Anthrocide

Anthrocide.net is the official website for D.L. Hamilton, author of several Christian novels and essays.

The Kentonsville Town Council

Jake stared at the horizon behind them for a good ten minutes. No dust. No one coming. No one following.

The ever-fidgety Chet was pacing his horse, up a few steps then back to the others then ahead again. It was as if he was trying to illustrate to Jake what moving forward meant. He could not abide just waiting around. He had asked twice if Jake was ready to go. The ominous “hush up” he had received in reply the second time made it plain there was to be no third.

Not that Chet was afraid of Jake, exactly. He was not afraid of anybody. His lightning-quick draw and pinpoint accuracy saw to that. He was never intimidated; he was the intimidator. He loved the sport in bullying some poor sap until one of two things happened. Either the fool made some threatening move with gun or fist and wound up dead, or used those wonderful words Chet loved so well. Words of cowardice; words that always meant, “You are the master, I am your patsy.” That was not what they said but it was what they meant. What they actually said was, “Look, I don’t want no trouble, mister.” Every time he heard some guy say that, it reinforced his position of invincibility. It always brought a smile of deepest satisfaction to his face. The only thing on earth that could top it was if the guy saying it was with some gal. That, thought Chet, means somewhere deep inside her she knows that I’m more of a man than the yellow-belly she’s with—and secretly wishes she was with me. Chet knew that if it ever came to a showdown he would pump three shots into Jake before the latter’s gun cleared leather. So, no, he was not afraid of Jake. Not exactly.

But Jake called the shots and whether Chet agreed or not he never countered him. Jake was too crafty, too calculating. He was always five steps ahead in planning what they would do and always ready for any contingency. Jake could not outshoot him, but he was certain that if Jake ever took a notion to kill him it would happen—while Chet was asleep likely as not. When he had first become acquainted with Jake, a fellow inmate named Dawkins had appeared to be Jake’s close friend. But, as Dawkins had no skills that would assist Jake’s escape plans, he had not been invited to join them. The day before the breakout, Dawkins threatened to blow the whistle unless he was included. Jake gave-in to the threat seemingly with no ill will. Then, when they were scarcely outside the prison walls, Jake had slit Dawkins’ throat from behind with a shard of broken glass leaving him writhing and strangling to death in his own blood. The obvious message: Nobody threatens Jake Cummings and nobody better cross him either.

So, Jake had companions but not friends. He was with Chet and Jesse because they were of use to him. Nothing more. They, of course, were with Jake for the same reason. He had masterminded the escape and would be clever enough to get them out of the reach of the law. Once that was done, the three would part company—assuming none of them had been killed by the others first. For the present they were companions with a common goal. That kept them civil to one another and able to work as a unit.

Actually, they were quite a formidable unit. Chet had entertained ideas of them sticking together as the terrors of the Territory. No one would be able to withstand them; most would be too afraid to try. They could have their way with the yokels all through these parts taking whatever they wanted, doing whatever they wanted. But Jake was too much of a loner and Jesse had a whole different agenda.
Where the battle-scarred Jake would have looked at least 60 were it not for the complete absence of gray in his black hair and beard, and the weather-beaten Chet looked every minute of his 40 years, Jesse looked like everyone’s kid brother. Sandy-haired and baby-faced he fancied himself a real ladies’ man. Truth be told, Chet was certain that before it was over some woman would be Jesse’s undoing. The kid was obsessed with anything in a dress and rarely took no for an answer. He would spend their brief rest stops lifting boulders and setting them down again, which seemed crazy to Jake and Chet. When they had asked him why, he had removed his shirt and flexed his bulging muscles.

“Show me a gal that won’t slobber all over herself to wrap her arms around this body, huh?” he had said. Chet had shaken his head and chuckled. Jake had squinted one eye and glared his disapproval causing Jesse to put his shirt back on. Nonetheless, his brute strength had proven invaluable during their escape. Two guards with quietly busted necks—courtesy of Jesse’s bare hands—had bought them valuable time that blaring pistols would not have allowed.

“Okay,” growled Jake finally. “They’s nothin’ coming. Guess we’re clear for now.”
He squinted at the sun off to the west. “Not more’n an hour of daylight left. We better find a place to camp. Down in that ravine, yonder. It’ll hide our campfire case anybody comes along.”

Chet grimaced that they were not going to push ahead more. If they kept at it, in a few days they could be across the border. At this rate it would take more than a week. Of course, he had more at stake than the other two. Unlike them he had been awaiting execution for murder. The sooner he got out of the reach of the law the better. Jesse had been sentenced to 20 years for second-degree murder. He had beaten a man to death in a fist fight—over a girl, of course. As Jesse told the story, witnesses claimed he had pummeled the victim with over a dozen punches to the head after he was already unconscious. Only the fact that it had started as a “fair” fight between the men kept him out of the hangman’s noose. Neither Chet nor Jesse knew why Jake had been imprisoned or what his sentence was. Only that no man was ever so desperate to get out.

“You sure we shouldn’t go some after dark, Jake?” asked Chet tentatively. “If anybody’s huntin’ us they won’t figure on that, so it’d put a whole ‘nother hour or more between us and them. ‘Sides, we ain’t got nothin’ to eat for supper. There’s a town up ahead and—”

A squint-eyed glare from Jake told Chet he had talked enough. The two stared at each other for several seconds before Jake’s features softened a bit. “You good enough with that pistol to kill one of them jackrabbits yonder?”

Chet’s face twitched several times into a smirk. He turned his horse slowly toward two large buck rabbits at the edge of a clump of brush some 50 yards away. His pistol was still in the holster. The horse drew a few steps closer to them when the closest rabbit bolted. One leap and it was dead before it landed. For good measure Chet killed the second an instant later before it could dash into the brush for cover. He brought the two by the ears back to Jake, each with a hole directly through its heart.

“Man oh man,” shouted Jesse. “That’s some shootin’. Hoo-wee! I ain’t never seen anybody that fast and that dead-center. You gotta teach me that.”

“Can’t be taught,” mumbled Chet as he looked pridefully off toward the horizon. “You just gotta have talent for it.”

“You ever see shootin’ like that, Jake?” asked Jesse.

Jake grinned a little. “Now let’s git us a fire goin’ and eat them critters,” came his low, raspy voice.

While the two skinned carcasses roasted on a makeshift spit, Jake handed each man a small strip of jerky made with an overabundance of pepper. The spicy meat would make them feel fuller than the meager meal could and would compensate for the unseasoned rabbit. Each drank from his canteen.

“Y’know, Jake,” said Chet, “we got a ways a’ ridin’ to go yet till we reach the border. We’re going to need some supplies. We can’t count on finding jackrabbits handy every time we got to eat. Besides, we ain’t even got coffee or nothin’. There was a sign a ways back about some town up ahead somewhere. Kentonburg or Kentonville or something; it can’t be much of a town, I never even heard of it. Probably ain’t got a sheriff or even a telegraph office. We could load up some supplies and be on our way ‘fore anybody even knew we’d been there.”

Jesse brightened. “Yeah, maybe they got a general store where we could get us a pan and a side of bacon and some biscuit fixin’s. Who knows? It might be run by a lonely young gal stuck out here in the middle of nowhere pining away to meet a real man.” Jesse gave a short laugh then caught a severe look from Chet. He was ruining Chet’s chances of persuading Jake. Assaulting some gal would not help them remain anonymous, something Chet was sure Jake wanted.

“We ain’t going to spend enough time there for anything like that,” said Chet, his mouth twitching. “Just get what we need and move on; nothing suspicious.” He looked down at the canteen with the Confederacy’s markings on it from last decade’s war, half full of tepid water. “Just so’s we get some grub and coffee.”

Jake, who had appeared not to be listening, rubbed his stubble. “Coffee?” he growled. Chet started to make a defense when Jake continued. “I need me a shot of rye whiskey.”

A smile gradually twitched itself onto Chet’s face. “Yeah,” he said laughing. “Yeah, that too, a good shot or two to hold us over, right Jesse?”

Jesse’s eyes brightened at the possibilities. “Yeah. They’re bound to have a saloon. Where else are these cow-farmers going to clear the sod out of their throats?” He got more excited. “There might even be a little saloon gal or two. Hey, Chet, how far you reckon it is to this here Kentonburg?”

“Can’t rightly say. Sign didn’t say how far, just said ‘To Kentonburg.’ Tell you one thing, though. This must not be the main road into town. We ain’t seen another soul on this road all day.” The others nodded. Chet tried not to look too excited. He had gotten his way and they were going to stop in town. But it would be more than just a quiet trip to the general store and a couple of quick belts at a saloon. Despite their desire to keep under cover, people would know they had arrived. They would have to because, Chet knew, he and his cohorts would have their way with this Kentonburg or whatever it was. They did not have one cent among them so they would either steal what they wanted or, more likely, take it by force. These Territory farmers would try to stop them and the three outlaws would leave a bunch of grieving widow-women in their wake—at least one of whom would have been ravaged by Jesse in all probability.

“Them rabbits about done?” said Jake.

********************

It was not much after sunup when Tad Peterson pulled the buckboard up in front of the Kentonsville Mercantile. He needed fence-building materials for a corral to keep his two newest colts from wandering off. Of course, he did not need to get them this early. There was another reason for that.
He walked across the dusty street at an angle from the Mercantile to the Stagecoach Inn. He could smell biscuits baking before he even reached the door. But as he entered, it was not the aroma of food or even fresh coffee that was the focus of his attention.

“Mornin’ Tad,” said Dinah with feigned surprise. “Awful early for you to be here, ain’t it? A body’d think there was something special you’re here to see. That or you smelled my biscuits a-cookin’.”

The young man laughed. “Phooey on your biscuits, I’ll show you why I’m here.” With that he reached a big arm around her tiny waist and pulled her to him.

“Tad,” she cautioned in a stage whisper. “One of the guests might be coming down.” She put her hands on his chest but made no real effort to push him away. He looked off toward the stairway that led up to the rooms from the little combination restaurant and hotel lobby.

“It’s clear,” he whispered. Then he pulled her to him and kissed her quickly.

As soon as they parted she looked behind her conspiratorially and then did push him away gently. “Now you come sit yourself down over here and I’ll bring you some coffee.” She guided him to the table nearest the kitchen and plopped him in a chair, then stuck her nose up in mock petulance. “‘Sides, I got no time for such foolishness; too much work to do.”

He grabbed her arm and stopped her, looking deeply into her smiling, coal-black eyes. Given her long, silky hair of the same color one could almost surmise that she was part Cherokee. That is, except for her fair skin. In this scorched climate most women’s skin weathered and tanned till it looked like saddle leather. But, although by no means a homebody, Dinah’s was delicately white with a hint of natural blush. Contrasted with her black hair and eyes it made her a young lady of stunning beauty.

“Dinah,” he moaned. “Why do I have to wait three more weeks yet before we can get married? Can’t we just do it Sunday?”

“Tad Peterson I’ve told you a dozen times. It’s because the preacher won’t be back from Abilene till week after next.”

“But I hear there’s a preacher upstairs; came in on the stage. Why can’t he do it?”

“He ain’t going to be here Sunday; he’s leaving tomorrow.” She got a more serious look. “‘Sides, there’s the wedding dress, too. Seein’ as how Ma died in the fire when I was a baby, I got no dress handed-down to me and nobody to sew one for me. So, I’m having to make my own. Even with Mrs. Stroud’s help it’ll still take some doing.” She put her hand on her hip and wagged her finger in his face. “And it ain’t going to get done by Sunday.” She smiled and tenderly stroked his hair. “You’ll just have to be patient,” she said softly. “Waitin’ for something you really want makes it that much better when it gets here anyway.”

“Oh, Dinah, it don’t need to get no better.” He sat her lightly in his lap. “I just think sometimes I’m gonna perish from wanting us to start our lives together. It’s like each day don’t mean nothin’ by itself, only that it’s one day closer to us belonging to each other forever.”

“I know,” she sympathized. “I feel the same way most of the time—like I’m going to bust open like one of them popcorns on a fire if that wedding day don’t hurry up and get here. But it’ll get here, and when it does we’ll be the happiest people in the territory.”

They kissed again then she jumped up. As she did he grabbed her by the apron but she pulled it out of his hands.

“Nope,” she said. “No more time for that. Got guests that’ll be wanting their breakfast and I imagine you’d like some eggs and grits too, right? I got to get back to work.”

As if on cue the handful of guests at the inn began gathering in the dining room. Kentonsville was in the middle of farm and ranch country (or as the more cynical put it, the middle of nowhere) with no other industry to speak of. But it happened to be at the crossroads of the southwest-northeast stagecoach route that terminated in St. Louis and the north-south route through Abilene. It was a transfer point for some passengers and that kept a small but continual influx of guests at the inn as they waited anywhere from overnight to as much as three days to catch their connecting coach. There was also a road that entered town from the northwest but since the Wyoming cattle drives no longer came this way it was seldom used.

The guests there awaiting their connections exchanged pleasantries and arranged themselves at tables in the dining room. At the table to the right of the outside door sat a middle-aged couple whose travel was necessitated by the death of the woman’s mother, almost as beloved by her son-in-law as by her own daughter. Hence, the long, rough trip was made even less palatable by the pain and loss that would reach its pinnacle upon their arrival at their destination. The woman, Abigail Post, had soft chestnut hair and blue eyes that might have made her pretty were it not for her perpetual frown of worry. Her husband Mitchell’s graying temples had seemingly become more pronounced since the trip had started as he was continuously aflutter over how to soothe his wife’s grief.

Sitting with them was a meticulously groomed aspiring preacher named Charles Redden scarcely 25 years of age on his way to his first ministry: circuit preaching for a group of farming communities near Springfield. He had endeared himself to the couple by offering God’s comfort in their time of emptiness. The experience had been a blessing for him as well. He had quickly come to realize that people suffering over the death of a loved one did not need platitudes about how much better-off the deceased was or how God used difficulties to toughen His people up or discipline them. Initially he had not really known what to say except that the dear departed must have been a wonderful person for her passing to bring such emotion. Then, his loss for words being perceived as wisdom beyond his years, he listened intently as mile after mile of delightful memories were shared by the couple. They even had managed an occasional smile or chuckle. He had restricted his comments to a few prayers for God’s strength and comfort for the couple and to note that, having heard such stories, he truly wished he had known her. He was astute enough to grasp through this experience that grieving people did not want answers—indeed it was plain to all that there were no satisfactory answers. They just needed someone to listen, someone to understand, someone to care, and the assurance that God’s love remained. Such a discovery at the outset of his ministry could only prove invaluable as his distant, rural destination would undoubtedly have its share of deaths attended by despondent loved-ones. For all that, though, there was a question that Abigail asked repeatedly for which Charles truly wished he had an answer. Why did her generous, kindhearted, God-fearing mother die so soon while so many vile, wicked people continued to thrive and plague their fellow men?

At the table nearest the other side of the door there was a sweet, silver-haired matron named Penelope Holmes. She was escorting her seven- and nine-year-old granddaughters back to their parents after a summer-long visit. The girls were as well-mannered as their ages would allow and were rewarded with their grandmother’s doting smile and general joy of life. She engaged in a near-continuous dialog with the talkative children but never once did her mind wander or did she disregard a single word from them, no matter how childish the prattle. If one could neither see nor hear the three in conversation but only read a transcript of it, the natural conclusion would have been that they were all of about the same age. Her son had often teasingly accused her of never having grown up. The girls delighted in having an adult so interested in their every word—as if they were not just kids but were important. For her part, being with the girls served to further revitalize her youthful spirit. Though she was well along in years her only obvious wrinkles were the laugh lines around her eyes.

The inn, which was both the only hotel and the only restaurant in town, only ever served one breakfast: eggs, grits, ham, and biscuits with butter and sorghum molasses. But, lack of variety notwithstanding, even the pickiest eaters raved about Dinah’s cooking. She had run the place by herself as desk clerk, maid, cook, waitress—whatever needed doing—ever since her father had died suddenly two years before. The very afternoon before Tad had proposed to her, an Irishman named Patrick O’Rourke, a coach passenger, had shown an inordinate amount of interest in the place. He quizzed her on how much it brought in, how much work it took to keep it running, and how accepting the town would be of immigrants. Liking her answers, he offered to buy the inn from her. He said he’d had enough of factory work in the crowded city and, having come into a small inheritance from a distant relative in Dublin, he wanted to bring his family out to the wide-open spaces. His offer was near the low end of being a “fair price” but truthfully Dinah had been longing for someone to take the responsibility and demands of the place off her hands. That became even more important when the next day Tad asked her to be his wife. He told her that, based on prayer and faith alone he had built a new home for them out on his and his brother’s spread southeast of town. She and Tad were convinced that the offer coming out of the blue was no mere coincidence but was God’s hand at work arranging their future together. Mr. O’Rourke had made a sizable cash down payment and left to bring his family back by the end of the month—a few days before Tad and Dinah’s wedding date. Yes, it would not be for much longer that she would have to cook a dozen or so breakfasts every morning but, for the present, she needed to get busy.

********************

The terrain ahead was flat almost to the horizon, devoid of the rolling hills the three had seen the day before. Beyond where the wagon ruts in the road merged into a single line due to the distance stood a tiny clump of something too squared-off to be a grove of trees. It was Kentonsville.

“Wonder if they got a bank in this burg,” said Chet.

“Wonder if they got a cathouse,” said Jesse. “We could take the money from the one and spend it in the other!” He laughed loudly.

Chet half grinned and shook his head. “You rob a bank and then, ‘stead of gettin’ away you go visit a cathouse, you’ll wind up back where there ain’t no women!”

“No.” It was Jake’s voice—cold, stern, final. “I ain’t never going back to jail. Never. If they want to kill me, so be it, but I ain’t never going to be behind bars again. Not never.”

It was the most impassioned oration either of the other two had ever heard from Jake.
Chet twitched his face nervously. “Heh, kill you? They’d be the ones kilt more like.”

“‘At’s right, Jake,” said Jesse. “Betwixt the three of us I don’t reckon nobody’s going to be puttin’ us in no jail; if that place has even got one. Might be needin’ a bigger cemetery, though, if they tried any such foolishness.

“Looka there,” Jesse said pointing at a ranch house in the distance off to their left.
“Ain’t nothing but plow-farmers and cow-ropers around here anyhow. I’m sorta hoping they do try something to rile us. I’m tired a’ being chased. ‘Bout time we showed folks who’s in charge. Ain’t that right, Jake?”

When Jake gave no answer, Chet twitched his face into a spasmodic grin. “Right enough, Junior.” The wildness of his eyes and his twitching grin almost convinced Jesse that Chet was about to leap from his horse, tear off his clothes, and go raving and shrieking into the distance.

Instead he voiced the performance being staged in his tortured mind. “Then you can go find you a pretty gal and take her right off her beau’s arm. And when he starts to be a hero, I’ll show him my gun barrel.”

Chet’s pistol was drawn so quickly and so smoothly that a person could have debated whether Chet’s arm had even moved or if it were some kind of magician’s trick. Chet gave a short, hysterically high-pitched laugh, then said, “Then the hero says, ‘Listen mister, we don’t want no trouble.’ A-ain’t that great? That means he’s surrendering; begging, ‘Take my gal and do with her what you will only just don’t kill me.’”

The words hung there with Jesse waiting for the punch line. When none came, he asked, “Then what?”

Chet glared at him wild-eyed as a grin twitched across his face. “Then we kill him anyhow.”

He laughed insanely for a moment. “‘Course, you do what you want with the gal. ‘N me too. Maybe even old Jake there if he’s a mind to.”

“‘Et’s enough!” ordered Jake. “We survive long’s we keep our wits. Fancyin’ on about such makes you feeble so’s you start making mistakes. ‘N that gets you caught.” He clearly did not need to reprise his feelings about getting captured.

They pressed on in silence until they reached the outskirts of the tiny town.

“Looka there,” mumbled Jesse uneasily. The very first building they saw was not to their liking. It was not much bigger than an outbuilding made of rough stone, but it had two tiny barred windows and a heavily bolted door.

“Humph,” grunted Chet. “Don’t look like such a much. Probably for cow-ropers that gets a little too much Saturday night in ‘em. ‘Sides, don’t matter if there ain’t nobody alive to put you in it.” He twitched a grin and winked at Jesse who smiled back and seemed to relax a bit.

It was a good quarter of a mile to the next group of buildings, the actual center of town. Along the road they were on were only some houses and a smithy until they reached the intersection of the roads that defined the town. Most of the businesses ran along the northeast road that headed toward St. Louis. Prominent were the Stagecoach Inn, the only two-story building in town, and across from it the Kentonsville Mercantile, the largest building overall. The Mercantile was on the corner with a tiny building next to it with simply the word Saloon over the door, as if the town were embarrassed to have one. The Stagecoach Inn was flanked on one side by the Building and Loan and on the other by the Wells Fargo stagecoach depot itself. At the far end of the street they could see a modest church steeple and across from it the Post Office with the tell-tale wire leading to a pole indicating a telegraph office.

In his typical well-studied manner, Jake sat motionless atop his horse for several long minutes taking it all in. It was still very early so there were few people about and very little activity.

“Think we should take this Building and Loan first?” asked Chet, antsy to do something besides standing still. “Bet they got cash money on hand.”

Jake turned to him and curled his lip the way one does when watching a dog vomit. “They ain’t even open yit.”

Chet’s face flinched a dozen different ways at once. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Well then, what are we going to do?”

Jake deliberately stared up and down the street a good minute before he spoke, as if purposefully bringing Chet to his maximum irritation point.

“Okay,” he said authoritatively. “First we’re going to go into that inn and have some grub and coffee. Jesse, you get finished first and while Chet and me’s still eating go down yonder and rip down that telegraph wire. If anybody raises a ruckus kill ‘em quiet-like the way you know how. I got no problem killing folks what needs it, but I’d sooner not tip our hands till we get what we come for.”

Jesse grinned with pride at being considered so trustworthy for the “boss.”

“A bit after Jesse leaves, I’ll head over to that general store there and get us some supplies. Chet, you just have yourself some more coffee like as if you was going to pay for all of us. Jesse when you’re through at the telegraph, come help me load the horses. Chet, keep an eye out and when you see Jesse over there, send everybody in that inn up to the top floor and tell ‘em you’ll kill anybody that comes back down or looks out a window for the next ten minutes. Anybody gives you grief, you kill ‘em. Then get over to the general store and join us. If the owner squawks, put a bullet in him. Oh, and if he ain’t got any rye whiskey Chet you go get some from that saloon—same rules. Then we’ll hightail it out of town on the southbound road. Now, everybody clear?”

“Yep,” said the others.

“We’ll hitch our horses by the store there,” said Jake.

“Jake, there’s a buckboard there by the store,” said Jesse, trying to help with the planning. “Reckon we could get plenty of supplies on it.”

Chet expected Jake to dress Jesse down but good. Instead he just shook his head.
“Too slow,” said Jake. “No good with the law or a posse on our tails.”

They hitched the horses beside Tad’s buckboard and walked across to the inn. Their olfactories were treated to the aroma of ham, coffee and biscuits as they opened the door. Dinah was just setting plates of food in front of Penelope and the girls.

“Mornin’, gentlemen,” said Dinah, the joyfulness of her greeting waning as she got a better look at the dour, unkempt gunmen. “Just have yourselves a seat. I’ll be with you quick ‘s I can.”

Their preferred tables—those nearest the door—already taken, they sat at the table one over from where Tad sat next to the kitchen. As they sat, a grinning Jesse could barely navigate his way to a chair, his eyes glued to the lovely Dinah, something not missed by her or by Tad.

Remaining upbeat despite her sense of foreboding, she brought cups for the three and began filling them from a huge metal coffee pot.

“Ham, eggs, and grits okay?” she asked.

Chet, scanning the room, merely nodded while Jake grunted an okay. Jesse was about to crawl out of his skin.

“Well now, little lady, I reckon I’d like anything you got to offer,” said Jesse as he stroked his hand down the folds of her skirt. Dinah, who might well have been tempted to pour the boiling coffee onto his head, instead brushed her skirt away from his hand and stepped away.

“I’ll bring y’all’s food once I get these other folks taken care of. It’ll just be a few minutes.”

As she headed back toward the kitchen she exchanged glances with Tad’s smoldering eyes and, with a furrowed brow and a shake of her head, begged him to let it be.

In record time she brought breakfasts for the Post’s and Rev. Redden. As she rushed Tad’s out to him a lock of her hair fell across her eyes. She brushed it back with the back of her hand and called to the other table, “I’ll have y’all’s next.”

“Well, now, little lady looks like you’re a-working way too hard,” said Jesse with a lecherous grin. “I imagine you could use some extra hands out there in the kitchen. And I can put my hands anywhere you’d like.”

Tad jumped to his feet. “That’s enough! You have crossed the line, sir! I don’t know how y’all treat ladies wherever you’re from, but hereabouts we behave like gentlemen. You will apologize to Miss Dinah at once or I’ll have my satisfaction.”

Jesse stood with a gleeful look. “Hear that boys? This here cow-farmer is a-wantin’ to tussle. Just what I ‘uz a-hopin’ for. So tell me, cow-farmer, is she yourn or are you just aiming to defend the fair lady?”

“Both, I reckon.” Tad was a good five inches taller than Jesse but clearly nowhere near as muscular. Plus, he had not been in a fistfight since he was a schoolboy. “She’s to be my wife, but I’ll not sit by while a ruffian the likes a’ you insults any lady.”

“Nor will I!” said Charles snapping to attention.

Jesse’s eyes and his grin widened. “Now, preacher-man, don’t go thinking I won’t whup you without a shred a’ mercy just ‘cause you got that backward collar on.”

“Then you’ll have to contend with me, too, sir,” added Mitchell, also rising.

“Well now,” said an eager Jesse. “Three of you, eh? That suits me real fine.” He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and began rolling up a sleeve.

“Jesse,” commanded Jake. “Not yit. Jest set and eat like we agreed.”

“Aw, but Jake, this’ll be fun. And when I get done with ‘em there’ll be two gals for us.” He leered at Abigail.

Tad stepped toward Jesse, but Dinah grabbed him. “Tad! I don’t want no fighting in here a-bustin’ things up. Got to keep it presentable so’s it’ll sell. Just sit and I’ll get their food and be rid of them.”

She looked over at Charles and Mitchell. “You fellas, too. I been talked to a lot worse. No use a-startin’ a brawl in here.”

“Dinah, this ain’t for you to decide,” said Tad more sternly than she had ever heard him speak to her. His eyes never left Jesse and he started forward again.

“Jesse,” barked Jake. “I told you to set!”

Chet sprang up and his gun materialized in his hand. He wore a twitchy grin. “I reckon they is too many people a-standin’ up in here. I suggest ever-body just ease back into your chairs. Trying to be a hero is a good way for a feller to get hisself kilt.”

All three of Jesse’s opponents stared at Chet’s pistol.

“You talk pretty brave with that gun in your hand,” said Tad. “Folks don’t walk around Kentonsville wearing sidearms. You going to shoot unarmed men down in cold blood?”

“Without no hesitation,” said Chet gleefully. “And if y’all don’t quit standing there you’ll find out firsthand. Now sit yourselves down.” The wild-eyed look on his flinching face quickly convinced everyone he was indeed as menacing as he seemed. He clapped Jesse on the shoulder. “You, too, Junior. There’ll be time later. For now, do like Jake says.”

The four men sat in unison, then Chet did, too, his gun back in the holster. Dinah stormed off to the kitchen to prepare three more plates. The reference to there being time later had registered clearly on the faces of her and the others.

The girls, who had been holding their breaths in shock and fear, now looked at Penelope and began to tear-up. Penelope stood up and took each of her granddaughters by the hand.

Instantly there was a metallic click and she turned to see Chet pointing his pistol at them.

“What do y’all think you’re doing?” Chet asked.

Penelope’s face showed no expression. “I’m leaving with my two granddaughters. If you’ve a mind to shoot an old woman and two little girls in the back, then go right ahead. But I will not let them sit in a place where cowards wave guns around.” With that she turned to leave.

“Hold it,” ordered Jake.

Penelope paused and looked back, clearly determined to do as she had said.

“Okay,” said Jake. “You can go, but not outside. You got a room upstairs?”

She nodded.

“Front by the street or back?”

“Back. It’s Room 3.”

“Go on up there then,” said Jake. “But don’t try sneakin’ out or nothin’.

The grandmother and girls turned and headed up the stairs as Chet once again holstered his gun and sat.

“And don’t none of the rest of you think of trying anything like that. Nobody leaves this room till…” Jake thought and chose his words carefully. “Till all of us is done eatin’.”

“Reckon I better go see what that little filly is doing so’s she don’t run out a back door or something,” said Jesse standing. Tad also stood immediately and for a moment it looked as if the earlier scene would repeat itself.

However, at that moment Dinah came out with their plates and distributed them, being careful to stand between Chet and Jake putting the table between her and Jesse’s roaming hands. It did not, however deter his eyes which never left her nor ceased undressing her.

To remove herself from his leer she headed back toward the kitchen announcing, “I’ll get everybody some more coffee.”

An instant later she reappeared with the large metal coffee pot and began pouring for Tad when the front door opened. A squat older man in a pin-striped suit entered noisily, a shock of white hair revealed as he removed his hat.

“Morning, Dinah. I’m headed over to Sweetwater so I thought I’d get some coffee ‘fore I left.” He headed toward the table that Penelope had vacated as Chet’s hand instinctively found his gun.

Dinah’s eyes widened and she licked her lips thinking how to react. “I’m sorry, Farley,” she said too loudly. “I’m all out of coffee.” She waved the coffee pot back and forth as if illustrating it was empty. “I was just pouring the last dregs out.”

There was a silent pause with all eyes on Farley, and with no one eating or drinking, the tension in the air was palpable.

“Well,” he said good-naturedly as if trying to calm the room, “I’m not in such a hurry I can’t wait till you make some more.”

“Th-that’s just it,” said Dinah, half-shouting, “there ain’t no more. I’m plumb out. Don’t know why I was so foolish as to let that happen.”

His eyes surveyed the room suspiciously. “Would you like me to go over to the Mercantile and get you some?”

“No!” She forced herself to speak calmer. “I-I have a list for Tad to take over there shortly.”

Farley lifted an eyebrow and reversed himself back toward the door. “Oh. Okay. Tad, here you’re not even married yet and sounds like she’s already gettin’ you henpecked.”

Tad gave an obviously forced grin. “Yeah, reckon so.”

Farley hesitated a beat waiting for some further comment but was met with only thick silence.

“Guess I’ll head on over to Sweetwater then.”

“Oh, one thing,” said Tad as Chet and the others snapped their heads around redirecting their stares at him—stares full of warning. “The mayor wanted me to tell you there was to be a meetin’ of the town council soon as possible.”

Farley, hand on the doorknob, turned with both eyebrows raised. “The mayor did?” He gave a facial shrug. “Hmm. Okay I’ll see to it ‘fore I leave.

“Ladies,” he said replacing his hat, and exited.

“Reckon I ought to go after him?” asked Chet.

Jake thought for a long moment then shook his head. “Nope. We’ll stay with the plan.”

At the reference to “the plan” Abigail gripped her husband’s hand tighter and her perpetual look of worry was multiplied tenfold. Charles, noticing this, spoke up so all could hear.

“Mrs. Post, since we have gotten acquainted you have asked me one question several times in the wake of your dear mother’s passing. And it is a question that, till now, I have been hard-pressed to answer. But I believe I can now make an attempt.

“Your question has been why a wonderful, saintly, kindhearted woman such as your mother would be taken from this world while evil, low-down scoundrels—like these desperadoes here—are allowed to live and make life miserable for other folks.”

Chet and Jesse exchanged sardonic glances while Jake just glared unbridled hatred toward Charles.

“And, now, just why might that be?” asked Jesse with a wider grin.

“Love,” said Charles simply. There was an extended pause as he sipped his coffee casually.

Never good at waiting, Chet could bear it no longer. “What?”

“Love. God’s love. It’s because of God’s love in two different ways. See, Mrs. Post here had a dearly beloved, God-fearing Christian mother. Her passing is deeply regretted by all who knew her and will miss her. But she, herself, is in the most wonderful, glorious place there will ever be. She is, even now, rejoicing in the warm comfort of her loving Savior. Tears, pain, sorrow, disappointment, loss, and unhappiness are all forgotten. She raised a family in the Lord, showed Christ’s love to many, many people. She had fought the good fight and finished the race. Now she’s home.

“But as for you desperadoes, God shows His love for you by letting you live. Not so’s you can bring pain and fear to others. But every sunrise He gives you is one more chance for you to accept the grace, mercy, and forgiveness that can be yours if you turn to His Son. See, He lets you live another day, another hour, that you might come to know Him and, at last, really live.”

Jesse flashed a sardonic grin at Chet. Chet, however, was transfixed on Charles. Jake’s eyes were lowered, his countenance softened.

“Well now,” Jesse half-shouted, “that there was a right nice sermon, preacher-man. Too bad we ain’t got a pump organ we could sing us some Bible hymns. Right, Chet?”

Chet gave a thoughtful snort. “Yeah, too bad it ain’t Sunday,” he said halfheartedly.

Jake seemed to snap out of his reverie. “Jesse, you ‘bout done eatin’? You got a chore to do if you remember.”

“Yeah, but first I’m going to have something sweet—kinda dessert-like.” He leered at Dinah. “And I ain’t never seen anything as sweet as you little darling.”

The tension in the room went off the charts but before Tad could respond the door opened and four wranglers strode in noisily and sat at the table Penelope had previously occupied. They all carried bedrolls or saddlebags.

“Mornin’ Dinah,” said one as they all doffed their hats.

“Got some coffee for us?” said another.

“Need me some of them grits,” said a third.

“Mmm, smell that ham and biscuits,” added the fourth. “Get us some plates a-goin’. This’ll be one of our last chances at your cooking ‘fore Tad there gets it all to hisself.”

They all laughed good-naturedly apparently oblivious to the drama into which they had walked.

Dinah looked at the strangers’ table helplessly. That out-of-coffee routine just was not going to work this time.

“Morning gents,” she said nervously. “I-I’ll get started on that right now.”

“You’re a lucky man, Tad,” said the oldest one of the four with a gravelly voice. He was short but husky with a bald head, a bushy white mustache, and skin that looked like old leather.

“Thanks, Wilbert, and don’t I know it.”

The four went on talking and laughing with each other. Tad’s demeanor was noticeably less tense than before, and Jake’s eyes narrowed. He glared at Jesse then leaned close to him and spoke in a low murmur.

“You need to get on down the street like I told you.”

“No, Jake,” hissed Jesse. “I ain’t had me a woman in eight months and I’m takin’ that one upstairs ‘fore I do anything else.”

Jake’s stare seared Jesse’s face like acid. This was the first time one of his cohorts had disobeyed his orders. He narrowed his eyes ominously. “Follow the plan, boy.”

“No,” he stage-whispered. “I’ll have me that woman and I don’t care how many cow-farmers there are in here. I’ll kill the whole dang bunch of ‘em if I have to.”

“Junior,” said Chet quietly. “Do like Jake says. We’ll get her and take her with us when we come back for the whiskey. Wunst we get her out of town you can do as you please with her.” A grin twitched onto his face. “Shoot, we all will.”

Jesse started to reply but the door again burst open and four more men of varying ages entered. One was clearly the town’s barber and the others looked like professional men: bankers, lawyers, and such.

“Mornin’ Tad, mind if we sit with you?” said the one that looked most like a banker. “Looks a mite crowded in here today.”

“Not at all,” said Tad. “Have a seat.”

They all sat at Tad’s table and were again each carrying a briefcase or bag of some kind.

Jake leaned across the table to his companions. “I got me a bad feelin’ about all this. Jesse get on down the street like we agreed. Now.”

Jesse hesitated, pouting.

Dinah brought a tray of cups and the big coffee pot to the table with the first group of four. They all stood and asked if they could help her distribute cups or pour.

“Go on, Junior,” whispered Chet. “My idea will work. Wait and see if it don’t. Now get going.”

Jesse thought for a moment then, a look of resignation on his face, started to get up.

Again the door opened and in walked a large, powerfully built man accompanied by none other than Farley. The two of them closed the door and stood directly in front of it.

“Mr. Mayor,” announced Farley as the whole room went quiet. “Believe there’s a quorum present.”

“Thank you, Farley,” said Tad.

The three ruffians looked at each other in confusion. Chet, his brow furrowed, mouthed, “Mayor?” Then he noticed that the group that had stood up for Dinah had not sat back down but now stood all along the far wall with their hands behind them.

Tad stood up and all his table companions stood as well. They then formed a picket fence between the Post’s table and Jake’s gang.

“Very well,” said Tad. He rapped his spoon on the table. “This here meeting of the Kentonsville Town Council is now in session. Before we do anything else, Mr. Sanderson would you escort the folks at this table out the back way along with Miss Dinah?”

The big guy at the door nodded once and went around behind Tad’s former table companions.

Chet sprang to his feet, pistol in hand. “Y’all just hold it right there.” From the other side of the room came the sound of hammers cocking. The three villains’ heads whipped around to see each man with a rifle or pistol except for Wilbert who held a ten-gauge sawed-off shotgun. All were aimed at them.

Wilbert spoke calmly. “Reckon you oughta put that gun away, feller.” Then, much louder, “Now!”

Chet hesitated and wondered how many of these yokels he could kill before they got off a shot.

There was the sound of an explosion and Chet’s pistol flew out of his hand. He turned to see smoke rolling from a pistol held by the barber on Tad’s side of the room. An instant later he felt a sting in his gun hand and saw blood flowing out of it.

“Oops,” said the barber. “Didn’t mean to hit your hand; little rusty I guess.” The others on that side of the room also had pistols trained on the gang.

“Hey!” cried Chet. “Y’all got no right—”

Jake jumped to his feet, his voice booming with fury, “What’s goin’ on here? What’s this all about? We ain’t done nothin’ but come in here and eat our vitt’ls. We’re paying customers same as anybody else. Y’all better be puttin’ them guns away unless you’re intending that a whole bunch of you end up dead on the floor here.”

“Jasper,” called Tad.

“Yes Mayor?” said a blond man in his thirties with a rifle trained on Jake.

“We got any kind of ordinance agin’ three des-pa-ray-does that don’t live in these parts a-wearin’ guns in town and threatening folks?”

“Don’t recollect as we do, Tad—um—Mr. Mayor. But I’ll make a motion.”

“Make it,” said Tad. “And Mr. Sanderson, go on ahead and escort them folks out the back like you was going to. Oh, and then go up and get that nice lady and her granddaughters and take them out the back way, too. Ain’t good for them young ‘uns to hear a bunch of shootin’.”

The burly man hurried the Posts, Charles, and Dinah off toward the kitchen. Tad nodded at Jasper.

“Okay. I move that whenever there’s three des-pa-ray-does from out of town here in Kentonsville a-wearin’ guns and threatening folks they got till the mayor’s count of three to throw all their weapons on the floor or they are to be shot immediately by a firing squad made up of this here town council.”

“Sehh-cond,” intoned Wilbert.

“Okay,” said Tad. “Y’all heard the motion. Those in favor?”

“Aye,” said a chorus from around the room as they all aimed their weapons at the three.

“Anybody votin’ agin’ it?”

“Now hold on here,” started Jake.

Wilbert growled, “You ain’t allowed to talk less’n the mayor calls on you.”

That’s right,” said Tad. “You ain’t votin’ members. Motion passes.”

He gaveled his spoon on the table and looked directly at the three.

“Y’all got till I count three to throw all your weapons on the floor or we aim to kill the lot of you. One.”

“Now look-a here,” said a panicked Jesse, “we ain’t hurt nobody. We ain’t done nothing to nobody.”

“Two.”

“Jake?” said Jesse.

Tad’s tongue was behind his front teeth ready to say, “Three” when Jake shouted, “Okay! Do like he says.” He immediately unbuckled his gun belt and threw it to the floor some six feet from him.

Jesse followed suit albeit not as quickly. Chet stood frozen, his eyes darting over to his pistol on the floor to his left.

“Do it!” Jake shouted at him.

Chet squinted at him and then at Tad. “I ain’t got no weapon. It’s laying on the floor over yonder.”

“Don’t matter,” commanded Jake. “Take off your gunbelt and th’ow it down like we done.”

“Jake, you going to let a bunch of cow-farmers take our guns?” asked Chet as he slowly undid his belt.

“It’s just temporary,” said Jake. “We ain’t done nothing so we’re going to be leaving this town and never come back.”

Chet tossed his belt with the others.

“Just have yourselves a seat for a bit,” said Tad.

“Now look!” roared Jake. “We done just what you told us. Now let us be on our way.”

Tad’s voice was low and ominous. “I said sit down. ‘Cept you,” he said to Jake. “You lay on your belly across that table there and keep your hands flat on it up above your head.

“Farley, check his clothes, his pockets, his boots, everything for any kind of weapon at all. If you find even a pocketknife, just get away quick ‘cause we’re going to shoot him. The ordinance was for them to throw down all their weapons.”

“Hold it!” said Jake. He reached down into his boot top and produced a six-inch stiletto. He tossed it down with the belts. Then he looked at Chet and nodded.
Chet frowned but then unbuttoned his cuff and unclipped a derringer from a strap above his wrist. He angrily threw it down.

“Never mind, Farley, I think we made our point,” said Tad.

Tad then turned toward the men surrounding the room. “Things being the way they are, I reckon we’ll dispense with the reading of the minutes and the fi-nance report. Guess we just need to figure out what to do with these here des-pa-ray-does.”

“Well, we could hang ‘em,” suggested Jasper matter-of-factly.

“Naw,” rumbled Wilbert. “We already got our guns on ‘em. Be easier just to go ahead ‘n shoot ‘em.”

Jesse was getting jumpy. “Looka here. We never done nothing and we didn’t hurt nobody.”

“That’s right,” added Chet. “You got no right to be talking about executin’ us.”

The barber spoke up. “Fella, we all seen you pull a gun and aim it at Harold over there. No question you’d a-shot him if I hadn’t shot that pistol out of your hand. Oh, and sorry again about nicking you. Anyways, that’s attempted murder.”

“He pulled his gun on me and Dinah and all of the guests, too,” added Tad.

The barber nodded. “That’s two counts of attempted murder.”

Tad then pointed to Jesse. “That’n there was just fixin’ to try to defile Dinah and kill anybody what tried to stop him when y’all came in. That a capital offense, Farley?”

“Reckon it oughta be,” said Farley. “We could make a motion.” He pointed to Jake. “And that one there is the ringleader. That’s conspiracy. I think that might already be a hangin’ offense.”

Chet’s face was twitching more than ever. “Wait now, ain’t there no law, no sheriff, no judge in this town? Y’all can’t just be a lynch mob.”

Tad looked thoughtful. “There’s a U.S. Marshal over to Sweetwater makes his regular round here in two days and the circuit judge will be here, when?” He looked at Farley. “Next Tuesday-week?”

“Yep.”

Wilbert looked impatient and waved his shotgun at the three. “Yeah, but they won’t know no different if we kill and bury this bunch today. And I’m going to guess there ain’t nobody going to be pining away if’n these des-pa-ray-does just ups and disappears. Let’s execute ‘em and have done with it. I got things to do today.”

Several council members nodded in agreement and Chet spoke with his voice at a higher pitch. “Now look, mister. W-we don’t want no trouble. We was just sorta funnin’ around. I wasn’t going to shoot nobody. Fact is, if I’d intended to, I’d a-done it. And Jesse here, he just likes pretty girls and fightin’. What real man don’t? But he was just talking when he said he was gonna git her. All’s we was going to do is get some supplies and head out. A-a-ain’t that right, Jake.”

“S’right,” growled Jake. “Y’all got no call to be threatening us. I know enough about the law to know we ain’t done nothing more than a two-dollar fine’s worth if that. Why don’t you just let us be on our way and we’ll all git on with our lives. And you and that little filly can get hitched like you’s aimin’ to without no worries of us wantin’ revenge.”

“Hmm,” said Tad. “I hadn’t thought about revenge. But it’s clear it’s on your mind. And I’d bet my ranch that if we sent y’all off without no weapons you’d come back to town tonight and try to kill us all in our sleep.”

Jasper sighed. “I make a motion that we execute these here three des-pa-ray-does here and now and be done with it.”

“Sehh-cond,” rumbled Wilbert.

“Now hang on boys,” said Tad. “Farley already said we ain’t got a law yet says we can execute ‘em.”

Jasper sighed again. “Want me to make another motion says what they done is capital crimes?”

Jesse’s fear now made him furious. “What kinda law you got in this town? Ain’t there nobody makes real laws here?”

Tad frowned in thought for a bit. “Nawp. Just the Kentonsville Town Council. We make the laws as we need ‘em. Anybody bring any rope?”

“You brung some didn’t you Buck?” said Jasper to one of the men against the opposite wall from Tad.

“Yep,” came a sleepy-sounding drawl. “You want us to hang ‘em Tad?”

Jesse’s eyes widened and he shouted at Tad. “Looka here! Y-y-you can’t hang a man just ‘cause he flirted with your gal. We got rights. Don’t there gotta be a trial with a real judge and such?”

“Yeah,” said Tad. “I know. Rope ain’t for hangin’. Buck, you and Harold tie these yay-hoos up so’s we can take ‘em over to the jail. We’ll let the Marshal take ‘em into custody when he comes. I’ll telegraph him before he gets here, in case he needs to bring more help.”

“Y’mean you’re going to let ‘em live?” asked Buck somewhat disappointedly as he cut three segments off the long, thick rope.

“Yeah, unless there’s any resistance from them. ‘Sides, there might be a reward. I got me a feeling they might be escaped convicts or something; look at them shoes on the young one. Yeah, might be a real nice reward, maybe enough to re-roof the schoolhouse.

“Buck, go ahead and tie ‘em up.”

He approached Jake with a piece of rope.

“NO!” fumed Jake. “Ain’t nobody putting me back in no prison! I’d rather die first!”

With that he shoved Buck down and grabbed the rifle out of a surprised Jasper’s hands. He whirled around and pointed it straight at Wilbert when the room shook from the thunder of the ten-gauge. The force of it lifted Jake back across the table causing its far legs to collapse. Chet barely managed to jump out from under it and Jesse yelped from being hit in the arm by a couple of stray pellets.

In the shocked silence that followed, all eyes were on the motionless Jake whose now-sunken chest became a puddle of blood.

The barber strode over and felt Jake’s neck. “Dead,” he said nodding.

“Reckon the Marshal will be upset that I killed one of ‘em?” asked Wilbert as he put a new shell in the shotgun.

“Not the way I see it,” said Buck picking himself up off the floor. “Not only was it self-defense, the feller said he’d ruther be dead than in jail. You done just what he asked for—sorta granted his last wish, you might say. I reckon you done the poor guy a favor, Wilbert.”

Wilbert pondered that for a moment. “Yeah, well, I reckon I always been kinda soft thatta way; y’know, helpin’ folks out when they ask.”

Then he looked at Tad. “Tell Dinah I’ll replace the table and fix any pellet holes in the wall over yonder. Oh, ‘n I’ll scrub the floor where he’s a-bleedin’.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell her, Wilbert. Duncan? You being the undertaker, you and Harold want to take that body over to your place for now? The Marshal will probably want to see him ‘fore he’s buried.”

The two men nodded and hauled the body out the door as Tad looked at Jesse and Chet.

“Either of you other two yay-hoos want to die now ‘stead of going to jail?”

Jesse gritted his teeth and shook his head. He held out his hands for Buck to tie them.
Chet stood and stared as if in a trance. He spoke in a monotone. “Don’t much matter to me. I’m dead either way. You’re right; we escaped from the penitentiary a few days ago. I was in there waiting to be hanged.”

Tad’s eyes showed a bit of sorrow for him. “Jonas,” said Tad quietly to the barber. “Feller’s a-bleedin’ from his hand. Reckon you could bandage it ‘fore we tie him up?”

“Sure.” He reached into the bag he’d brought in and found a strip of cloth. “Here, let me see it,” he said to Chet. “Real sorry about the hand, fella.”

Chet stood stoically as, the bandaging finished, Buck tied his hands. As the Council began to lead the two of them out toward the street, Jesse turned to Tad.

“Could I make a request?”

Everyone stopped and Tad gave a slight nod.

“Could that gal of yours—Dinah?—could she do the cooking for us whilst we’re in your jail?”

Tad’s eyebrows rose.

“I-I mean she don’t have to come around us or nothing. It’s just that she’s a real fine cook. She’s going to make you a real fine wife. You’re a lucky man. Sometimes I wisht I’d-a… Well, could she? Cook for us, I mean?”

“Yep, she always cooks for the prisoners—till early next month, that is.”

Then Chet spoke quietly. “One more thing. You reckon you could send that preacher around to the jail ‘fore he leaves? Reckon I might want to hear some more of what he’s got to say.”

“I’ll see to it,” said Tad. Then, looking around he added, “Gentlemen, this here meetin’ of the Kentonsville Town Council is adjourned.”

A Short Circuit

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The Mirror

“Brenda, are you sure this is the right address?”

“Yes, Conrad, this is what I got from accounting as Tony’s mailing address, and it matches what’s on the mailbox here in front.”

“Boy, you talk about out in the middle of nowhere. Why would anybody want to move out to a dilapidated old place like this?”

“I don’t know, but that’s his pickup parked there beside the house, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, no mistaking that old rust bucket. And this house looks like it was built by an amateur. Anyway, let’s go see if he’s here. I mean, it’s not too unusual for Tony to miss a submission deadline, but to go completely silent and not answer my calls or texts, I’m just worried something might have happened to him. Or that he might be cracking-up, especially given that last screwball message I got from him. He sent me a link to a digitized newspaper article from way back when and asked me what it said. Then, after I responded, no further communication at all.”

“Well, you being his editor, you know him better than I do, but I get the impression he didn’t have much in the way of family or friend connections. Anyway, I think it’s really caring of you to drive 50 miles all the way out here to check on him, especially since he’s just a freelancer.”

“Yeah, we’ve worked together ever since he got out of high school, so I know him about as well as anyone, I guess. Recently I’d gotten the impression things weren’t all that good in his personal life and I’d hate it if anything happened to him, poor kid… Hmm… there’s no bell. I guess we just have to knock… Hello?! Tony? You in there? I don’t hear anything, Brenda, do you?”

“No. But if that’s his truck he must be home.”

“I’ll try the knob… Humph, how ‘bout that; it’s not locked. What say we have a look?”

“Con-rad! Are you sure it’s okay? Just walking in like this?”

“Why not? We’re not here to rob the place. Man, that door could use some WD-40… Wow, talk about Spartan décor. This place is practically barren.”

“Yeah, well, I gather he’s only lived here a couple of weeks. Hel-LO-oo! Tony!? Tony, are you here? Oh, Conrad he’s not answering, so either he’s not here or—ew, I don’t even want to think about—”

“Now just stay calm. Tell you what, you wait here in the living room and I’ll check the rest of the house.”

“Okay but if you discover his corpse or something, I don’t want to see it!”

“I can’t say I’d be too keen on the idea either. All right, here goes… Hmm, not much of anything in the dining room… I think over here might be the bedroom… Bed is ruffled a bit but empty… Kitchen is just a kitchen… Bathroom’s empty… Now, let’s see what’s in here… Aha… Hey! Brenda! Come here, I’ve found something.”

“Oh! Is it—I mean, is he…?”

“No, no, nothing bad. It’s just a large broken mirror and a note… sort of. See here? Have a look.”

“Hmm. Pretty long for a note. Where’d you find it?”

“Here on his printer. Let’s read it together.”

********************

To whoever finds this:

My name is Tony Cameron Alba. Perhaps you have read some of my magazine articles. Or, more likely, you have not, since they may not even exist. Either way, it is of no consequence, as I am no longer here—at least, not in this world, your world. But, I must not get ahead of myself. Let me tell you how it was not long ago; that is, from your time and place.

As a writer, my creative juices had gone completely dry. I’d had a messy breakup with a cheating girlfriend, a financial catastrophe over a scam artist’s investment scheme, barely escaped incarceration due to my involvement with a couple of so-called friends, and my health was deteriorating, probably due to stress. So much worse was my situation than anything I had ever experienced, and so deep was my despair, I began to have extremely dark thoughts about how I might finally and permanently escape all the turmoil my life had become. If an alternative were to exist, it would require that I get out of the city; out away from all the chaos; out where there was fresh air and I could be alone, be at peace, and get my mind refocused on the story my editor, Conrad, was clamoring for. But where? Where was this haven of calm and comfort? I had not the vaguest notion.

Then came the letter. Yes, an actual letter. I mean, who writes letters anymore? It was from my somewhat estranged brother, and only living relative, Dean. I say “somewhat estranged” because it was not that we were deliberately not speaking to each other, only that we had nothing to say. Dean was 16 years my senior, independently wealthy, and had always considered writing to be a foolish way for a man to earn a living. Given my financial situation, I had begun to think he had a point. In the letter he described his plans for relocating abroad with his family and his desire to rid himself of a piece of, what he considered, useless rural property some 50 miles from where I was. I think he had inherited it from our late father’s spinster sister who had put Dean in her will before I was even born. He told me I could have it for the cost of paying the back taxes and utilities on it, which totaled less than one month’s rent on my city apartment. Given that one month’s rent would exhaust my meager finances, that sounded like an excellent deal to me. He pulled no punches in describing the place: a small, overgrown lot with a rundown, albeit livable house on it. Included with the letter were all the necessary documents to transfer the property to me, plus the front door key to the house.

Here it was! The very thing I most needed: a quiet country location to soothe my troubled soul and get me back into my writing. Furthermore, it had come exactly as the lease was running out on my apartment. I initially chalked the whole thing up to fortunate coincidence, but as my tale will indicate, coincidence played no part in it.
If you have discovered this document, you are familiar with the property, but in case the document is taken elsewhere I offer the following description: The house sits at the dead end of Squatter’s Trail, a narrow, often-patched country road, a quarter mile or more from the nearest neighbor. It seems as though this little lot was an afterthought once all of the adjacent properties had been plotted-out. The modest-sized house itself is quite old with dark brown wood shingles for siding, some of which are missing. The windowsills and door frames are in need of paint and, in a few cases are actually rotted.

When I first arrived, I found that the front door was splintering at the bottom and groaned as if in pain when I opened it. Inside, the rooms were bare except that the kitchen had an old refrigerator and an ancient gas stove. The floors were all old, worn linoleum and the ceiling lights in most rooms were single-bulb fixtures with cheap plastic covers that had become discolored from heat and age. The front door opened into the living room and a hallway led out the other side. To the right of the hallway were a dining room and the small kitchen beyond it. At the end of the hall was the bathroom. To the hallway’s left were first the bedroom and then a room with a fireplace. I was not sure what that room was. At first, I thought it might be another bedroom, but the fireplace and the adjacent wall to its right filled with bookshelves suggested it had been a den or study of some kind. The books were all hefty tomes, and the few I gave a cursory look were boring texts of county easements, population statistics, and other such reference books from many decades ago. The fireplace looked in desperate need of cleaning before anyone dare use it. The wall opposite the bookshelves was barren except the one small window covered by an old, stained rollup shade. On the wall opposite the fireplace hung a four-by-six-foot mirror in an ornate frame. It was the only decorative item in the entire house and, to my surprise, was perfectly clean without a single fingerprint or smudge. Overall the place was dusty but not filthy so, undaunted, I hauled my meager belongings and furnishings in and set them up. My futon and wooden rocking chair were the extent of the living room’s furnishings. I put my double bed and small chest in the bedroom, and set up a card table and two folding chairs in the dining room. After bringing in my clothes, towels, dishes, and basic supplies, I placed my computer desk with lamp, laptop, and printer on it in the “den” against the wall facing the mirror, rolled my desk chair up to it, and considered myself moved in.

I had already had the utilities resumed and the first night was uneventful. On day two I spent part of the time connecting-up to slow, but functional, internet service and spent the rest of the day cleaning the place and buying food and other necessities in the town some ten miles away. That evening I settled down in the den, turned on the lamp and my laptop, and set to work on my long-neglected article. If one’s quest were peace and quiet, this was certainly the appropriate place. So much so, that, as I typed on my computer, the silence began to feel palpably heavy, as if even a scream would only carry a few feet and then die out.

I had just decided some music might be a nice way to lighten the atmosphere when an odd light made me look up at the mirror. For an instant I was not able to determine what had caught my eye. Everything seemed normal. Then I realized what I had seen. A flickering fire was reflecting from the fireplace behind me. But, wait! I had not built a fire. Indeed, I had not gotten around to cleaning out the fireplace yet. I turned around and looked. The fireplace was cold and dark as ever. I looked back at the mirror, and no fire could be seen. I shook my head and shrugged it off, but my mouth had gone dry, so I went into the kitchen for something to drink. Upon my return, I inspected the fireplace, but it had obviously not been used in quite some time. I sat back down and refocused on my computer screen.

There it was again. From the angle where I sat, the mirror only showed the very top of the fireplace opening, but the tips of dancing flames were visible. I stood up to get a fuller view, and indeed there was a hearty fire atop two large oak logs, filling the fireplace. I whirled around to, once again, find it cold and inert. As I spun back around to the mirror, it too, now reflected no fire, only the empty wall and unlit fireplace behind me. I gulped and felt my stomach tighten as I looked from one to the other and back again for some minutes, but nothing changed. I sat back down, thinking perhaps the passage of time would renew the phenomenon. Not that I was eager for this bizarre, seemingly supernatural event to recur, but I wanted to get to the bottom of it, to find the rational explanation, and put it to rest. I forced myself to resume my writing, although I cannot say the results were worth much. I kept eyeing the clock and, every few minutes, returning my gaze to the mirror. A couple of times I even stood up to get the full view, but the strange occurrence did not repeat itself. After half an hour or so, a call of nature bade me leave the room for the bathroom. Once again, as I reentered the room, I checked the fireplace and it was just the same. I took a deep breath and turned around to look in the mirror. As before, it “reflected” a blazing fire.

I had now realized the pattern. Looking back at what was reflected would break the “spell” so to speak, and it would not recur until I had left and reentered the room. I then wondered whether this manifestation was just visual or whether it had substance to it. I stepped backward slowly, never diverting my eyes from the mirror, holding my hands behind me. To my further amazement, I could feel warmth as my hands neared the fire.

I stared at the fire in the mirror for another couple of minutes, when it occurred to me that, perhaps, that might not be the only difference between the reflection and reality. I studied it carefully. The chimney, mantle, and hearth had been barren and without decoration, save an old box of wooden matches on the mantle, and that is how they appeared in the reflection. The wall and corner behind my right shoulder showed nothing, with only a small tear in the peeling wallpaper breaking the monotony of bare wall. The corner to the left, where the bookshelves adjoined the fireplace wall, however, was not empty. I noticed a dark heap on the floor in that corner. It seemed to be just a smallish pile of clothing. Now my mind began struggling to determine if this was really different. Was it possible that this nondescript pile of rags had been there all along? After all, it would not have been particularly noteworthy. Maybe it had been there, and I had just looked past it. But I didn’t think so. I did not want to take my eyes away from the mirror, but I had to be sure. I twisted quickly to my left and saw the empty corner. When I turned back toward the mirror, it now reflected nothing but what was actually there: a fire-less empty wall and corner. I exited the room so the mirror could do a “reset,” but as I did so, another question arose. Had the pile been in the reflection all along or had it just appeared this most recent time?
It was getting quite late and this whole thing was giving me the creeps. I considered just going to bed and wondered if these visual tricks would still be there in the daylight. But I knew I would never get to sleep with this mystery at play, so I returned to the room.

An idea hit me as I did so. I turned on the room’s overhead light and then got out my phone and turned on its light. Then, without concerning myself about what images were in the mirror, I decided to lean it away from the wall and check behind it. Maybe there was some sort of projector behind it and this was all just a silly practical joke. The light revealed nothing but a sturdy picture wire hanging the mirror from a large fastener screwed into in the wall. Maybe, I thought, it’s not a mirror, but a monitor. There were no cables for power or anything else, and the mirror was just the thickness one would expect. In addition, its front was unquestionably made of glass. As far as I could determine, it was just an ordinary mirror, nothing more. I walked back around my desk and looked into it. There again was a pile of old rags and a crackling fire. Wait. Crackling? No, oddly, the fire made no noise whatsoever, even from the occasional sparks that could be seen popping and disappearing up the chimney.

“Okay,” I said aloud. “Suppose this is some sort of supernatural phenomenon. Suppose there is some significance to seeing a nonexistent fire and a pile of old laundry. What’s the point? Am I just supposed to stand here and look at it all night? To what purpose?”

At that instant the pile of clothing moved.

I am not ashamed to admit that my eyes widened with terror as I debated whether to run out of the room. But I kept as my fallback the knowledge that I needed only to look away from the mirror at the wall it reflected, and the nightmare would cease. So, with sweating palms and dry mouth, I held my ground and watched for what manifestation might reveal itself next.

My first inkling was that the movement was, perhaps, that of a cat, now awakened, that had been sleeping among the pieces of fabric. But as I watched, the movement was much too slow and, rather than something crawling out, the entire pile was rising vertically and rotating back, reminiscent of time-lapse films of a seed opening and sprouting. Gradually I perceived that this was no unruly pile of rags but was, in fact, the clothing of some humanoid creature which had been huddled in the corner, now rising to stand erect. Two bony, gnarled hands emerged from long sleeves with broad cuffs. Next, I could see wisps of scraggly white hair peeking out from under a dark hood. Then, at last, grayish, wrinkled flesh stretched across a toothless skull appeared with two milky eyes devoid of irises and with the tiniest of pupils, and a vile, warty protuberance one could only assume to be a nose. It was a specter more horrifying than anything even my own fertile imagination could have conjured up. I was on the brink of panic and ready to flee when the creature gestured with its skeletal hand, scrunched its face and leaned forward as if planning to approach me. That was enough. I bolted from the room of horrors and all the way out to my pickup truck. I closed and locked the door and sat trembling, trying to think of a place to which I could escape. I checked out the windows and in my rear view mirror again and again to be certain the phantom was not approaching. After many long moments, something resembling rational thought returned to me. According to the pattern, the actual corner in which the creature appeared was, at this very moment, empty. As long as I avoided the accursed mirror, the evil apparition had no existence. Although that all made reasonable sense, I still had no intention of reentering the house. I decided that even the uncomfortable confines of my pickup’s driver’s seat offered a better option for sleeping than that eerie building. As keyed-up as I was, however, sleep was not going to overtake me anytime soon. The visage that I had witnessed replayed itself over and over in my mind. That hellish creature’s utter repulsiveness made me shudder and wish that I could purge it from my thoughts, but no distraction could restrain it for long. I turned on the radio in the truck and looked around on my phone, but nothing could prevent my mind from returning to the revolting image.

Then it occurred to me that something, some unexplained force, was compelling me to think about the ghostly vision I had seen. So, rather than continue to resist it, I yielded to it. I searched my mind for every detail and realized something I had missed before. There was meaning of some kind in the hand gesture and facial expression the “thing” had evidenced just before I had escaped the room. Neither was intended to be menacing. No, quite the opposite. Both were appeals for me not to do the very thing I did. The creature was wanting me to stay put, that it might, somehow, communicate with me. My cynical side wondered if permitting communication with—with what could be some sort of demon, was the ultimate in foolhardiness. However, my curiosity and desire to bring this insanity to some conclusion overrode such concerns and I decided to go back inside. First, though, I grabbed the lug wrench from my pickup. If things became too dreadful, I would simply smash the mirror. That, of course, according to superstition, would invoke seven years’ bad luck. But I was hard-pressed to imagine any worse luck than living in a haunted house.

Wrench in hand, I reentered the sinister room. I strode over to the corner where I had seen the creature and felt all around, even stomping the floor where it had been. Nothing, but empty space. I turned and, eyes lowered, walked back over to my desk. I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and looked up into the mirror. There again was the horrid specter, standing on trembling legs. The thing then pressed the palms of its hands together, as one would do if praying, and knelt down, shaking its hands toward me. It was as if it were pleading with me in some manner.

“Are—are you trying to ask me something?” I said into the mirror.

The thing pointed to its ears and shook its head, then pointed to its eyes and circled its toothless mouth with a gnarled finger.

“You cannot hear me?” I asked, pointing to my ears.

The creature nodded that I was correct.

“But you can read lips?”

It nodded, but then made a gesture indicating it could do so only a little.

I began to speak slowly with exaggerated mouth movements, taking care to use the simplest phrases I could. “What…do…you…want…from…me?”

The thing clasped its hands in front of itself again as if begging and mouthed with a look of anguish, “Pi-ty…me!”

“Pity you?” I asked.

It nodded and shook its clasped hands toward me again.

“How…can…I…help…you?” I asked.

Still on its knees, the thing crawled forward a step closer, which put me on full alert. However, that was as far as it came. It lowered its head and hands for a moment so that only the clothing was visible then lifted its head again. To my surprise, the face was not so horrible. It was that of an extremely aged woman, in her nineties or beyond. The countenance was not fearsome, but kindly and yet a bit sad. The woman mouthed, “Please sir, rescue me.”

“You…you…are…a…woman,” I said.

“Yes,” she mouthed, as apparently she could make no sound. She stood, with considerable effort, and something resembling a hopeful smile crossed her countenance. “I am…” I could not make out the rest of what she was trying to say.

“You…are…what?” I said. “I…can…not…read…your…lips.”

She looked a bit frustrated for a moment then began drawing letters in the air. M-I-N-E-R-V-A. Then she pointed to herself and mouthed the word.

“Minerva?” I said. “Is…that…your…name? Minerva?”

She nodded so enthusiastically, I could not help but smile. I then said, “My…name…is…Tony.” She looked sort of sad and shook her head indicating she could not understand. I repeated slower, “To…ny.” She squinted, still not sure. An idea came to me. I grabbed a piece of paper from my printer and wrote TONY on it with a pen. I held the paper up to the mirror. Minerva was still there. Apparently looking away from the mirror did not break the spell so long as I did not look directly at the places the mirror was reflecting. She smiled but spun her finger indicating I needed to turn the word around. I then realized that the mirror made it backwards. I rewrote the word so that it would be correct in the mirror.

“Tony!” she mouthed joyfully.

“Yes…that’s…right!” I said, nodding enthusiastically. “Pleased…to…meet…you.” The look of joy on her face was far more than what I would have expected. She then lowered her head again so that I could see only the hood, and took another small step forward. I was less unnerved at this movement now than before. When she again looked up, she was still an older woman, but no longer ancient—perhaps what one stereotypically thinks of as a grandmother. I decided that writing would be better for less obvious communications, so I wrote, as best as I could mirror-image it, the following: MINERVA, WHO OR WHAT ARE YOU? DO YOU REALLY EXIST? WHY CAN I ONLY SEE YOU IN THE MIRROR?

Using a combination of mouthing words and “air writing” she said, “I am trapped here.”

“Trapped? In the mirror?”

She nodded.

I wrote: HOW? WHY? WHEN?

Her answer was, “Over a century ago.” Then with her fingers she displayed the numbers 1-8-9-8.

“Eighteen ninety-eight? You mean the year 1898?”

She nodded.

Once again I pointed to the words, WHY and HOW. It took a lot of time and effort for me to grasp the words she revealed next, but by me writing down each letter as she air-wrote, I finally got the words: A sorceress.

I wrote: THERE REALLY ARE SORCERESSES?

“Yes!” she mouthed. “She used a spell from that book,” she mouthed again, pointing to the bookshelves.

Without thinking I turned toward the shelves and then toward her place in the room and said, “Which one?” Of course, when I did so, I was speaking to an empty room. Minerva was gone. I left the room and realized how hungry I was, so I hastily made a peanut butter sandwich, then, after answering another call of nature, I went back into the room with my sandwich and a glass of milk. I found myself worrying that she might not be there. I resumed my place behind my chair, facing the mirror, and to my relief found her waiting patiently. I quickly wrote: I’M SO SORRY MINERVA. I FORGOT AND LOOKED AWAY. SO GLAD YOU’RE STILL HERE.

She smiled warmly at me and mouthed, “My friends call me Minnie.”

MINNIE? I wrote. She nodded. So I wrote: AM I YOUR FRIEND?

With a smile and a pleading look she mouthed, “Oh yes, I hope so.”

I wrote: THEN MINNIE IT IS.

She smiled delightedly, lowered her head and stepped forward again. She was now just beyond arm’s length of where I stood. When she looked up, she had become some 25 years younger. She had light reddish-brown hair and lovely blue eyes. She was absolutely stunning. I stared at her reflection, mouth agape, for a long moment
before hurriedly writing: YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!

She beamed with joy, looked away shyly for a moment and then mouthed, “Thank you, Tony.”

I smiled, rubbed my chin, and then wrote: YOU WERE ABOUT TO TELL ME ABOUT A BOOK WITH SPELLS.

Her eyes grew wide and she nodded eagerly. She turned toward the bookshelves and pointed with her finger across a couple of rows of them before settling on one. She turned to me and started to say something when suddenly she looked over her shoulder at the wall opposite the bookshelves. Her eyes widened and she mouthed,

“No time. I must go. No time.”

“Wait! Minnie! What is it? What do you mean?” I looked at the wall and saw a pale halo of light around the window shade. It was dawn. I had been up all night. I looked back at the mirror and it was, once again, just a mirror reflecting my concerned look and the empty room. “Well,” I said aloud, “I guess that confirms that the magic only works at night.” Magic. I pondered that word. Was this indeed really magic? All at once I felt completely exhausted. I staggered to the bedroom, removed only my shoes and, without turning down the bed, collapsed onto it and fell into a deep sleep.

I awoke rather disoriented and it took me a several minutes to realize that it was late afternoon. I had slept nearly 12 hours. I went into the den, but it was quiet; all was normal even in the mirror. I made myself something to eat and then decided to take a bath. There was no shower, just an old clawfoot tub. As I sat in the warm water, I began to calculate how long until it got dark and I could see Minnie again. I wondered if she would come near enough to touch me this time. Would she be even younger? Even more beautiful? What was it that triggered her changes? I couldn’t wait for nightfall. Then I began to worry; would she still be there or was it a once-only phenomenon? If so, I, whom she sought as her means of rescue, had let her down.

I entered the room, sat down at my computer and began writing an entirely different article than I had originally planned, parts of which are contained in this document. Then I thought about the mysterious book Minnie had been indicating. Which one was it? Should I just look through all of them, or wait for her to appear? While trying to decide, I went over to the window and could see it was becoming dusk. I walked over behind my desk to the front of the mirror but kept my eyes down. I was so afraid the magic might not happen, my heart pounded as I at last looked up. To my great relief, there she stood in the mirror, just as I had last seen her.

I had already written down what I wanted to say to her. MINNIE, I AM SO GLAD YOU’RE STILL HERE. I FEARED YOU MIGHT NOT BE.

She smiled sweetly and mouthed, “You missed me, then?”

“Of course,” I said aloud.

“Then, you care about me?” she mouthed.

“Yes,” I said, “very much.”

A look of unbridled joy came over her. She lowered her head and stepped forward. When she looked up, she was a young woman of perhaps 20 years, breathtakingly beautiful but with an endearing sweet innocence and purity. It took all the willpower I could muster not to turn around and try to look at her directly. Then, as she was mere inches from me, I felt her hands rest upon my shoulders, and saw them in the mirror. I reached across with my right hand and felt the delicate softness of her fingers on my left shoulder. She leaned forward and pressed her cheek against my head just behind my ear. She spoke and, though I could see her mouth move in the mirror, I did not hear her words so much as “receive” them in my mind.

“I care very deeply for you, too, Tony. But our feelings cannot find expression until I am free of this curse.”

“Yes,” I said aloud, “tell me about the curse. Oh, and are you able to hear me speaking now?”

“Yes, I am, Tony,” she said. “It is somewhat muffled, as if you were in another room, but I can hear you at last. As to my story: My older brother Samuel had a close friend, Franklin; they had been inseparable since childhood. Franklin was engaged to a young woman named Emma Wilhelm. I tried my best to like Emma, but she was always very aloof towards me and seemed somewhat suspicious of me; for what reason I cannot say. She was also a very secretive person and always quite serious, even intense. Anyway, one day in early June, I needed to visit a friend at a farm some distance from Canton, Ohio, where we lived. Sam and Franklin said they would take me in our open carriage, so off we went. We had traveled quite a ways when there was a sudden cloudburst. I had never seen such a torrential downpour. Besides us all becoming soaked to the skin, the back-country dirt road we were on turned into a quagmire. Soon one of the carriage wheels stuck fast. As the rain continued, the gentlemen tried various attempts to pry the carriage free only to severely damage one of the wheels. Sam decided to unhitch the horse and ride it bareback into town to get help. Franklin and I waited for a while in the deluge until it turned to hail. We ran for shelter into an old barn a short distance away and waited perhaps a couple of hours until Sam returned with help. During the wait, we talked at length about his upcoming marriage and his plans for his and Emma’s future. I swear to you that nothing else happened whatsoever. After Sam returned and we all at last made it home, the three of us recounted our adventure to Emma, thinking it insignificant but droll. Instead of amusement, however, she exhibited a cold stoicism until the tale was completed. Then she smiled and asked me if I would accompany her to her home as she had something she wished to show me. Innocently and, still wishing us to be friends, I readily did so. She took me to a locked room deep within her house and opened the ancient book I mentioned previously. The page was titled “Confining an Enemy into Two Dimensions” and it contained strange instructions along with many Latin phrases. It took me a while to realize what it was. Once I understood it was a book of sorcery, I turned to her to caution her against such evil involvements only to find her pointing a revolver at me. Then, at gunpoint, a victim of her unfounded jealousy, I was forced to obey her wicked instructions; the result of which was my imprisonment in this mirror as you see me now.”

“How, then, can I help you, dear lady?” I asked.

“I recall clearly her unjust and unkind words to me. She said, ‘You whose wiles seek to lure men to you, if you can provoke sufficient love in the heart of one called ACA to risk joining you in your captivity, then shall he join you in your freedom, as then and only then, may the two of you return to your life in this time and place.’ In other words, the one known as ACA must love me deeply enough to join me in the mirror and that love will free us both to return to my life where it stopped.”

“ACA?” I said. “What does that mean?”

“I do not know, Tony. But you can find out for me; I know you can. You must. After so long, you are my only hope.”

“I—I want to help you,” I said, “truly I do. But, ACA, I mean, I don’t… Wait! Tony is my nickname; my actual name is Anthony. Anthony Cameron Alba. ACA are my initials! Minnie, it’s me! I am the one whose love can rescue you. It has been destined for all these years. How? How do I proceed?”

“You must get the book. It is there on the third shelf down, fourth book from the left; the big thick one. Stand and back toward the shelf. I will guide your hand so that you need not turn around.”

I did as Minnie instructed and obtained the book. It was incredibly old; its binding was nearly in tatters. The pages were brittle and browned with age.

“It is page 176; I shall never forget. On that page is the original spell and also the means you may use to join me. Then, if you can truly find it in your heart to love me, we shall both escape this curse and be together back in my normal world.”

I gently turned to the page and then her last words struck me. “Your normal world?” I asked. “The world as it was in 1898?”

“Yes, Tony, my world, my time. I know it will be unfamiliar to you, but your willingness to leave all that you know and risk entering my world would prove your love for me beyond question.” Then she added with a slight tremor in her voice, “That is, if you are willing.”

That tremor made my heart lurch. How could I refuse her? But then I began to think more deeply about the implications of my making this radical leap of faith. “Minnie, my dear lady, I am indeed willing to do so for your sake, but I am concerned that it might be more complicated than we realize. For example, if I enter the world of 1898, I will know things—things no one in that year should know. I’ll know that, in only a few years, our country will join a horrific war in Europe. And the stock market! I’ll know that it will crash in 1929 leaving millions of people destitute. At my current age, I should still be alive when Hitler rises to power and when Japan bombs Pearl Harbor. Will I seek to interfere in such events? Will I stand by silently knowing the impact of these events on human history? And what of us? Forgive my presumption, but suppose we were to marry and have children?”

She smiled broadly. “I would be most positively disposed to being your wife and bearing your children, Tony.”

“I know—that is, I understand. But consider the implications. Any children we would have are outside of the timeline of today’s current world. What might change because of their introduction into the time-space continuum? Even if they only live quiet lives and have children of their own, could that not, somewhere downstream, cause significant—even horrible—unintended consequences? Minerva, we must think this through.”

She began to weep. “I do not know about all of that, Tony. It is true the world could be changed, but perhaps the changes might be for the better. Is your world so perfect now that a different outcome in your time could only be worse?”

“Well, no, but still…”

Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I understand your fears. If you feel that you dare not help me, then I would ask only this one last favor. I saw that you brought a large iron tool in last night. Please, if you cannot help me, I beg of you, use it to smash the mirror and end my miserable existence once and for all.”

I reached back over my shoulder and laid my hand upon hers. “No, my darling, no! I could never do such a thing to you. You’re right. I’m so truly sorry. This is a matter of life and death for you. Please forgive me.”

She thought for a long while and then got a pensive look and said, “No, dear Tony. It is I who must apologize. This is an enormous step I am asking you to take with lifelong and possibly frightening consequences. It cannot be a decision you enter lightly. In fact, I insist that you wait until tomorrow night. Take the entire day to think it through completely and thoroughly and whatever you decide, I will accept. Now, close your eyes and turn toward me.”

I did as she asked and heard her say, “Until tomorrow night, then, my love.” Then her soft, wonderful lips pressed against mine and she said, “Now open your eyes.”

I did so and, of course, she was gone. I could have gone out and reentered the room, but I decided to do as she asked. The hour was late, and I felt a tiredness beyond anything I can remember experiencing before. I would sleep on it and, perhaps, all would be clearer in the morning.

I awoke the next morning secure in the absolute certainty that I would join her, help her, rescue her. After all, what was there here, on this side of the mirror, to hold me? Conversely, on the other side was the love of my life. I stopped short. How could it be that I had fallen so deeply in love with her so quickly? We had spent but a few hours together and even then only in the most bizarre of circumstances. Still, that I loved her was beyond question. As for the possibility of wreaking havoc with space-time, I would leave it to the Creator to determine if divine intervention were needed to prevent the violation of His ultimate cosmic plan. And, if so, He could do as He saw fit. As for me, I considered no risk too great to save the woman I loved. I would eagerly join her.

Anticipating that someone at some point might possibly wonder what had become of me; I sat down and spent the day writing most of what you have read here thus far. That is, until I reached that last sentence in the above paragraph. Then, all at once, I sort of snapped out of it. “This is crazy,” I said aloud. “A magic mirror, a sorceress spell, talking to people over a century old who don’t exist? Am I hallucinating? Am I having some sort of mental breakdown? I mean, seeing and talking to people who aren’t there that’s—” I stopped short, and then said the words that caused me to shudder. “That’s schizophrenia.” I sat and thought about it for a long time. Could that be it? I had heard that it was often a genetic disorder caused by parents who had a child when quite old. That certainly fit my case. I had also read that it often became evident when a person was in his twenties. That also fit me. It is hard to put into words how discouraged I felt. My sweet Minerva, just a figment of some mental illness? I realized how much sense that made. Far more sense than some silliness about being trapped in a mirror. I mean, how ridiculous. Sure, I had felt her touch, the warmth of the fire; I had heard her voice. But could not my sense of touch and hearing be as easily hallucinated as my sight? I went into the den and looked at the book. Didn’t that prove that what I had seen was real? Perhaps not, I thought to myself. Perhaps this thick book that my twisted brain tells me is a book of sorcery is, in reality, just an old dictionary or some textbook from years gone by. This whole mirror and magic experience could be but the delusions of an unsound mind. Not only did that seem possible, it was far more plausible than what my likely misguided, deceived senses were telling me. But now, what was I to do about it? What means did I have to determine reality from misperception? I looked out the window in the den and the sun had just set. It was with a heavy heart that I sat at my desk and lifted my eyes to the mirror. There was Minnie, so beautiful, so sweet, so gentle, but yet, just a fantasy of my mental illness.

“Oh, Tony, you have come back. I am so glad, my love; I was so worried that you might not.” She hugged me from behind, pressed her cheek against my head, and kissed and even nibbled my ear. Her eyes swam with tears. “We will be so happy together; I am certain of it.” Suddenly her eyes widened and her demeanor changed. “What is it, Tony? Something is wrong.” Her tears of joy became those of fear, and her lip trembled as she spoke. “You have changed your mind, haven’t you? You have decided not to join me; that the risk is too great. That is it, is it not?”

“Not exactly,” I said quietly. “It’s not that I fear the risk—I’ve moved beyond that. It’s—something else.”

Tears were streaming down her face. I reached back and laid the crook of my index finger against her incredibly soft cheek and then studied the teardrop on my finger. If only it were real.

“What, Tony? What is it?”

“Minnie, it’s that this is all too bizarre, too crazy, too unbelievable. I mean, sorcery? A damsel in distress? A magic mirror? Incantations from an ancient book? It’s straight out of some fairy tale. No, my dear, it’s not that I fear risking my life; it’s that I am all but certain that all of this, including you, is not real. It’s all just my mind playing tricks on me—a product of my own mental illness.”

She tented her hands over her nose and mouth. “Oh no! No Tony, no! You mustn’t say that. You mustn’t think that. I am real! I am! I swear it. I know it all seems as if it were some fantasy, something that cannot possibly be, but it is. Oh Tony, please, I beg of you, please do not abandon me.”

Now I was crying. “Minnie, don’t you think I want this to be real? Don’t you realize how painful it is for me to know that this most precious, angelic woman I have ever known exists only in my imagination? I would give anything if only I could know that you truly exist. If only someone else could verify what I see—” Suddenly I stopped short. “Wait! Maybe that’s it. I could call someone and have them sit here with me and see you! That would prove that you’re real!”

Her countenance dropped and her shoulders sagged. “No. That will not work. My curse is that I may manifest myself to only one person until that person either comes to my rescue or abandons me—as three others have done over the years before you. If you bring or send someone else to see me, I will not be able to appear.”

“Humph. Very convenient. And these other three, did you proclaim your love for them as well?”

“No, Tony. The two females were too frightened and ran away. I pleaded and pleaded with the man to come to my aid. He listened for a while but eventually he also ignored my pleas, never to return. But only you have I loved, Tony.”

“Then I am at a loss, Minerva. If only there were some proof that at least some part of your story were true…” Slowly an idea began to form in my mind. “Minnie, when this Emma woman trapped you in the mirror, wouldn’t your family have wondered what had happened to you?”

“Yes. Without question. I have often agonized at how distraught my father and brother must have been wondering what had become of me. Their perception would have been that I had gone to Emma’s house and then simply vanished.”

“That’s right; you would have suddenly gone missing. A missing person! Wouldn’t they have conducted a search, contacted the police?”

“Yes, I feel certain that they would have.”

“Minnie, was there a newspaper back then? One that contained local news? One that might have a report of your disappearance?”

“Yes. It was the Stark County Democrat. But how can you find a copy of it after so many years?”

“Well, this will require some luck on our part, but it’s possible that it has been digitized and made available online.”

“I am sorry, Tony, I do not understand anything you just said.”

“Yes, sorry about that. Let’s just say I might have a means of finding it on this device you see in front of me.” I performed some quick searches and, to my great relief, found exactly what I had hoped. “Minnie, I found it! The Stark County Democrat has copies online going back beyond 1898. What was the date when all this happened?”

“It was a Thursday; June 8, 1898.”

“Okay, and—oops—Minerva, I don’t know your last name.”

“It is LeDoux: L-e-D-o-u-x.”

“Perfect, let me do a search on your name.” I did so and was thrilled at what I found.

“Ha! Look there! Can you see my screen?”

“No. I can only see what the mirror sees.”

“Okay, this is from the Stark County Democrat, Canton, Ohio, June 9, 1898, and has the headline, ‘Young Woman Reported Missing.’ Let me read it to you:

“A missing person report was filed with Constable Henry regarding Minerva LeDoux, age 19, of Canton. Miss LeDoux was last seen heading north on Market Avenue Thursday afternoon by a friend, Emma Wilhelm, whose home she had been visiting. According to Miss Wilhelm, Minnie was taking the short walk of less than half a mile to her home. Miss LeDoux’s father became concerned later that evening when his daughter did not arrive and began a search involving friends and neighbors, but no trace of the missing woman could be found. The following morning the report was filed. The police investigation is currently ongoing. Anyone with any information regarding Miss LeDoux’s whereabouts is requested to contact the Canton police department.”

“Oh, Tony, then this proves my story? That I am real?”

“Yes! It—well—no, not really. If my mind is really inventing its own reality, this article might not say what I think it does at all.” Minnie’s countenance fell. “But,” I said, “there might be a way to verify it. I’ll have a friend of mine look at it and see what he says about it.”

I then sent a link to my editor, Conrad Bybee and asked him to tell me if there was an article on that page about a missing woman and, if so, what her name was. Although it only took him a few minutes to respond, it felt like forever. All the while Minnie kept kissing and caressing me from behind. She even spoke a quiet prayer that I would receive the answer we so desperately needed. At last the text arrived saying, “Yes, it’s an article from 1898 about a Canton woman named Minerva LeDoux reported missing. But, Tony, what’s this all about? How is this relevant to the article I need from you? Are you okay?”

Amid much rejoicing, I set my phone aside and, ignoring that someone kept trying to call me on it, I reread the ancient book of spells and incantations regarding breaking Emma’s curse on Minnie. After several odd ritualistic behaviors, which I have now done, it said I must place my palms upon the mirror as Minnie placed her hands on mine from the other side, and repeat the following Latin words continuously until the transformation occurred: accipere mihi etiam. And so, before doing so, that others might understand my disappearance, I have written what you are now reading. I will print it and then perform that final step. If afterward I am still here, no one will need to read this; I will know it was all in my mind. If I am gone and you are reading this, as incredible as it may seem, I have been transported to the year 1898 with my beloved and apparently the impact on time and space has been somehow tolerated. If what I am doing turns out to be in league with the powers of darkness, may the Lord have mercy on my soul.

********************

“Wow, poor Tony. He must have really gone off the deep end.”

“What do you mean, Conrad? Isn’t it obvious that he really did transport back in time?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This note is clearly the ramblings of a tortured mind. Even he suspected it. I mean, come on, Brenda, a magic mirror? Besides, see how it’s been broken? He probably said those magic words and smashed it in frustration when nothing happened.”

“It is cracked all over, but it doesn’t look like someone smashed it; there are no pieces of glass on the floor. And besides if it didn’t work, then where is he?”

“I dunno, probably ran off into the woods back behind the house and, well, I hate to say it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we found him, y’know, hanging from some tree or something.”

“Oh Conrad, don’t even think it. Look here, his laptop is still plugged-in and—look, the browser is open to that newspaper, the Stark County Democrat. Is it true that he sent you a link to it?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Was the article about a missing woman named Minerva?”

“Yeah, but don’t you see? He happened upon that article somehow and then his mind just made up all the rest.”

“Conrad, how come I don’t see the article here? Isn’t this the right date? Do you still have the text he sent you? Check on your phone.”

“Brenda, you need to stop all this. I’m telling you—”

“Just do it. It can’t hurt to look can it?”

“Oh all right… Here it is. Only, humph, I don’t see the article.”

“Yes, your screen looks just like the one on his laptop. Where on the page was it?”

“It was in the lower right. But all I see now is an item about how a bridge washed out the day before.”

“That’s it!”

“That’s what?”

“There is no article about her missing because, once she and he returned to her time, it was as if she had never disappeared. Don’t you see? It means she made it back. Or rather, they both did.”

“Aw, come on Brenda. This is—is—is crazy. There must be some other explanation. We must have gotten the page or the date mixed up or something.”

“Here, then, let me try one more thing. I’m going to search the paper for Minerva LeDoux for any date… Okay, here goes… Omigosh! Look! It’s from September 14 of that same year. Look what it says!”

“Hmm… ‘A marriage license was issued to Mr. Anthony Alba and Miss Minerva LeDoux, both of Canton.’”

“They made it! They made it back and got married!”

“O-okay, whatever. Look Brenda, that’s the story you can tell your grandkids some spooky night around a campfire. I’m still betting that someone finds his body out back there somewhere.”

“But Conrad, can’t you see? It has to be that he transported back with her.”

“Let’s just get out of here, okay? This place is creeping me out. Just leave everything the way we found it. I’ll call the police later and let them deal with it. Let’s us just get out to the car as quick as we can. Here, ladies first…”

“Whoa! Oh—oh my… Conrad, what was that? Did you feel that—that sort of whoosh as we left that room?”

“Yeah, I sure did. Wait, Brenda, I’m feeling kind of disoriented; sort of like dizzy, but that’s not quite it.”

“I feel the exact same thing… Um, Conrad? I’m very confused. Where—where exactly are we?”

“Whooh—I—I’m not sure. We’re in the middle of some old, empty house somewhere. How did we get here? And why?”

“I—I don’t quite remember. We came here to—to look for something or someone, I think, but I don’t remember what or who.”

“Yeah, me either. That room… Something about that back room there. Come on, let’s have a look…”

“Okay, so there’s nothing in here except a bookshelf with some old books and a big broken mirror. Nothing else at all. Conrad, this is too weird. I’m, um, getting rather frightened. Can we just go?”

“Sure, okay, Brenda. But first I’ll need to check GPS and see where in blazes we even are… Whoa. Look at this. We’re a good 50 miles out in the sticks. You sure you don’t remember why we came out here or what happened?”

“No, I don’t remember. Not a thing. And, honestly, I don’t think I want to know. Let’s just get back to town and forget all about this, okay?”

“That suits me just fine. And Brenda, maybe we best not tell anyone about this; not even our spouses. Not for a while, anyway. I wouldn’t want people thinking we’re nuts.”

“I agree. If we hurry we can get back to the office before five and maybe no one will notice we were even gone.”

“I can’t imagine why we would have taken so much time out of the workday to go on some wild goose chase out in the middle of nowhere. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do. I still need to see if I can find a freelancer to do an article for this month’s edition, and I’m getting short on time. Come on, let’s get going.”

A Short Circuit

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PDA’s

Although the spill was sudden and accidental, it was not a surprise. As Mandy quickly fumbled to rescue her nameplate, “Amanda Wheeler,” from the growing pool of spilt coffee, Rob Galloway just shook his head. Nothing air-headed that Mandy did surprised him. He had commented just that morning to Dave, his co-worker, that she seemed to be a disaster waiting to happen. As an executive assistant she was supposed to be good at details and making sure things went smoothly, especially for Jarrod, her boss here at Cyber Paradigm, but also for Rob and the other reps who reported to Jarrod. Instead, every time Rob was around her, Mandy was fouling something up. So, no, her spilling coffee all over everywhere did not surprise him. He was actually more surprised that Dave had not had the same experiences with her that he’d had, and even more surprised that the straight-laced Jarrod put up with her. She was a cute blue-eyed blonde with pronounced dimples, but she belonged someplace waiting tables or something. Although, having just seen her antics with the coffee, he decided maybe the world was better off without her being in food service.

“Anything I can do to help, Mandy?” he asked purely from reflex.

“Oh, no, I’ve got it. I always keep some paper towels in my desk just in case.”

I’m not surprised at that, he thought. “I see you got a new badge,” he said pointing to the one hanging from a lanyard around her neck.

“Yeah,” she said while continuing to sop-up coffee. “They charged me 15 bucks for it. Thanks again for thinking quickly and hitting reverse on the shredder when I got it caught.”

“No problem, Mandy. I’m just glad you weren’t hurt. Having something around your neck caught in a shredder can be dangerous.”

“I’m not normally so accident-prone. You must think I’m a complete klutz.”

He decided to just leave that comment alone. “Sure you don’t need any help?”

“No—well, maybe you could get the spray cleaner from the top of that cabinet for me. I used cream and sugar and my desk will get all sticky.” His six-two frame that had served him well as a college linebacker would enable him to reach it—something that would require a step-stool for the petite Mandy.

At that instant Rob was distracted by the greatest distraction of them all: Amanda Sosna. As she stood at the other end of the aisle checking her phone, Rob could look at nothing else. She was the very definition of beauty. Dark hair, green eyes, kissable lips, trim yet voluptuous figure, she had a stately, graceful bearing that had supermodel written all over it. To Rob, she easily surpassed everyone on those “world’s most beautiful women” lists that magazines and blogs were always throwing out there. She had been born in the U.S. but both of her parents were from the Ukraine and she retained just the slightest hint of an accent, which made her even more alluring. As if that were not enough, she was a brilliant high-achiever who performed circles around Rob, Dave, and the other three reps on Jarrod’s staff. She was always cordial, even friendly, although beneath the surface one could not escape the notion that she had a pretty high opinion of herself. But then, how could she not? Yet, she had remained unreachable because, as one would expect, she was already in a relationship. However, at lunch this very day, Dave had confirmed Rob’s suspicions that Amanda and her boyfriend of 18 months had broken-up a couple of weeks ago. It did not deter him in the slightest that he might be catching her on the rebound. She was too perfect for him not to at least try.

He walked up to her as casually as he could. “Hi, Amanda. Haven’t seen much of you today.”

“Oh, hello Rob. No, I’ve been pretty busy.”

“Yeah. Of course, you always are. Hey, y’know I—”

“Rob!” came a voice from behind him. It was Dave. “Rob, Jarrod wants you and me in his office tout de suite.

Rob looked at the clock on the wall. “At ten minutes to five?”

“Yeah,” said Dave. “He said it’s imperative we see him before we leave today.”

Amanda waved and said, “Okay, see you later.” She headed to her office. Rob’s shoulders slumped and he followed Dave toward their boss’s office.

“Dave!” he stage-whispered severely. “Dude, I was just about to ask Amanda to dinner.”

“Sorry, Rob. I don’t think this will take long, though. I think it’s about the convention. You’ll probably have time to catch her afterwards.”

“Two more minutes,” groused Rob. “That’s all I needed.”

The two sat in Jarrod’s guest chairs and their all-business manager wasted no time getting to the point.

“David. Robert. I had two volunteers set to fly out to the convention tomorrow and now one of them, Peter, is in the hospital for an emergency appendectomy. I realize that being at a convention most of next week can be inconvenient in that it puts you behind on your other work. But our attendance is a necessity and we need two people: one to attend the sessions and one to man the booth. I’ve spoken to the others, but so far no one has stepped up. Everyone has some sort of excuse. Unless one of the two of you volunteers, I’m afraid I’ll have to just draw a name out of a hat.”

Oh great, thought Rob. I finally get a chance for a date with the woman of my dreams and they want me to be gone for a week. In a week she’ll probably already have another boyfriend.

“Tomorrow?” groaned Dave. “I scheduled my vacation for next week, remember? I’m taking my wife and my little boy to Disneyworld. It’s his first time. We’ve got all the tickets and everything and we leave tomorrow morning.”

Rob needed to stall for time so he could think up an excuse. No way he would volunteer. He would take his chances with a random drawing—although it would be unfortunate if Dave got picked and missed his vacation. “Who’s the other person going?” he asked.

“Amanda,” said Jarrod.

Rob’s eyes widened. “Amanda? Um, well, like you said, it’s inconvenient, but since you’re in a spot, sure, I’ll go.”

“Good. Thank you Robert,” said Jarrod. “I very much appreciate it. Jennifer at the travel desk has made all the arrangements. I’ll call her right now and have her switch everything from Peter to your name and email you the information. Thank you gentlemen and, David, you and your family have a nice vacation.”

As they exited the office, Dave elbowed Rob and laughed. “I notice you became pretty willing once you heard who else was going.”

“Omigosh,” said Rob. “A whole week with Amanda—and with most of our evenings free. This could be really great. Wish me luck, dude.”

“Will do, but you gotta promise to give me all the dirt when you get back, y’hear?”

Rob headed over to Amanda’s office but she was already gone. He pulled up the email from Jenny and saw that their flight left just before nine o’clock the next morning. He blew out his cheeks. Gotta get a week’s worth of clothes laundered and packed tonight and put a hold on mail delivery, he thought. This is pretty short notice—but well worth it!

The convention started Monday morning but since it was on the opposite coast, most of Saturday would be taken up flying and getting settled-in. That would leave dinner Saturday night and all day Sunday to be with the gorgeous Ms. Sosna. He wondered if there might be some sights they could see together and decided he would look them up as soon as he got home. He did not want to come across to her as one of those guys that shrugs and says, “What do you want to do?” No, he needed to be more of a take-charge kind of guy. He would have a couple of options for things to do, of course, in case his first choice was not to her liking, but he would be cool and confident. Most women liked that in a guy, and he felt certain that was true of Amanda.

When he arrived at the airport the next morning there was a sizable line at the bag check-in for his flight. He inspected it closely for Amanda but she was either not there yet or had been really early. Probably the latter, he thought ruefully. She’s a go-getter. I should have gotten here earlier. He decided he had better get in line in case she was already at their gate.

The line of people switched-back twice as roped-off by the short poles with retractable straps, and it ended just inside the last poles. He towed his rolling suitcase while carrying his shoulder-strapped sports duffel to the end of the line, still double-checking for any sign of Amanda.

“Rob! Rob!” came a voice from somewhere across the large, busy terminal. He was disoriented for a moment—the voice was clearly not Amanda’s and he could not be sure exactly where it had originated. Until, that is, he saw a rolling suitcase tip over and jettison the large carry-on tote, that had been riding atop it, fifteen feet along the tiled floor. There was no question: it was Mandy. She reassembled herself and hurried over to him.

“Mandy? What are you doing here?”

She looked nonplussed. “I’m working the booth at the convention. Didn’t Jarrod tell you?”

The light dawned. “Oh. When he said Amanda I forgot he ignores nicknames. I thought—oh, never mind.”

“You thought Amanda Sosna was coming.” She said it with neither smile nor regret, but the absence of the former spoke volumes.

He shrugged. “I—well—yeah, y’know, but it doesn’t matter. It’s fine. We’ll do fine.”

“Have you flown much?” she asked.

“Quite a bit, I’d say.”

“Oh. Good. ‘Cause this is my first time. Like, ever.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and I might need some pointers. I’ve never even been in an airport before.”

He raised his eyebrows and blinked several times. How does someone get to be almost 30 years old without having ever been in an airport? he wondered. “I’ll help as much as I can, although it’s really not all that complicated.”

“I’ll try not to be too much of a pain. I’ve printed off everything I could about the flight and hotel and stuff,” she said while digging through her oversized purse. As she did so she bumped the handle of her front-heavy suitcase causing it and the bag on top to tip forward. As she grabbed for them her purse slipped from her hand and emptied half its contents at their feet. “Oh shoot!” she said.

Seeking to rescue the situation as gracefully as possible, Rob bent over to gather the purse and its disgorged contents; at the same exact instant that Mandy did the same. Like a gag from an old-time slapstick comedy they conked heads, at which point all those in line around them tittered with laughter.

Mandy rubbed her noggin and with a look of genuine concern said, “Oh, Rob, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Holding his hand over the corresponding spot on his head he quipped, “Yeah, there’s not much up there to injure. As hard-headed as I am, I guess you’re the one I should be asking if you’re okay. Are you?”

“Other than being embarrassed to death, you mean? Yeah, I’m okay.”

They both looked at the purse and contents at their feet. “Here,” said Rob. “I’ll hold your suitcase and carry-on and let you gather up your bag.” She nodded and squatted down to reload her purse.

He took a deep breath and shook his head. It was going to be a long week.

After Mandy collected herself they moved through the line in silence for a while. They watched a teen-aged boy a few places in front of them duck under the boundary strap and sprint off after something and then reverse the process to get back into line a few minutes later. Finally Mandy broke the silence. “Rob, um, I’ve heard about people losing their luggage. Does that really happen?”

“It’s happened to me a time or two. I’ve found it’s pretty unlikely on a direct flight but if you have to change planes, like we do, there’s always that risk. Usually it arrives on a later flight and they’ll bring it to you. But that’s why I keep some necessities like deodorant and an extra pair of socks and underwear in my carry-on—just in case.”

“Oh. Wow. I didn’t even think of that. Do you think I should try to…?”

Rob’s mind quickly played a scenario of Mandy struggling with her bags while in line and of embarrassing underclothes being dumped and scattered willy-nilly. “Nah,” he said confidently. “I’m sure you’ll be okay. Besides, there’s a mall near our hotel. If there’s any kind of mishap we’ll take the rental car over there and you can get whatever you need to tide you over. Okay?”

She smiled wanly, not even enough for her dimples to show. “Okay. You know best.”
He looked down at her suitcase. “I see you don’t have a luggage tag of any kind. Might be a good idea.”

“Oh? Will that keep it from getting lost?”

“Not so much that as it helps you make sure you grab the one that’s yours after we land.” Seeing her worried look he added, “But they have some little cardboard ones up there at the counter. See?”

She looked at the clear plastic container filled with white luggage tags with little elastic strings on them. “Should I just duck under and go get one, like that boy did?”

Rob shrugged. “Sure. Maybe get two. One for your carry-on in case you get separated from it. I’ll watch your bags.”

She nodded. They were near one of the posts and when she ducked under the strap she rose up too soon and lifted its plastic slide-down connector off the post. It released and zipped to the adjoining post with a loud thwack! That was followed immediately by a howl and a stream of expletives from an elderly man at the other end shaking his wounded hand.

“Oh, sir, I’m so sorry,” said Mandy rushing over to him. “I didn’t mean to unhook it. Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I’m okay, young lady.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

A glint came in his eye as he looked at the cute, shapely blonde. “I’m fine. It just surprised me more than anything.” He handed her the end of the strap. “You might want to put this back on, though.”

“Oh, yes. Thanks.” She took the strap and rushed toward the post from which she had disconnected it, nearly pulling over the one from which it originated.

Rob stepped in. “I’ll fix it,” he said, aware of the show they were putting on. “You just go get your tags, okay?”

“Okay,” she said. She reached into the container on the counter and, in trying to procure two, managed to pull about three dozen out which covered the floor at her feet. Snickers could be heard from those in line as she struggled to get them put back. At last she rejoined Rob in line.

“Sorry I’m being such a klutz. I swear I’m not normally like this.”

“It’s okay, Mandy. You’re probably just nervous about flying.” He said it, but he didn’t believe it.

“You’re probably thinking I’m a jinx and I’ll cause a plane crash.”

Rob immediately pressed his index finger to his lips, gave her a severe look, and shook his head. It was all he could do not to clap his hand over her mouth. “Yeah, you’ll probably need some plain cash,” he said extra loud. “Can’t buy everything with a credit card. Like if you want a candy bar or something, plain cash is what you’ll need all right. I can loan you some or we can find an ATM.”

She stared at him in confusion. He leaned close to her ear and hissed, “Mandy! There are some things you just can’t talk about in airports or on planes. You can get arrested. Look at that sign over there.”

The sign read, WE TAKE JOKES AND STATEMENTS ABOUT GUNS, BOMBS, AND CRASHES SERIOUSLY. THEY MAY BE GROUNDS FOR BOTH CRIMINAL AND CIVIL PENALTIES.

She clapped her own hand over her mouth, and whispered. “Rob, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

He looked around and no one seemed to be paying any attention to them. “It’s okay. Just be careful.”

The person ahead of them stepped up to the counter and an instant later another agent freed up. Mandy somehow managed to check her bag without wreaking any havoc, and now it was time to go through the airport screening ordeal.

“Get your driver’s license out and have your boarding pass handy,” said Rob. “They’ll want to see them both.”

Although she fumbled mightily trying to juggle her ID, purse, and carry-on, nearly failed to remove her shoes, and got taken aside and “wanded” after forgetting she had some keys in her jeans pocket, she got through security without being arrested—something Rob regarded as a near miracle.

At last they were settled at their gate. Armed with their boarding passes and assigned seats, there was finally a respite from mini-disasters. Still, Mandy appeared harried, on edge, and the worse for wear. Rob felt a little sorry for her.

“So,” he said, “how is it that someone your age has never been in an airport?”

“My age?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean you look old or anything, certainly not. It’s just—”

She laughed lightly and it was good to see her dimples again. “It’s okay; I know what you meant. The thing is, my mother became pretty much an invalid when I was 17.

She and my dad had divorced so I was the only one to take care of her. She could get around a little with help, but not by herself. So I was her constant companion from then up until she died a little over a year ago. I couldn’t be away from her for more than a couple of hours—I mean, she couldn’t even get to the bathroom without help. So, I didn’t get out much. I dropped out of high-school and got a GED. I finagled classes at the community college so that I could always get back in time to take care of anything she needed. I got my Bachelor’s in Human Resources through one of those online schools.”

“So, how long were you her caregiver?”

“Ten years.”

“Wow,” said Rob. “Ten years. Were you able to do things with friends or at least have them over?”

“Not really. I had a couple of high school friends that hung out with me for a while, but they each went away to start lives of their own. Then, after that, well it’s not easy to make friends when you’re either at home or running home all the time.”

“That was quite a burden on you. Did you ever consider taking her to a facility?”

“Yes. Once. But as soon as I walked into the place the smell of urine hit me, and I walked right back out.” There were tears in her eyes. “Plus, since I was taking classes and not working, we were just scraping by on disability income. There was no money for doing that anyway. Or for hiring a live-in caregiver. So that left it up to me.”

“Did you ever resent it?” As soon as the words left his mouth Rob regretted saying them. Fortunately she took them in stride.

“Not really; not as much as you might think. My mom told me over and over again that I was a saint and how grateful that she was to have such a wonderful, loving daughter. It’s hard to resent someone who loves you that much.”

Rob felt himself choking up. He had a burning impulse to put his arm around her and give her a little squeeze, but that would have been totally unprofessional. Plus, he felt he had no right. He had, until that moment, considered her an airheaded ditz who, except for being cute, had no redeeming qualities. It embarrassed him to recall that he had openly expressed that very sentiment to some of his coworkers in quite colorful terms. He wanted desperately to apologize to Mandy, but there would be no way to explain why without hurting her.

“Did you say she passed away a year ago?” he asked.

“Yeah, in May.”

“That must have been tough on you.”

“It was,” she said. “Still is, in some ways. There’s not only the loss of someone you loved so dearly, but there’s also guilt.”

“Guilt?”

“Yeah. Guilt at feeling a sense of relief—of release. I’ve been kind of conflicted about it. Y’know?”

“I can see what you mean. But, you know, your mom up until the very last knew you were her loving saint of a daughter, and that’s what’s important. How you feel about it now, besides being completely understandable, cannot erase that. And it does not affect the wonderful relationship you two had one iota.”

Mandy’s eyes glistened. “That’s very kind of you to say, and very wise. Thank you, Rob. I hadn’t really thought about it that way.”

The impulse to give her a little squeeze was even greater so he decided on a change in subject. “So, with a degree in HR, how did you end up as an executive assistant?”

“After Mom died, I needed an income and jobs are hard to get without any experience. Fortunately Jarrod was willing to take a chance on me a year ago. But there might be a change coming.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Promise not to tell anyone?”

“Absolutely. Your secret will be safe with me.”

“I interviewed for an HR position at Techworld Dynamics yesterday morning. It’s still a lower-level position but it’s a small increase in pay and a chance to get my foot in the door.”

“How’d the interview go?”

“Really well; at least, I thought so. They said they had some more interviews but that they’d notify me of a decision sometime this coming week.”

“Mandy that’s great. I hope it works out for you. Although, I’ll—”

The loudspeaker in the gate area blared, “ATTENTION ALL PASSENGERS AT GATE 21A. WE ARE NOW ANNOUNCING PRE-BOARDING FOR FLIGHT 872 BOUND FOR CHICAGO.”

“Is it time for us to go?” asked Mandy.

“No, not quite yet. That’s pre-boarding for people with special needs. Next they’ll call first-class and then us.”

Mandy got a concerned look. “Rob, I hate to bring something like this up, but how easy is it to use the restrooms on the plane?”

“Not too difficult, but you have to wait till we get up to cruising altitude and they turn off the seatbelt light. Plus, we have a window and a middle seat so you’ll have to climb over someone.”

“The ladies’ room is right over there. Maybe I better avail myself of it now while I still have a chance.”

“Sure. I’ll watch your stuff.”

After a minute or two he glanced up and saw her exiting the ladies’ room—with a length of toilet paper stuck to her heel and trailing along behind her. She turned and got a drink from a fountain as he rushed over to her. When she turned around he was right in front of her.

Her eyes wide with surprise she said, “Rob?”

“Mandy,” he said quietly, “turn around and back up against the wall. There’s toilet paper stuck to the heel of your right shoe.”

She looked down and extracted it using her other foot. “Omigosh. When I said I’d need you to help me navigate the airport I didn’t mean you’d have to keep stopping me from making an idiot of myself.”

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “I don’t think anybody noticed. It’s all good now.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Rob. Again.”

“They’ve just finished boarding first class so we better get in line.”

Once aboard, he gave her the window seat since she had never seen the world from 35,000 feet before.

It was odd, yet sort of fun to see her excitement as the plane taxied, took off, and quickly turned the city below them into a puzzle of miniature buildings and streets amid the vastness of the surrounding terrain.

“You doing okay?” said Rob. “Not scared or anything, are you?”

“Scared? Not hardly; this is cool! Look at that river down there. It’s just a little ribbon.”

“I’m glad. Some people get really frightened, especially the first time.”

“It’s just as fun as I hoped it would be when I volunteered to come.”

The flight attendant took drink orders and they each got ice water. Rob took a drink and then asked, “So, Mandy, with you having been sort of out of circulation for so long, what has been the most difficult adjustment for you?”

She took a lengthy drink of water. “Relationships. I mean, y’know, with guys. I sort of don’t know where to start—where to find eligible guys.”

“Mm, yes, having missed most of your high school and college years when there are the most singles around, I see the problem. In fact, I’m sort of dealing with it myself. Still, someone as cute and likeable as you shouldn’t have any problems. You’ll meet someone soon enough.”

She took another big gulp of water and then said, “So we’ve talked about my story. What about yours? You say you’re in a similar situation?”

“Well, only similar in a sense. I’m divorced.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I—I mean, I’ve heard that divorce is usually a difficult thing to go through.”

“Definitely,” he said. “Especially when it’s my own fault.” She took another sip as he continued, shaking his head ruefully. “Lori—my ex-wife—and I were doing fine; at least I thought so. I mean, life had settled-in to a familiar pattern with us both working on our careers. I joined a health club and would work-out each morning. She didn’t like getting up that early so I went alone. While there I struck up an acquaintanceship with a young woman who, I quickly discovered, was being badly mistreated by her husband. You know: verbal abuse, constant bickering, complaining and blaming her for every little problem. At first, I just listened and sympathized, but it was clear to me that she was starting to suffer from some real self-esteem issues. So, I started countering that by complimenting her and reassuring her that she was smart, charming, and pretty. Well, that put stars in her eyes toward me and, I’ll admit, made me feel like a hero. Long story short, the result was a one-time indiscretion for which I immediately felt guilty. I mean, that kind of thing was of no help to her situation and I was sure my marriage had been fine up till then. So, I immediately broke it off with her and decided the best action was to come clean with Lori.

“I confessed all amid assurances to her that I would never contact the other woman again, that I’d go for counseling—either personal or couple’s counseling or both—and do anything else Lori wanted in order to obtain her forgiveness and help heal her heart.” He shook his head again. “Lori was furious and let me know in no uncertain terms that she was getting a divorce, no matter what I did. Then, and this is no exaggeration, in less than two weeks she was hooked-up, quite literally, with a guy she had reconnected with from her college days. And that was that.”

“Wow,” said Mandy. “Sounds a little like she was looking for an excuse.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I sometimes try to tell myself that, just to ease my conscience. But deep down I know that if I had been true to my vows and put even half the effort into building-up my marriage that I was claiming I would put into trying to revive it, there never would have been a divorce.”

“So, how are you dealing with it now?”

“It’ll be two years next month since the divorce. The whole thing has produced a lot of regret and loneliness, but I’m ready to move on.”

She gave a quick laugh. “Yes, I’ve noticed. With a certain Ms. Sosna, right?”

“Am I that obvious? Humph, apparently not to her. Anyway, the whole thing with Lori has left me a bit gun-shy about women.”

“Well, it sounds like you’ve learned a lot. I guess the school of hard knocks often teaches the most effective lessons, if also the most painful.”

He smiled. “Humph, wisely spoken, Ms. Wheeler. I must admit, I fear I may have misjudged you.”

She exhaled deeply and plopped her head against the seat-back. “I know; all those stupid mistakes. I must have seemed like a bumbling nincompoop. But honestly, I’m fine except, well, except when you’re around.”

“Me? Why would my presence cause you any angst?”

Her eyes widened and she drank the remainder of her water. He looked puzzled for a couple of seconds and then his eyes widened and he, too, drained his cup. She quickly dug into her large purse and pulled out a puzzle magazine and a pencil.

“Do you like crosswords?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“Um, how about we work on one together?”

“Okay,” he said.

She flipped it open and, at random, picked one. “Here we go; this should work. Okay, let’s see. One across is, ‘Othello’s wife.’ Desdemona, right?”

Rob turned down the corners of his mouth and nodded. “Very good. I don’t know that I’d have come up with that.”

She smiled and entered the word into the puzzle. “Okay, now ten-across is ‘Captain Jack Sparrow.’ It’s four letters.” She looked up at Rob.

“Depp,” he said, “it’s Johnny Depp.”

“Ah,” she said and entered the name. “Now, 14-across is ‘Yugoslavian dictator’s surname’ and it’s four letters.”

“Wow, that’s going back a ways. It was Tito wasn’t it?”

“Well, that was his pseudonym. His real name was Broz. Let’s try the last letter down and see if it’s a Z or an O. The clue for 17-down is ‘Highest point’ and it’s six letters. Probably zenith, huh? So 14-across must be Broz.”

As they continued, it turned out that she needed little help. While a crossword puzzle is no acid-test, Rob was impressed at her breadth of knowledge.

The landing in Chicago was smooth and their layover was long enough that they had time for some lunch at an airport café. Mandy ordered a burger and fries and Rob hoped she was finally feeling more at ease around him. She made a puddle of ketchup on her plate and dipped her fries in it as they ate and talked. She bathed a large fry in ketchup and, as she brought it towards her mouth, it broke off and fell on her patterned, multi-color blouse just above her waist.

“Oh no!” she said grabbing for a napkin. “Just look at that mess!” It was quickly obvious that trying to wipe off the stain was fruitless. “I should have put stuff in my carry-on like you suggested—a whole change of clothes. I look a mess.”

“I wish there was some way I could help,” said Rob. “I have an idea that might work, though. I once got ink on a shirt while at work and a buddy told me how to minimize the stain. Go to the restroom and get two paper towels, one wet and one dry. Put the wet one on the inside under the stain and the dry one outside over it. As the water travels from the wet to the dry it should take most of the stain with it. Don’t know if it’ll work for ketchup, but it might be worth a try.”

Her eyes glistened with gratitude. “Okay, I’ll see if it works.” She hurried off to the restroom. When she returned, the lower part of her blouse was wet but there was only a barely detectable hint of a ketchup stain. “I think it might have worked,” she said enthusiastically. She sat back down to her plate, sighed deeply, and fixed Rob with an exasperated look as if to say, is this bad luck ever going to end?

He grinned and shook his head and suddenly they both burst out laughing. Finally he said, “Mandy, just do us both a favor. Don’t ever join the bomb disposal squad, okay?”

The second leg of their journey was uneventful and they arrived at baggage-claim early enough that they positioned themselves right near where the conveyor slid the bags onto the carousel.

As they watched the first bags arrive and people grabbing them off the carousel, Rob said, “Let me know when you see yours and I’ll get it for you.” A short time later his bag slid down and rotated to him. He took it off and stepped back from the carousel while he lifted its handle and perched his duffel bag on it.

“Ah, here’s mine,” said Mandy. “I can get it.” With that she lifted the navy blue suitcase off the carousel, raised the handle, and started to put her carry-on atop it.

“Excuse me, Miss,” said an urgent voice. “That’s my bag.”

She looked up to see the elderly gentleman whose hand she had thwacked before they had boarded their initial flight.

“What?” she said.

“My bag,” he said, pointing at the suitcase. “You have my bag.”

“Your bag?”

“Yes. See the strip of duct tape on the handle? I always do that so I can recognize it as mine.”

“Oh. Oh my, yes I see.”

“Mandy,” called Rob holding up a navy blue suitcase. “Here’s yours; it has your luggage tag.”

She turned to the man and said, “I’m so sorry, sir.” She took her carry-on off it and pushed the suitcase over to him. “Here, and again I apologize. That’s a really good idea about the tape. I think I better do that next time.”

“Yes,” he said, “only just don’t put it in the same place as mine.” He smiled.

“Good point. I’m sure you’ll be glad when you’ve seen the last of me.”

“Young lady, seeing you I don’t mind. Interacting with you, well, that’s a different story.” With that he gave a little bow, took his suitcase, and wheeled it away.

Mandy looked at Rob, rolled her eyes, and shook her head. He smiled. “It’s okay. You’ll learn. You just have to remember that a lot of luggage looks alike. So, now that we’ve got our bags let’s go get our rental car and get to the hotel.”

They did so and by quarter to six they were checked-in and headed to their rooms, both of which were on the third floor.

“How about we get some supper?” he said. “When I got convention duty a couple of years ago we found a great little steak place. That sound okay?”

“Sure,” she said a bit hesitantly.

“Meet in the lobby in, say, half an hour?”

“Is it fancy? I mean, someplace more than jeans and a ketchup-stained blouse?”

“Well, it’s not top of the line or anything but, y’know, white table cloths and crystal glasses and such.”

“I get it,” she said. “Better give me 45 minutes.”

“Fair enough. See you then.”

For his part, Rob switched from jeans to business casual and called to confirm that they could get reservations this close to their arrival time. He went to the lobby and sat checking emails on his phone till footsteps approached him and he heard a voice say, “Ready?”

He looked up and his jaw dropped. Mandy stood before him in a form-fitting, backless version of the proverbial Little Black Dress.

“Wow,” he gushed. “Mandy… just… wow!”

A blush of pink joined her dimples and she said, “All right, all right. I’ve been embarrassed enough for one day, no need in adding to it.”

“Embarrassed? No, no. No need for you to be embarrassed. You’re… absolutely stunning.”

She turned her eyes upward and blinked several times trying to suppress a dimpled grin. “So, are you going to take me to dinner or what?”

“Oh, yes ma’am, my pleasure,” said Rob, standing up and offering his arm. “Let’s go.”

At the restaurant, as they studied their menus, Rob said, “The steaks here are to die for. I’m going to go all-in and get the filet mignon.”

“How is the herb-crusted chicken here?”

“It’s good,” he said slowly. “Has a real tasty sauce with it. Not a steak person?”

“I’ve always found it sort of bland and chewy.”

“Let me guess. You order it well-done, right?”

“Actually,” she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever ordered one in a restaurant. My mom always insisted it be cooked till there was no pink whatsoever.”

“Ah, and probably pretty low-budget cuts, too, huh?” She nodded and he got a sly look.

When their orders came he held his hand up towards her and said, “Before either of us takes a bite, hand me your fork.” Although perplexed, she did as he asked. He took it and cut off a bite of his filet and held it out to her. “Okay, try a bite of steak the way it should be, medium-rare.” He had intended that she take her fork back but she ate the bite right off it as he held it out to her. Her eyes widened immediately and when she swallowed a couple of seconds later her reaction was exactly what he had expected.

“Oh my goodness! I didn’t even have to chew. It just sort of melted in my mouth. That is amazing!”

“Here,” he said, “tell you what. How about we go half-and-half? I’ll trade you half my steak for one of your chicken breasts.”

“Oh I couldn’t; your steak is way more expensive.”

He waved her off. “Cyber’s paying, so don’t even worry about that. I insist—unless you really don’t want to.”

She got a sly little grin. “Well, it was really yummy.” She looked around at the elegant surroundings. “You think it’s okay?”

“Hey,” he said cutting the thick steak in half, “we’re paying for the food. We can do whatever we want with it. Here, move your plate over this way a little. That’s it; there you go. Now give me one of those pieces of chicken. Hey, don’t be stingy with the sauce, now.”

She cut another bite off the steak and said, “Wow, I’d always gotten the impression that anything less than well-done would be all bloody and disgusting. I mean, this is reddish pink but it doesn’t look raw.” She put the bite in her mouth and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “Mmmm. This tastes fantastic.”

When they finished their meal the waiter offered dessert.

“Interested?” asked Rob. Mandy got an almost fearful look and shook her head. “You sure?” said Rob.

“Definitely not.”

“Okay,” he said to the waiter. “The lady says no.”

After the waiter left, Mandy said, “Saying no to desserts is the only way I can continue to fit into this dress.”

“Well, then by all means follow your advice. You look fabulous.” She smiled demurely but he suddenly got a look of concern. “I guess I should be careful. You being an HR major and all, I’m liable to get myself in hot water for sexual harassment saying stuff like that, huh?”

She grinned and pointed her finger at him. “That’s right, mister. As a soon-to-be Human Resources professional I can tell you I’ve got my eye on you, so watch it.” They both laughed. “Of course, maybe I shouldn’t have my eye on you. So far it’s caused me to be a walking disaster area.”

Rob’s grin diminished to a pensive smile as he covered her small hand with his huge mitt. “Actually, I like that you have your eye on me. I know I certainly like having mine on you.”

She bit her lower lip and gently pulled her hand away, then wagged her finger at him.
“Now, now,” she said teasingly, “no PDAs allowed.”

“PDAs? What’s that?”

“It’s an HR term. HR is full of acronyms. It means Public Displays of Affection. Not kosher in the workplace.”

He narrowed his eyes at her and then looked all around the restaurant. “Well, this isn’t exactly the workplace, right?”

She raised her eyebrows thoughtfully. “Mm, you have a point.”

At that moment the waiter arrived with the check. On the drive back to the hotel, Rob asked, “Any plans for tomorrow, Mandy? We have the whole day to kill.”

“Actually, there is an art exhibition nearby that I’d like to see. It has paintings from several Pre-Raphaelite artists. I’ve seen them in books and online but I’d love to see them in person. I don’t know if that’s your thing or not—some people find it pretty boring. If not, I can just take a taxi.”

“No, no, I’m fine with it. I’ll admit, though, that I don’t know much about art. Like, I’ve never even heard of Pre- whatever it is you just said. Maybe you could show me around and raise my level of culture a bit.”

Sunday afternoon found them at an art museum with Mandy providing the tour-guide type commentary as they strolled from painting to painting.

“The Pre-Raphaelites were a 19th century brotherhood of artists who didn’t like the direction art was taking. They wanted to portray elegant beauty in vibrant colors often focusing on beautiful women.”

“That makes sense to me,” said Rob. “I have long felt that the pinnacle of beauty in all of existence is the human female. Star-filled skies, alpine lakes, flaming sunsets… none of them can compare to a truly beautiful woman.” He gently turned Mandy toward him and looked directly into her eyes as he lowered his voice. “Present company included.”

Her eyes widened as she cleared her throat. “Um, thank you,” she said as once again she blushed. Her eyes darted around the room nervously until they locked on the gallery section off to her right. “Um, now over here they’ve, um, made a bit of a mistake.” She took his arm and guided him to the next section of the exhibit.

“Oh?”

“Yes. They’ve included some John William Godward works, but he was not truly a Pre-Raphaelite. Since he used Roman and Greek settings, he is more accurately considered a Victorian Neoclassicist.”

“I see,” said Rob. “While I can’t say I follow all of that, I can say I see why you like this style of art; it truly is beautiful.”

They toured every inch of the gallery while she kept up a running commentary, with him wearing a delighted grin. With aching legs they finally headed toward the car.

“Wow,” said Mandy, “look at the time. No wonder I’m so tired. I’m sorry, Rob. I probably talked your ear off.”

“I loved every minute of it. I must also say that I’m totally impressed by your knowledge of art and by your enthusiasm and by… well… pretty much everything about you.” She blushed and got into the car.

“So, where shall we go for dinner tonight?” he asked. “Do you like seafood?”

“Yes. I haven’t had a lot of it, though.”

“Crab? Lobster?”

“I’ve tasted crab. Haven’t tried lobster.”

“There’s a place a few miles from here that I hear is supposed to be pretty good. Want to give it a try?”

“Sure.”

At Rob’s suggestion she ordered a sampler plate and was having a wonderful time experiencing all the new flavors. That is, until she tried too hard to pry a chunk of meat out of a resistant crab leg and flipped it into the water glass of a middle-aged fellow sitting at the next table.

“Omigosh! I’m so sorry sir. I don’t know how that happened.”

He laughed good-naturedly. “Since it’s just my water glass, not a problem. Now if it’d been my wine glass I’d expect you to buy me another.”

“Oh, here, I haven’t used my water glass; I’ll gladly trade you.”

“No, it’s fine.” He grinned and looked at Rob, “I’ll bet she just wants her piece of crabmeat back.”

“Too bad I didn’t get a video of it,” said Rob. “We could win a bundle on that funniest video TV show. And we’d split it with you, of course.” The two had a good laugh but Mandy looked mortified. Seeing that, Rob refocused on her and gave her a sympathetic smile.

She hid her face with her hands. “I cannot believe I did that,” she said. “Do you think anyone would notice if I just crawled underneath the table and stayed there till closing time?”

He laughed gently and once again took her hand. “It’s okay. He’s being a good sport about it.”

She shot a furtive glance at the next table. “But that glass is just sitting there like a neon sign saying, ‘Look what the moron at the next table did.’”

Rob caught a waiter’s attention and said quietly to him, “Would you please very discreetly bring a fresh glass of ice water to the gentleman at the next table there and remove the one with the crabmeat floating in it?” Surprisingly the waiter neither showed confusion nor sought an explanation, but in less than half a minute had resolved the situation.

“Thanks, Rob,” said Mandy. She closed her eyes and shook her head with a look of incredulity mixed with resignation.

Barely suppressing a grin, Rob said, “You know, that was actually quite a shot. I bet you couldn’t get it to land directly in his water glass again in a thousand tries.”

They both laughed and she said, “Don’t be too sure. I’ve worked night and day to perfect the art of crabmeat flipping, you know.”

“Yet another amazing talent—and who would have guessed? How have you kept it secret all this time?

“Well,” she said, “a person can’t be too careful with something like that. Once the press gets ahold of it your life is never the same—talent scouts hounding you, Las Vegas bookings, offers to appear on The Tonight Show; I just don’t think I’m ready for that kind of fame.”

He laughed heartily and squeezed her hand. “Have I told you how much I love being with you?”

She blinked rapidly several times. “Even though I’m a walking disaster?”

He laughed lightly and looked intently into her eyes. “You’re not a disaster; you’re a delight.” She returned his gaze with a dreamy smile for a long moment until it was interrupted by the waiter refilling their glasses.

They returned to the hotel and walked hand-in-hand down the third floor corridor until they came to her door.

“Thanks, Rob, for putting up with me dragging you around through an art museum. And I’m sorry I’m such an embarrassment to you all the time.”

He took hold of her shoulders and said sternly but quietly, “You are never an embarrassment to me, Mandy Wheeler. The truth is I can’t remember when I’ve had a more enjoyable day.” He looked up and down the empty corridor. “Mandy,” he said as he put his big arms around her petite waist. She raised her eyebrows expectantly. “If I kiss you would it be considered a PDA if there’s no one around to see it?”

She flashed a dimpled smile. “Well, I’d have to check the HR manual to be sure, but I’m willing to risk it.”

With that he kissed her soft, luscious lips and when they came up for air she kept her wrists locked behind his neck and gave him an impish grin.

“Still sorry it wasn’t Amanda Sosna that came on this trip?” she said.

“Amanda who? The only Amanda I care anything about is the beautiful woman I’m holding in my arms this very moment. She has completely captured my heart.”

She smiled warmly and said, “And you have captured mine, Robert Galloway.”

They kissed again until they heard the ding of the elevator arriving at the third floor and they quickly separated.

“Guess we better say good night,” said Rob.

A man got off the elevator and headed the other way down the corridor.

“Rob, we’re going to have a tough time when we get back to work. Company policy frowns on two people under the same supervisor being in a romantic relationship. Plus, I mean, we joke around about it, but I can tell it’s going to be really difficult to avoid PDAs when we get back. At least, I know it will be for me.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know. Me too. Look, I’m fairly certain that these feelings I have for you are no flash in the pan. So if it comes to that, I’ll find something elsewhere. I know the COO of DevAppCo, Julie Nissen. I’m pretty sure she’d take me on; might even get a raise out of it.”

“Oh Rob no. I couldn’t let you give up your job for me.”

“Listen,” he said gently caressing her soft blonde hair, “let’s not worry about that yet. We’ll deal with it when it happens, okay? Right now you get some sleep and don’t fret. It’ll all work out.” He kissed her again.

“Night, Rob. See you at breakfast at six-thirty, okay?”

“Okay. Good night, Mandy. Sweet dreams.”

They worked together the next morning to get the Cyber Paradigm booth set up in time for the arrival of the conference attendees. They put up a tri-fold poster-board backdrop, a repeating video presentation, a stack of business cards, informational brochures, and a bowl of candy. Their booth was at one end against the wall of another, unused, conference room. Next to their booth was one for the much smaller competitor, DevAppCo, which was staffed by none other than Julie Nissen herself.

Rob attended the sessions, but before and after each he networked with clients and prospects while Mandy took care of the booth. He was impressed that she, being only a clerical worker, was so adept at describing their company’s products and services and at collecting contact information for prospective clients. She had really done her homework. Even more surprising for someone who had spent so much time in seclusion, she was clearly a people-person. Everyone seemed to take an instant liking to her. She had even managed to strike up a very positive acquaintanceship with Ms. Nissen.

****************************

During the afternoon keynote session on Wednesday there were a small number of attendees still milling around the exhibition area including a squat, bald man in his fifties whom Mandy did not recall having seen before. He was hovering around the fringes of her booth but kept looking around and behind her as if hoping there was someone else to talk to. Finally he ventured close enough and inadvertently made eye contact with her.

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

The man curled his lip like he had a bad case of heartburn. “Isn’t there a guy here with you?”

“Rob Galloway? Yes, he’s in the keynote session at the moment. Is there something I can help you with? A question I can answer?”

The look on the man’s face said he doubted that very much. “How long will he be in there?”

“Mm, I’m afraid the session isn’t due to end for another 40 minutes. But if there’s anything I can—”

“I’m Jack Schellenberger from Norquist Industries. We’re a client of yours.” He looked around the room as if wanting to find an escape from a pointless conversation.

“Oh, yes, pleased to meet you Mr. Schellenberger; Norquist is one of our best clients.” Mandy held out her hand an uncomfortably long time before he reluctantly gave it a quick, limp single shake. Out the corner of her eye she could see Julie Nissen shaking her head at Schellenberger’s behavior. Undaunted, Mandy kept trying. “Now, what is the nature of your concern, Mr. Schellenberger. Maybe if you discuss it with me first it can speed things up when Mr. Galloway gets here.”

With a deep, tired sigh, Schellenberger finally said, “Training. We just upgraded your software and I’m wondering if Cyber can provide us with training.”

“Yes,” said Mandy, “you just moved up to version 4.1. Actually, I can help you with that. Cyber does not do any training directly, but we are partnered with OmniCurricula to provide that very training, and at an exceptionally good price. They already have a training package for this version developed and ready to go, but they can also customize it very economically to meet your specific needs.” She grabbed a business card and wrote on the back. “Now, here is the toll-free number for them and just ask for this person, Ariana Taveras, and she can get something put together for you in no time. She’s very good.”

She held out the card but he kept his hands in his pockets and continued to look behind her.

“When did you say the guy would be here?”

There was the slightest edge to Mandy’s voice when she replied, “A little over half an hour. But I can assure you, Mr. Schellenberger, that he will tell you exactly the same thing. If you would prefer, I can call Ariana and get the ball rolling for you and have her contact you.”

Schellenberger glared at her as if she had just offered to be his guide to the top of Mt. Everest. He snatched the card out of her fingers, glanced at it and shoved it in his pocket. “No, never mind,” he said gruffly. “I’ll make the call myself.”

With that he stormed away looking more in need of an antacid than ever. As he did,
Mandy blew out her cheeks and Julie walked over to her.

“What a jerk!” said Julie. “He’s lucky he wasn’t talking to me; I’d have flattened the little twerp, client or no client.”

*****************************

The session wrapped up and Rob exited the large conference room out to the exhibition area with the other attendees. He immediately heard a commotion from over near their booth where a crowd had gathered much like kids in a schoolyard when a fight breaks out. He pushed his way through to find a short, bald, red-faced man screaming at Mandy.

“Don’t you realize what damage this could do to my reputation, to my good name? And all because of your empty-headed ineptitude! I knew better than to let someone like you get involved in any of this.”

“What’s going on here?” asked Rob.

Mandy was red in the face and starting to cry. “Rob—”

“Finally!” Schellenberger roared. “Someone with half a brain. This—this airheaded blonde bimbo was supposed to be giving me the number of a training outfit. Instead it was the number to one of those sex-for-hire places. Do you know what having a call like that on my business phone could do to me? I could lose my job. I demand that you provide me a letter of apology immediately and that you fire this— this— dimpled ditz right now, on the spot. And if you refuse, I can assure you that Norquist will take its business elsewhere.”

“Rob,” said Mandy, her voice quavering and her face awash in tears, “I know I gave him the right number; I’m sure of it.” She said it with conviction, but there was the slightest tinge of doubt in her eyes. “He asked about training and—”

Rob held up his palm to quiet her. He looked at them both and said calmly, “I will see that this gets resolved quickly and to everyone’s satisfaction. Let’s step over here where we can talk Mr.—?”

“Schellenberger, Jack Schellenberger.”

“Mr. Schellenberger,” repeated Rob, “I’m Rob Galloway.” As the two walked a short distance away, Julie came over to Mandy and put her arm around her.

Schellenberger, though more quietly, was still agitating. “Galloway, don’t try to sweet talk me out of it, I am adamant that you dismiss that boneheaded incompetent here and now.”

“I understand your ire, Mr. Schellenberger but, for one thing, I do not have firing authority over her. However, if I can gather a few facts I’m sure the proper steps will be taken. Now, as you know, these things require solid documentation. Did you make the call from your cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Is the number on your recent call list? I’d like to get a picture of it on my phone for documentation purposes.”

Schellenberger twiddled with his phone for a few seconds and handed it to Rob. “There it is, right at the top.”

“Yes, I see,” said Rob taking a photo of the list with his phone. “Now, did Ms. Wheeler give you the number verbally or did she write it down?”

“She wrote it on this little card,” he said fumbling through three pockets before producing it and handing it to Rob.

“Here,” said Rob, “Let me put both the card and the number on the phone right together and…there, I’ve got a picture of both in one shot.” He cleared his throat and held both up where Schellenberger could see them. “Mr. Schellenberger, can you see this? Notice that the last number on the card is a three but you entered a nine. Also, her card shows the area code as 888 but you entered 800. So, the fault was not Ms. Wheeler’s. It was yours.”

Schellenberger looked a bit sheepish and snorted. “Must have keyed it in a little too quickly. Humph, can’t remember having done something like that before. Now, Mr. Galloway, what we’re needing is a training program for—”

“Wait. Wait,” said Rob holding up his hand. “Before we discuss your training situation, there is something that needs to be handled first.”

“Huh?”

“Mr. Schellenberger, you have exactly two options at this moment, and there is no third. Option one is that you can immediately go over to Ms. Wheeler and, in the same loud volume that you were railing at her when I walked up, apologize humbly and sincerely for your idiotic mistake and unwarranted accusations, and ask her forgiveness…” Rob then gripped the upper sleeve of Schellenberger’s jacket very tightly. “Or option two is that you can accompany me around the corner into that empty room there where I will put my fist through your face.”

Schellenberger looked at Rob’s iron grip on his sleeve and gasped. “Are you threatening me?”

“Oh yes, you better believe it.”

“Wh-why you can’t do that. I’m your client. I’ll have your job for this.”

Rob gave a quick laugh. “You work for Todd Harvey. Todd and I have played golf twice a month for the past five years. And since I’ve never heard of you before I’m guessing you’ve worked for Norquist, what, two weeks? Once I tell Todd the story, and don’t forget I have the pictures to prove what really happened, I’m pretty confident my job will be safe. Wouldn’t bet too much on yours though.

“Well, anyway,” continued Rob, “it seems clear you’re not choosing option one so let’s get going.”

“Wait! Th-this is assault and battery, I’ll have you arrested.”

Rob started pulling him toward the next room. “That’s okay. It’d be worth spending a few nights in jail just to see a sexist windbag like you crawling around the floor in here trying to find his front teeth.”

“All right, all right,” said Schellenberger in a quavering voice. “I’ll apologize. After all, the fault was mostly mine and, well, I guess I was rather hard on her.”

“Good, good. Now remember, very loud and very, very sincere. And don’t forget to ask for her forgiveness.” Rob relaxed his grip on Schellenberger’s sleeve but kept his hand on his shoulder to guide him back to Mandy’s booth. Rob stood beside him as Schellenberger cleared his throat to speak.

He looked at Rob and said, “Um, I’d like to apologize—”

“Not to me,” said Rob, “to Ms. Wheeler. And nice and loud.”

Schellenberger nodded. “Yes, Ms.—um—Wheeler, I’d like to offer my sincerest apologies for my rather unprofessional behavior earlier. I discovered afterward that the fault was mine; I had tried to key in the number from memory instead of looking at the card you gave me and misdialed. Of course, when you said it was an 800 number I took you literally—”

“That’s not what she said,” corrected Julie. “I stood right here and heard the whole thing. She said it was a toll-free number, not an 800 number.”

“Ah, yes, well, sometimes my brain runs ahead of me, I guess. In any case, it was wrong of me to become upset with you, Ms. Wheeler.”

He looked at Rob whose eyebrows told him to continue.

“I am sorry for the inappropriate name-calling on my part. You did nothing wrong; the fault was totally my own. I… would… like to ask your forgiveness.”

Mandy, who had stood stoically through the entire speech, lifted her chin a bit. “I will forgive you, Mr. Schellenberger, on one condition. That you come to terms with the fact that a woman—even a young, dimpled, blonde woman—can be just as capable and competent as a man in the business world. And I say this for your own good. Because, unless and until you realize this, you are destined to spend a lot of time in the unemployment office. After all, Mr. Schellenberger, look around; us women are everywhere. Good day, Mr. Schellenberger.”

Schellenberger spun on his heel and power-walked toward the exit while the ring of bystanders that had gathered burst into applause for Mandy. Rob put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze.

As the crowd dispersed he said, “Wow, you were terrific, Mandy. Really put that jerk in his place.”

“Me? You’re the one that’s terrific. How on earth did you get that baboon to apologize?”

“Uh, it’s a guy thing. You wouldn’t understand—being a woman and all.” They both laughed and she slapped his arm.

Suddenly her phone went off. She looked at it, widened her eyes, and said, “Oh, excuse me a minute Rob, I’ve got to take this,” and she stepped away toward the corner of the room.

Julie sauntered over to Rob. “That’s quite a girlfriend you’ve got there Rob.”

“Girlfriend?” he said innocently.

“Oh come on, the air practically crackles with electricity the minute the two of you get within 50 feet of each other. I’ll tell you what, though, she’s something else. You should have seen her holding to that good-customer-service demeanor even when that obnoxious boor was treating her like a four-year-old. I’ve got to run but you can tell her for me that if she ever decides to step up from being an administrative assistant, I’d take her on as a rep in a hot second.”

“I’ll tell her.”

A moment later Mandy bounded over to Rob. “Guess what! You are now looking at the new HR assistant at TechWorld Dynamics.”

“Mandy, that’s terrific. When do you start?”

“I’ll turn in my letter of resignation Friday and I start two weeks from Monday. You know what else that means, right?”

“What?”

“As soon as I start my new job, we won’t have to worry about PDAs anymore.”

“Now that’s really good news.”

“So,” she said, “Where should we go for dinner?”

“How about we try to find some intimate little out-of-the-way place with subdued
lighting where we can engage in some NSPDAs?”

“NSPDAs?”

“Not-So-Public Displays of Affection.”

“Ah, very clever acronym,” she said with a broad dimpled smile. “I believe you may have a future in the field of Human Resources.”

“See, you’re not the only one with hidden talents,” he said while bowing and making a sweeping gesture. But as he did so he knocked over the trifold display board and, in trying to catch it, managed to knock the bowl of candy onto the floor.

Hand on hip, Mandy shook her head and smirked at him. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Honestly, I can’t take you anywhere, Rob Galloway. You are a disaster waiting to happen.”

A Short Circuit

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Sharks Assessment

I have adopted MIZZOU as my rooting interest in collegiate sports, but have clung to my Bay Area roots for the pro teams I support. While two of them have fallen on hard times of late, at least the 49ers and Giants have won championships in the past. The San Jose Sharks, however, are still hoping for their first Stanley Cup. I have rooted for them since the first game I attended back in their Cow Palace years (’91-’93), so that’s around 27 years of hoping. They are now in the NHL’s equivalent of the Final Four, so I’d like to make some observations. Not team observations particularly, but about the players that make up their current roster, line-by-line. For the few who follow hockey, and the even fewer who follow the Sharks, I’d like to hear your reactions.

It could be debated which of their top two forward lines is their “number one” line, but I’ll start with the Nyquist-Couture-Meier line.

Gustav Nyquist: For quite some time after his midseason acquisition, I wondered if he’d ever show why they got him. But late in the season he rounded into form and has played quite well in the playoffs. He’s one of those odd players who does a lot of things right, but rarely scores goals (at least for the Sharks). Lately he has proven valuable as an assist guy for his line-mates, has decent speed, defends pretty well, and is a good puck handler and passer. I’d give him a A- overall.

Timo Meier: He has been a bit streaky this season, but has really come on lately in the playoffs. He has size and can throw his weight around effectively. He’s fast for his size, strong on the puck, makes good passes, is an excellent scorer, and defends well. I’d give him and A.

Logan Couture: Let me make it simple; he is excellent in every facet of the game skill-wise, and is extremely smart. Arguably the Sharks best player. He gets an A+.

Next is the “other” top line of Kane-Hertl-Pavelski.

Evander Kane: Very simply, he is Patrick Marleau with attitude. Like Marleau, he is fast and a dynamite shooter. Also like Marleau, the odds of him passing the puck to a teammate or an opponent are about 50-50 on any play (and that might be too generous). Plus, for as strong as he is, he coughs up the puck much too easily. However, unlike Marleau, he does provide some grit. If there’s a fight on the ice, or a penalty against the Sharks, chances are pretty good Kane is involved. He also does a decent job on the penalty kill. Still, given his proclivity for turnovers, I rate him a B-.

Tomas Hertl: Nearly as skilled, smart, and valuable as Couture, but bigger and slower. It is flukey that during these playoffs he has been a scoring machine at home and shockingly quiet on the road. Nevertheless, he is one of the top players on the team. He gets an A.

Joe Pavelski: Not, perhaps, elite in any single category (except puck-tipping skills), he is nevertheless the heart and soul of the team. They’ve shown they can win without him, but boy are they more fearsome with him. He possesses an outstanding all-around skillset, is extremely smart; he is nearly always in the right place at the right time, and not by accident. I also give him an A+.

The third line is the Sorensen-Thornton-Lebanc line.

Marcus Sorensen: Decent speed, shooting, passing, puck-handling, and feistiness, he’s sort of the ideal third-line guy. He sometimes finds himself out of position on defense, something that hopefully will improve with experience. I give him a solid B.

Joe Thornton: One has to give Jumbo Joe all kinds of props for rehabbing from multiple torn-up knees and still being out there every game at age 39. Still, the honest truth is that he has slowed down (both skates and hands) considerably and, worse yet, his elite playmaking skills have dropped off noticeably. I am shocked at how often he attempts cross-ice passes that are easily picked-off, too often leading to odd-man rushes the other way (as his tied-for-team-worst playoff plus-minus of -5 attests). Also, when he’s got his engine running full-tilt, he can still be a force on the ice, but there are times when the engine is clearly stuck in a low gear. He does sometimes show flashes of that old magic, and even puts the puck in the net now and again. No doubt most teams would salivate at the chance to have him on their third line, but I’m thinking if it doesn’t happen this year, he may never get that Stanley Cup that has eluded him for more than two decades. Of course, there is the intangible of behind the scenes leadership illustrated by his “get three for Pavs” demand in game 7 vs. Las Vegas, that cannot be discounted. I give him a B-.

Kevin Lebanc: I have had to completely revamp my opinion of Lebanc recently. Earlier in the year I could not figure out why he was anything more than a fourth-line player nor why on earth DeBoer had him quarterbacking the power play. But as the season progressed, and especially in the playoffs, Lebanc has more than shown his worth. He handles the power play admirably, rarely makes a bad decision, a bad pass, or loses the puck, and, man alive, can he shoot! I recently read a hockey scribe who claimed that the best teams are those with the best third lines. Lebanc ups the value of this third line considerably. I give him an A-.

The fourth line is finally configured the way it should be, with Donskoi-Goodrow-M. Karlsson.

Joonas Donskoi: His assets are speed, niftiness, and energy, with his motor revved up to maximum rpms at almost all times. However, I’m not sure what the opposite of “strong on his skates” is, but whatever it is, that’s Donskoi. Honestly, I think he spends as much time on his back, knees, rear, and elbows as he does on his skates. He is easily pinned to the boards or knocked off the puck (and onto his posterior) and most defensemen are aware of this. Hence, when he has open ice he can be quite dangerous, but open ice can be a rare commodity in the NHL. Still, he is much more of a scoring threat than Michael Haley, so he is right where he belongs. I rate him as a C+.

Barclay Goodrow: He has good size and a decent set of skills including acquitting himself well on the penalty kill. A good all-around workmanlike player, I rate him a solid B.

Melker Karlsson: Excellent and fearless on the penalty kill, he also possesses a good set of offensive skills, but for whatever reason, has gone cold as far as scoring. Still, he and his line-mates make up a much more formidable fourth line than most teams have. He and Goodrow in particular, are able to accomplish the main purpose of a fourth line: keep the puck in the opponent’s zone throughout their shift. I rate him a B+.

As for defensemen, the top defensive pairing is Burns-Vlasic.

Brent Burns: Offensively, he is pretty much second to none. Given his blistering shot, the ability to hit a forward’s stick for a tip-in, thread the needle with a pass, stick-handle well, and hold the zone it’s not without reason that he is a perennial Norris trophy candidate. Defensively, he’s a bit of an enigma. He can be amazing with his strength and his long stick making defensive plays that leave one awestruck. Then there are those times when he makes a completely boneheaded play and/or commits a horrible turnover that often leads to an odd-man rush the other way and, like as not, an opponent’s goal. Also, for every stretch pass out of the defensive zone that sends a teammate on a rush, there are a half-dozen that miss and end-up with an icing call. In fact, the vast majority of his mistakes result from him trying to do too much; trying for the highlight-reel play rather than the safer, saner play. To his credit, he has done much more right than wrong, even defensively, in the playoffs (he’s +4) and, failings notwithstanding, he’s a tremendous asset to the team. He gets an A.

Marc-Edouard Vlasic: Speaking of enigmas, throughout most of this season, he has not been the characteristic shut-down defenseman Sharks fans have come to expect. But in the playoffs he has returned to form. The difference in the games the Sharks have played with him vs. without him (i.e. the two he missed against Vegas that looked like an arcade game) has been incredible. Apparently his presence was a major factor in mostly neutralizing the lightning-fast, highly skilled Nathan McKinnon. He is back to making the smart play and extinguishing the fire when things get hot in the Sharks defensive zone. Offensively, he provides support, but most of his shots miss the net or go directly into the goalie’s glove. Still, he provides the ideal complement to the offensive-minded Burns. He also gets an A.

The E. Karlsson-Dillon pairing.

Erik Karlsson: Like Nyquist, I was somewhat impatient for him to show himself worthy of the preseason acquisition and, just as he began to do so, he was injured. Now, however, he is pretty much back to full health and is playing excellently. Smart, skilled, solid defensively, fast, and top-notch at getting the puck out of the defensive zone, he is a tremendous asset. Like Nyquist, though, he has plenty of assist points but can’t seem to find the back of the net. I give him an A.

Brendan Dillon: Unlike most of his teammates, his game has regressed during the playoffs. For most of the season he seemed to be just a notch below Vlasic defensively and a notch above offensively, with a bit of attitude sprinkled in, all of which meant he was an above average defenseman. In the playoffs, though, he has not been up to par, as his -5 plus-minus would suggest. There are certain players that, when they have the puck you just know they’re going to do the right thing with it (Vlasic and E. Karlsson, to name two). Dillon used to be one of those but, so far in the playoffs, my stomach tightens whenever he handles the puck. Maybe as he gets more time playing with a now-healthy Karlsson, things will improve. For now, though, I give him a B-.

The Braun-Ryan pairing.

Justin Braun: Back in the day, when he was usually paired with Vlasic, he appeared to be pretty similar to his partner in defensive capabilities. However, perhaps playing with Vlasic makes anyone’s defense look better. All I know is that the stomach tightening referenced earlier happens much more frequently with Braun on the puck than it used to. One of the more frustrating things is that, while he is pretty decent at battling for pucks along the boards, he too often wins the battle only to immediately throw it to an opponent, or fail to get it out of the zone. Offensively, he can usually get the puck on net from the blue line, but his shot is not one that strikes any fear in the hearts of opposing goalies. I give him a B-.

Joakim Ryan: The season-ending injury to up-and-coming defenseman Radim Simek pressed Ryan into duty, perhaps before he was totally NHL-ready. He has acquitted himself decently (he’s +1) but, averaging barely 8 minutes of ice time per game, there isn’t a lot to go on. He does not seem lost out there, but neither does he inspire a lot of confidence. I’d say he’s doing about as well as could be reasonably expected and rate him a C+.

So, there you have it. I welcome your thoughts, and if you’d like to check any playoff stats, you can do so by clicking the image below.

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Love and Risk

Below is an essay written by my son Scott. Although it might sound like I’m just being a proud dad, I really think this is incredibly insightful and written from a unique perspective. Enjoy.

Real love is stupid. It’s illogical. It’s a bad investment. To love someone – really love them, like where you are putting their needs ahead of your own; self-sacrificial, unconditional love – seems like a terrible idea on the surface. Why? There’s just too much risk. If you love someone, you are intentionally exposing your heart to them, in full view of the fact that they now have the power to break it. Risk is an inherent part of love. So why would anyone do it?

The answer is simply that the reward – being loved back – is greater than the risk.

If you have a relationship where neither of you risk anything, how close can it really be? Conversely, the greatest intimacy comes from the abundance of vulnerability, because we are forced to be honest in our vulnerability. We let down our guards, take down our walls, open our arms, and bare our hearts, screaming through gritted teeth, “THIS IS WHO I AM!”

The possibility to be known is never more real!

But at the same time the possibility of being rejected is never more real. Now, all of our carefully crafted defenses are laying around our feet; our weakest spot is exposed, and the other person is allowed time to prepare whatever attack they might want to deploy. We risk so much when we love, when we become vulnerable.

And the worst part is that the person on the other side, the one we are offering to love, will sometimes choose to hurt us. Sometimes they won’t; sometimes they will respond in kind and let down their own guard, and it’s in those sacred moments that something from earth connects with heaven. Or perhaps more accurately, it is when the bit of heaven in us all is most clearly seen. It is the reward we are all seeking, the greatest joy to be found in this life. But that moment of exposure is the antechamber with two doors – one leading to heaven and the other to hell. To be accepted and for love to be returned is the truest happiness, but to offer love and be shown contempt instead is the truest sorrow and heartbreak, that which we all have learned to fear above all other feelings.

These truths are well-known by the poets, the musicians; the feeling of a broken heart has inspired countless songs and works of art. It is a feeling that is frustratingly common, shared amongst the human species.

Yet the one who knows heartbreak the best is One who isn’t human.

Think about this: God created humanity, and had the power and the authority to make them however He wanted. He could have made us with two heads, or made us centaurs, or mer-people, or slime monsters. It was all up to Him. But more to the point, He could have made us unable to choose. He didn’t have to give us free will, to choose to love Him or reject Him.

But He did.

Why would he have done that? That seems like an awfully dumb idea in retrospect. If it were me, it would have been awfully tempting to just prevent the pain.

But remember that real love carries risk inherently. And the most defining characteristic of the God of the Bible is love – you could also say that the most defining example of love is the God of the Bible. And He knew, from the very moment that the idea of humanity was formed in His infinite mind (just roll with me, don’t worry about the metaphysics of that statement), that He was going to love them – and that they were going to break His heart.

We have already discussed that one of the riskiest things a person can do is to choose to love another person, because there is every reason to believe that they will break your heart and few things are more painful than that. But imagine having a choice in the matter – not just the choice of whether to be vulnerable to someone, but actually being able to control their response and avoid having them reject you. This was an available option to God! But incredibly, unfathomably, He chose to take the risk of allowing us to choose; He gave us freedom, all the while, in His infinite knowledge, knowing without doubt that we would to a person fail to reciprocate this love, and every single one of us would break His heart.

Why? What could have motivated Him to choose this way?

Isn’t it obvious? It’s because He loved us that He let us choose to reject Him.

If I don’t love someone, I won’t make myself vulnerable. I won’t give them the power to break my heart. I’ll keep my guard up, fortify my defenses, and make sure that I protect myself from being rejected by just not letting them in. Love, it has been said, is a two-way street; the idea of unrequited love is actually just a representation of the rejection we’ve already discussed (I love someone, make myself vulnerable, and by indifference or ignorance they reject me and my heart is broken).

Look around you. There are so many people whose hearts have been broken and have never found a way to heal that wound. They keep searching for the healing; this is another concept that the poets and musicians have known for ages, although many don’t know what the answer is. They (it should probably be “we” since this is basically common to humanity) look for the healing in money, or power, or sex, or popularity, or approval. What we really need is to find someone that will never reject us, that will always choose to love us – that is what will heal our broken hearts.

God’s offer of love to mankind was baffling; He offered to give unlimited, perfect satisfaction of our soul’s longing for acceptance, fully knowing that His love would not always (or even often) be returned, and that His heart would be the one being broken. But how could He not offer this? It is His very nature to love. It is only through His greatness, the infinite nature of His being, that He could withstand so much heartbreak.

But there is still a greater heartbreak; God had a plan to bring us home, and it would cost Him everything.

By breaking His heart, by turning away, the relationship was cracked. We were offered what our souls longed for, and for one reason or another we decided to pass on it, content to search around for a pale imitation. We, temporal beings as we are, accepted the short-term high, the fleeting pleasure, over the steady, faithful satisfaction of God’s perfect love, and His heart was broken. It was not without consequence, either.

It isn’t because God is unfair or unfeeling that the relationship was damaged, or that He is petty and holds a grudge against us for hurting Him. The problem is that He simply can’t coexist with sin – everything that comes near to Him has to be cleansed, free from stains, or else it is consumed by the glory of His perfect holiness. Holiness simply means that it has a wholly different nature, one without taint or stain. This requirement is evident in the Law, which showed above all that God is holy and must be treated as such.

So, since we have all at one point or another been guilty of breaking the heart of God, we found ourselves separated from that closeness, that communion that we were designed for. God’s heart was broken, our lives were damaged. But as I said, God had a plan.

In order for us to be cleansed of our sin, a price had to be paid – and it was no small price. God is so different, so holy, that anything that didn’t reach the standard had to die. Or at least something had to die, either us or something in our place. The thing that died in our place had to be spotless, without blemish, because it wouldn’t do for us to give something we didn’t want in the first place. But an animal that we owned was not sufficient to truly deal with the problem of our sin, and for ourselves to give our own lives didn’t work either because, well, then we’d be dead and that ruins the whole thing. So what was God’s amazingly brilliant plan to deal with this conundrum?

He decided to send His Son, a part of Himself, to die on our behalf.

And not just to die on our behalf but to live first – even to be born into our world and grow up in poverty, to be potty-trained and go through puberty and deal with parents and siblings and friends and all the other things we all deal with on a daily basis. Jesus spent 33 years or so among us, living a life that was free from wrongdoing and as perfect of an example of God’s love as could ever be. He even demonstrated the risk inherent in love by making Himself vulnerable to heartbreak and pain – nowhere more evident than on the cross.

As if it wasn’t enough for Jesus to be killed as a sacrifice, it ended up being a horrible death, being tortured and beaten and rejected. And it was all on completely bogus charges that the government sentenced him to this awful fate and carried it out the same night. Jesus, who was entirely innocent, hung on a Roman cross, suspended by nails piercing His hands and feet, in our place.

And this, of all things, was how God saved the world.

He opened His heart to us and we rejected Him. He went a step further and brought His heart down to us so that we could get a closer look, understand it better, and we not only turned it away but beat and scourged and nailed it to a cross, calling for the blood to rest on us and our children.

And this was the plan.

How could this have been the plan? How is this a plan at all? He is God, He knows everything! He had to have seen this coming! How could this have possibly been the best that He could come up with?

This is the genius of the story of Jesus – it’s pure foolishness to a human mind. There is no way that people would have come up with such a tale. God didn’t just have it in mind to solve the problem of sin, to address the price that needed to be paid for our wrongdoing and allow us access to His glorious presence – He had a plan to finally defeat the great enemy Death.

This is why the plan didn’t end on the cross – there was also a tomb; one that would wind up gloriously, impossibly, marvelously empty on the third day!

There is a correlation of sorts between risk and hope – they are almost like opposites. Risk is what makes you hold back, not try, because something bad might happen, and hope is what makes you press on and believe because something impossibly good might happen. It has become clear through this discussion that there is a great deal of risk involved with any act of love, but keep in mind when deciding whether to love or not that there is such a beautiful hope wrapped up inside as well. Best of all, the risk does not cancel out the hope!

With that in mind, I posit that we are at our best when we push past the risk and embrace the hope that love holds. All of the best examples of humanity occurred when a person chose hope over risk, vulnerability over defensiveness, love over fear.

Choose hope. Choose vulnerability. Choose love. This is how the world changes.

Scott Hamilton
Psalm 37:3

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Viewer’s Guide to Hallmark Movies

I realize that in writing this I am admitting to participating in one of the least manly exercises of the human species: watching Hallmark romance movies. Yes, instead of movies with car chases and explosions like real men watch, I have sat through a number of Hallmark movies. However, for those with enough common sense not to have done so but who might fall prey to watching one at some point, I offer this Guide to assist your expectations. Indeed, armed with the information below, you probably don’t even need to watch the movie. Anyway, here is a list of truisms that can be applied to ALL Hallmark romances:
1. If, at the beginning of the movie, you are the leading lady’s boyfriend or, heaven forbid, her fiancé, you are doomed. There is zero chance that you and she will end up together. Absolute confirmation of this is established when you kiss her, because you do so on her cheek, not on her lips. There is also a 90% probability that you will prove to be a self-centered jerk before the first commercial.
2. Big cities are evil; rural small towns are good. Big city people (including the leading lady at the beginning of the film) lead harried, miserable, hollow, stress-filled, shallow lives where their main concern is money. Rural small town people lead relaxed, meaningful, contented, joyful lives that focus on The Things That Really Matter.
3. Similar to the above, big city careers are evil; rural small town jobs are good—especially those where one works with one’s hands. Evil “city” occupations include: movie actor, up-and-coming corporate executive, anything related to advertising or public relations, real estate/land development, assistant hospital administrator, and worst of all, lawyer. Honorable rural small town occupations include, for the leading lady: owning/managing a bakery, restaurant, or dress shop; running a family farm/ranch/vineyard; country doctor; or, best of all, small town veterinarian. For the leading man they include: handyman, house construction, some form of arts and crafts; running a family farm/ranch/vineyard; country doctor; or, best of all, small town veterinarian.
4. The next-older generation were, apparently, terrible drivers. Invariably one of the leading characters’ parents died “some years ago” in a car accident.
5. If either lead character is a single parent, the child/children will become deeply attached to the other lead character within a week of first meeting him/her—long before love blossoms between the adults. The same holds true for a pet if there is one.
6. All rural small towns have an annual Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony in the town square (they all have a town square) that the entire town not only attends but “eagerly anticipates all year.” If it happens to not be Christmastime, then they have an annual Harvest Festival.
7. In every Christmas movie there is a scene with the lead characters together in a Christmas tree lot. No one EVER has an artificial tree.
8. In every Christmas movie there is a scene at an ice skating rink in which one of the lead characters is a skilled skater and the other is an inept rookie. If it is not a Christmas movie, substitute dancing for skating.
9. Regardless of how lucrative the “big city” character’s dream job is, he/she will readily abandon it (since it was evil anyway) and downgrade to live a subsistence-level life in the rural small town with his/her new-found love.
10. The one exception to the above is if the leading lady is vacationing in the tiny European kingdom of Contrivia only to discover that the seemingly ordinary guy she has fallen for is actually the crown prince. In that case, marrying him upgrades her to a princess.

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The Non-crisis

In trying to lend justification to the President’s delusional assertion that there were millions of votes cast illegally during the most recent election — and therefore that election reform is needed — his defenders cite the presence on voter rolls of registrants who are dead or are registered in more than one state. I worked for the Missouri Secretary of State’s office for 12 years and was very much involved in the processes used to keep voter rolls as clean as possible. So, are there deceased people on voter rolls? Absolutely. Are there voters on the rolls of more than one state? Certainly. Does this mean that the entire system is flawed, needs an overhaul, and that voter fraud is rampant because of these circumstances? DEFINITELY NOT.

Let us apply a bit of rationality to all this, and take a practical look at each situation, shall we? First, dead voters. Believe it or not, the very first thing that happens when a person passes away is NOT for someone to notify the deceased’s Local Election Authority (LEA) that he or she needs to be removed from the voter rolls. Except where a rural county’s clerk actually knew the deceased, or where the LEA checks the obituaries against the voter rolls, they usually are unaware of a voter’s death. Then how do these voters get removed? Missouri used several methods. First, we did computerized matches against death records from the Dept. of Health & Sr. Svcs. This is not foolproof, however. If the individual died out of state, DHSS would not necessarily be informed. Next, there were matches against the Social Security Administration’s master death database. This helped but, since the decedent’s address may have been different when he/she died than what was on their registration, and we have only the last four digits of SSN, matching could be problematic.

Indeed, automated matching is not as slick as you might hope. A person who registers to vote by filling-out a registration card by hand simply gives or mails it to the election authority and leaves them to enter their data into the registration system. Oops, there’s a few stray marks on this card. Is that birthdate 1/8/1990 or 7/8/1990? Is that Ken Smith or Kim Smith? Our registration software ran SSN and Driver’s License checks against the data when entered, but if the SSN and/or DL was left blank the law requires the assumption to be that the individual does not have one. If the DL was from another state, no matching was done. And, of course, if “Kim Smith” was short for “Kimberly Smith” automated name matching would be less than exact. Furthermore, even SSA’s data can often be many months late in reporting a death. Add to all this that the matching, etc., did NOT remove voters. For safety’s sake, the match created lists that were sent back to the LEAs who then were to verify the matching data and then mark the registrants as deceased in the system — a task that becomes secondary during the crunch of preparing for an election. After a voter misses two federal general elections, they “age off” the voter rolls, so even a record that slips through the cracks will eventually be disabled. Nevertheless, at any given point in time even the most diligent LEAs will have a fair number of deceased voters on their rolls and, statewide, that number could be in the thousands. Does their presence mean voter fraud is occurring? Not at all.

Suppose you read a random obituary before an election and decide that, despite the risk of being convicted of a federal crime, you’re going to vote both as yourself and the dead person. Was he even registered? What polling place would he have voted at? Can you be sure the LEA hasn’t already removed him from the rolls? You have to sign the precinct register (or electronic equivalent), will your signature match? A wrong guess on any of these and you’re in danger of time in Leavenworth. All so you can vote ONE extra vote? And people are claiming this equates to MILLIONS of illegal votes? Give me a break.

But, what of multi-state registrants? When my wife and I left California for Missouri with two cars, a dog, and the few odds and ends that didn’t go on the moving van, we did not stop off at our LEA and notify them that we were moving to another state so they could remove us from the voter rolls. Nobody does. There is a place on the Missouri voter registration form to tell where you used to be registered, but if you leave it blank nothing happens — they just assume you’re a first-time voter. Even if you fill it in, the result is a list that eventually gets sent to the old state’s State Election Authority who then, hopefully, forwards it to the appropriate LEA who, when they get around to it, will mark that registration disabled. Then, there are multi-state automated matches that produce lists of suspected duplicates that the LEAs are given to process, but not all 50 states. Only those nearby. Since Drivers Licenses are subject to the same issue (obtaining one in the new state must cause the old state to be notified and nullify the old license), matching was done against DMV records. Still, all these matching efforts suffer the same uncertainties as described previously. Once again, what is the likelihood that a significant number of people are moronic enough to risk conviction of a felony so they can vote once in their old state and a second time in their current state? If a person tries to vote in the old state and they’ve already removed him, he’s busted.

Could a given state have a few hundred people gutsy and/or dimwitted enough to vote via one of these illegal methods? Perhaps. But even if each state had 1,000 people do so, that would not have changed the election results. If there was any significant voter fraud, it was not because of multi-state registrations or deceased people on the voter rolls. So any hair-on-fire demand for an election process overhaul in response to the existence of deceased or multi-state registrants will be a huge waste of time and money solving a non-problem.

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A Lifetime Commitment

It has been a LONG time since I did a post here, but in honor of my wife and I celebrating our 43rd wedding anniversary, I felt it necessary to address something I ran across recently. I sometimes look at a website called quora.com. It is a forum where people can ask questions and get answers, some of which are from “experts.” As a fiction writer, it gives me a place to ask how to handle a certain situation in writing or, for example if my story needs it, how long a person can be marooned in a small spacecraft before the air becomes unbreathable. That sort of thing. Recently, someone asked the question: “What is the creepiest thing that society accepts as a cultural norm?” There were dozens of answers provided, many of which you would expect: things like female circumcision, India’s caste system, and even child beauty pageants. But I found one answer not only shocking, but quite disturbing. The thing this contributor thought was “the creepiest” was: Marriage for life.

According to this contributor: “…committing to another person for life is not that different than committing to the same job for life… I think it’s odd and creepy that society uses the term ‘failed marriage’ and still questions divorce as a way to pursue individual happiness. There’s no such thing as a failed marriage; just a marriage that ran its course… You can’t be assured that your feelings will always stay the same when you marry…”

Holy moly. There is so much wrong with this perspective/attitude that I scarcely know where to start. I could write a book, but in the interest of time and space, I will try to keep this concise by bullet-pointing a few of the fatal flaws in this viewpoint:

  • Relationship – Emotional love can be a bit of a sine-wave. One time I can be deeply infatuated with my spouse, another time rather blasé. Sometimes I’m ready to move heaven and earth for her, other times I let a little selfishness seep in. Depending on my mood, a quirk of hers can be endearing or irritating. Through all these all-too-human emotional swings, it is our commitment to each other that gets us over the rough patches. We do not have many heated disagreements, but for couples that do, that commitment is even more vital in riding out the storm. I cannot begin to tell you the incredibly destructive force it would have on our marriage if we both believed that we’re only in it as long as our “feelings…stay the same.” If we thought that our marriage vows were no more binding “…than committing to [a] job,” that tentativeness alone would wreak havoc on our relationship. Knowing that we can depend on each others’ love through thick and thin is what makes our marital relationship so magnificent. I love being married, and that is a huge part of the reason why.
  • Children – Arguably, besides food, clothing, and shelter, the greatest need that a child has is a permanent, stable, loving environment. Temporary marriage destroys that. So does the swapping of parental figures. There is an old saying that the best thing a father (or mother) can do for a child is to love the child’s mother (or father). The permanence of the parents’ commitment not only affects a child’s security, self-esteem, and overall sense of well-being, but also his or her physical, mental, and emotional health. How about some hard facts? A 2011 federal study of child abuse found that the riskiest home situation for children was living with one parent and an unmarried partner: 57.2 per 1,000 were maltreated. That’s more than eight times the risk than if they were living with both biological parents (6.8 per 1,000) and more than double the risk of living in a single-parent household (28.4 per 1,000). An article in Psychology Today (01/09/2011) notes: “…that stepchildren, those who live with a stepparent (usually, a stepfather), are anywhere from 40 to 100 times as likely to be murdered or maimed as those who live with two biological parents in the household.”
  • The End – Although we’re both perfectly healthy at the moment, one of these days either my wife or I will come to a point where the end of life is at hand. It is (and will be) of enormous comfort to know that there at our side will be the same person whose love has endured the test of time. The notion that it is perfectly fine to trade-in one’s spouse with the same attitude with which one takes another job–i.e., a better offer has come along–will almost guarantee that the unpleasantness of dealing with a spouse’s final days takes a back seat to “greener pastures” if any are available.
  • And none of this even addresses God’s slant on marriage as eloquently expressed by His Son: what God has joined together, let not man separate. Of course, sometimes, as in the case of spousal abuse or unfaithfulness, separation or even divorce becomes necessary. And, sometimes those subsequent marriages work out well. But I’m willing to bet that those subsequent marriages that succeed nearly always do so because the partners were determined that, though a past marriage did not make it, this one would be “till death us do part.”

    For someone to think that marriage for life represents the creepiest thing that society accepts as a cultural norm is, to me, the creepiest viewpoint I think I’ve ever heard. I can only hope that those who hold such an inane view are the tiniest of minorities within society. If not, I believe that it represents a far greater threat to the continuation of the human species than fanatical terrorism, pollution, or even nuclear weapons.

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    Kindle/Nook ebooks

    For those of you who don’t use Facebook or who may have missed Becki’s posting, I have finally taken the plunge and put a series of my novels out on Kindle and Nook as ebooks. If you have a Kindle or Nook Tablet/Reader you can, of course, download and read them there. Or, if you have an iPad, iPad Mini, iPhone, or probably any other smart phone or tablet device, you can get a free Kindle or Nook app and use those devices to read them. I’ve read entire books on my iPhone and, though you might think it’s too small to read on, it’s really not bad at all.

    The books are in a series called Ever Increasing Glory. The first book is Hidden in a Field, the second is The Way of Escape and the third is Canceled Debts. Although they’re classified as Christian romances they include an attempted murder, a car wreck, a foiled rape attempt, and a guy getting worked over with a rubber hose so they’re not all just romantic fluff.

    You can use the links below or search the Kindle or Nook sites by the series (Ever Increasing Glory), by the titles or by “D. L. Hamilton” (Don Hamilton won’t work).

    Kindle:
    •Book 1: Hidden in a Field
    •Book 2: The Way of Escape
    •Book 3: Canceled Debts

    Or, for the more graphically-oriented, click on the cover image below:

    Hidden in a Field Cover TN The Way of Escape Cover TN Canceled Debts Cover TN

    Nook:
    You can view the whole Ever Increasing Glory series.

    You can read the first few chapters for free and the books themselves are pretty inexpensive. Hope you find the stories enjoyable as well as inspirational.

    God’s blessings,

    Don

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    Goodness!

    What follows are two seemingly unrelated thoughts that actually do tie together, so please bear with me.

    The first relates to a radio commentary I heard recently that made a significant point. It said that the U.S. government should not be as shocked as it is that the “Arab Spring” has not resulted in democracies rife with fundamental freedoms and equality for all citizens in those countries where dictators have been ousted. Our government seems amazed that the rest of the world would not readily embrace the concepts of equality and liberty that we all so cherish. The commentator made the point that our republic succeeded as a form of government because it had Christianity as its underpinnings. Absent those Christian roots of love, kindness, righteousness, and a recognition of the intrinsic worth of each and every individual not only will democracy fail, it doesn’t even make sense. Hence, those non-Christian cultures overthrow a despot simply to trade him for another form of totalitarianism, but one that is more closely allied to the rebels’ views. The despotic governments we see moving in to fill the vacuum in places like Egypt and Libya should serve as a cautionary tale for us as our nation continues to divest itself of its Christian roots.

    The second relates to goodness. It is one of the nine attributes the Apostle Paul lists as the “fruit of the Spirit;” that is, behaviors that result from the work of the indwelling Holy Spirit in a Christian’s life. They are: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There have been any number of Bible studies and curricula that delve into the specifics of each of these and their effect and manifestation in the life of the Christian. However, the one that is often hardest to fashion an hour-long class about is goodness. In fact, one study series I found on the subject was only eight lessons long. They completely skipped over goodness. One can develop myriad class sessions on love, peace, and the nuances of faithfulness. But on the surface “goodness” seems too generic. Okay, we’re supposed to do good, to be good. End of study. However, goodness is a concept that may be more complex than all the others put together. Why? Because it demands that we define “good.” What is good? And how do we know? Is good defined as whatever is best for me, personally? If so, it would be good for me to steal your car since that is to my benefit. And, of course, if you abide by the same definition, it would be “good” for you to slit my throat to get your car back as that would be to your benefit. Etc. So, what then? Is “good” whatever benefits the largest number of people? That just takes the previous examples and expands them. For the majority to steal everything the minority has would be to the majority’s benefit. Hmm… How about goodness is any behavior that does no harm to anyone else? Key question: Why would doing no harm be superior to being cruel and brutal to others? Why would such a philosophy be better than “might makes right?” Or put another way, “Says who?” When there is no Who or where there is only a “who” whose scruples are, well, unscrupulous, the definition of goodness becomes either nonexistent or perverse.

    But, for the Christian, the definition of goodness is so obvious that we cannot even put together a decent hour-long study on it. That is not to say that all Christians’ behavior is characterized by goodness—Lord knows there have been atrocities aplenty among those who claim to be Christian. But evil behavior by fallen, imperfect people does not negate the unsullied Biblical definition of goodness. Which is, if I may wax a tad overly simplistic, goodness = God-ness. In other words, that which is true of our Lord defines that which is good. Hence, we recognize good over evil as: truth over lies, kindness over cruelty, generosity over stinginess, love over selfishness, gentleness over ferocity, mercy over condemnation, sobriety over drunkenness, industriousness over sloth, optimism over pessimism, grace over judgmentalism, and so on. Additionally, not only does this provide a definition of good, it is eternal, unchangeable, and adherence to it has consequences—the approval of the omnipotent God.

    Now to tie these two disparate thoughts together. With a common societal absolute standard of what constitutes good vs. evil it becomes possible to not only establish laws to encourage good and discourage evil, but to trust the citizenry to be a government “of the people.” Good citizenship means to exhibit good behavior—not primarily out of fear of government reprisal but because of the common recognition of what good is and the desire to be good. Those who choose to do evil recognize it as being evil. They understand that they run the risk of suffering the consequences of violating laws that not only exist in some code book but that coincide with Almighty God’s laws. Although there are examples of the church disassociating itself from those involved in flagrant, perpetual, unrepentant sin; by and large Christians are responsible to govern their own behavior and answer to the Lord. Such is not the case in other cultures without Christian influence. Jesus said, “…if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” In many non-Christian societies this concept of individual freedom is completely foreign, not merely to their political power brokers but to the average citizen as well.

    Equality among all citizens and our system of government go hand-in-hand. The New Testament concept of “…in humility consider others better than yourselves…look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others” (Php. 2:3-4) steers citizens toward good behavior and away from our natural dog-eat-dog proclivity. Governments must exist, but they govern benevolently only to the degree that they accurately distinguish good from evil and recognize the infinite, intrinsic worth of each individual deemed precious by the omnipotent God of all. Attempts to frame our republican democracy around a society whose concept of goodness is “might makes right” will quickly degenerate into a totalitarian monstrosity much as we see happening in the middle east. Karl Marx envisioned a utopian society where everyone happily subjugates his own ends for the good of the society at large. But everywhere communism has been tried the result has been oppression by a tyrannical government. The primary reason is that Marxism’s atheistic roots provide no answer to the inevitable “why” question. Why should I set aside what benefits me for the sake of anyone else, let alone for the sake of faceless “society”? Because some guy named Marx says to do so constitutes “goodness”? Who bestowed him with the power to define goodness? For that matter, who bestows anyone, or any government, with the power to define goodness?

    Ah, and so we are back to the basic point. There is Someone with that power. And, not only does He define goodness, the indwelling of His Spirit produces goodness as a by-product of our surrender to His lordship over our lives. As America moves ever further from the Christian basis for its concept of government and from God’s definition of goodness, one cannot help but ask, as Lincoln did, “…whether that nation…can long endure.”

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