritance had dragged another ten yards and stalled again for the night.

A grey Karmann Ghia, its lights off, idled on the roadside eighty yards to the east and dripped oil, one drop at a time.  The black gold sizzled as it hit the icy ground.  The driver, the tail-end of a cigarette smoldering between his chafed lips, strained to see through the dirty windshield.  Curly was dead.  Ozzie was satisfied.  He tossed a third butt out the window, grabbed another cigarette between his fingers, and fidgeted with his lighter.  No spark. No flame.  Irritated, he tossed the uncooperative lighter into an empty coffee cup on the dash and then clutched and aimed his stainless-steel Kimber .45 at Jinny’s slender silhouette.  Ozzie crudely imitated the report of an exploding round, blew imaginary smoke from the barrel, laid the loaded weapon on the blood-stained vinyl beside him, and patted the gun with his fingers.

“Maybe tomorrow, Missy.  Nice work, Huey. Two down, and two to go.”                                                              

It took Sol and Raul—wearing insulated, shiny black wetsuits with iridescent stripes running down the legs—nearly an hour to retrieve Curly’s body.  All six O’Dwyers, intermittently irradiated by red, blue, and white flashers while, huddling in hushed reverence in the middle of the road.  Jinny held Isabelle, age four, swaddled in an old beach towel.  Gemma handcuffed Lance, age eight.  Caleb, his hair disheveled and shoulders sagging, stood by Conor staring blandly at the irradiated canal’s surface.  But heads instinctively turned away when the bloating, pale corpse emerged, was bagged, and then loaded into the rig.  Sol offered a benediction: “Time of death:  22:00, on a frigid night,” and recorded the time in the log.

Hand over hand, Raul retrieved and coiled his white and yellow nylon rope on the bank.  All eyes focused on the long black tote as it broke the water’s surface and was pulled ashore. Jinny covered her mouth with both hands when Sol cut the leather strap.  Everyone closed in and watched as he reverently lifted the bag’s dripping contents and laid them on the road.

“Looks like an old J. C. Higgins .22 rifle, a rusting shotgun, two boxes of soggy shells, a repair manual, and . . . a change of clothing.  I think that’s it.”  He did a quick double-take.

Jinny gasped.

“Oh, and what’s this?  Hmm.”  With thumb and index finger Raul retrieved a soggy box of Graham Crackers.  “Too bad.  I know the boy had troubles at home.  Sorry folks.”  The box collapsed, and the soggy crackers mushed on the road.  A tad relieved, Jinny moved only her lips.  Curly, where’s the money bag? 

Sol O’Malley pulled Caleb aside.  “I need a word, and then I’m driving you to your front door.  I wish you’d stayed in the cab.  You’re in shock. I take it you knew the boy.”

Caleb nodded, “Curly worked for us last summer, and he’s friends with our teenagers.”

“Sorry for your loss, but here’s what I can’t figure out—the driver’s door was spot-welded shut.”

“What?”

“Yes sir, and his right foot was duct-taped to the accelerator shaft.  That’s why it took me and Raul so long to free the body.   Without dive-lamps its pitch black down there.”

Too drained to say much, Caleb nodded, drew in and exhaled a shallow breath, and groaned.  Welded? Chained?  Why murder the boy?   No more surprises, Lord.  Not tonight.  

“Thanks, Sol.  Thanks Raul . . . Oh, and don’t forget your blanket?”

“Keep it and get in the truck.”

Caleb shuddered.  “Mama, they’re making me ride.”  Without assistance he climbed into the cab.  The rig rolled backward toward the house.

“We’re done here, Caleb. Tommy will be out first thing in the morning to hook the truck, and I’ll update Sheriff Poindexter when he gets back on Friday.  Your family should be proud of you.”  Emergency lights reflected off the back of Caleb’s head.  Red and blue.  Red and blue.  Blood and water.  Blood and water.

Ozzie hadn’t anticipated a parade.  Parked further away, this time to the west, he hunkered down in his seat behind a stand of never-say-die Cottonwood trees and glared over the sticky steering wheel.  Cars and trucks, barking dogs, folding chairs, screaming kids, and a television crew—dish and all—rumbled to the scene of the tragedy.

Rural folks didn’t cotton to being rousted out of bed by tractor noise on a Saturday morning, let alone by a bunch of city looky-loos who’d come out to have their suspenders snapped.  The morning was overcast, but the mood was merry.  Caleb and Jinny braved both cold and the madding crowd to watch Tommy, of Tommy Hardy Towing—formerly Donny Hoskins Wrecking–attempt to maneuver his rig into position.  Fearful that he might run over a dog or a stray child, Tommy strangled the parking brake, jumped out, pitched his cap on the road, and hollered, “Who told you this is a circus?  This ain’t a circus. Somebody died here last night, so calm down, corral your kids, and move to the far side of the road so’s I can back-up without killing anybody or dropping the back-double-axles of my truck into the canal.”  Tommy tried two more times and finally inched to within a foot of the canal.  He climbed from cab and saw Caleb.   “I hoped you’d be here Caleb, but where’s Sheriff P.?  And howdy, Miss Jinny.  Sorry about your friend.”

Harangued by a bald jock who acted like he was jigged-out on methamphetamines, it took Tommy three casts before he hooked and fished out the Ford.  His was anything but a record catch, and it drew no applause.  The crowd closed in.  Tommy ran his gloved hand around the dripping wheel hub, spat tobacco juice on the icy road, wiped his speckled chin, and whispered, “Caleb, this is the darndest thing I ever seen.  I figured the studs had been sheared off, but there they be, threads and all.  I wish the sheriff was here, because, listen up.”  He drew closer and cupped his hand so only Caleb would hear and smell his breath. “The reason being, I think somebody unscrewed the nuts on purpose.”  He stood and looked down at the water.  “Is the wheel in the canal?”

 Caleb feigned surprise, shrugged, and silently shook his head.  “No, the wheel isn’t in the drink.” And thankfully neither you nor Jinny noticed the spot-weld on the driver-side door. It’s Just as well.  He patted Tommy’s shoulder, thanked him, ignored the press, and arm in arm with Jinny walked twenty steps toward the house. Pressed from behind, they stopped and turned toward the TV camera and microphone.  Caleb raised his right hand and pled, “Please folks, go away and leave us to grieve.  The boy was Jinny’s friend.”

The tow truck rambled east toward Abilene.  Ozzie dropped his pilfered binoculars on the seat, rammed the key in the ignition, cranked the engine to life, jerked the wheel, and spun from behind the Cottonwoods. His timing was perfect.  As he rolled slowly past Jinny, she turned and saw the car. Ozzie rolled down the window, pointed, and then cocked and parodied a shot at her head with his finger.  The grim gesture, accompanied by, “Kiss, kiss, see you soon, Missy,” was not lost on Jinny.  She felt like somebody had just pulled a plastic bag over her head.  Turning, she ran to catch up with Caleb, who had stopped and turned.

“Papa, I’m staying home from school today.  I don’t feel well.”

 

Dear Diary,




It’s been a week, but I’m ready to write again.  What a day. Curly’s truck was hoisted from the canal and dragged away early this morning.  I was sad but what happened next made me want to scream.  I saw the pale green Karmann Ghia traveling east on Wilcox Lane.  It slowed as it rolled past our driveway, and I had nowhere to hide. The driver pointed his finger out the window and pretended to shoot me.  It was like I couldn’t breathe.  I was horrified.  But how did he know me?  Only Curly could have betrayed me. Only Curly, and now he’s dead.




A knock came at the door.  “Conor, what do you want?  Okay, take it, but close the door, and stay out of my room.”   Jinny waited until she heard a click, retrieved her diary from under the pillow, and continued writing.




The car had Wisconsin plates. I am so rattled I don’t remember the numbers, but the driver must have been Ozzie.  His face is badly scared.  (I hope I spelled scared right.) Maybe it’s a burn, but it covers the left side of his face; his lip is disfigured, and he has no eyebrow on that side.

 

Jinny paused to blow her nose and then fought off the temptation to write no more.

 

I’m leaving out some facts.  Guess I should back up to the beginning.   One week ago Sunday, Curly and I got stuck in a blizzard; but by the grace of God we found refuge in his grandpa’s barn where he showed me a truck he was fixing up; then we climbed into the loft, talked about joining the army in July, and waited for the storm to let-up.  We were both quite cold. The snow fell hard. Curly tried to kiss me. I wanted out really bad.  I was about to punch out Curly’s lights when we heard the barn door being forced open, so we hid.  




Two men, dressed in black and covered with snow, pressed through the doorway.  The taller man (Ozzie) dragged a large, black duffle bag behind him.  Both men wore hoodies, and from the loft we could not see their faces.  Ozzie wheezed as he breathed.  The shorter man, whom I call Whiner, had a high-pitched voice and complained a lot.




Based on what we overheard, we think—no, I think, since I’m the only surviving witness—Whiner had killed somebody.  Ozzie gruffly ordered his partner to find a shovel and dig a deep hole in the stall at the south-east side of the barn.  We could not see into the stall, but after a lot of shoveling we heard Ozzie swear then strike his companion with the shovel. 




After dragging and pushing something else in the hole --I think it was the bag--Ozzie pretended to be a graveside preacher and said, “May you rot in peace,” then shoveled for a while and skittered out of the stall like a cockroach.  Curly and I were thirty or forty feet from pure evil.  I could feel it.  We were not discovered thanks to answered prayers.  




Curly threw up after Ozzie left the barn and drove away.  We climbed down and hurried toward home without looking in the stall.  Of course, as we ran we speculated as to what was in the bag and agreed to tell our folks everything—well, not Curly’s dad.




After about a mile of slogging through the snow, we had to stop and rest because it was deep up there.  I asked Curly why he kept rubbing his head. “Hail damage.  But I can still think.  If we tell our folks everything, won’t that put my mother and your parents in danger, too?”




 “Why would it?” I replied.




“Well, Rabbit, we did witness a MURDER and hear a confessional.”  My scare meter jumped fifty percent.  I had never seen Curly so uptight.  While we knelt in the snow staring at each other, he said: “What if Ozzie actually saw us and is parked down the road waiting? “




“And then follows us to see where we live?” I added.  From where we knelt we could see nothing beyond falling snow.  A lot of it.  We agreed our folks were dealing with enough issues just now and decided to lay low and keep an eye out for the Karmann Ghia.  The weather gave us a good excuse to stay indoors, except for my chores and church.  We kept in touch by phone.

 

Yes, Mother, I hear you.  You said, ‘five minutes.’”

 

The plot soon got thick as cold molasses, but it wasn’t sweet. I was surprised when Curly called to tell me his truck was running and to come for my ride because the barn was due for demolition (despite the weather).  I guess he got help fixing the truck, maybe from Billy Myers, but Curly didn’t say.  I snuck out. We met up and hightailed it to the barn.  We both had the hebegebees as we approached the murder scene but saw no Karmann Ghia.  As far as we could tell, the bales of hay hadn’t been moved from the stall.  The smell was awful, and Curly’s truck still looked undrivable to me.




Curly jumped in and turned the key.  Nothing. Again.  Nothing.  I groaned. Finally, it turned over, started, backfired, and I broke the record for the standing high-jump.  Then I hopped in before it died, and we bounced out of the barn and across the field.  Curly parked behind his house, and we were mighty glad we didn’t see Ozzie.  I walked home, which was stupid considering the danger, but at least it wasn’t the only stupid thing I had done that day.




Gotta go.  Supper time.  More later, if I feel like it.

 

Following supper, all hands pitched in and cleared the table; Conor washed and Jinny grabbed a dishtowel, wishing all the while she could rub Ozzie from her memory. Albert was antsy.  Jinny watched as he excused himself and exited the back door, then she heard the doors of the root cellar clatter open.  Curious, she nonchalantly walked out on the screened porch and saw Albert backout of the cellar, close and latch the double-doors.  He jumped when he saw Jinny staring at him but didn’t say a word.  Accompanied by Blondie, his cocker spaniel, he sloshed through the snow toward the stile at the property line between homes, whistling as if he’d just kissed his first girlfriend goodnight.

 

Jinny opened the screen door and hollered,“Hey Uncle. You didn’t finish your story.  Why didyour chums call you Slick Albert when you were a kid?”  Ignored—but not by goosebumps—she stepped back inside and returned to the warm dining room where Conor sat in the corner perfecting his texting skills.  The washed dishes were drip-drying on the plasticized wire rack while Gemma, Lance, and Isabelle busied themselves at the table, laboring over a landscape puzzle to the accompaniment of Caleb singing, O Sole Mio,in the shower.  He only knew one phrase: “O Sole Mio.”

 

Jinny yawned, too tired to concentrate on Barron’s AP Calculus: 13^thEdition.  The book remained in the bag.  Jinny was glad the bag wasn’t black. Forgetting that she had left her diary turned upside down on the bed, she reached for the Abilene Reflector-Gazette,still damp but neatly folded on the kitchen counter.  Bold block letters drew her eyes to page A-1—Teen Drowns in Canal.  Below the caption was an old photo of Curly from the waist up—cowlick, smiling, under-exposed, grainy, and grey.   He wore a scruffy hunting jacket.  A license dangled from the lanyard slung around his neck. The license had expired, too.

 

Discomfited, Jinny scanned the article.  A local reporter had pieced together a lack-luster account of Caleb’s heroic effort, and O’Dwyerhad been misspelled five times.  Unbeknownst to Jinny, several neighbors had phoned the newspaper—not to correct the misspelled surname—

but to ask why their smiling photo-ops taken near the tow truck hadn’t been featured.  The receptionist had curtly referred them to a framed box on the bottom of page C-4.  “Trivializing Tragedy Translates into Tacky Text.  The Editor.”

 

The paper, like Tommy Hardy, failed to mention the spot weld and the missing lug nuts.  But it did feature a photo of the wheel, asleep in the snow.  Jinny noted that the article also failed to mention the black duffle bag.  Good.  As far as she knew, CSID had yet to unearth the male Caucasian buried in the Corker barn, but on page A-2, National News, another short headline caught Jinny’s eye.  “Tiffin, Ohio:  Royden Shank, age 58—Curator of The American Civil War Museum—was found shot to death and dumped in Cranmer Creek early Tuesday morning. Suspects at large.  Associated Press.”

 

Perplexed, Jinny read the snippet three times before she folded the paper, set it on a chair, and turned so Gemma couldn’t read her countenance.  She left the room. “Oops, sorry.”  Jinny ran into Caleb, who stood in the hall looking into the oval mirror and combing what remained of his silver-gray hair.

 

“Perfect timing.”  They embraced.  Before letting go, Caleb whispered, “Step out on stoop with me for a minute.”

 

Jinny smiled, rubbed her forehead, and followed him out the front door.  “I have good news.  While in town this afternoon . . . boy its cold tonight, burr . . . to buy a half gross of chicken meal, the groceries, and to pick up my prescription, I flagged down Sheriff Poindexter and told him you had been threatened by a man in a green . . . what’s it called?”

 

“A Karmann Ghia.”  Jinny’s eyes saucered.  “Papa, you knew?’

 

“Yes, I sawthe guy drive by and say something to you, but I couldn’t figure out what or why.  I knew it was a threat.  Then Mama called for us and, well, you know.  As I tried to piece things together in my mind, I knew I needed to consult with the sheriff.  Curly’s death wasn’t an accident.”  Caleb hesitated, leaned down, and eyeballed Jinny.  “Something bad happened while you and Curly were trapped Corker’s barn last Sunday.  Am I right?”

 

“Yes, Papa, but how did you know?”

 

“I shared my suspicion with the sheriff over the phone.  Then when I saw him in town he asked me to tell you that one of his deputies spotted your vehicle parked behind Mattress Warehouse,over near the freeway.”  Jinny wanted to run inside.  “Now wait. Calm down.  I’m not to the end of my story.  They are holding the suspect on a murder charge related to a robbery back in Ohio.   The guy’s been identified as Oswald Otwyler. And then there’s the body they found in Corker’s barn.  I knew you and Curly had been up there.  You told me the part about being trapped by the weather. When the deputy pulled Oswald out of the back seat, he was nearly hypothermic; but get this, he had a smoldering cigarette between his fingers.  At least his mouth was warm. The long and short of it is that he has outstanding warrants out for his arrest up north in Wisconsin.  He’ll be extradited.  Do you know what that means?”

 

“No Papa, what?”

 

“It means he’ll be transported across state boundaries.  Of course, the sheriff needs an affidavit from you stating what you saw, but since you are a minor till July you won’t be required to appear in court. I suspect the F.B.I. will get involved since the thug crossed state lines . . . I take that back.  I shouldn’t demean the man.  I don’t even know him.”

 

“And this won’t interfere with my plan to join the army?”

 

“You are serious, aren’t you?”

 

“No.  I mean, yes.  Conor and I stopped by the recruiting office, and they told me to come back in July when I’m eighteen.”

 

“Good.  So now you can stand at ease, right?”  Caleb kept the welded door and shackles evidence to himself, hoping he could just forget it.  Much would remain a mystery—to him, at least.  For now, Jinny kept knowledge of the black money bag to herself.

 

Her shoulders relaxed, a sign that the anxiety and stress of recent weeks could finally flag a ride out of Kansas—when the roads cleared.  It was snowing hard.

 

“Papa, did the sheriff mention a bag?”

 

“No, no mention of the bag.  Why?”  Caleb shivered twice, distracted by the cold.  “We’re freezing.  Let’s get inside.”

 

But not inside the bag!  Jinny determined to say no more and returned to her bedroom to thaw out.  And write.

 

Well, I just spoke to Papa and at least I am half-way relieved.  Jimmy’s body has been recovered, and the threat on my life—named Oswald Otwyler—is in jail.  Hallelujah amen!




If I knew Greek I’d write this last part in Greek. Curly’s curiosity got the best of him. And me. He and I drove back after school the next day, moved the bales, and dug up the black bag.  It took us nearly an hour and the smell was unbearable.  Leaving the open hole and Whiner half-exposed so the sheriff would find him, we loaded the bag in Curly’s truck, drove into his dad’s garage-shop, and closed the door behind us.




To protect my family from repercussions, I will not here share what happened in Huey Corker’s shop, but it scared me out of my socks.  Maybe someday I’ll dare to tell the rest. But not now.  Here’s why:  This afternoon Mama noticed a pencil tucked back under the kitchen stove.  She fished it out with a fly swatter and shook it.  The rattle reminded me of a snake, but its bite was worse. Conor turned three shades of green when she popped off the eraser and dumped out a bunch of pills of various colors.  Some of them had “sky” stamped on their faces.  She went on line.  Ecstasy!  Conor tried to run from the room but Papa harnessed and, without a word, walked him into the bedroom where voices became hushed. 




Needless to say, revealing my fears tonight seems poor timing.  But as I lay me down to sleep I am left with many questions.  Suspended in the unknown is that black bag.  But where is it and who has it?  How did Ozzie discover me and Curly?  Did he have anything to do with Curly’s death?  At least now I think I know who the guy is that Jimmy murdered.  The Rest? Never mind, I don’t want to know. I must close.  Someone is tapping.  I think it’s Isabelle.

Jinny knobbed her fingers, cautiously opened the bedroom door, and scooped up her sleepy little sister, who had turned to watch Conor.  He stood in the bathroom, soaking wet and naked as a J-bird, drying with a towel.

“CONOR!?” He briskly closed the door.  Jinny kissed Isabelle on the forehead then twirled round and round—her imitation of the Flying Dutchman at the Dickinson County Fair. Isabelle arched her back and warbled, “Put me down, put me down.” They crash-landed on the bed.

Isabelle giggled. “Jinny, I’ll pretend I’m Snow White and go to sleep.  Tomorrow, you can be my prince and kiss me to wake up. No wait, you be Happy, and Conor, you can be Grumpy.”

Conor stood ten feet away, his mouth full of toothbrush, wrapped in a towel. He growled, “Can’t you get it through your head?  The prince is dead.”  The laughing stopped.   Jinny instinctively pulled Isabelle into her arms. “By the way, Jinny, I haven’t seen your mangy dog Toto, today.  Did he drown, too?  No, wait, wait. Right state, wrong movie.  Right?”

“Conor, how dare you?” For Isabelle’s sake, Jinny sifted, stirred, and sweetened the rest of her reply: “Well you see, Auntie Em, after I read that book five years ago, Toto wagged his tail goodbye, barked goodbye, climbed back into chapter one, and fell asleep. Maybe you should, too.”  She piggy-backed Isabelle from the bed, whinnied, and galloped from the room.  “Close my door, please.”

Toothpaste frothed from Tyler’s lips.  He chased his sisters like a mad dog into the dining room, slid into the table, and sent puzzle pieces flying.  “Oops.” He put both hands to his mouth and feigned alarm.

Lance was indignant.  His jaw dropped; he stood and stomped from the room wailing, “Conor! How could you? We were almost done.”

Gemma erupted. “Conor Caleb O’Dwyer, you are done. I’ve had it with you.”  She rolled back her wheeled chair, extended her lower lip, and blew a stream of air to her forehead.  “When you marry, I hope you have a son just like you.  It’ll serve you right!”  Wrong. Neither Gemma nor Conor knew how tragically his life would end.

“What do you mean?  It was an accident.  Sheesh!” Conor groaned and pushed his palms against the sides of his head as if he were trying to mediate a migraine or squash a sour grape.  “Okay, okay, I get it!”  He slapped the table, stormed out of the kitchen, exited the screened back porch, and slammed the door behind him, leaving Gemma to pick up the pieces.  Isabelle cried.  Jinny consoled.

Caleb—who rarely raised his voice except to cough, or sneeze, or sing in the shower—heard the commotion and ducked out the front door.  He trudged around back hoping to intercept his firstborn and offer a listening ear.  Caleb was good at listening.  Conor yelled. He was good at yelling. His words were incoherent to those in the house; then for the first and last time in his life he pushed and watched his father tumble to the ground.   Shrieking, Conor bolted into the barn and climbed into the loft.

Caleb wasn’t injured.  He calmly rolled to his knees, pushed from the frozen ground, and brushed mud from his pajamas. “Well, my boy, at least I know where you are . . . and how we all feel. Chilly.”Caleb calmed his heartache with a shallow smile, drew a halting breath, and stepped inside to join his family at the table where Jinny paper-toweled the dirt from his knees.

“Papa, I don’t like what’s happening.  Conor and I are drifting apart.”

“Then paddle back and drop anchor next to him; pray for him; love him; give him some space to think things through.  Right now, he’s a needle trying to find himself in a haystack.”  Caleb’s response spoke volumes.  About Caleb.

Gemma regretted her own frustrated outburst.  She removed her wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed her eyes.  “I’m ready for bed.  I hope Conor comes in after his temper defrosts . . . and before he freezes to death. Leave the back door unlocked.”

“Mama, before you go, let’s kneel and pray for the Corkers.  Isabelle, come to Papa, darlin’.”  With his little girl nestled in his arms and Jinny snuggled up next to him, Caleb gently touched his burly index finger to Isabelle’s trembling lips, pushed back her blonde curls, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Hush now, my baby girl, and I will tell you of two miracles :One happened at the canal; the other at the old sycamore tree in the front yard.”

Wrinkling her brow, Gemma straightened her arthritic back and fastened eyes on her husband’s sober face. “I thought we were about to have family prayer. It’s a little late for a sermon, don’t you think? What miracles are you talking about?  Start over and speak English.”

“Life, my dears, is a puzzle; but unlike you, most folks don’t keep looking at the picture pasted on the box.  That’s where God comes in.”

“Don’t over complicate the message. You’re trying to say our religion reveals the big picture.”

“Right, Mama, but the Lord does the revealing.  Our job is to patiently assemble the puzzling pieces of life together, one at a time.  If we keep the bigger picture in mind, and if we do our darndest to keep His commandments, eventually we’ll understand His plan.   Caleb extended his cupped hand toward the partially completed landscape on the table and asked, “Gemma, please hand me two pieces.”

Lance returned to the warm room and quipped, “Pieces? Do we get pie tonight?  Count me in, Mama.”  Jinny laughed.

Caleb held up a single puzzle piece and asked, “Gemma, what’s the best way to describe this?”

“I believe it’s called a puzzle piece dear, and its nearly bedtime.  Everyone’s elbows are on the table, our funny bones are too tired to be funny, and Isabelle is falling asleep.”

“Yes, yes, thanks, Mama.  So here is miracle number one:  Last night I was drowning in the canal.  A warm hand reached down and took hold of my wrist.  I felt a pulse.  Somebody pulled me free of the rolling truck and over to the curb.  My life was spared.  Did you see anything Jinny?”

“Oh my gosh, no Papa.”  Caleb inserted the small, light blue, multi-edged cardboard into the puzzle.   It fit.  He held up the second piece and said, “Our old sycamore tree stopped a car tire— wheel and all—from crashing through the window and killing Jinny at the sink.”   He laid the second piece in place.  It fit.  “The day of miracles has not ceased.  When you speak of such things, be reverent.”  But for the sound of the grandfather clock, the room fell silent.  Caleb choked down a dozen tears and steadied Isabelle’s sleepy, curly head against his shoulder.

After a nod from Gemma—who was about to impersonate a soldier playing taps— the back door swung open and then closed. Jinny turned to watch Conor step inside, remove his boots, walk slowly into the room, and sit down.  “Papa, I’m sorry I shoved you.  It won’t happen again, I hope.”  He buried his face in his hands while the family savored a moment of symbiotic silence.   Jinny’s eyes teared up.

Caleb bowed his head and Gemma, discerning a rare teaching moment, perked up.  “Because I know you are all very bright, even at night,” she smiled and continued, “I have a simple arithmetic question for you.”

Caleb looked up in disbelief.  “Huh?”

Gemma winked and, as she gazed into each child’s eyes, repeated the question, “One plus one, what do they equal?”  Lance knew but tried to be funny.

“Three.”

“No, but nice try.”  Caleb added his elbows to those collected on the table and slumped forward, hoping Gemma would get the hint.  She directed the question to Jinny, who was lost in thought. “Jinny, one plus one, what do they equal?”

Jinny shrugged. “If it isn’t two, I have no idea.”

“Well then, here comes a clue.”

After kissing Caleb’s leathery cheek, Gemma put her work-worn left hand on his and gently squeezed.  “Did you see it?  Did you see the clue?”

Surprising everyone, Conor wiped his nose with his arm, looked across the table, and answered, “Curly’s parents are divorcing.  But you and Papa?  No way. One plus one equals one.  Your heart plus Papa’s heart.”

Gemma brightened.  “Very good.” Conor smiled, warming everyone except Isabelle.

Jinny whispered, “Conor’s answer and the Savior’s plea in John 17 are the same. Be one.  Right, Papa?”  Immersed in Isabelle’s sleeping hug, Caleb held up thumb and nodded.

As unpredictable as the weather, Gemma felt an adrenaline surge, caught a wave, and paddled her wheel-driven secretary’s chair from the dining room through the archway and into the kitchen.  She dropped anchor next to everyone’s favorite door—the old Kelvinator, of course—and elicited grins from those along the shore.  Her eyes darted up and down the fridge until they located the quote of the month, pinned alongside a flower-petal circle of school photos and an outdated calendar.

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes. [Marcel Proust].”  Gemma paddled back and docked at her slip. Had Isabelle been awake, she’d have splashed giggles around the room. Marina, the family cat, meowed and ran under Jinny’s chair.

“Time for prayer, then everyone off to bed.”  As they turned and pushed chair-backs against the table, Jinny’s gaze met George Washington’s.  He stood tall but looked cold on the fading print, purchased on sale at Woolworths.  The Delaware was jammed with ice and the wind blew, but no one kneeling complained.  Jinny closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on Lance’s prayer, but, like Washington’s barge, it was difficult for a dreamer not to drift.

Lance—still chafing at not having been invited to Caley Colley’s all-girl birthday party—concluded his prayer with, “Please bless the Corkers and help everybody know that life isn’t fair.”

Before standing, heads turned to the side, yawned in tandem, and inhaled like a swim team warming down.  As they surfaced above the table, Gemma kissed each one.  “If you choose the right, your minds and hearts will find safe harbor, unless you pull up anchor and let yourselves drift out to sea.  Now brush your teeth and paddle off to bed.”  Conor already had.

Once in their shared bedroom, Jinny shouldered the door shut, shuffled her precious cargo to the four-poster, and tucked Isabelle beneath the comforter.  Eyes still closed, she whispered, “Thank you, Mama.”

Jinny trailed her congenital compass to an unlatched window.  After locking it down, she touched her nose to the cold glass.  “That was stupid.”  Her warm breath fogged the window.  She rubbed it clear, squinted at the truculent tundra, and longed for summer’s arrhythmic serenade of fiddling crickets and half a thousand fireflies flitting about like fledgling tinker-bells.  But even her vivid imagination couldn’t hatch such a scene.

Cold knees hobnobbed on the hardwood floor and kept Jinny alert.  “Heavenly Father, please anchor me, my parents, brothers, and little sister for another night in a safe harbor.”   Taking care to leave Isabelle undisturbed, she slipped between the sheets and snugged beneath three layers of soft reassurance.  Chocolate brown eyes shuttered shut.  Jinny’s dreams, grey and white-shaded mottled memories, exposed General Washington’s rag-tag army–shivering courage—the wide Delaware—polled barges—dry powder—the fall of Trenton—the victory won.  Jinny felt warm and cold at the same time.  The warmth—patriotism’s flickering flame; the cold—New Jersey and Kansas in the dead of winter.

After an approving nod from Gemma, Caleb, Jinny, Conor, and Lance were dismissed from the afternoon picnic under the sycamore so they could occupy the best seats in the house.  The TV soon irradiated over two million pixels and displayed the antics of the crowd, a few of whom were aghast at how much they’d laid out for scalped tickets.  At least Boston’s weather was complimentary, and game one of the World Series was nigh at hand.

Three days had passed since the seventh game of the National League Championship Series in St. Louis.  On that stormy night Jinny had relinquished her seat halfway through the fifth inning and gone to bed so Conor could lie down on the couch. The grounds crew emerged from hiding and, like army ants, rolled out the tarp and covered the infield just in time. Thunder and lightning rumbled across the Mississippi, seemingly intent on waterlogging the spirit of every fan at Busch Stadium.  Then came what the announcer described as a deluge or a gully-washer.  It inundated the field for an hour and left puddles, “large enough to host Red Cross swimming lessons.”  The Mississippi had risen to the occasion, and fan expectations had sunk to an all-time low; but the inclement weather abated, the fan-faithful squeegeed themselves off, and the game resumed.

By 11:15 p.m., Central Standard Time, the Colorado Rockies—exhausted and cold—had squeezed a run across the plate in the top of tenth.   In the bottom half of the inning, the first Cardinal batter hit a line-drive that ricocheted off the center field fence and landed in a puddle, leaving the runner free to dive head-first into third base.  The next batter popped into a ground-rules out.  The third batter struck out.  With a man stranded on third base, Sparky Adams—MVP of the American League—walked to the plate and knocked clay from his cleats with the bat.  One hundred thousand Colorado fans back home held their breath, gnawed on their nails, and hoped for a miracle.  Again, it started to rain, but the St. Louis faithful closed their umbrellas, rose to their feet, and waved soggy rally flags.  All eyes were on the batter.  “Strike one.  Strike two.”  A 97 MPH fast-ball soared toward the outside edge of the plate and left-handed Adams knocked it over the right-centerfield fence.

But wait.   Danny Avila, Rocky all-star centerfielder leaped, stretched over the fence, and by the length of a soggy hot dog gobbled up what would have been a walk-off home-run.  For the vocal majority the defeat was too much to swallow.  They filed out of the ballpark saturated in disappointment.  That night, ice tinkled in the shot glasses and a moody saxophone rendered—what else, baby—the St. Louis Blues in B flat; but thunder applauded the Rockies’ win all the way to Denver.  That was three days ago.

Aflutter from an offshore breeze, the Stars and Stripes bested thousands of rally flags and breathed freedom into the lungs of fans at home and abroad.  The Rockies—clad in purple and black—straddled, pawed the third base-line, and tried to ignore the up-close hand-held camera panning their faces one at a time.  Jinny studied the Golden Glove third baseman’s sheepish grin.  Caught off guard, Nolan Aleppo gingerly peeled bubblegum from his nose and blushed at the camera.

“Papa, look! Aleppo in living color.”

Fenway Park, major league baseball’s oldest venue, was decked out in all her glory. Jinny took it all in—the red, white, and blue bunting banners draped over the railings, the fans, the managers, the starting lineups, even the gypsy vendors trotting up and down the stairs pitching their wares—often from twenty feet.  The monitor relayed the action, but Conor shifted on the couch and inadvertently muted the sound with his bum.  Caleb filled in.   “Hot Dogs.  A loaf of bread, a pound of meat, and all the mustard you can eat.  Hot Dogs! No, Mister, I can’t accept Traveling Checks; Hey, you in the red shirt! Catch.  Say, lady, I’m passing down your change; keep an eye on the potbellied guy holding a cup of beer.”  Caleb chuckled, “I never cease to amuse myself.” Conor ended the recital by unmuting the TV.  Hammond organ harmonics hollowed and hushed.  The public-address announcer could be heard from as far away as Columbus Avenue in downtown Boston.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to game one of the World Series. We invite you to stand and join in saluting the stars and stripes.”  The O’Dwyers leaned forward, arose from the leather couch, and stared at the flag, snarled on the halyard, struggling to be free.  Ball players and fans stood at various degrees of attention—or not at all—and unabashed bleary eyes groped the scantily clad soloist as she sashayed to home plate, touched the mike to her frosted lips, and waited for her cue.

“Our National Anthem will be performed by Grammy Award Winner, Gladys Tolabongo-Tate.”  Applause.  The talented artist nervously twirled the black cord onto her fingers, pushed back a sassy curl, smiled, and without accompaniment sang a-Capella.  Her vocal chords warbled like those of a swallow about to crash-land in Capistrano, and crowd clamor irreverently upstaged the last line of the anthem: “. . .  o’er the land of the free-h-e-e-e, and the home of the Braves.”  Gladys hailed from Macon, Georgia.

Jinny mentally catalogued uniform numbers or names as players jogged, either to their positions or to the dugouts; the honor-guard jogged toward center field; a flurry of fans jogged toward the restrooms.  Caleb remained standing and didn’t jog in place.  He grabbed the remote and pretended it was a microphone.  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to acknowledge in attendance at today’s game one of our own, home on leave from Fort Benning, Georgia—my son, Specialist Conor O’Dwyer.”  Jinny clapped.  Conor shook his head.

“Good grief.”

Lance asked, “What about me, Papa?”

“You’re important, too. Have you cleaned the bullpen?”

“Bullpen?  O yea, I forgot, Papa.  Bullpen, that’s a good one.”

“I’ll hold your seat until you get back.”  The back door slapped shut, and Caleb tittered, “Maybe I should see if they’ll the delay the first pitch until Lance warms up.”  No one laughed, so Caleb hovered over a spot between Jinny and Conor, shut-down his engine, landed hard, and grabbed his left arm.

Conor asked, “Are you alright, Papa?”  Caleb tried to mask his discomfort by hitching a hand over Conor’s shoulder and jostling him from side to side.

“I couldn’t be more alright. I’m proud of you, son.  You’ve grown up!”

Conor noted Caleb’s paling smile and nodded, “Thanks, Papa, but Georgia sure is a long way from home.”  I don’t know if I’ll survive Ranger School, but I’d die before I’d let you down.  His evocative epitaph would prove prophetic.

 The network broke out in a rash of commercials.  To escape the itch to buy or bolt, Jinny reached over and teased the grey hairs on Caleb’s blotched, weathered arm.

“Ouch!”

“I just wanted to know how you’re feeling, Papa.  Now we’re even.” Jinny kissed her Papa for the last time.

“EVEN, you say?”

Conor tried to escape a tickling tussle by shying away and throwing up his palms in self-defense.   “Come on, you two.  Enough is enough.  Do you hear me?  At ease.”  Everyone relaxed.  “Finally.”  Conor grabbed the remote.  “Before the game starts, I have a suggestion.  During the first-inning-stretch let’s have desert.  I’ll be asleep by the middle of the seventh.”

Caleb threw up his arms defensively. “But surely you’re not suggesting that I’m buying?”  He grinned and linked arms with Jinny, adding, “I think it’s Jin’s turn . . .  no?  Okay, well . . .”  He pretended to reach for his wallet, glanced at the screen, and handed Conor the remote. “We’re about to see the slowest change-up in history.  The Vice President doesn’t have good stuff.”

Joshua Levenstein had been up all night with the flu, and he looked frazzled.  Nicknamed Stump by the press corps, he stood in the dugout fumbling in his pockets for some wire-rimmed sunglasses.  No luck, but like many of the Washington elite he often made a spectacle of himself and he, too, was shortsighted.

“Time to go, Sir.”

Levenstein squinted at the Green Monster Wall in left field, shaded his eyes, shuffled up the steps, and jogged toward the mound waving at the fans.  His grey, banded ponytail ding-dangled back and forth behind the red Washington Nationals ball cap and triggered curses from several dozen fans who clung like caged monkeys to the heavy chain-link behind home plate.

Caleb’s offspring, more intrigued by the Secret Service detail than by the fans or the lonely Vice President, watched heads bob and weave like courtside spectators at a Wimbledon match—or a leery pheasant about to bolt.  Half-zipped black jackets bulged.  One agent, more agitated than the rest, kept whispering to her wrist, prompting Conor to comment, “No wonder White House security got breached last week.”

The back door slammed. Lance hurried into the room, sat, and sounded off: “Did I miss anything?  Oh yeah, cool.  Papa, can I join the Secret Servants when I grow up.”

“Why?”

“They take good care of our President.”

Caleb laid his veined, weathered hand on Lance’s leg and silently sought wisdom.  “Son, the Lord gave you agency so you could choose what to do with your own life.  I chose to farm.  Jinny and Conor have chosen to join the army.  You chose to be obedient and clean the corral.”  He tapped Lance’s leg three times for emphasis: “All good choices, right?”

 Lance shrugged.

“What?  Don’t you feel good about what you accomplished?”

“Not really.”

“Why?”

“Roscoe almost glored me.”

“How’d he get loose?”

“I untied the rope.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I felt sorry for him, I guess.  He was bawling.”

“Okay, you untied the rope. That was a choice.”

“The rope was a choice?”

“No, untying the bull was a choice.  Then what did the bull do?”

“He snotted on hisself and chased me under the fence.”

“That’s called a consequence.  Understand?”

“I understand Roscoe don’t like little kids.”

“Doesn’t like.”

“Doesn’t like what?”

Caleb soaked up Jinny’s smile, leaned forward, and flexed his shoulders, hoping she’d scratch his back. She took the sign. “Ah, thank you. Oh, you are good.  Now I can think straight.  Lance, you’re right about the bull.  Roscoe doesn’t care for me, either.  But here’s the thing:  When you settle in on what you’re going to do, or think, or feel, or even on what’s worth fighting for, choices always come with consequences.”  He nodded at the flat screen TV.  “For example, the consequence of a base on balls in the first inning—whether anticipated or not—will show up on the scoreboard, sometimes not until the ninth inning. On the other hand, your Mama and Papa’s job, like the baseball manager, is to help you learn to make good choices and stand accountable for them.”

“Okay, I have two questions. Do I have to stand up to be accoundable?

“No, Lance, you may sit right here on my lap.”

“Last question:  Why do baseballs have to have managers?”

Caleb chuckled.  “My boy, you never cease to amuse me.  We’re like two peas in a pod. How’s about we hunker down and watch the game together?” Caleb’s sermonette and Lance’s vocabulary gently overlapped, and their arms entwined in a hug.

Conor leaned toward the TV and steadied his elbows against his knees.  “Play ball.”

 Television cameras swapped shots of the folding chairs atop The Green Monster, the windowed scoreboard, the lines at the food court, and the Vice President—poised three steps in front of the mound, waiting for a sign. Any sign.  Leaning in toward home plate he was anxious to toss the ceremonial first-pitch and be done with it.  I’m glad Bunny stayed in the hotel.  She hates the game as much as I do.  Pushing his normally glib tongue to the inside of his cheek, he spat, pretended to shake off a sign, and yelled, “I’M READY JOSE. GIVE ME A SIGN I CAN READ.”

The catcher’s name was Henny, and the temptation was too great.  He re-adjusting his mask, squatted, and mercilessly pounded his glove—digging in like a FedEx employee about to catch a package thrown off the conveyor belt at 100 miles an hour—then he flipped his favorite sign.  Viewers gasped and watched Levenstein hesitate, register alarm, and shake off the sign.  A glib-tongued cable network color-commentator munched nachos and chuckled aloud. “Wo, Stan, I think Henny’s gonna get tagged with a big fine for that stunt.”

“Hush, we’re on the air, and get your feet off the counter.   So, here we go folks.  The Vice President goes into the stretch and here comes the . . .  what the . . .?  Oh no, hit the deck Harry!”  The centerfield camera zoomed in tight.  The video feed hiccuped.

“Did someone toss a string of firecrackers on the field?”