Eric J. Krause

     Something woke Danny. He sat up, scanned his room, and found something silvery and shiny standing at the foot of his bed. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and discovered a short man (or was it a woman?) staring down at him.

     “Hello, Danny,” the man (or woman?) said in a squeaky voice. “Are you ready for your trip?”

     Trip? “What trip? Who are you?”

     “Santa got your letter. He’d be delighted if you met him at the North Pole.”

     Danny’s eyes went wide. Santa? The Santa? And he wanted to meet him? He hopped out of bed to join what he now guessed was an elf. The elf held out his (or her–Danny still couldn’t tell) hand, and Danny grasped it. Before he could brace himself for anything, his room blinked and he stood in a large room with a bunch of other kids.

     “Ah, wonderful, the last one has arrived. We can get started now.”

     Danny looked towards the speaker and found her (he was almost positive this one was a girl) standing in front of a large wooden gate. All of the children were focused on her. He looked back and saw the elf that’d transported him had disappeared.

     “I’ll be your tour guide through the workshop, so stay close. I promise, after you meet Santa, you’ll have all the time you could possibly want inside the workshop.”

     Danny and the other kids, already leaning forward, almost toppled over their feet at this news. They’d get to see the workshop! But more than that, Santa was here. He really was, and they were going to meet him!  

     The elves opened the gate, and the kids rushed in. It was huge! Danny didn’t know where to look first. Hundreds and hundreds of elves flooded the floor, creating toys and playing games.

     “Look,” one of the girls said. “They have slides and swings and monkey bars!”

     “Of course,” the guide said. “We can’t make fun if we don’t have it ourselves.”

     The elves on the playground equipment climbed on the bars, slid down the slides, and swung on swings. An elf next to the group cleared his throat, and Danny glanced over. “Don’t be fooled,” the elf said.

     “What do you mean?” Danny asked.

     Before the elf could say anything else, others grabbed him and dragged him away. They stuffed some sort of gag in his mouth so he couldn’t yell out.

     Danny turned to the group, who were all focused on the twisting and turning slides, high-flying swings, and multi-shaped monkey bars. “Did you guys see that? They took that elf.”

     They looked at him, all with blank stared. The guide laughed, but he could hear a twinge of nervous energy under it, like Mom when she denied taking a nip from a liquor bottle. “Quite an imagination on this one,” she said to the group. Everyone but Danny laughed.

     The group walked through the rest of the cavernous room. Danny couldn’t help but think of Mr. Wonka’s candy factory, but with toys instead. Elves sang songs as they pounded toys together, and the group got into the act and hummed along. Except Danny; he couldn’t put his finger on it, but not all was right with these happy elves. He could see it in the eyes of those few who ventured a quick glance his way.

     “Ready to meet Santa, kids?” their guide asked when they got to a big set of double doors at the back of the workshop.

     The kids squealed and even Danny perked up. Santa would make it all better. Maybe they’d all get early Christmas gifts. They’d at least get to sit on his lap–the real Santa’s lap, not some faker in the mall–and tell him face-to-face what they wanted.

     The new room was empty except for twelve enormous drums which lined the back wall. Excitement crackled through the ranks of the group as everyone searched for Jolly Ol’ St. Nick. When the door to the left opened, they all jumped for joy.

     Instead of Santa, however, twelve gigantic men rumbled out. They looked nothing like the elves; each stood at least ten feet tall and wore only a pair of fur shorts. They had more muscles than any of the professional wrestlers Danny liked to watch every Monday night.

     The huge men each stepped up to one of the drums and picked up a big club. No one said a word; all eyes were on these monstrosities, who lifted their clubs and smacked the drums. The beats assaulted Danny. This was what the elf tried to warn him about. It had to be. The sound vibrated through his skull, and he clutched his hands over his ears to stop it.

     The others in the group felt none of it. They watched the twelve huge drummers with looks of wonder plastered on their faces. Each stepped forward, and Danny watched them change. First their ears enlarged, growing points at the tops like all of the elves he’d seen in the workshop. Next their clothes changed. They went from jeans, t-shirts, and tennis shoes (or, like Danny, pajamas and slippers) to the extravagant styles of the elves. Their pants transformed into multi-colored tights, their shirts to green tunics, and their shoes to curly-toed booties, complete with bells on the tips. Their cheeks burned rosy, and wooly caps grew onto their heads, right through their hair.

     The twelve drummers continued pounding out their beats. Danny kept his hands plastered over his ears, and though he felt strange, he hadn’t changed like the others. The guide came up behind him and pulled his hands from his ears. “You can’t meet Santa without listening to the song.”

     He felt the transformation at once. It didn’t hurt, not really, but it wasn’t pleasant. His ears bent, his insides shifted, and his clothes swapped out. The driving drums pounded through his skin, his flesh, his bones, his soul.

     It all took only seconds. When it was done, he had the urge to make toys. Though he’d never done it before, he had some great ideas for awesome toy racing cars, and he couldn’t wait to get started. He looked to the guide, hoping she’d send them out to work. She smiled at him and pointed to the door the drummers had rumbled through.

     Santa, in all his red suit, jelly-belly, and white beard glory walked out with a hearty “Ho-ho-ho!” He looked at Danny and the other new elves, and then at the drummers. “Ah, nothing like the sound of twelve drummers drumming.”

Wulfie

 It started so innocently.  We met, talked, began hanging out and doing things together.  Somewhere along the line he fell in love with me and started calling me his True Love.  It was sweet.  He made me laugh and, thank god, was loaded so, at the very least,  I didn’t have to worry about him being interested in me just because I was rich.

We’d been seeing each other for five months and were starting to get very serious when the holidays came around.  The stress of the holiday season does wonders when you’re getting to know someone. Their true colors begin revealing themselves under the constant prodding of horrible music, parties, family gatherings and  the extreme shopping for all those last minute items. Who doesn’t go a little nuts at this time of year?

I confess that it took me too long to see the truth.  It was my own fault for having fallen head over heels with a man who was good to my eyes, mind and heart.  Even after I caught on to the truth it took me too long to take action. In my defense, I was in love and…stupid. And it really didn’t seem to be a bad thing when it started. It was cute.  Endearing. Then confusing then maddening.

It was the daily gifts that forced me to see him for what he was. It ripped my heart out and, I’m afraid, the entire thing has traumatized me permanently.  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to accept a gift from anyone ever again. But that is what drove me to it…those fucking gifts.

What gifts you ask? Well, let me tell you.  It started out twelve days before Christmas with a gift from my True Love.

On the first day he gave me a partridge in a pear tree. Sweet right? And I so love pears and partridge when it’s cooked properly.  The second day the post man delivered two turtle doves. Although they were lovely creatures and their gentle coo-ing sound soothing to my nerves, I wondered what was up with the birds.

The three French hens blew me and my cook away.  She absolutely refused to kill and de-feather the birds and then bake it into a pie. Well, at least his heart is in the right place. I’m sure he was simply trying to help out with the big Christmas dinner we had planned for my parents that very night. I didn’t tell him that we threw his birds out and bought replacements at the grocery store.  I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, after all.  He was being so sweet and considerate that I just couldn’t bring myself to bring it up to him.

On the fourth day of Christmas the delivery man brought four calling birds. I was nearly beside myself and beginning to get a trifle concerned. What is wrong with this man, I wondered?  Did he have some sort of bird fetish? I’d heard of such things but never thought I’d meet anyone who actually had a fetish. They did make lovely sounds and sing all the time.  But quite frankly, I was sick of birds by this time. I covered their cage with a towel to shut them the hell up.  The bird thing was really starting to get on my nerves.

When the doorbell rang on the fifth day I was more than leery about answering it. God forbid it was another delivery of some sort of bird. Thank god, this time it was a simple wrapped box containing five golden rings.  I couldn’t imagine why he’d give me such a thing.  I looked them over and was certain they were real gold. I did have a brief moment of fright when, as I examined them near the fire place I thought I saw bright fiery letters appear on them and then vanish when I dropped them. I laughed, thinking my imagination was getting the best of me. I’m sure it was just a trick of the light but I quickly put them back in the box they’d arrived in. 

Day six’s present was six geese-a-laying. More birds. And I was not even a little impressed with the fact that as soon as they were out of their cage they started laying eggs all over the house. I had to watch where I walked because I never knew when I’d step on one of the little fuckers.

It took well over an hour to catch them all and scoot them out into the back yard.  It’s fenced in so they could run around and lay eggs all they wanted.  I’d never had a goose egg before. Holy shit they were huge – one will make an omelet for the three people. The cook assures me that we won’t ever have to buy eggs again but the neighbors are a little upset by all the honking.

By the seventh day I started to catch on to my True Love’s evil intentions. It became blatantly obvious to me that something was wrong with him.  What was the seventh gift? More fucking birds! Specifically: swans a-swimming.

Of course, I didn’t know they swam until the front end loader stormed up the back yard and started digging a hole. I ran out to stop them and several of the geese chased and bit me. The man tearing up my yard had papers that showed he’d been hired to dig a small pond for the swans and geese to swim in.  He promised the work would be finished by sunset. I didn’t see any way of stopping him. He scared me a little actually.  Certainly the geese and swans would make good use of a pond.  So I let him do his work and apologized heartily to my neighbors who were, by this time, complaining that my house was starting to become a farm. They were still plainly vexed by all the goddamned goose-honking and duck-quacking. 

I called my True Love and very politely asked him to stop sending me gifts.  He was very hurt and felt that I didn’t appreciate how creatively he was courting my heart. Nonetheless, I told him to stop. Then I called the police and talked to a very nice officer who politely listened as I told him everything from the beginning. I told him I was starting to be afraid to open the door.

The kind officer informed me that my True Love wasn’t breaking any laws. The officer suggested that I should relax and appreciate his kindness.  I told him that if he came to my house and had to put up with the constant bird song, honking, quacking, bird shit cleaning and the complaining neighbors he’d understand. 

By the next day I knew that I was definitely dealing with a crazy person. I didn’t care what the cops said. My True Love was a nutcase. I was tongue tied with shock on that eighth day. Despite my having told him to stop sending me these ridiculous gifts what did my True Love do? He sent me eight maids-a-milking?!

Incredible! What was I supposed to do with all those damned cows except add them to the god damned barn yard that my fucking yard has become.

More of his lady friends arrived the next day.  Nine. Yes, you heard me right. That nut-ball sent me nine ladies dancing. The maidens were eating me out of house and home.  I caught six of the milking bitches going to town on my butler in the pantry for god’s sake!  Milking isn’t exactly what I’d call what they were doing but…damned close, if you take my meaning.  And now I had to put up with 9 more women, all half dressed and dancing around my manor as if it were the last whore house in Maine.

I couldn’t even imagine what day ten would bring.  Then the doorbell rang and, before I could get to it the door burst open and 10, that’s right, 10 lords-a-leaping exploded into my house. The maids-a-milking and ladies-dancing went crazy. Now there was an orgy going on in half the rooms of my house. I know that some of these people were doing horrible things to the birds and cows too because, they’d eaten all the food and the kitchen was a bloody mess.

On that day I’d quite had enough. Obviously, my True Love, the man of my dreams was some kind of sadistic bastard who was into animal sacrifices, bestiality, all manner of sexual perversion and group sex. And I think he was, and had been from the beginning, trying to work some sort of voodoo magic on me. Why else all the birds? 

No. Not me. I was on to him and his dastardly plans. It took me a while to decide how I was going to get this insane person and his groupies out of my life. I was up most of the night making my plan which I’d take care of the next day.

The next day I was starting to feel a little better. I had most of my plan laid out and knew what I was going to do, when and how. It was perfect. I was just about to sit down and have a cup of tea when the door bell rang. Wondering what further madness was about to assault my sense I opened the door and I nearly screamed. Eleven people marched in – and yes, I mean marched, as in a marching band – and then began playing their pipes.

Eleven pipers piping.  What more could a girl want? Lovely.

That was it. I couldn’t anymore. I didn’t care if it was all in the Christmas spirit or not.  I couldn’t stand it. Hell, I’d never liked Christmas anyways! Besides, I had my plan. This was going to end on my terms not my True Love’s.

Rather than argue with either the postman or the pipers I grabbed my little box and stormed out the door. Since the police can’t help me, I’d take care of things myself.  I traded in the five gold rings and got more than enough money for what I needed.  I made my purchases then went home, ignoring the blistering stares of my neighbors who were still very upset with all the noise coming from my yard and inside my house.

I called my True Love and invited him to dinner tomorrow night. I apologized for having mistreated him and his kindness toward me. I told him that I’d marry him and, if he’d come to supper that night, we could make plans about the wedding or elopement, whichever he preferred. This was my gift for him on the twelfth day of Christmas. He was ecstatic and glad that his barrage of gifts had finally won over my heart. 

That night, the twelfth day of Christmas, my True Love came to me with flowers and an engagement ring with enough bling to make the Housewives of Orange County envious. We had a lovely dinner. The pipers graciously serenaded us during our meal. At eight o’clock, the door bell ran and I told my True Love that this was to be my day and my gift to him. It was the least I could do for him after all he’d done for me.

I opened the door and in piled the 12 drummers I’d hired. It took several minutes for the pipers and drummers to work things out between them but soon they were all in sync and enjoying themselves as they fooled around with Christmas carols. I told them to really get into what they were doing, to give that boring music a twist of punk or acid rock.  Really crank it up. They happily obliged and my True Love seemed to be truly enjoying the juxtaposition of drums competing with the pan flutes. I’m sure he was also enjoying watching the leaping lords getting down with the ladies dancing.  He didn’t seem to notice the cows or milking maids. And the birds – songs and eggs – somehow added a nice steam punk touch to the entire evening.

I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room and, on my way back, picked up the AA-12 that I’d bought with the money I’d gotten from selling the stupid gold rings. I stood on the top landing and cut loose.

This thing was everything the man I’d bought it from told me it would be. Holy mother of god, loaded with frag-12 explosive rounds it made fast work of them all. I had to agree with the man I’d bought it from, that the flashlight attachment came in handy when I accidentally shot out all the lights, immersing the room in near total darkness.

When I finished, nary a piper was piping, a drummer drumming, cow was mooing nor a bird a coo-ing. Blessed silence. I checked over my work, saw that everyone, including my True Love was dead, and breathed a sigh of relief.  I went into the living room, sat next to the roaring fire and relaxed. Really relaxed and that’s when it hit me.

The sort of off-beat, off-melody tune that the pipers and drummers had been playing went through my mind and I found myself humming and then singing. When the police arrived and took me away, I had the entire song clear in my mind and was so pleased with the result that I sang it as they led me out to the squad car.

I think it will make a lovely Christmas Carol. I think I’ll call it the Twelve Days of Christmas.

What do you think?

Helena Butters

“Knees together, McGreevy, you’re flashing your junk at the widow.”

“Piss off,” Tim McGreevy grumbled as he drew his legs together.  True to whispered rumor, he wore nothing beneath his kilt.  Presented with the appropriate audience, Tim would further clarify that he wore nothing “except lipstick” beneath his bagpiper uniform.  The old ladies gathered in the Fellowship Hall at Our Lady of Infinite Compassion were not such an audience.

Kevin Clancy had studied Tim closely – the way women would sidle up to him after performances and coyly ask if the rumors were true; the way Tim would deliver the lipstick line; the way the women’s mouths would open in mock horror as they playfully slapped his shoulder.  Kevin practiced delivering this line to the bathroom mirror each time he donned his kilt in case a woman inquired about his undergarments.  No one ever had.  It was just as well, anyhow, as Kevin always wore white cotton briefs under his kilt.

Kevin had been playing the bagpipes since the age of nine.  His mother, once married into the Clancy name, took on being Irish with formidable gusto.  The four generations separating her new husband from the Emerald Isle were no deterrent.  Kevin’s three sisters, Erin, Meghan, and Shannon, had all been required to take years of Irish dance.  Of the two pursuits, Kevin had to admit that playing the bagpipes was notably more profitable.  He’d played at weddings and church services for most of his early twenties before joining Erin’s Own Bagpipe Brigade two years ago.  Erin’s Own was a troupe of twelve bagpipers who marched in parades, performed at assorted St Patrick’s Day celebrations, and played Taps at the funerals of anyone who’d elected to honor their Irish heritage before passing on.

Today was one such day.  Nelson Grady had, at the age of 84, gone on to meet his maker and Erin’s Own was there to serenade the send-off.  Due to the unfortunate timing of Mr. Grady’s demise, Mitch Simmons was away in Daytona Beach on his honeymoon with his second wife, so there were only eleven pipers piping at the graveside service. 

Now, the service over, Tim, Kevin, and John Parker, the lead bagpiper of Erin’s Own, were sitting in the church Fellowship Hall drinking tea out of chipped china and avoiding the repeated offers of dried-out scones.  The three were waiting for the proper time to approach Nelson Grady’s widow about the matter of the outstanding balance on her late husband’s bill.  While Mr. Grady had planned the service ahead of time, payment was due when services were rendered.  As leader, John was the only one required to wait out the widow.  Tim was there because John was his ride home.  Kevin was there because he had nothing else to do.

The three men sat together in a corner of the Fellowship Hall, Tim and John sharing an old, green velvet, Queen Anne-style couch. Kevin was perched on a grey metal folding chair he’d dragged over from its previous position beside a card table.  Kevin wondered if they should be sitting at all, given that there weren’t enough chairs to go around and most of Nelson Grady’s surviving friends and family were on the later side of seventy.  Tim and John appeared to share no such guilt, so Kevin remained seated and kept his thoughts to himself.

“How much does she owe us?” Tim asked, breaking the silence.  Staring straight ahead, jaw slack; Tim was never good at hiding boredom or apathy.

“Two hundred,” John replied, without bothering to shift his gaze up from his empty teacup.  John’s desire to stay seated and avoid unnecessary contact with the pensioners outweighed his desire for more coffee.

“Couldn’t we just send her an invoice?” Kevin inquired, turning toward John.

“You never get the money if you don’t insist on payment day-of.  It’s nasty business trying to track down little old ladies and get them to cut you a check.”

“Perhaps we could just waive the fee?  I mean, she’s a widow,”

“Funerals are full of widows, Kevin,”

The three were silent again.  Tim began to slouch, forgetting again about his kilt.  Kevin offered to bring the group more coffee, but upon John and Tim’s rejection, changed his mind and stayed put.  His offer of gum was similarly refused. 

“So, are you going to go ask her for the money?” Tim asked John.

“Not yet,” John said, “It’s not the right time.”

“I’ll go ask her then.  It’s the right time for me,” Tim stated and began to rise from the couch.  John grabbed his arm.

“Sit down, you jerk.”  John snapped.  “You see all her friends up there talking to her?  They’re old, too.  Some are going to die soon.  You upset Mrs. Grady and we could lose out on several funerals.”

“I know someone who wouldn’t upset her…” Tim began, as he turned his head toward Kevin.  John slowly began to smile.

Kevin perked up with this newfound attention.

“Do you two want me to grab some more coffee?  Black, right, John?”  He asked eagerly.

“Screw the coffee, Kevin, we want you to ask the widow for the money.”  John explained.

“Me?” Kevin exclaimed in a near-squeak.  “But, John, I’ve never handled the money.  I’ve never done this before.”

“Kevin, relax.”  John responded, “It’s not that big of a deal.  Just go ask her how she plans to handle it.  You’re the perfect person – old ladies love you.”

Kevin thought about this for a moment.  It was true.  An Eagle Scout with infinite patience, Kevin’s manners and decorum were very much admired by the silver-haired set.

Kevin slowly rose from his metal chair and smoothed his kilt.  Staring blankly at the middle distance, he drew in a deep breath and exhaled methodically. 

He immediately sat back down.

“What’s her name?” Kevin asked anxiously.

“Ethel?” Tim offered, “Miriam?”

“I could call her ‘The Widow Grady’” Kevin posited.

“Yeah, if it was 1909, you nerd.” Tim jeered.

“Why does it matter?” John said.

“Well, I need to know what to call her…” Kevin trailed off.

“Just call her Mrs. Grady, Kevin,” John said slowly.  It was clear to Kevin that John’s patience was starting to wane.  He stood back up and started walking towards Mrs. Grady.

She was easy to spot – Mrs. Grady was the epicenter of the din in the Fellowship Hall, surrounded by a swarm of women eager to console and offer stories about Nelson.  All men are saints on the day of their funeral.

The loudest storyteller of the bunch was a tall, willowy woman in a blue wool day suit and matching hat. While muted by her somber expression, the cobalt blue ensemble was just barely on the correct side of sadness spectrum.  While Mrs. Grady was the woman of the hour, this woman clearly commanded attention.  She was recounting with gusto the time Nelson had come over to help her search for her beloved black cat who’d escaped through a tear in a window screen and was using his advantageous fur color to blend into the night.

“Nelson was still in his work clothes, but he had no hesitations about getting down on the ground to look under bushes and beneath the back porch.  I never would have found dear Misty without his help.” Blue Hat concluded.  Mrs. Grady smiled at the story, Nelson’s helpful demeanor being a comfort to remember.

“What a good man our Nelson was!” another woman exclaimed.

“A very good man,” Kevin added, a bit too brightly.  He felt the crowd’s attention shift from Mrs. Grady to him.

“I’m sorry,” said Blue Hat, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I’m Kevin Clancy,” Kevin stated, “I played the bagpipes earlier”

“Yes, I see,” Blue Hat said slowly, eyeing his uniform up and down.  “Did you know Nelson?”

“Not… personally…” Kevin responded in a small voice.

“I see.” Blue Hat said, smug in her assurance that she was, once again, the leader of the bereaved.

Kevin felt the weight of the collective group silence.  He wished he’d brought his teacup with him so he’d have something to do with his hands as he stood there, shamed into silence by a group of grandmothers.  He set his gaze downward, examining his shoes.

A hand reached across the circle to gently touch his elbow.

“You boys did a wonderful job.  Nelson would have been so pleased.”

Kevin looked up to meet the eyes of Mrs. Grady.  The warmth of her smile transported him back to his grandmother’s kitchen, a haven where he spent many happy Saturday afternoons helping her bake and clean.  Kevin could easily imagine Mrs. Grady in a gingham apron, helping a small child stir cookie dough.

“Thank you, Mrs. Grady,” he said.

“Please,” she responded, “call me Cecilia,”

“Thank you, Cecilia,” Kevin corrected, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Kevin,” she responded kindly.

Kevin turned and walked back to the green couch where John and Tim sat awaiting his news about their payment.  As he drew closer, it was clear to both of them that Kevin was empty-handed.  While his failure to procure the funds wasn’t surprising, it was nonetheless annoying.  Kevin sensed their disappointment and spoke first, before they could inquire.

“She told me to go meet her grandson in the parking lot,” he began, “He’s just been to the bank and has cash for us.”

Kevin could see both faces relax into smiles at his success and was quick to turn toward the door to the parking lot before either man could begin to wonder why this phantom grandson was not coming back inside to his grandfather’s funeral.

Kevin’s pace quickened as he headed out toward the spot where he’d parked his white Ford Taurus.  While white wasn’t his first choice of color for a new car, his father had assured him that the light color was more visible when driving at night, thus reducing Kevin’s chance of being in an accident.  Kevin trusted his father implicitly.

Today especially, Kevin was thankful for his father’s advice.  Knowing early on that his son possessed little mechanical inclination, Mr. Clancy had always encouraged his son to keep an emergency kit in the trunk of his car.  This kit included a hat, gloves, and a thick wool blanket to ward off cold, flares to warn other drivers of his distress, and $250 cash to pay someone to tow his car to safety.  Kevin opened the trunk, pushed aside his bagpipe case, and reached for the kit.  He retrieved a manila envelope of cash and began counting out twenty-dollar bills.  Folding ten into his pocket, he turned back towards the church. 

Halfway through the parking lot, he stopped abruptly and rushed back to his car.  Pulling out the pen he always kept in the glove compartment, he wrote himself a quick note to replace the money in his emergency kit.  He slid the note into his other pocket, and rushed back into the Fellowship Hall.

“It’s all here!” Kevin announced triumphantly as he held the cash out to John for inspection.

“Nicely done, Kev!” Tim exclaimed, excited more for his liberation from Our Lady of Infinite Compassion than for Kevin’s success with bill collection.

“Awesome,” John echoed as he began to stand,  “Let’s get out of here.”

As they left the Hall, Kevin turned to John and Tim.

“Want to grab a beer somewhere?” he asked.

“Sure, if you’re paying,” Tim responded.

“Of course,” Kevin answered, eager for the company, “first round’s on me.”

 Janet Lingel Aldrich

Harry McDonald shuffled down the hall to answer the door. He found his regular mail carrier with an oblong box in hand. “Good morning, Mr. McDonald! Ready for Christmas?”

Taking the box, he raised a bushy eyebrow. “Happen I am, lass. Happen I am.” He put the box on the nearest flat surface and took the clipboard he was offered. “Where do I sign, then?”

After he closed the door, Harry stared at the box for a long time before picking it up.  I know what it is and I know what it means. Bloody hell. And at Christmas of all times. He was expecting his grandson any day, home from Afghanistan on furlough. I’ll put it aside for now.

As he passed down the hallway, he searched through the framed pictures on the wall and stopped at one of them. He ran his hand over the picture, looking at each of his mates in turn. Sandy, Hamish, Alasdair, David… all the twelve of us. Gone one at a time. And now, Jamie-lad. Only me left. Only me.

There was another knock at the door. Putting down the box down again, he hurried as fast as he could and flung the door open in welcome.

“Hal! ‘Tis braw to see ye, indaid!”

“Grandpa,” Hal came in and hugged him. “You’re looking fine.” The younger man was tanned, but drawn and thin.

“Ah, lad. You look –” What he looked was older and worn. Harry reflected that he’d seen it happen all the time when he’d served in World War II. The new recruits arrived, fresh-faced and seeking adventure. In a month, even a week, sometimes less if things were bad enough, they would be wary and tired, only living to make it through another day.

“I know. I look like hell.” Hal rubbed his face. “I think you’re the only one who has any idea how I feel.” He looked the old man straight in the eye. “I came to see you as soon as I could get away. They mean well, Mom and Dad and Tracy and all, but they don’t understand.  They can’t. I couldn’t stand one more minute of the hoopla. I was afraid I’d do something I’d regret.”

Harry motioned him to sit, and took the chair opposite him. “I understand. When I came to America with my Mary, I would hear young men, bairns too young to fight, say that they had ‘done their bit’ for the war effort because they had run scrap drives or tire drives or some such thing. She had to hold me back now and again, your grandmother did.”

Hal grinned without humor. “I can imagine.”

The older man surveyed his grandson, saw the pain in his eyes. “You’ve been through the mill, have ye nae?” He pulled his chair closer. “Tell me, lad. You’ve got to tell someone or you’ll burn up inside.”

Hal let down his guard and told his grandfather of roadside bombs and allies who were suddenly enemies. He fought back tears as he told of his men going down to gunfire and being blown up, of holding hands while his friends died. “I don’t want to have to go back to that. How do they expect us to keep going on?” Hands gripped, knuckles white, he struggled not to break down.

“You just do, lad, you just do.  Those of us who were pipers, we were the ones who helped the medics and did what we could for the lads. They were strafed or hit by tank fire and we watched them die in the most horrible ways you could imagine. And you don’t even have tae imagine. You know.”

The two of them were silent, haunted by ghosts – their own and the other’s.

Hal’s nerves stretched to the breaking point and he got up and paced around the living room to release the tension. He stopped in front of the oblong box. “Christmas present, Gramps?”

“No.” He paused and then said, “Bring it here, lad.  I’ve a story to tell – and you’re the only one left who would understand it.”

Originally, there had been twelve pipers, the old man began. Only one of them hadn’t come home from Africa – an amazing record considering that the casualty rate among pipers had been so high in the Great War that the British High Command had issued orders this time around that they weren’t to be in combat. He’d heard later that Lord Lovat had told his regimental piper to play for the troops at Normandy anyway: “Ah, but that’s the English War Office. You and I are both Scottish, and that doesn’t apply.”

His own CO had the same attitude, and when the Scottish regiments fought together, the pipers stood as a group and played their troops on.

After one particular battle was over the eleven of them who were left gathered together to mourn their fallen.

“We’ve naught tae drink, lads.” Hamish Williams complained.

“We’re still alive. Drink seems nae important.” Frank McDougal sighed. “Puir Sandy. I cannae believe it.” He and Sandy Grant had been great boyhood friends since Glasgow and he was taking it hard.

“Twas a grand skelloch though.” Harry said with satisfaction. “And the Jerries as shocked as they could be.”

“Not bloody shocked enough,” Frank snapped.

“Sandy should nae ha’ been here and that’s a fact. Did ye nae try tae talk him oot of it?” David Cullen asked, idly cleaning the chanter on his pipes.

“Did I not? Told him he was too old and his family needed him. And his wife and mither and even the children, they tried. But he kept haverin’ on aboot duty and the like. Well, he did that, didn’t he?”

That killed the conversation.

“Well, this is a sad day, and no mistake.” Jamie Bruce broke the silence. “I’ve something here that’ll buck us all up, and to drink to Sandy’s memory forbye.”

Jamie was the youngest of the group, other than Harry. Most of the others exchanged glances and shrugs. When Jamie gave you something, it was better not to ask where he came by it. He hoisted a bottle gently in the air. “The Glenlivet – 15 years old.”

“Let’s see that then, bairn.” Alasdair McIvor snatched it from him. No one challenged Al; he was six foot four and went 17 stones and none of that fat. “Well, wee Jamie is claiverin’ the truth for once.” He started to break the seal.

“Don’t.” It was Dougal Stewart. They listened to him because he rarely spoke, but when he did, “he spoke sense,” as Ewan Black put it. “I can think of a better use for it.”

Alasdair hooted. “Better than drinkin’ it? Man, you’re daft.”

“No, Alasdair. I’m not.” He turned to the others. “My grand-dey fought at Maiwand.” The others quieted. “He and his mates, they had a bottle just like that one – well, a different year, but The Glenlivet. And before the battle, they put it aside. Said it belonged to their group, but that the last man standing should open it and drink to them all – then or in 70 years, whatever it was.”

They’d grown silent again. No one, not even Alasdair, interrupted him.

“I’m sorry about Sandy, Frank. Sorry for his family. But we have to take care of each other now. We’re family, here, the eleven of us, fighters in a common cause. I say we should do the same, Entrust it to –“

“Me!” Jamie piped up.

That provoked a general laugh. “Like as not we’d never see it again,” Harry grinned.

Dougal interrupted them. “The oldest man here. That’s what my grand-dey said. The oldest man holds it, and when he’s –“ he stopped. “When he’s gone, he has someone pass it on to the next oldest still living, and so on.”

“So Harry, or Jamie, like as not, will still get it,” Frank said sourly.

“I wouldn’t assume that,” Ewan Black said gravely. “It’s nae as though the Jerries check our dog tags before they start shooting. And after the war, well, who knows how that will be.”

“True enough.”

“We should write this doon tha noo,” Duncan said. “So we’ll remember.”

“I don’t think any of us will forget.” Ewan glanced at him. “Do you?”

“We’ll have to keep in touch after the war,” Jamie interjected.

Frank scowled. “You’re a grand one for the optimism, Jamie.”

“I have to be. I dinnae think I could go on if I wasn’t.”

Alasdair gave the bottle to Duncan, as the eldest. He stowed it away in his kit. “I’ll take care of it, I promise you all. And may it not be opened for a lang time.”

The others grunted or nodded in assent. In silent agreement, they flowed away by ones and twos, to rejoin their regiments and doss down for the night.

In the time to come, the eleven men stood side by side whenever the war brought them together, playing away at marches, laments and piobaireachd and every other damned bit of music they knew. (“An’ I told them, ‘Not one note of “The Campbells are Coming, mind you!”’”) None of them was seriously wounded and no one else was killed. Whether the Germans avoided them because they thought them mad (“That’s what they told Bill Mullin after D-Day,” Harry chuckled) or because for some other reason Providence preserved them, come V-E Day, they were demobbed and on their way back to Scotland.

Two went right away, less than a year after the war’s end; Hamish Williams in an automobile accident within a week of getting back, (“Ye’d nae credit it, would ye now? To go through the war and then get hit by a lorry?”), Dougal Stewart by his own hand.

“Dougie was the kind one, the gentle one. He didnae have the strength to go back to regular life after all he’d seen.  I’d like to say I was surprised, but I wasn’t.  None of us were, I didnae think. Sorry, yes. But not surprised.”

“And the others?” Hal asked.

“Oh, time went by and I suppose we went like other men our age, one here and one there, to health problems and accidents and age. Jamie and I wrote back and forth for a good wee bit. But the letters stopped about a month ago, and I’ve been expecting this –” he indicated the bottle, “for a while now.”

“Are we going to drink to them?”

“We could, an’ to your men, too. But I think I have a better use for this bottle.” Harry’s hands caressed it. He could almost sense the others standing around him, remembered the night as though it was yesterday. “What this gave me was hope, and I think we all felt that way. Hope that we would live through the war and that it wouldn’t be drunk for many a year.” He put the bottle back in the box and put the lid back on. “I think the lads would think it a grand use to give it to you, for you and your men. To give you hope, like.”

Hal picked the box up. “Yes. There’s days when it’s thin on the ground, you know.”

“Aye, I do.” Harry stretched. “We should go to your mother and father’s. Like as not they’re worried about you.”

Hal smiled at him. “Yes, we should, I guess.” He picked up the box, and for the first time, he looked around the living room. “What are your pipes and your kilt doing up there?”

“Young Tracy did it. I told her I didn’t appreciate being a museum piece, nor my kit, but there they are. Every so often I brush the dust off them.  And myself.”

“Museum piece, you? Hardly.” Hal gave the first real laugh he had since he’d come in the door. “I don’t think of you as old.”

“But I am,” his grandfather said. “And it’s old I pray you’ll be as well, long after this war is over.”

“Me, too, grandpa.” Hal clasped the older man’s shoulder as the door closed behind them. “Me, too.”

Monica Marier

            Tomas stood back and admired his work. Awesome, he thought with satisfaction. The hollow plastic bodies he’d just purchased were strewn across the lawn like the remnants of a drunken party. Clapping his chapped hands, Tomas was trembling with excitement and the cold. This was going to be great.

            He’d been wanting to do this for years. He’d made the cave out of wire and plaster in his garage. Now, painted grey and waterproofed, it sat on his manicured lawn under which was a kneeling Virgin Mary and Joseph. The manger they were gazing at in rapt adoration was empty and would remain so until Christmas day. Whistling, he picked up a shepherd. That was when he heard the sharp clipping of high-heels on his walkway.

            Tomas saw Renee Lords approaching him and muttered an oath under his breath. He looked guiltily at the shepherd who’d ‘overheard’ him and whispered an apology.

            “HOLA SEÑOR ORTEGA!” cried Renee in the loud cheerful voice she used when addressing him. It was the deliberate slow voice generally used with preschoolers. Renee never remembered that he was a third generation Latino from Dayton.

            “Hello, Renee,” said Tomas, wincing. Renee was smiling –  never a good sign. Her 250lb gorilla of a son, Raymond, stood stupidly on the sidewalk, waiting.

            “I notice that you’re putting up some Christmas decorations!” said Renee, still smiling her plastic grimace.

            “Uh-huh,” said Tomas, bushing back his thinning hair as he put down the shepherd.

            “I just wanted to have a little chat with you about that.”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “You might remember I’m president of the Homeowners Association?”

            “Uh-huh.” Here we go.

            “Well before you got…” Renee flicked a hand at the figurines, “…all this set up, I just wanted to go over the rules for holiday decorations with you.”

            “Sure,” said Tomas with pained politeness, his hands balling into fists.

            “You see there’s a clause in your HOA agreement limiting holiday lights and displays to tasteful decoration.”

            “And..?”

            “And I’m afraid your decorations don’t fall within that rule.”

            “It’s not tasteful?” asked Tomas.

            “Well some people might find it…” Renee leaned in, “offensive.” She said the word in a low whisper like the word itself was something loathsome.

            “What’s offensive about it?”

            “Well some people… like Mrs. Leibowitz, might take offence.” Ms. Lords whispered the woman’s name. Tomas had the mental picture of a neon sign flashing ‘JEW.’ 

            “Mrs. Leibowitz has a 10-foot-tall inflatable Winnie-the-Pooh holding a menorah,” said Tomas.

            “She’s simply celebrating her diversity,” said Ms. Lords admonishingly. Again, Tomas saw a little sign above her head saying, ‘you’re not an anti-Semite are you?’

            “If she can have a menorah, why can’t I have my Nativity?”

            “We mustn’t begrudge Mrs. Leibowitz the right to celebrate her culture, Señor Ortega.”

            “So while she’s celebrating her culture with her display, I’m oppressing her culture with mine?” asked Tomas incredulously.

            “I knew you’d get it,” said Renee sighing in relief. “I’m sorry to make you put all this away. If you like, I know a place that sells great light-up Santas.”

            He glared at her condescension. “I don’t want to put Santa Claus on my house. I’m going to put up my Nativity.”

            Renee’s smile fell. “Mr. Ortega,” she said, forgetting to call him ‘Señor’, “I think you’re being very unreasonable about this.”

            “Since the rules don’t explicitly ban displays of a religious nature, and gives no definition of “tasteful” I’m within my rights to put up my display on my property.”

            “I don’t think that’s a very wise decision,” Renee said eventually. “People tend to get very angry over these types of display.”

            “People like you?” asked Tomas.

            “Mr. Ortega. I’m giving you fair warning. I won’t be responsible for what happens to your house, because you insist on putting out this offensive display in defiance of our holiday cheer.”

            “In defiance of it?” asked Tomas incredulously. “What do you think Christmas is about? THIS is Christmas,” he said pointing to the holy family. “I want to share my joy that our savior came to Earth as a tiny baby in a humble stable. It’s not a flaming cross or a white hood; it’s a family. This isn’t some attack against Mrs. Leibowitz (though I think a fan-powered inflatable balloon wasn’t the best choice of lawn decoration). I’m sure if you asked her if she was offended by my decorations, she’d just look at you funny. You can choose to hide behind your plastic Santas. You can berate me for being proud of what I believe in, but I will NOT take this symbol of peace and love.”

            Ms. Lord’s face began to contort into a horrible mask. It was amazing how she could emote through her remodeled face, and it frightened Tomas, but something had spoken through him and it gave him courage.

            “Well… we’ll have to see about changing the rules for next year,” said Renee in a deadly whisper.

            “And until that time, I’m keeping it up,” finished Tomas.

            “Good bye, Mr. Ortega.”

            “Merry Christmas,” said Tomas. He didn’t know why he said it, but it felt right. Ms. Lords momentarily lost her balance after backing into the prone figurine of Balthazar the wise man. She righted herself and marched off in a huff, her gigantic son trailing behind her with a finger up his nose.

            Later that evening, Tomas was putting up interior lights when he heard a howl from the lawn. He looked out his window to see Raymond Lords leaping up and down amidst the brightly lit Nativity. The wire-cutters he’d been carrying had been dropped on the grass and his hand was in his mouth. Tears rolled down his fat face.

            Seeing Tomas at the window, the kid cried out and, still cursing and moaning, ran away. Tomas checked the car battery that was powering the electric wire running through all the figurines… which had given a stinging shock to Raymond Lords. “Peace on Earth, bitch,” Tomas whispered, grinning.

Angie Capozello

Virgil lit up a cigarette and stepped out onto the porch before Lares could start complaining. That was one of the backdraws to having both telepathy, and empathy. He knew exactly how much his bad habits bothered people.  Not that he ever let that stop him. Better to smoke, than worry about whether he would have to crawl around inside the mind of the cretin that was gutting celebs.  Dressed them up in costumes before he killed them. Gotta love LA, even the serial killers were drama queens. He took a drag off the cigarette and let the nicotine calm his jangling nerves.

Lares glared at him through the screen door. “Why do you do that Virgil? You know how bad they are for you.”

He shrugged. “Did a job in Russia a few years back. Had the entire psyche of one of their captured agents dumped into my head so I could take his place. Turns out he was a chain smoker. Never have managed to kick the habit.” He took another drag off the cigarette – a Lucky Strike, unfiltered.

He could feel the weight of her disapproval hit him like a gut-punch. She was doing it on purpose, to make her point.

“The medics at HQ can fix that.” she said.

He imagined a wall, with a polished mirror on the outside and threw the guilt trip right back at her, enjoying the wince as it hit.  “Just returning the love, baby. How about you focus on the mission?” He tapped another cigarette out of the pack, lit it off the butt of the first one and took a nice, long drag.

Lares scowled at him, and the ghost she had been working with passed straight through Virgil on its way outside.  It felt like splinters of ice being shoved into his brain.  He shuddered and finished his smoke with a single pull.  “Nice. Do we have an address?”

 “10 Lordes street. 21^st floor. There’s a man on the balcony. We’d better hurry, Charlie was insistent.”

Charlie must have been the ghost. She always took the time to find out their names.  It was the sign of a good ghost talker, but it gave him the creeps.  It was bad enough she dragged them up from their rest, but to make them remember?  He waited while she oriented on the ghost, and let it lead them at a fast trot down the boulevard. 

The building was a typical office complex, full of people in drab suits leading drab little lives. Holiday musac drifted out onto the street every time someone opened the lobby door, and a bored receptionist played with the fake holly draped around her desk while talking on the phone. 

Lara linked her arm in his. “Okay, pretty boy. Time to turn on the charm.”

Virgil had been a child actor, and his career had gone as well as those things ever did. Quick rise, quick fall, a few stupid choices and then no-one remembered him.  At thirty five he was still movie star good looking – sun streaked hair, chiseled features and a million dollar smile when he cared to use it.  Add in the telepathy and everyone loved him, for as long as he wanted them to.  Except he was an empath, and he knew it was all fake.  At least the Agency had given him something real to do, something that made a difference. Even if he hated every minute of it.

Getting into the building and past security was easy. All he had to do was remember what it was like when the whole world loved him, and wanted to give him anything he asked for. Then he projected that feeling, and the guards opened doors, and the receptionist cast wicked looks his way.  He breezed past with Lares on his arm, as if they were walking down the red carpet. They got into one of the elevators and he convinced everyone to get out, and forget he was ever there. 

Lares hit the button for the top floor.  “You are one scary son of a bitch, Virgil.”

“Be glad I grew a conscience.”

“Amen to that.”

“You had better send your new best friend into the security cams. My little Jedi mind trick won’t do us much good if someone checks the tapes.”

“His name is Charlie, and he’s already drained the power from them.”

The elevator dinged open, and released them from the torture of listening to Manheim Steamroller’s yuletide bombast.  The area was empty, except for piles of lumber and carpenters tools.  Lares exchanged a look with him – it was the same as the other locations, renovations providing all the tools the killer needed to set his stage. 

Virgil scanned the area, but the only thoughts came from stressed and irritated office workers on the lower floors.  He kept his voice pitched low.  “Did Charlie mess up on the timeline? You know ghosts get premonitions up to a day in advance.”

Lares shook her head, and waved him through some plastic that had been hung to keep the sawdust from filtering into the elevators. 

He ducked his head as he passed through, and stepped into a winter wonderland.  Drop cloths had been tacked along the walls, painted to look like snow covered woods.  Shredded Styrofoam peanuts covered the floor to simulate more snow, and boxes were stacked and painted to look like castle walls. A small, raised wooden stage completed the scene.  “I wonder what play he’s re-enacting this time?”

“It was going to be Swan Lake. But I think Romeo and Juliet can be made to fit.” 

Virgil spun around to find himself face to face with a man that looked like every other scruffy, over-worked, underpaid PA he had ever seen on a movie set.  He had wild eyes that stared for miles, as if looking at a vision only he could see. 

“Your death will be beautiful. Touching. Every paper in the nation will immortalize your names, and my art will live on through you.”

Virgil tried to reach the man’s mind, and found nothing to hold onto.  Lares stepped up to the stage, a nail gun in her hands. She raised it up to point it at her temple.

“Bid me go into a new-made grave, and hide me with a dead man in his shroud,” she said, her voice distant and sad.

The murderer was another telepath.  No wonder he could pull off these stunts in broad daylight. Virgil grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and shook him, pitting his will against the madman. “Let her go. No one has to die here today.”

“We must all be willing to die for our art.”

The man smiled, and a wave of despair washed over Virgil. It was like someone had opened up the blackest corner of his soul and plunged him into the heart of it. He knew Romeo’s lines.  It was the last part he had played, before his own star had burn out. 

Lares whimpered, her whole body shaking as she fought to keep from pulling the trigger.  Virgil forced himself to move, shoving his opponent backwards.  “You can talk about despair all you want. But until you feel it, your art is nothing.” 

Virgil opened up the floodgates.  Isolation, rage, self loathing, desperate longing for approval, the whole ugly downward spiral that ruined his career and shattered his nerves played out all over again, in a focused burst of emotion.  The murderer staggered back, his mouth open in a silent scream.  He broke loose from Virgil, and ran to the far end of the room where a balcony looked out over the city. 

“Stop him!” Lares yelled.  “We need to question him!”

Virgil knew he could not catch the man before he took a flying leap over the low railing.  But he had twenty stories to fall before his mind took the final curtain.  Virgil latched on, finding the cracks that terror left in his psychic defenses.  Twenty stories, and the man still fought him. Fifteen, ten, five… one…

A shock sent him reeling back into his own body.  Lares stood in front of him, an empty thermos upended over his head. 

“I got it,” he said. “All of it. He had accomplices.” He was surprised at how rough he sounded.

 “You idiot. You stupid, moronic, jackass!”  Her voice had a hysterical edge to it, and she was pounding her fists on his chest as she yelled at him. “You would have died with him. If you ever, EVER make me summon your shade, I’ll kill you!”

He laughed at the irony of that, and held her hands to stop her from hitting him. “I didn’t know you cared.”  A ding came from the elevator, and a musac rendition of the twelve days filtered out.  He gave her a crooked smile. “I can just see the headlines, someone leaping at 10 Lordes.”

“Oh god. That is not funny.”  She leaned her forehead against his chest.

“It’s laugh or cry, baby. Either way, it’s better if you let it out.”  He stepped back, and the smile turned lopsided as he saw how bad his hands were shaking.  He dug out a cigarette, lit it up, and took a long drag. And for once, Lares didn’t complain.

P.J. Kaiser

My back hurts me.  I stand, stretch my arms over my head, and then settle back onto the concrete stoop.  I push myself up against the door so I don’t hang off the tiny step too far.  Folding my hands on my lap, I look up and down at the front doors lining the city sidewalk.  

I really got to pee.  

There’s that pigeon again, strutting on the sidewalk like he was a peacock.  I swear he gets paid to keep an eye on me.  He bends to the ground, pecking among the brown leaves at invisible treats.  If he gets paid more than I do to sit here, I’ll be pissed.  

I lock eyes with the pigeon.  ”Can you watch while I go pee?”

He nods.  I jump up from the stoop, fling open the door and slip into the bathroom just inside.  I hear their voices from the basement.  Some laughing.  Some yelling.  Panic runs through me at the thought of them hearing me come inside.  I almost can’t pee.  Oh, there it comes.  I button up, fly back out the door and sit on the stoop again.

The pigeon looks up from his pecking.  His expression seems to warn me not to leave my post again.  I knew I shouldn’t have had that soda this morning.  It always makes me pee.

I scan the doors and windows around me.  I catch a glimpse of a shadow in one of the windows across the street on the second floor.  Squinting, I see the apartment is still vacant, the way it’s been since the old guy who lived there died a couple of months ago.

Tom Spinosa walks down the sidewalk towards me.  He must be running late today.  Or maybe he had an errand to run.

His loud voice always startles me. “Morning, Howie. How’s it goin’, kid?”

I stand and step to one side so he can go in the door.  ”Oh, you know, Mr. Spinosa.  The usual.”

“Take it easy.”  He closes the door behind him.  I sit again.

I check my watch.  10:30am.  I hope I didn’t miss her while I was inside peeing.  I crane my neck around the side of the building.  Nope, here she comes:  my favorite scenery of the day.  

She floats down the sidewalk, blonde hair slicked back.  Her long black coat is unbuttoned; it sweeps open as she walks so I can see her costume.  I’m going to cry when she has to button it against the cold.  Pink, gauzy fabric covers her.  Her hips sway, ruffling the gray ballet skirt flaring out from her waist.

Some days she is running late and doesn’t glance at me.  Today she’s early.  She smiles at me with fiery lips and tosses her head, flipping her ponytail.  I attempt a smile but it feels more like a smirk on my face.  She walks past and leaves a soft scent of fancy perfume behind in the crisp air.  I breathe it in as I watch her continue down the sidewalk.  

Once she’s out of sight, I pull on the corner of my baseball cap and settle back against the stoop.  The pigeon looks at me again and seems to raise his eyebrows, if he had any.  

“No, you can’t have her.  She’s all mine.”

I hear Christmas music from one of the nearby apartments and recognize it instantly:  ”Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies” from the Nutcracker.  I have plenty of visions of sugarplums dancing in my head.

*****

Chief Miller falls to the carpet in the second floor apartment, as Howie looks straight at him. 

He says, “Shit.  He might have seen me.” 

The Chief crawls on his knees until he is well back from the window in the shadows and resumes peering down at Howie on the stoop.  He sees Spinosa arrive.  Scanning the checklist on the table – the only furniture in the room besides three folding chairs – he makes a checkmark next to Tom Spinosa’s name.  All the other names already have checkmarks.  At some point during the morning, all gang members have entered the house and nobody has left.  

The Chief says, “I figure we have at least another hour while the group is there to make our bust.  Let’s go ahead and radio the guys to take their positions.  Tell them ten minutes to ‘go’ time.”

The Lieutenant picks up the radio mic and says into it, “Attention all units.  Operation Ballerina will commence in an estimated ten minutes, at 11:00am.  Take your positions and wait for the signal.”

Chief Miller turns to the rookie standing next to him.  “OK, kid.  Your job is to get Howie away from that door without him ringing the buzzer.  I think our plan will work, but in the end, just do whatever you have to do.  He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, if you know what I mean.  I’ve known his family for years.  I’d really rather not have him involved in any of this.”

“OK, Chief,” the rookie says.  “I’m ready.”  

*****

A kid about my age comes walking down the street.  He stops when he gets to where I’m sitting.

“Hey, how’s it going?” He says.

“It’s going okay.  What’s up?”

He slips his hands in his pockets.  “Oh, nothing.  I’m just on my way to the dance studio around the corner.”

“The dance studio?”  

He grins at me.  “Yeah.  You know there’s a class going on right now in the front room.  You can stand on the sidewalk and watch it through the picture window.”

My heart beats in my ears.  “Really?  Those classes are normally in the back room.”

“I know, right?  Well, my buddy called me and told me that today it’s in the front room and …” He leans towards me and whispers.  “They’ve got nine ladies dancing in there today.”

“Nine?  You’re shitting me.  There are usually only three or four in that class.”

He nods slowly.  “Nine.  My buddy just told me.  You want to come with me to watch them?”

I shake my head.  “No, sorry, I can’t.  Um, I’m waiting for a friend to come.”  I have butterflies in my stomach thinking about my blonde with eight other ladies dancing.

“Are you sure?  It’s just around the corner and it would only be for a minute or two.  These women are incredible in their dance outfits with their fluffy skirts …”

“Oh, okay.  But only for a minute.”  I look for the pigeon but I don’t see him anywhere.  My hands shake as I walk with the kid down the street.  

We round the corner and I rush to the window of the dance studio.  Darkness fills the front room, but a glimmer of light shines through the doorway to the back room.  I look at the kid and start to ask him what the deal is.

He says, “Kid, you’ve got to get out of here.  A bust is going down.”

I just stare at him and then I hear the shout from around the corner.  ”Police! Open up!”  My eyes fly open.

“Run, kid!” He pushes me.  I stumble and then run in the direction away from my stoop.  I hear more shouts in the distance.  A staccato of gunshots.

 My raspy breathing drowns out any further sounds from my ears.  I run many blocks until I feel my lungs seize up and my legs buckle.  Panic has now spread to every corner of my body.  An image flashes through my mind:  the look on Spinosa’s face when he finds out I wasn’t at my post when the bust went down.  

I reach into my pocket.  $71 and some chewing gum.  Plenty to get some lunch.

I have run and walked further than I thought because I see my favorite diner just across the street.  I cross, swing open the door and enter, taking a seat at the counter.  Sweat pours down my face and neck.  I mop myself with a napkin.  The silver-haired waitress takes my order, but then my eyes are riveted to the television hanging in the corner.  

Dozens of dancers recede to the edges of the stage and one ballet dancer in soft pink floats across the center of the stage as if a string suspends her.  The soft plucking sounds come at my ears for the second time today:  “The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies.”  Anger and shame boil up in me.  

I say, “Could you change the channel, please?”

The waitress purses her lips and sighs, but she flips the channel with the remote.

The head and shoulders of a newscaster fill the screen.  I pour cream into my coffee from a tin pitcher and stir.  I put the cup to my lips.  The next image on the screen is that of Tom Spinosa.  The newscaster says, “We have some breaking news to report…”  My hand begins shaking.  I put my cup down on the saucer as coffee splashes out of either side of the mug.

“We don’t have many details at the moment, but we are working on a story for the evening report regarding the arrest of the notorious crime boss Thomas Spinosa and many of his gang members.  We are getting reports of up to twenty-two arrests.  Three of the members of the gang were fatally shot during the bust, which was carried out a short time ago by local police.  Be sure to watch the six o’clock report for further details on this story.”

The silver-haired waitress appears with my plate of food in her hand.  She sets it down in front of me.  “Are you okay, son?”

I pick up my napkin to clean up the spilled coffee.  “Yes, thanks.”

As I chew each mouthful of food, I run some calculations.  Twenty-two arrests.  Three dead.  That leaves seventeen gang members who are still free.  That leaves seventeen gang members who will be coming after me for betraying them by leaving my post.  Seventy-one dollars.  Subtract fifteen dollars for lunch.  That leaves just enough for a forty-nine dollar bus ticket to my cousin’s house in Spartan.  My mom’s been trying to kick me out of the house for years, anyway.

I finish my lunch, leave the fifteen dollars next to my plate and walk outside.  It feels much cooler than it did earlier.  The pigeon sits just outside the diner door.

“You want to come with me?  You know, you weren’t there either.”  

The pigeon twitches his head from side to side.

“Okay, suit yourself, but I’ll bet they have ballet dancers in Spartan.”  I head towards the bus station, leaving the pigeon to face his fate alone.

David G Shrock

Standing at the bar, Larry York listened to classic rock playing over the jukebox. The song took him back to high school, his first kiss with Nadia. He could almost taste her lips. He pushed his empty beer bottle around on the moist surface. Flicking his finger sent the bottle sliding into his left hand. He watched condensation smears reform into a trail of drops. Sadie Hawkins. The same song had been playing at the Sadie Hawkins dance when Nadia had kissed him. Strange how a memories travel through time within music.

Larry pushed the empty bottle away. “One more.”

“Nine is unlucky.” Taking the bottle, Nancy swiped a cloth across the counter clearing condensation circles and peanut crumbs.

“What’s that?” Larry shook his head. “Oh, don’t worry about me driving. I walked.”

“All the way from Pine Grove?”

“Doctor’s orders. Have to walk for my heart.” He tapped his chest. “Besides, I only had four.”

“That’s what I’ll have left. Nine.” Dropping the bottle behind the counter, Nancy set her hands on the bar. “How about something from the tap?”

“What’s so unlucky about nine? It’s a solid number.”

“Back in the old days. They hanged some young women. Black magic. Summoning spirits. That sort of thing. Anyway, the ninth got away before they could string her up. Men chased her on the ridge. They caught up with the gal, but they slipped in the snow. Fell to their death.”

“So?”

“That makes nine unlucky.”

“Cat’s have nine lives.”

“No cat I know wants to be on her ninth. Bad luck.”

He was familiar with the story of the nine necromancers. The old man at the far end of Pine Grove had told it to him once or twice. Everyone in Pine Grove enjoyed their stories. Tales about frontier settlers or bootlegging seemed popular, but the old man preferred stories about dark spirits. Nancy didn’t seem like the superstitious type, but she knew all the stories.

Larry pointed a finger in the air. “What about nine gold bars? Sounds mighty lucky to me.”

“Not if they fell on your head.”

“You’re a funny lady, Nancy.”

“How about coffee?”

“No, I should get going. Long walk.”

“Nine miles isn’t it?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“By road.” Larry shook his head. “I take the trail. Four solid miles for my heart.”

“Snow starting to come down.” Nancy nodded at the front window where swirling flakes glistened under the lamp against the dark backdrop of the forest. “Chuck should be on his way with the gravel truck if you need a ride.”

“I’ll be fine. Have my gloves, hat. Even have my lucky flashlight.”

“Stay safe, Larry.” Nancy waved. “And careful of nines.”

Opening the door, Larry met a blast of cold air followed by a spray of snow. A dusting covered the parking lot and Nancy’s pickup truck, but it was coming down in big fluffy flakes. The first storm of the season always transformed Nancy’s quiet tavern into a bustling burg full of travelers on their way to and from the ski resorts. He liked the quiet before the storm when he could sit back in Nancy’s and listen to the timber pop in the wind. He pulled his hat and gloves on and marched across the parking lot.

The clatter of a diesel barreled up the highway, and lights exploded out of the trees. The truck, a black rig hauling an orange trailer with “Needles” printed in blue, rumbled by throwing up a cloud of snow bathed red in the taillights. Trucks always appeared menacing, this one in particular with its black cab and ugly trailer. What kind of a name was Needles anyway? The clattering engine dropped a gear hitting the long groan up the pass.

Larry listened to his shoes scuffing the pavement and the trees groaning. He turned away from the highway onto the forest service road. On clear nights the two-lane road snaking through the forest was easy to navigate without a light. Snowfall shrouded the forest, but the white blanket made following the road easier. He pulled his pocket flashlight out and held his finger over the button. The long walk meant saving the battery for the trail or passing cars.

“Nine,” he said. He shook his head. “I thought it was seven summoners.” He couldn’t remember if it was seven or nine, but nine was a good number, a perfect square. Thirteen was the grandfather of unlucky numbers and prime. Nobody messed with prime numbers.

Around Pine Grove there were few pine trees, mostly tall firs. Pine trees gathered over on the dry side of the mountain. Here the snow fell wet, but the road wasn’t slick. Not yet, anyway. His hiking shoes crunched through the snow along the edge of the road. The going would be easier on the trail under the protection of the evergreen canopy until the open ridge.

The sound of an engine broke the silence. The growl fell to a purr, and cried out again; the car turned off the highway and headed up the narrow road.

Larry moved farther off the road and turned around in time to see the headlights blazing out of the trees. He switched on the flashlight and aimed it towards the approaching vehicle. The last thing he needed was to become a hood ornament. His shoe slipped on gravel. Waving his arms, he caught his balance dropping a foot into the ditch.

The slapping of tire chains arrived with the rumble of the engine. Brake squealing, the car slowed and stopped, engine thudding on six cylinders. He recognized the model, an old Nova. The passenger door creaked out a few inches.

Climbing out of the ditch, Larry gripped the flashlight. It wasn’t much good for self-defense, but the little thing could blind an attacker. Keeping the beam on the side of the blue Nova, he approached the passenger door. Pulling the door open, he leaned over and peered inside.

Dressed in sweatshirt and blue jeans, a young woman held the steering wheel with one hand a cigarette in the other. “Hop in,” said the driver, waving the cigarette.

“Thanks, but I need the walk. Doctor’s orders.”

“I couldn’t live with myself if I heard on the news that you fell or froze to death. So, get in.”

He switched off the flashlight and climbed into the car. “I’m Larry.”

The driver stomped on the accelerator sending the tires spinning, chains slapping. The car fishtailed and straightened out. Steering the car with one hand, she took a drag on the cigarette.

Inside the car was as cold as outside, colder if that was possible. He could see his breath in the glow of the dash light. Pale flesh and only a scarf for warmth, the driver appeared cold although she didn’t shiver.

“Where you headed?’

“Pine Grove.”

“My grandaddy lived in Pine Grove before he moved to the dry side of the mountain. He couldn’t stand the rain.”

“He live in Dufur?”

“Nissa.”

He had never heard of a name like that. “Where at?”

Flicking her hand, she indicated a yellow gate blocking the road. She slowed the car to a crawl.

“That’s Chuck.” Larry shrugged. “On nights like this, he closes it early to keep the tourists on the highway until he can get the truck up here.”

She stopped the car before the gate. Turning her head, she met his gaze. “Nissa is a forest nymph.”

“That so?”

“Her dance is a sign.” She waved the cigarette over her shoulder. “Does that tavern stay open late?”

“Nancy’s?” He nodded. “Sure, she keeps the coffee warm for Chuck while he’s out sanding the roads.”

“How about we go back there and wait for Chuck?”

“The road ain’t bad yet.” Larry opened the door. “I’ll get the gate.”

“I’ll let you buy me coffee.”

Looking at her brown eyes, he considered the offer as the breeze tickled his face. The driver nearly smiled, but her dead look matched the season giving him a shiver of doubt.

Larry pointed at the gate. “This could be your last chance if the storm lives up to forecast.”

“Always listen to Nissa. Bad luck comes with nine names.”

Knowledge of the story made her local, but her dead stare made him uncomfortable. Pushing a smile on his face, he extended his hand. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“No names.”

“Well, thanks for the ride.” He lowered his hand. “I’ll walk from here.”

She took a drag on her cigarette and shook her head.

“Nice Nova.” As he closed the door he caught her scowling at him. Maybe she hated the snow.

Watching the taillights of the Nova disappear around the bend, he thought about the warning. Nine was a good number, a perfect square. Besides, it had been the first eight women that had lost their lives. The ninth had survived. Of course, not so lucky for the men that had fallen from the ridge. According to the old man at the end of Pine Grove, the men had been driven off the ridge by the spirits of the eight. The ninth had crafted a spell to bring the other ladies back.

He walked around the yellow gate. Chuck didn’t like tourists getting stuck on the side roads. Local access only. It wasn’t all that bad, a nice blanket of snow.

“Nissa.” Larry chuckled. “Faerie name.”

His foot slipped, gravel crunched, and he waved his arms. Catching his balance, he straightened up, his back popping.

“Walking might do good for my heart, but it’s killing my back.”

A wide spot in the road marked the trailhead. Larry splashed the flashlight at the edge of darkness where the woods met snow. Two snow-covered rocks and a post stood at the trail entrance. Recalling the name of the trail, he flashed the light at the sign.

“Nala Trail,” said Larry, reading the sign. He looked back towards where the gate hid in the darkness. “Nala, Nissa, Nova, Nancy, and the Needles truck made five. Isn’t that peculiar?”

A tree groaned, and a branch snapped. Snow plopped on the ground somewhere in the darkness.

Following the trail, he marched on the frozen ground, flashing his light in the rocky sections and climbing the steep switchbacks. He enjoyed the forest between hiking season and snowmobile season when the world went quiet. A tune played in his head, and he hummed nearly a minute before he recognized the song from the jukebox playing at Nancy’s. He recalled his first kiss.

Nadia made six.

He was three short of a perfect square, and that had to be a good thing with nothing but forest between him and Pine Grove. Besides, they were only names.

“Nadia, Nancy, Needles, Nova, Nissa, and Nala.” He snorted. “Feminine names except for one. Nobody names nothing Needles. Never.”

“Excuse me,” said a voice.

Spinning around, Larry pressed the button on his flashlight and aimed down the trail.

Standing at the corner of the switchback, a woman dressed in a long fur coat waved at him. Her dark hair sparkled in the light. “My eldest sister is Needles.”

“No.”

“Well, that’s what we all call her on account of her love for tattoos.” She smiled, but pain crept onto her pale face.

The light flickered, and Larry shook the flashlight. The beam blazed. Gazing at the woman, he realized she appeared like a twin of the lady driving the Nova. Her face sparkled like her hair. Frost.

“I’m Neveah.”

“No!”

The flashlight flickered out.

Larry turned and scrambled up the hill cresting the ridge. Wind blew snow stinging his face. Stumbling over rocks, shoes crunching on snow, he headed for the protection of the trees.

“Nadia, Nancy, Needles, Nova, Nissa, Nala, Neveah.”

Trees groaned. A twig snapped underfoot.

Hearing an extra foot crunching, he stopped.

Wind rustled the tops of the trees.

Looking back, he watched the snow fall at an angle over the rocks on the ridge. A branch snapped, and snow plopped on the ground somewhere nearby. He gave the flashlight a shake, and light returned.

Creeping through the trees, he waved the light around finding fir, ash, and a few pine trees. Snow formed piles leaving swaths of bare ground. He kept to the bare ground so he could hear better.

A tree groaned.

Coming to a sea of white he found an open field with a single evergreen standing in the center. The tree was huge, or seemed larger out by itself. Its lowest branches were high enough for a small ash to crouch under, but no other tree dared steal its drinking water. Only a few frost-covered rhododendrons took shelter under the umbrella.

Larry crossed the snow cringing at the sound of his footsteps. He threw the light around, but the little beam couldn’t reach the dark areas beneath the other trees. He seemed to have lost the Nala trail, but that was fine. The trail started with the wrong letter.

“What’s wrong with nine, anyhow?” Realizing the wind carried his voice, he clamped his mouth shut. That lady was out here somewhere.

If nine was a curse then the world would be damned. How many times had he driven the nine miles down to Nancy’s? Nothing bad ever happened except for a weak heart. There had to be more to it.

Nine ladies. There was that. Nobody remembered the names of the nine necromancers. Did they start with the same letter? Maybe that was it. Their names were part of the spell. Didn’t Nova say something about names?

“Nine names,” he said, whispering. “Nine names for nine ladies.”

Approaching the edge of snow, movement caught his eye. He waved the beam around beneath the tree. Nothing moved among the rhododendrons.

The tree creaked.

Looking up, he found a dark shape swinging above his head. He brought the light up, and the beam caught a frost-covered human foot. He shivered, but he held firm.

“Seeing things,” he said. He glanced around, and sure enough, there were more frozen legs swinging in the breeze, branches groaning under the weight. Tatters of faded clothing stuck to their flesh. Looking up at the body above him, he spotted black swirling tattoos on her face and arms. Needles. A noose held her neck. Next to her, he found the face of her sister. And Nova on the other side. All of them, hanged, just like in the story. He didn’t know which names went with the others, but he named them anyway.

“Nadia, Nancy, Needles Nova, Nissa, Nala, and Neviah.” He looked around the tree counting them again. “That’s seven.”

“Only two more,” said a voice, singing.

Spinning around, Larry aimed the light at a woman standing barefoot in the snow. Her black dress floated about her feet as if in water. A ragged noose hung from her neck, and her white hair defied gravity flowing above her head. Her eyes simmered like coals. Waving the flashlight, he studied the woman making sure she was real.

Her dress swallowed the light, and he realized her dress wasn’t a dress at all. Darkness floated about her.

“Nyx”, he said.

Satisfaction dripped from the woman’s face. “One more, my sweet.”

Names. They needed their names spoken. Had it all been part of a trick? The truck driving by? Nancy’s? The song on the jukebox? Feeling defeated at falling for their dance, he looked around at the others. They were sprits. They had been necromancers in life, and now they were spirits trying to return to the living. They needed someone to finish their spell.

“No,” he said.

“Say it.”

He shook his head. “Never.”

Heading towards the ridge, he searched for the trail. Now that he knew the steps, he wasn’t about to continue their dance. The snow had stopped falling, and the stars were trying to peek through breaks in the clouds. Spotting an opening in the trees, he turned the flashlight off and followed the white ribbon of the Nala Trail.

Glancing back, he saw Nyx gliding along the trail.

“Pester me all you want.” He batted his hand knocking snow from a tree branch. “I’m not saying another name for as long as I live.”

Flashing his light, he navigated a dark section. The trees thinned out, and he found the ridge. More stars lit up the sky. Peering down, he could make out the white path of the forest road snaking up the mountain. The mountain was quiet as ever, and he could hear his own heart beating, faster than he had realized.

Glancing around, he noticed Nyx was gone. He was alone as anyone should expect hiking the trail at night. He took a deep breath, and stepped towards home.

Ground giving away, his ankle twisted, and he tumbled over the edge. His shoulder hit hard throwing him into a roll, and his leg struck something. Snow sprayed his face, and he bounced and tumbled until he fell to rest on his back.

Larry grumbled. “Nine.”

“What’s that, mister?”

Opening his eyes, Larry met the clear blue sky.

Two children holding plastic sleds gazed down at him. The boy tugged at his hood.

“This is my brother,” said the girl, poking the boy in the gut. “Diego found you here in the ditch, and we wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Lunging upright, Larry felt pain in his head shoot down into his back. He grimaced as he rolled over. His knees sunk into the snow, but he didn’t feel the cold. Except for his throbbing head and the pinch in his back, he felt fine.

“I took a spill,” he said. The sun was low so he had been unconscious for a good seven hours ore more. He touched his face, but he could barely feel the press of his glove against his cheek.

Slowly, he stood up straight finding the snow-covered forest road overlooking a canyon. “My name is Larry.”

The girl held out her hand. “I’m Nadia.”

“Nadia?” Larry stared at her hand realizing he had spoken the name. “The ninth.”

Scrambling out of the ditch, Larry felt his back pop. He twisted and went down on the road, sliding. He dug his hands into the snow pitching him around in a circle. He waved and kicked, but he kept sliding until the world fell away.

Their dance was done, and he had named them all finishing their spell. As the trees rushed up at him he wondered if the old man at the end of Pine Grove would tell his tale. Likely not, he thought. The nine ladies would see to that.

Patti Larsen

The final abduction left Miss Betsy a changed cow.

            One would never know to look at her.  She was a standard dairy Holstein, lovely white with black spots, wide ears that swayed when sounds caught her attention, soft muzzle so well designed to crop grass and munch grain.  Her long, narrow tail did the usual job of most such appendages, swishing the odd annoying fly with a soft slap.  She had a wonderful pattern on her sides that reminded most folks who admired her of Australia, but Miss Betsy didn’t pay any attention.  She was a cow, after all, with bovine goals, hopes and dreams.  Those being food, sleep and, well, the other things mammals do who aren’t particularly bright or challenged to come up with something witty to say.

            The first time she was taken, Miss Betsy mooed in surprise as the dark disk settled above her, blocking the light of the moon.  She was accustomed to her daily routine of breakfast followed by milking, followed by a snack and a wander around the front twenty, followed by a drink at the watering tub followed by more grazing, et cetera.  She was unprepared as any common cow would be for what followed.  The bright green light lifted her into the sky from her safe and familiar nighttime place in the back pasture. 

            She took it like a trooper, however.  And though she remembered little of that first abduction, when she was deposited right back where she had left with the sun rising in the east, she was comfortable enough with the experience that she wasn’t even put off her milk.  As a matter of fact, Mr. Wilson’s youngest daughter, Abigail, whose job it was to relieve Miss Betsy of her morning deposit, commented to her father how she seemed to be even more productive than usual.

            “Should check her numbers,” Abigail snuffled back some snot, her allergies acting up again.

            Mr. Wilson just smiled and nodded, pacing on down the line of cows as Abigail’s sisters, six in all, went to work on their own bovine charges.  There were, in fact, eight Wilson girls but Betty Lynn hated the organic dairy and fled to the city to marry that lawyer and only came home for Christmas.

            The very next dawning, when Miss Betsy came back from the second abduction, she started noticing things.  Like how she liked the taste of the grass near the water tub better than over in the corner near the house.  The way that Abigail always warmed her hands before touching her but Louise, her evening milker and daughter number three, never did.  Or the way Mrs. Wilson’s singing out the back window made her ears flicker more than usual. 

            Maybe that horrible noise had something to do with the taste of the grass.

            When Miss Betsy came home the third time, she knew what time was.  She understood that the sunrise meant she needed to go to the barn, but not by habit or instinct.  She knew.  Unwilling to stroll along behind her fellows any longer, Miss Betsy was the first at the barn door that warm summer morning.  Abigail noticed, even through her itching, watery eyes.

            “Something’s up with her,” she tried to tell Mr. Wilson.  But he was too busy with the new contract with the local grocery to pay any mind.  Organic was turning into a booming business and Mr. Wilson was feeling vindicated after years of behind-hands laughter from his more traditional neighbors.  Never mind that Mr. Wilson had moved his whole family to the farm from New York City ten years before with no idea what a cow even was and just a dream. 

            Miss Betsy welcomed the nightly visits and even started paying attention to what was going on around her on the ship.  The small, gray people were very nice, feeding her tasty treats she didn’t recognize, patting her firm, smooth sides and avoiding the swish of her tail.  They even had a magic chute that seemed to know when the fresh green grass from the front pasture had made it all the way through her four stomachs and hissed open just as her tail moved aside, whisking away the deposit to places unknown.

            Miss Betsy realized she could talk when Abigail forgot for the first time ever to warm her hands.

            “I wasn’t expecting that from you of all people,” she said.  “Louise, yes.  She’s so thoughtless when it comes to things like this.  But you, Abigail?”

            Abigail, meanwhile, was staring at her with her mouth wide open.  It wasn’t until Miss Betsy finished up and marveled at how eloquently she had made her point that the girl managed to yell for her father.

            He was skeptical, as were the other six Wilson girls who left their own charges to check just in case. After all, seeing a talking cow would be just about as fun as hearing Mr. Wilson give Abigail what for.

            “Do you mind?” Miss Betsy asked as daughter number two bumped into her right side.  “Watch your step, if you please, TammyJo.”

            The offending party’s gum made a splat in the mess the previous cow had left behind. 

            “Just as well,” Miss Betsy told her over her shoulder, tail flicking in annoyance.  “You look like one of the ladies chomping away on that stuff all day.”

            Miss Betsy was offended that they retreated to huddle in the corner of the dairy and whisper about her.  How rude.

            It was Abigail who approached her at last.  She was wiping her running nose on her sleeve, her big green rubber boots making squelching noises on the wet cement.

            “Miss Betsy?”  Abigail said.

            “Yes, dear?”  She replied.

            “Sorry my hands were cold,” the girl said.

            “Forgiven,” Miss Betsy told her.  “Now, if you don’t mind, can we finish up? I’m about to burst over here.”
            One wouldn’t think that life could go back to normal after such an incident.  Even Mrs. Wilson got used to it, however, saying, “As long as she’s still producing, I don’t see the harm in it.”

            And there wasn’t any harm, as far as Miss Betsy was concerned.  That is, until the next-door neighbor got wind when he took Mary Jane, daughter number four, out to dinner.

            “Heard you got yourselves a talking cow,” he said, inspecting Miss Betsy.  Mr. Wilson didn’t really like having Dan Patters over.  He was the organic dairy’s main nay-sayer.  In fact, had Mr. Wilson known that Mary Jane was going to jump the fence and date the man, he would have locked her up in the storm cellar.

            The damage was done so Mr. Wilson made the best of it.

            “Seems so,” he admitted.  “Still producing, though.”

            “I should think so,” Miss Betsy agreed.  “You feed me enough.”

            She had never seen a person so startled or run so very fast, especially in rubber boots.

            That night, when Miss Betsy went for her visit upstairs, she sensed something was different.  The pats she got were sad ones, the food offered with regret.  By the time the green light settled her back in her pasture, Miss Betsy understood there would be no further visits.  Her new friends were saying goodbye.

            They did have a job for her, though.  They entrusted her with a message, a very important, world-altering message.  And it wasn’t long before her sadness was forgotten. 

As it turned out, new friends weren’t much of a problem for Miss Betsy.  That very morning, a whole heaping pile of folks who wanted to get to know her showed up on the farm and all of a sudden, she was a star.  At least, that was what Abigail told her when she came to get her and lead her to the jumble of cars in the driveway.

            “Guess you’re famous now,” Abigail picked at the acne on her right cheek as she smiled at Miss Betsy.  “Don’t forget me or nothing, okay?”

            “Dear,” Miss Betsy told her, “I still need to be milked.  And you’re my first choice for doing it.”

            Abigail beamed at her.

            Everyone wanted to ask her questions all at once.  Miss Betsy waited by the barbed wire fence as they babbled at her, some holding out microphones, others with cameras pointed at her.  The flashes were most annoying.  She took it all with great patience and aplomb.  She was, after all, there for a reason.

            “I have a message to share with you,” she told them.  “Something everyone on Earth needs to hear.  But not yet.” She heard their groan of complaint.  “There is a time and a place for everything.  In two nights, on this very farm and in this very field, I will share with you the reason for my being.  And the reason for yours as well.”

            And then, Miss Betsy turned and ambled back toward the barn.  She had eating to do.

            That night, it was Abigail who did the milking and she had big news.

            “Betty Lynn and that husband of hers are coming,” she told the cow, pulling a little harder than was necessary.  Miss Betsy let it go.

            “Whyever for?”  Miss Betsy asked, chewing some cud.  “All they need to do is watch the announcement on TV.”

            “Guess they wanted to be here personal,” Abigail belched.  Miss Betsy smelled eggs and bacon.

            Did they ever.  The big black car that screamed money pulled in lickety-split and Betty Lynn came roaring out, crying for Mrs. Wilson who flew out the front door and hugged her absentee daughter.  Smiley Slimer, as Mr. Wilson liked to call Simon Silmore, his lawyerly son-in-law, oozed from the front seat and shook everyone’s hands, even Abigail’s and she hadn’t yet washed them after milking.

            “Heard all about it,” Smiley winked at Mr. Wilson.  “Need someone here to help with the media.  I’m your man, yes siree Bob’s your uncle.”

            “What help?” Mr. Wilson asked, confused.

            “Oh Daddy,” Betty Lou said, “don’t be so silly.  Just think of the possibilities.”

            They made Miss Betsy nervous, standing there in the front yard, that Smiley giving her the once over with his narrowed eyes, being careful where to step in his expensive shoes.

            “There’s money to be made, of course,” Smiley smiled and winked again, this time at Miss Betsy.  “And we need to be sure we make it.”

            No longer interested in such trivia, Miss Betsy wandered off.  Her goals were much more grand, her message one of peace and kindness.  Let them make money.  She was prepared to make history.

            She was shocked to be locked in the barn for the night. Abigail apologized but still slid the padlock closed and left her there alone.  Miss Betsy was furious.  It had to be that damned lawyer.  She had no intention of staying indoors all night until the sky opened up and it started to rain.  Instead of kicking up a fuss, she decided it wasn’t so bad and settled down for a cud-chewing nap.

            At first when she heard someone at the barn door, she thought it was her little friends coming to find her.  But when the snick of bolt cutters severed the lock, she realized her error.  Not so, gray ones.  Instead, it was Dan Patters of all people.  She eyed him as he approached her with a halter and rope.

            “Nice cow,” he said to her, voice low and supposed to be soothing, she guessed.  “Nice girl.  Just going to put this on you, okay?  Easy does it now.”

            By then he was standing next to her.  His eyes were huge, his hands shaking.  He smelled like stale beer and that stinky weed Florence (daughter number one) grew, that sometimes made Miss Betsy feel like she was flying when she ate it.  It was obvious to her he was up to no good, so she decided to protest.
            “Just what do you think you’re doing, young man?”  She asked.

            He flinched but was determined.  He put the rope halter over her head and pulled it tight.  “Come on now, girl,” he tugged on the other end.  “You’re going to a new home.”

            Miss Betsy was in no way an aggressive cow.  Quite the opposite.  Her gray friends had taught her that love and kindness were the way to go.  But, she had a streak in her, straight from her father, the Old Man, that Mr. Wilson was forced to get rid of because he was a nasty fellow who liked to pin the girls in the pasture.  So when Dan started pulling, she pulled back.  Stubborn, fair enough.  He tugged.  She flipped her head and told him what for.  It wasn’t until he pulled a fresh-peeled willow switch from his belt and gave her a wallop that Miss Betsy let her father’s temper see the light for real.

            When they were carting him away in the ambulance, after the fuss was all over and Abigail was soothing her with a handful of raisins, Dan Patters swore that Miss Betsy had used kung fu on him.

            Served him right.

            Of course, that stirred up some of the locals who complained Miss Betsy was dangerous, that she needed to be put down, a mad cow.  Then there were those that didn’t like the attention their town was getting, what with the helicopters and news vans and the giant portable stadium being set up.  They didn’t like that their streets were flooded with food stands and merchandise booths with Miss Betsy’s face on them or the influx of believers camped all over the place, even in people’s yards, pilgrims come to hear the holy word of cow.

            It got so bad that Mr. Wilson stopped watching the news, right after a good friend of Dan Patters (and so no friend of theirs), started accusing Mr. Wilson of running a non-organic organic dairy.  Even Betty Lynn walked soft around her father after that little false accusation.

            Miss Betsy took it all in stride.  Even when the big man in the army uniform drove up in the dark green Hummer with a van load of scientists in tow, demanding to examine her.  One blazing and convoluted denial from Smiley and his crack team of lawyers was enough to send them packing.

            Miss Betsy didn’t care much.  She had a message to deliver and she was not about to let anyone stop her.

            But when the Australian president tried to have her shipped to his continent because he and his squad of law makers announced that the markings on her side proved she was their property, Miss Betsy was forced to put her hoof down.

            “Enough!” She told the gathered media as the sun sank in the west on the day of her announcement.  “I have told you what you need to know.  Patience.  The time is coming.  In three hours you will have your answers.”

            They were, of course, less than satisfied with that but had no choice but to wait.

            Miss Betsy rested in her barn, waiting for the appointed time.  She was pleased when her door creaked and Abigail came inside.  The girl was smiling and she wasn’t alone. 

            “This here is Brandon,” she snuffled some mucus and beamed up at the tall, stunning man next to her with the polished white smile and perfect hair.

            “Hello, Miss Betsy,” Brandon’s voice was a velvet purr.  “Abigail was so nice to let me meet you in person.”
            “We’re getting hitched!” Abigail flashed a huge diamond ring.  “Brandon was the first one to ask in person.”
            “First one what, dear?”  Miss Betsy said.

            “Of men who wanted to marry me,” Abigail shrugged.  Then smiled, showing her crooked teeth and silver braces.  “Isn’t he gorgeous?”

            Miss Betsy didn’t comment, though her thoughts toward the misguided man were unkind.

            They left her alone.  She was just as glad.  Her time was short.  She was shocked, then, when she felt the familiar presence of her gray friends.  She was so happy to see them as three emerged from a narrow beam of green light and approached her.  Their pats and snacks were most welcome as she had been certain she would never see them again.

            She could tell they were pleased with her and didn’t hesitate when they offered her one last treat.  As she munched it, she watched them disappear into the beam of light, taking her newfound intelligence with them.                 

            No one noticed.  Not even Abigail, so wrapped up was she in her new romance.  When she came for Miss Betsy and the cow stared at her with a blank and very cow-like expression, Abigail thought nothing of it.  Miss Betsy went with her after some mental churning, falling back on habit.  After all, the girl was her milker and she was accustomed to doing what Abigail wanted.  There was a moment of confusion when Abigail went toward the fence line but Miss Betsy knew to trust her as she always had and followed obediently.

            It wasn’t until Abigail got her through the chute into the arena that Miss Betsy balked.  It took three of her new bodyguards to wrangle her into the center of the stadium, where the flashing bulbs and screams of believers spooked her so much she emptied her bowels onto the podium, took out the black-suited men with one toss of her head and bolted for home.

            She never knew anything of the aftermath.  The repercussions of her sudden return to the ordinary.  The accusations and lawsuits or that Smiley and the rest of the town took Mr. Wilson for all he was worth after the media vilified him and his entire family.  She didn’t know that Abigail ended up a drunken mess when her new fiancé dumped her after taking back the ring and telling her what he really thought of her.  Or of the sadness then fury of the crowd who had come to see her and the mess they left of the town.

            Miss Betsy only knew that she needed to eat, sleep and be milked.  So when Mr. Wilson came for her that fine summer morning and led her to the truck along with the rest of her sisters, she was in ignorant bliss.  When the truck left, she tried her best to keep her balance and chew her cud at the same time.  When she was off loaded from the truck into a dark and freezing place that smelled of fear and feces, she found concern, but plain, ordinary bovine concern, mirrored by that of the cows around her.

            It wasn’t until she was next in line, her sister before her fallen and gone, that Miss Betsy had a sudden and total reversal to the cow she had become.  In that instant before her untimely death at the hand of the slaughter house worker who would never know who she was, why she was there or how important she could have been to humanity, she came back to herself and whispered to him the message that she had been chosen to deliver.

            It wasn’t her fault he was deaf.

Ben wished he could cry, but no tears ever came. He didn’t even feel the picture he cradled in his hand. His eyes were tracing the curves on her face. Those perfect cheeks and playful dimples had brought many a smile to his face. In fact, Ben smiled just looking at the photo.

“She’s beautiful.” Jack’s voice cut through Ben’s thoughts.

“Yeah”, Ben agreed as he turned to Jack.

Hearing Jack’s voice sent Ben’s mind back to their many conversations at the country club.

“Two hundred dollars for a dress? Man she’s milking you!” Jack looked up at Ben from under the towel he was using to dry his hair.

“I don’t care, Jack. She makes me happy. When we’re together I feel young and alive.”

“But what about Fran?”

“That well’s been dry for a long time now. It seems like we barely even know each other any more – just two strangers living in the same house.”

“Does she know about Karen?”

“I hope not! I don’t want to go down that path again.” Ben shook his head as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. “We had to do three months of counseling when she found about about Susan. That was pure torture.”

“So why are you guys still together?” Jack’s wrinkled forehead added emphasis to his inquiry.

Ben had wondered the same thing a few times. “I’m not sure. I guess deep down we both really do love each other.” He chuckled at how funny that statement sounded.

“Well, I think Karen’s just using you for your money. Clothes…Jewelry…Trips..how much have you spent on her?”

Ben didn’t like the way that sounded. “She my girlfriend, Jack! You’re one to talk. You’re a career bachelor. You know how the system works.” The tone in his voice was sharper than he had intended.

“Yeah, I know how the game works. That’s why I used be so jealous of you and Fran. I would happily trade in ‘the game’ for the right person. I don’t understand why you keep wanting back in.”

Ben felt like he was being lectured. To be honest he had no idea how he kept getting into these relationships. “I just need some excitement. I work hard – sixty to eighty hours every week – to make good money. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit around the house like an old man when I’m not working!”

“Well, you’re not a spring chicken anymore,” Jack laughed as he punched Ben in the stomach.

“Watch it! I’m only fifty-one. That is not old! Besides, I’m in better shape than most young guys I know. I didn’t have any problem putting you away on the racquetball court today, did I?”

Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. The vibration of Ben’s phone brought him back to the moment. He realized that he and Jack had been standing in silence for a few minutes now.

Not recognizing the number he sent the call to voicemail. At the moment he didn’t want to talk to anyone.

“Where is Jeremy?”

Ben was glad that Jack had broken the silence. “They’re at the house. Oh… Wait. That must have been him.” Ben pulled out his phone. The mention of Jeremy prompted his brain to recognize that the unknown number was likely his son calling. The sadness of not knowing his own son’s phone number seemed to wrench his stomach, but it had been quite a few years since Jeremy had last called him.

“Let me give him a call and see what he needed.” Ben dialed as he spoke.

“Jeremy? Hey, sorry I missed your call. Is everything alright?”

“That’s a strange question,” Jeremy replied. “I was calling to let you know that we will be later arriving. Jenny and I will be there about eight.” Jeremy’s voice was cold and business like.

“Ok,” Ben responded.

“And, Ben…” Jeremy’s voice trailed off for a moment as if gathering courage to continue. “I was hoping you would give us some time alone with mom.”

“Uh… sure, Jeremy. Whatever you want.” Ben felt hurt by the request. He had hoped that time would help close the gap that had existed between them, but Jeremy’s voice didn’t show any signs of reconciliation. Ben longed to be called “Dad” again, but that did not seem likely based on this exchange – their first conversation in five years.

“Thanks. I appreciate it. Bye.”

Ben could barely mutter good bye before Jeremy was off the line.

“Is everything alright?” Jack interjected, once again interrupting Ben’s thoughts.

“Uh… Yeah… Yeah, they’re fine. They are going to be later getting here than they initially planned. He was just letting me know.”

“Is he still mad at you?”

“Yeah, I’m surprised he even called to tell me they would be late. You can tell from his voice that he hates me.”

“I don’t think he hates you, Ben. He’s just hurt and that’s how he takes it out on you.” Jack was fumbling around in his jacket pocket as he spoke.

“No. I’m pretty sure he hates me. He will talk to Fran for hours, but not even say hello to me if I answer the phone. I don’t understand it. Fran forgave me, so why can’t he?”

“He probably feels like he’s taking up for his mom – like he’s defending her or something.” By this time Jack had pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.

“I guess. And as far as I know he only knows about Susan. He doesn’t even know about the other seven affairs. Can you imagine if he knew the entire truth?”

Jack didn’t respond to the question, but simply shook his head. “How have you been doing since Karen left you? I haven’t heard much from you the past three weeks.”

“It was tough. I really loved being with Karen. What we had was special.”

And expensive, Jack thought. He kept his thoughts to himself, though. He could tell that Ben was in too much sorrow to hear his thoughts again about Karen taking advantage of him. “I can tell. I’ve never seen you take time off from work for relationship issues before.”

Ben didn’t seem to hear Jack’s comments as he continued. “But the last few weeks have been an amazing turn around. I’m not sure why, but Fran began showing me affection like when we were younger. It was as if we started over in our relationship. We…”

“Huh? You and Fran? You…” Jack was shocked at what he was hearing. He had heard Ben many times describe his relationship with Fran as dead or cold or … lots of things, but never anything positive – at least not in the last nine or ten years.

“Yeah, we fell in love all over again. It was amazing. I took last week off work just so we could spend time together. Do you even remember the last time Fran and I spent time together alone?”

“Well… No, actually.”

“Me either. We went for walks. We talked for hours. We laughed. We even sat by the lake for a few hours one day without saying a word. I just held her in my arms.” Ben’s eyes began to tear up as he spoke. “I realized all the time I had wasted – years that could have been spent living life together instead of just living in the same house.”

Ben continued talking about the past few weeks and about his newfound relationship with Fran. Jack had not seen Ben talk like this for years. In fact, he wasn’t sure he had ever heard Ben talk like this, but he liked it. It was clear that Ben had found something that he had been looking for.

The next half hour went by quite fast. Jack was still amazed at what he was hearing, and even more so at what he was seeing – a new Ben. He slipped the piece of paper back in his pocket. He had wondered about the appropriateness of giving Ben the note from Karen, now he knew for sure it was not the thing to do – even if he didn’t know what it said.

“And then the accident. I still can’t believe it. She was just going to pick up a few groceries and … Oh… Here comes Jeremy and Jenny. I guess I’d better slip out to give them some time with Fran. I think I’ll just go home for the night. Thanks for being here, Jack. It means a lot to me.” Ben wiped tears from his eyes as he spoke.

Jack patted Ben on the back as he gave him a brief hug. “Just let me know if I can do anything for you. You want me to come with you?”

“No. I’m ok. If you don’t mind, talk to Jeremy. Let him know that I went home and they can call me if they need me.”

“Sure thing, Ben. And I meant what I said. She looks lovely.” Jack and Ben looked down at the casket.

“Yes, she is,” Ben replied. “Yes, she is.”