Sometimes I Kill Myself /2

Buster never wants to go out in bad weather.  Buster is a Jack Russel terrier, my best friend and pain in the butt. Wind stirring out of the west means that Buster would just as soon hold his bladder until morning as to go out into a storm that hasn’t even hit yet. This was such a night.

“C’mon, Buster. We won’t be long. Just a short walk and then we’ll both sleep better.” I made a big show of putting a few of his favorite treats in my jacket pocket. Buster was not falling for it. In desperation I pried him from his usual hiding place behind the sofa and carried him outdoors. Something stirred in the shrubbery at the far end of the back yard and he was off like a shot.

“Hey, Buster!” I shouted. “Wait for me.” I raced around to the gate at the end of the hedge and followed the barking into the adjacent city park. When I caught up, Buster had assumed his pre-attack stance and growling from his throat. His tail was straight out signaling trouble.

“There you are boy,” I said. “What have you found.”

A young man with his pants down around his ankles had hold of a little girl, a five year old I think, and was trying to molest her. Everything happened so fast. Buster is sensitive to shrill noises, so the little girl’s cries and screams set him off. He charged forward. The dog grabbed and pulled first at the man’s jeans before chomping into one of his exposed calves. I grabbed the man by the shoulders to pull him off the little girl. He swung around, slammed into a large tree and knocked himself unconscious. Buster stood guard over him while I tried to calm the girl.

“You’re safe now, sweetheart. That man won’t hurt you anymore.”

“I want my mommy,” she cried.

“I’m calling the police. Someone will come to get you and take you home. What’s you name so I can tell the police to tell your parents you’re safe now.”

I had my cellphone in hand and the dispatcher had just answered when I was hit from behind. The attacker had come to and struck me across the back of the head, propelling me forward. As I hit the ground, I heard the man shrieking in pain. Buster sank his teeth into the man’s most vulnerable parts. I rose to my feet and backhanded the man into the same tree. This time I heard something crack. The way the man slumped to the ground I knew he wouldn’t get back up. Buster punctuated the situation by lifting his hind leg over the slack face on the ground and then scratching up some grass.

The little girl had stopped crying and sat wide-eyed as she watched Buster and me in action. The dispatcher heard the commotion and used my phone’s GPS to send a patrol car to our aid.

While one of the officers attended the victim, the other one checked on the dead man lying against the tree. He called an ambulance. Next he asked me my name, address and what had happened. I told him everything he wanted to know. All the while Buster sat up at his feet waiting for his turn to speak. When Buster figured he had waited long enough, he softly barked twice.

“Who’s this guy?” the office inquired as he squatted to pat Buster’s head.

“This is my pal, Buster,” I replied. “He caught this guy trying to raped the girl.”

“Well, Buster, you’re quite the hero.”

Buster barked in agreement.

The officer said Buster and I were free to go home adding, “If we have any other questions, we’ll call you tomorrow.”

That’s how the scene plays out in the dream. I wouldn’t exactly say this is a recurring dream. There is always a different victim. Oftentimes the pedophile is different, too. However, lately, the pedophile has been the same man. He’s somehow familiar to me. Maybe from the dreams, but I feel like he is someone I know. Funny the things and people we dream about. Right?

Trade Anything Part 2

The patrol car turned the corner at the end of the block, and Max started to go inside. There was a lilt in his step that hadn’t been there earlier.

“Max!” someone shouted.

He saw Mrs. Danvers walking toward him across the lawn. “Hello, Mrs. Danvers,” he said with a smile and a wave.

When his neighbor was within range of being able to speak in a confidential tone Mrs. Danvers asked, “Was that Mrs. Winters I saw in that police car?”

“Yes, that was my wife. She decided to take a break from therapy to visit Daphne.”

“She hasn’t been released has she?”

“No, her little outing came as a surprise to everyone. She’s on her way back where she belongs now, Mrs. Danvers. There’s no need to worry.”

“Where is Daphne, by the way, Mr. Winters?”

‘She’s safe. She’s at her friend Lisa’s birthday party. I’ll bring her home around four thirty.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Winters, you look like you could do with a nap. Why don’t you take it easy and I’ll bring the child home.”

“That’s kind of you, Mrs. Danvers, but I don’t want to put you out. Catherine, that’s Lisa’s mother as you may know, had also offered to drive her home after the party, but I’m happy to get her.”

‘Nonsense, Mr. Winters. What are neighbors for? You go inside and I’ll fetch Daphne for you. I was going to do some marketing anyway. Catherine’s will be on my way home. It’s no trouble at all.”

“Okay. You win, Mrs. Danvers. I am a little tired. I’m going to take advantage of your offer and the chance for forty winks. I’ll see you later on. Thanks, again.”

Max didn’t think he had been asleep for very long when he was awakened by the doorbell. Whoever was at the door was pressing the doorbell button like it was it was his job. “I’m coming. I’m coming!” He called out as he walked toward the door.

He opened the door to a frantic Mrs. Danvers. “Mr. Winters, oh, Mr. Winters!” the woman was visibly shaken. “I don’t know how to tell you―.”

“Tell me what, Mrs. Danvers? Come inside and tell me what has you so upset.” As he stepped aside to allow her entry, Max looked past her toward her car looking for his daughter. “Where’s Daphne?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“What’s happened? Tell me, Mrs. Danvers, where’s Daphne? Where’s my little girl?”

“When I arrived at Catherine’s, there was no sign of anyone at home. No one answered the front door. I went around to the side gate and the back yard was empty.”

“All the other girls had gone home? What about Catherine and Lisa? Surely they were there, right?”

“Mr. Winters, there was no sign of anyone. No trace of anything to say a birthday party had been there. Nothing. The backyard didn’t look like any children had ever been there at all!”

“That can’t be, Mrs. Danvers! Where would they have gone?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Winters. That’s why I came straight back here.”

“Let’s drive over there and take a look around. If Catherine isn’t home, maybe one of the neighbors saw something. We have to find them!”

“Maybe we should call the police.”

“No, let’s not just yet. I’m going over there for another look. You’re welcome to come with me if you like. I certainly understand if you’d rather not.”

“This has all been such a shock, Mr. Winters. I think I need to go home and sit down with a cup of tea. I’m telling you there was not a soul anywhere around that house. My advice is to call the police.”

“I’m so sorry your kindness is repaid with upset, Mrs. Danvers. You go on and calm yourself. I’m going to drive over there. I’m sure there’s an explanation. There’s no need to involve the police just yet. Besides, if I know my wife, Rebecca is giving the police their fill of my family as we speak. I’ll walk you to your door.”

“Will you call me when you return, Mr. Winters? I’ll be anxious to know the little girl is home safe and sound.”

“Of course, Mrs. Danvers, I will call you. Better yet, Daphne will call you herself.”

The older woman let herself inside her house and closed her door. As Max backed out of his driveway, he spotted Mrs. Danvers watching him through her picture window. When the car was out of sight, Mrs. Danvers removed her little notepad from her purse. She opened it as she picked up the receiver of her phone and tapped the number she had written down.

When the person on the other end of the line answered, Mrs. Danvers said, “He’s on his way,” and hung up. She then went to her kitchen to put water on the boil for her tea.

Trade Anything

The yellow ball of the afternoon sun was camouflaged with high floating helium balloon clusters that outlined the backyard. Daphne had been looking forward to her friend Lisa’s birthday party all week. Lisa’s mom Catherine greeted Daphne and her dad Max at the front door and led them through the house to the party in progress. Daphne was wide-eyed at all the bright colored balloons and the picnic table loaded with Lisa’s presents, party hats, and cupcakes.

When Lisa spotted Daphne, she ran up to her friend to welcome her and introduce her to some of the girls Daphne didn’t know. “Thanks for coming to my party, Daphne,” she said. “Is that present for me?”

“I hope you like it,” Daphne said as she handed over the package wrapped in dancing unicorns and rainbows.

“Thanks. I’ll put it on the table and we can play with the other girls.”

Before running off with Lisa, Daphne turned to her father. “Thank you for bringing me, Dad. See ya later!”

“Have a good time, sweetheart.”

“I think the girls will have fun, Max. I’ll keep an eye on them. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I know, Catherine. This will be good for her. Daphne has kept to herself quite a bit since her mother, well, you know.”

Catherine smiled and touched Max’s arm. “It must be tough on a little girl. She’ll be fine here. I’ll make sure she has a fun time. We’re planning on opening gifts and having cupcakes and ice cream around four. I think the girls will be ready to go home by four thirty. Either I or one of the other mothers can drive Daphne home, if you like.”

“I can't think of putting you out like that, Catherine. I’ll be here for Daphne at four thirty.”

Max’s voice said he was leaving, but his feet didn't move. Catherine took his arm to lead him away. “You better get going before you get roped into playing a game. Don’t worry. Daphne is fine.”

“You’re right, of course. I seldom get time to be alone these days. I’ll see you at four thirty.” He paused to watch Daphne playing for just a minute more and then walked with Catherine through the gate on the side of the house. As she opened the gate for Max she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“See you at four thirty,” she repeated.

Max got into his car and drove the few blocks to his house. When he pulled into the driveway he noticed the draperies in the living room were closed. I could have sworn I opened the drapes before we left for school this morning, he thought to himself. Then again, Daphne ran late getting ready so they left in a bit of a rush.

He unlocked the front door and walked in. He removed his sport coat and placed it on the back of a chair as he went to the TV room to relax. He never had time for an afternoon nap recently since there was always something to do to take care of the house or Daphne after work. Not that he minded. Max loved his little girl more than anything. With his wife away, he was playing dual parenting roles as well as handy man.

He sat down in his recliner and pulled the side lever to raise his feet and lower his back. Just as he started to relax into sleep a familiar fragrance startled him awake and into the upright position for springing to his feet. Evening In Paris. His wife’s favorite perfume wafted in from the hall. Rebecca couldn’t be in the house. That wasn’t possible.

The judge remanded her to an upstate psychiatric hospital instead of prison for attempted murder. Max’s beloved Rebecca had tried to stab him to death while he slept. Fortunately all but two of her strikes had missed their mark. Max managed with some effort to loosen his wife's grip and hurl the kitchen knife across the room. He had grabbed hold of Rebecca’s wrists by the time the police arrived in response to the neighbors' 911 call to report a woman shrieking like a banshee at one in the morning.

“You think I don’t know about you and that whore? Everyone in the neighborhood knows about you and her charity work! With a husband like hers I can’t for the life of me figure what she wants with a ball-less wonder like you! I’ll be a widow before I’ll be a divorcee!”

The police busted the door to get in and mistakenly ordered Max take his hands off the woman, believing she was being attacked. Once free, Rebecca lunged for the knife and screamed “You’re going to die, Max!”

The police quickly corrected their mistake by grabbing Rebecca, handcuffing her and putting her in the back of the squad car. One of the officers who returned to check on Max noticed that Max was bleeding and radioed for an ambulance.

All the screaming and sirens woke Daphne. Max saw the child trembling in the hallway.  Even a tourniquet couldn’t keep him from rushing to his daughter to hug her, kiss her and say, “Everything’s all right, Daphne. Mommy has to go to the hospital, but Daddy’s here.”

Mrs. Danvers from next door appeared and said Daphne could spend the night at her house if she wanted to.

“Would you like that, Daphne? Would you like to stay with Mrs. Danvers tonight?”

“Why can’t I stay here with you, Daddy?”

“Sweetheart, Daddy has to see a doctor and get his arm bandaged. It might take a while and I don’t want you to miss out on your dreams. Mrs. Danvers has a nice bed waiting for you.”

“Let’s go and get some school clothes for tomorrow, Daphne. Then we’ll go to my house and have some milk and perhaps a cookie. Would you like that?”

The girl nodded yes and reached for Mrs. Danvers’s hand.

“We’ll get her clothes and be on our way, Max. Daphne will be fine with me. Do you need anything yourself?”

“No, thanks, Mrs. D. I’m in good hands. Sorry for the disturbance.”

“Think nothing of it. This wasn’t your doing. Everyone knows that. I’ll help Daphne get her things and we’ll be on our way.”

Now Max followed the scent until he came face to face with the woman who tried to kill him.

“What’s the matter, Max? Cat got your tongue? It’s good to see you, too, darling. Where’s my little girl? Where’s Daphne?”

“She's not here.”

“You always had a knack for stating the obvious. I know she’s not here. I’ve searched the house. So where is she? I want to see my daughter!”

“That's not going to happen, Rebecca. How did you get out? How did you get here?”

“Don’t you worry your little brain, my pet. That doctor knew what he was doing when he offered to tune up the motor after Daphne tore me up. Leave to your offspring to try to walk out of the womb. That man’s genius makes men want to do what I say. I mean real men. Present company excluded. My pussy never had much effect on you. So what’s the attraction for that whore?” An idea occurred to Rebecca that struck her funny. “Or is it her? Maybe that stud she’s married to that gets you going, is that it? Do the three of you do it together or does she watch?” Rebecca laughs a hearty laugh at the sight of the threesome together. “That’s it, isn’t it? Really darling if you wanted a dick up your ass you should have said so. I would have strapped one on for you.”

“You don’t have the power to goad me anymore. You just have commitment papers. The police will be here shortly. I’d leave if I were you.”

There was a knock at the door. A man shouted, “Mr. Winters? Are you in there?”

“You sonofabitch! I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“Keep talking, my dear. I hit 911 on my cellphone when I first smelled your perfume. The police have heard every word you said. Excuse me. I need to get the door.”

Once again, the police handcuffed Mrs. Winters and deposited her in the backseat of the squad car. This time she held her head down and remained silent. She let her eyes say it all.

Max tired not to smile. Rebecca’s little scene practically guaranteed his plan was going to work perfectly.

Sometimes I Kill Myself

Often I feel like some kind of a phantom observer of my life, like I’m watching an Alfred Hitchcock film instead of starring in it. I used to think this was due to being an introvert. Now I’m not so sure. I might have been acting in the film all along and being unaware of my participation was the foundation of my role. Two things I am reasonably sure of are I’m not insane and I think I killed someone last night.

This is how my conversation with Detective Gordon Collins began when I turned myself in. Detective Collins invited me into his office so we could continue our conversation privately. He did, however, also invite another detective to join us whose name eludes me right now. Nothing I told him, or that I am now telling you has a clean edge to it. I want to tell the truth as much as I can, but like I told you up front, I am only an observer so my recall takes me only so far. 

Merry Christmas, Doris Day! Part Five/ Finale

     Music infiltrated his reverie. Lightly at first, it crescendoed before trailing off again. Jason thought it much have been from a car passing his apartment building. Que sera, sera. Whatever will be will be. The future's not ours to see. Que sera, sera. Funny that someone was playing his Grandmother's favorite song as he was remembering her. Another voice now picked up the refrain. His voice!

     "Stop it!" Jason shouted.

     "That's no way to begin Christmas, Jason. Merry Christmas, Sweetheart."

     "Go away. I told you already. I'm not doing Christmas this year. Depart from me, you demon!"

    He just laughed. "Depart from me you demon? You're watching too much grade B television. Besides, I'm not a demon. I'm...well, I used to be your lover. You pine away here missing me then when I come to you and try to show you something nice all you can say is Depart from me, you demon? Really, Jason! You're more clever than that," Sammy couldn't stop laughing.

     "So what's up with you, Sammy? All those memories of my Grandmother, that was your doing?"

   "Didn't you listen to your Grandmother? She told you on her deathbed sometimes you can't heal. Sometimes you job is to help the soul continue its journey."

     "Yeah, I remember. That has nothing to do with what you did. My Grandmother asked me to hold her hand. You asked me to leave the room. Not the same thing, Sam! Not the same thing at all."

     "Sweetheart, I could hear you affirming, chanting, praying to whoever you thought might listen and do your bidding. You were not letting me go. You were doing everything you could think of to block me. Do you think that I as a man who loves you wanted to leave you? No. Absolutely not! My soul had other plans. God or the Goddess, whoever, had other plans. We came together for a reason, but we had fulfilled that purpose. It was time for me to leave. Don't you get that? Jason?"

     Jason just continued gazing out the window. His jaw was clenched. He didn't answer because he couldn't without losing control over his emotions. A feeling of warmth spread across his shoulders. 

     "Jason, you even tossed away your ring."

     "I didn't want it anymore. Don't worry about it."

     "I'm not worried. I just think you should get it back. It symbolized something, didn't it? Wasn't there an inscription of some kind? T2SP or something like that? You never told me what it means."

     "Why don't you just leave me in peace?"
    "Fine, Jason. Apparently you're not as susceptible to spirits as old Mr. Scrooge. Merry Christmas, Jason."

     Jason never flinched. He remained stalwart at the window. "How do I know you're really gone?" he finally asked the air. 

     The doorbell rang. "Funny, Sammy! So now I'm supposed to think you got your angel wings?"

     Jason walked over to the door and opened it. He was surprised to find the Christmas tree guy. "Look man, I can't keep you ring. It looks special," he explained as he presented the object. "Interesting engraving. What's it mean?"

     Jason accepted the ring and slipped it on his finger. "T2SP? It's a reminder this too shall pass. Thank you for bringing it. Would you like to come in? I could make some coffee."

     "That's nice. Thanks. The young man hesitated before crossing the threshold. "I brought you something else. I hope you don't mind."

     Jason turned to face the man and was surprised a second time. "I'm closing up shop since everybody's got a tree already. I thought you might like this one. He's a good tree. Maybe you'd give him a home for a few days?"

     "It's perfect! Yes, bring it in. We can place him in the corner there next to the window." Jason moved a chair and a cigarette table to make room. You'll find a stand and decorations in the hall closet, if you don't mind. I want to get the coffee started. By the way, my name's Jason. What's yours?"

     "Phineus. Now let's get going on this tree, whaddaya say?"

     "Coffee won't take long. Get started and I'll be right back."

    Phineus found the stand and put the tree into it. Next he started stringing the lights. Humming softly to himself as he did so. Jason returned just as Phineus came to the end of his song. The future's not ours to see. Que sera, sera.

     

     

Merry Christmas, Doris Day! Part Four

     Jason managed to catch himself and regain his balance like someone who snaps to after nodding off while watching television. Woodsmoke and the fragrance of burning resins and herbs filled the room. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light a kaleidoscope of time lapsed images of his grandmother filled his vision. She was lying on a pallet of furs and crudely woven blankets, then on a cot, finally in her bed. She was very ill so Jason was applying various oils and ointments to her forehead and body. Select stones surrounded her. Candles and bowls of herbs were strategically placed around the hut, cabin, room to aid his attempts to heal her. Everything she taught him, the rituals they had performed for countless others --none of it was having any effect now. 

     Tears trailed his cheeks. If failure was a lesson he was meant to learn, why now? Why did he have to fail with the most important person in his life? A faint, raspy whisper requested water. He brought a gourd ladle, an earthen cup, a glass of water to her lips. The touch was enough. He carefully returned her head to her pillow. 

     "Jason, why are you crying? Don't be sad, dear boy."

    "Grandmother, I've done everything for you I can think of to make you well. Nothing is working. I am failing you."

     "Nonsense! You have graduated from apprentice to master. You don't need me anymore."

      "But I do, Grandmother! I do need you!"

     "Jason, we can't always heal the body when the soul is ready to return to its home. Times like these call for release. It is enough to make the body comfortable so the soul can depart easily. Rest with me now. Sit down here and hold my hand."

     The young man did as he was told. With his free hand he wiped his eyes and nose with his sleeve.

     The old woman smiled. "You are a talented healer, Jason. You will help lots of people during the course of your life. Some will recover good health. Others will pass into the next world. Regardless of the path they follow, you will be there to help them. This last lesson is the art of letting go. The will of the goddess is all that matters now, not Jason's will." 

      "I'm sorry, Grandmother. I don't mean to block you path, but I will miss you."

     "Jason, you can always call on me when you need me. Think of me as being in the next room. I love you Jason. I always have, as your visions have shown you. Now kiss my cheek one last time and wish me a good journey. It will be better next time." 

     As he leaned over to kiss her, she closed her eyes. A white mist flowed upwards from her parted lips. His Grandmother was on her way.

     Jason was still holding her hand even though she no longer gripped his. "Good-bye, Grandmother. Thank you," he whispered to the darkness. Jason laid his head on her shoulder and cried until he was weak enough, or strong enough, to let go of Grandmother's hand.

     

Merry Christmas, Doris Day! Part Three

     Knees buckled. Odd then he was soaring upward instead of falling down. Up didn’t mean the ceiling of his apartment nor through the roof of his apartment building. Up didn’t mean the sky. Up wasn’t even a direction as people normally comprehend the word. Up was nothing. No! Actually, up was everything. Jason began to descend. Where he had no clue, but suddenly he was in the arms of a man who was both holding him and pointing to a giant star on top of some kind of tree.

      "See, Jason? This is your first Christmas tree. See the lights, son? In a few years you can help me string the lights on the tree. What do you think of that, Little Man?"

     All Jason was capable of doing was to coo and giggle as a bit of saliva streamed from the corner of his mouth so he clapped his chubby little hands.

     "You like Christmas, eh, Jason? You’ll like it even more when you’re old enough to visit Santa Claus and ask for what you want. Yes sir, my boy, you and I are going to have lots of wonderful Christmases together." The man spun around the room, dancing with his firstborn son to the infant’s delight.

    An older woman entered the room. "There you are, Momma. Would you like to hold your grandson for a few minutes?"

     "Indeed I would, but don’t count on getting him back in just a few minutes. We have a lot to do tonight, this boy and me. You might not get him back until he’s grown into a man. Isn’t that right, Jason?’ She kissed the baby’s forehead. "Come with Grandma now, Jason. We’re going into the kitchen and work some magic." She placed the boy on the floor. She took his hand in hers and walked him into the room where the magic was going to happen.

      The youngster loved the smells of spices and the warmth emitted by the oven and the boiling pots on the cook top. It reminded him of something. Actually, the aromas could remind him of nothing as this was the first time he smelled them. He picked up a brown star from Grandma’s work table and stuck it in his mouth. In the tick of the clock that star was out of his mouth and going from hand to table where he had found it. His Grandmother saw what happened and smiled.

     "So you don’t care for anise, do you? That’s too bad. I have some candy in the jar over there that is made from it. I also have cookies in the oven that has anise in them. That’s what you smell. I guess you won’t want any."

     "But Grandma, I only see licorice in the candy jar and the cookies smell mighty good!"

     "So you see, Jason. Even things we might not like at first can be good if we use them correctly. Anise needs a little magic and a touch of sugar."

     "Magic, Grandma? Can you teach me some magic?"

     "All spices and herbs are magical, Jason, so we must handle them with love. For instance, that star anise you just spit out? That helps prevent indigestion. Maybe more importantly, it wards off the evil eye."

     "What’s the evil eye, Grandma?"

     "Evil eye is what we call it when someone wishes misfortune or harm on another person. Anise keeps that wish from coming true. There’s a use for every herb and an herb for every need, Jason. I can teach you, if you if you really want to learn."

     "Oh, yes!" the youngster cheered.

     "All right then.You need to read and study this book," she said as she seemed to pull an immense volume out of the air. "This book will tell you all about herbs and other plants you need to know. There are also some of my best recipes in the back." She paused to observe her grandson. "You realize, Jason, all of us a channels of life and love. There is no changing our minds. You must be willing to always let love flow through you. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

     Jason took the leather bound manuscript from her and tucked it under one arm. He hugged her with his free arm and kissed the top of her head now that he was tall enough to do so.

     "God jule, Jason," she said.

     "What does that mean, Grandma?"

     "Merry Christmas, but more than just Christmas," she replied with a twinkle in her eyes. "Now sit over there near the fire and read your book. Just turn the pages one by one. Careful now, they are old and fragile like your Grandma. The words will come to you."

     "You are neither old nor fragile, Grandma. I wouldn’t want to take you on in a fight!" he exclaimed with a grin.

      "Smart boy," the old woman agreed. "Now read."

     The young man did as he was instructed. He hadn’t ever felt this excited! Magically, everything written in his Grandmother’s book leapt from the pages as he turned them and locked into his brain. He knew and understood everything about magic he needed to know.

     When he finally closed the book and looked up, his Grandmother was gone. He stood to look for her. Then he heard from the next room, "Come, Jason. Now our mission commences."

     "What happens next, Gran?"

     "Ah, Jason, que sera sera. That what’s next," she laughed.

    "Whatever will be will be?" he asked. Once again, his knees buckled. Grandma’s kitchen disappeared.



Merry Christmas, Doris Day! Part Two

     Dusk turned to evening by the time he arrived in his apartment. Before he could turn on a light he saw the silhouette of someone sitting in the club chair near the window in the living room. No one ever sat there these days, not since...well, it belonged to him, the one who left. The one whose name was never spoken anymore. "How did you get in here? Who are you? What do you want?" He fired off questions instead of bullets but just as fast.

     The lamp on the table adjacent to the chair turned on, apparently by itself. "I think it's time we had a talk, Jason. Passed the time for it actually. Come in and sit down."

     Jason complied. Jason always did whatever he told him to do. Most of the time. "How is it you are here? You died. Your body was cremated. Your ashes are on the mantle in the lidded vase you bought that time at the Paris flea market. It's what you told me you wanted. So why have you come to haunt me?" Jason's tone was direct, to the point. He wasn't afraid. He was angry.

     "I've tried to reassure you that I'm all right. That every thing is all right. You won't listen to me, Jason. You don't talk to me. You have never even cried for missing me."

     "You ordered me out the door of your hospital room and then you left by another way. You didn't want me with you at the most critical time of your life of our lives. And yes, I cried. I have cried plenty!"

     "Jason, my love. You have not cried. Not really. I've watched you. You do that Doris Day thing. You hold tissue up to your nose and talk in a crackly voice, but there have been no tears. At least in her movies Miss Day can be forgiven for her lack of tears. She had to think about her eyeliner and mascara. You have no excuse."

     "You came all the way back from Hell or wherever to criticize the way I cry? Really? Go away. I'm sure you must have a soul in the oven. Maybe it's mine." Jason searched his coat pocket for a tissue. He blotted his eyes and wiped his nose. "See there, Mister Know-How-I-Feel! The tissue is damp with my tears!"

     "If you miss me so much why don't you use my name? Go ahead. Say it. Say 'Sammy, I miss you.'"

     Jason stuck his hand into the other pocket, but came up empty. "Excuse me. I'm out of tissues. I'll be right back."

     "Sorry, Jason. The box in the bathroom is empty. You'll have to use either some toilet tissue or a paper towel. You forgot to buy a new box while you were out."

     "Show off! Go to Hell!"

     "Why do you keep saying that? What makes you think that's were I am now? Do you think that's what I deserved?"

     Jason just stared at Sammy. He searched Sammy's eyes for some proof this was really him and that this visit was actually happening. "You know, Doll, I may have been a sinner, but all my best sins were committed with you," Sammy grinned that triumphant grin when he thought he had scored a point. Then he winked.

     Jason leapt from his seat to hug his lost love. "Sorry, Doll. No touching. It's a rule," Sammy explained as his spontaneously translocated to the fireplace.

     "Fine. You still haven't told me why you're here," Jason pouted.

     "I want to stop you from completely shutting down. You see none of our friends. You don't go anywhere except the grocery store."

     "That's not true!"

     "Yes it is, Jason. You're becoming that weird guy people talk about. You're playing the role of the designated mourner, but you're using it as a ruse to keep the world out. That's not the Jason I knew and loved. I want to help you find that guy again. You're young-ish yet. I know there is someone waiting for someone like him, like you to share some good times and who knows, maybe even fall in love."

     "No. You're wrong. No one wants me. No one ever wanted me. It was you they clamoured for. You're the one they invited to dinners and parties. I was the plus one. That was fine. I enjoyed it. Without you there is no plus anything. It's fine."

     "It isn't fine. It isn't a life. Not like you deserve to have anyway. I'm sorry I left you. You think I wanted to? You think I like the way things are now? No touching, hell, no seeing except for special occasions. Straining to listen to your heart? Now I don't have much time. Christmas is almost here and I want you to enjoy it the way we used to. Let me help you open yourself to the world again. Will you?"

   "So I'm to play Ebeneezer Scrooge while you present the Ghosts of Christmases Past, Present, and Future?"

     "You read the book?"

     "No, saw the movie. Your version starts at midnight?"

     "It starts now."

     

     

Merry Christmas, Doris Day! Part One

     He kept bedside vigil. Held hands. Prayed to God. Pleaded and entreated. He held hands tighter. Tried another prayer, to Mary this time. Hail, holy Queen! Mother of mercy, our sweetness and our hope. Finally eyes flirted open followed by a pencil line of a smile. 

     "What are you saying? You've never prayed a day in your life!" were the comments from the bed.

     "I want you to be well. I want you to come home with me where you belong."

     "I will always be with you."

     "Stop! Just stop, okay? You're going to get well. You are going to come home to me."

     "Do me a favor. Go stand out in the hall with the door closed."

     "No. Why? Why would you want me to do that?"
     "To prove a point. Just do it."

     Hand were reluctantly let go. He exited the room and closed the door. From inside he heard, "Can you see me?"

     "Of course not. You told me to close the door."

     "But you can hear me?"

     "I answered you didn't I? Of course I can hear you. May I come in?"

     "No, not yet. I want you to realize this is all that is happening. I'm going to the other side of the door. You may not see me, but you will hear me and know that I am there. Just on the other side of the -"

     The voice from the bed trailed off. He burst through the door, but the person on the bed had gone permanently still. He had wanted to be there when the love of his life departed. He felt cheated. Cloaked in grief.

     ***

    He planned to skip Christmas. Six months of mourning still didn't seem long enough, so he would forgo holiday celebrations. Too soon to expose oneself to any form of joy. The air on Columbus Avenue was just crisp enough to lift the fragrance of the pine and fir trees for sale along the sidewalk. "You really ought to get a tree."

     He turned up the collar on his coat and continued walking. "Really. Get a tree. How about this one," his voice insisted.

    He stopped to look, but he was convinced his mind was playing a trick on him. His lover's voice must have been conjured by some memory of Christmas past. He stopped in front of the tree. Any other time this would have been the perfect tree. He breathed in the essence. "I know you can hear me. Buy the tree and take it home."

     A young guy in jeans and a shearling jacket said, "If you live in the neighborhood, we can deliver it for free."

     "What? No. Sorry. I was just looking. Sorry." He continued on his way.

     "Hey, Mister!" The guy called out. "You dropped something."

     He looked over his shoulder to see the guy trot a few steps with his gloved hand extended. "Here. This must have slipped off your finger when you were looking at the trees."

     It was his platinum band. After the funeral, it had been relegated back to it's original box and placed in a dresser drawer.

     "Gotta be careful with rings in this cold weather. Fingers shrink. Here you go. Merry Christmas."

     "Keep it," was all he said before he walked away.

     

Only One Day?

     The Divine Presence spoke through the man's dream. "I give you life and sustain you perpetually, yet you thank me only one day?"

     The man woke feeling a degree of shame. He immediately thanked the Divine Being for waking him into life one more day. The man felt happiness and appreciation of himself, his possessions, and the world  he had never known before. Indeed, it seemed that goodness and fortune clung to him like dust on his shoes. He was thankful that his mind had been opened to what his soul had always known.

                                                                        ****

     Meister Eckhart, a medieval Dominican brother, and philosopher, wrote, "If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you it will be enough." His statement may seem simple, but it is also powerful. Maintaining a spirit of gratitude expands our vision to and eliminates disappointment and sadness. 

     Especially during the holidays when people are desperate and impatient, relax in the knowledge that some delays are blessings in the long run. Holding back from the crowds rushing to shop yields time to consider the items with the best value for your money. Letting the over-crowded bus or train leave, may make the difference between feeling like a canned sardine and having a comfortable seat. The extra minutes spent waiting could well bring an old friend or a new lover who would have otherwise been missed. You could say it's the synchronicity of thankfulness. Just as advice cannot be given to someone who will not stop talking, delays provide the pauses which allow the Universe to work for our benefit. Gratitude for whatever comes to us takes us out of the chaos. Now that's something else deserving a thank you!

Harvest Home

     Once upon a time not so very long ago Autumn was a time for tribes, families to come together. It was a matter of survival. The fruits of the harvest were shared. Everyone participated in gathering food, hunting, and fishing. Meat, fish, fruits, vegetables were dried or pickled for preservation through the winter months. Children gathered kindling wood while the men wielded axes on felled trees for firewood. Everyone  contributed something to be shared for the long winter months. 

     This wasn't invented by the American pilgrims. In fact, their population had been greatly reduced due to disease and hunger by the gathering time. If not for the native people sharing what they had and teaching their new white neighbors survival skills, the entire retinue from England would have most likely perished. Hunting, gathering, preserving was an ancient practise. People the world over did so. Native Americans, the Vikings, the Druids, the early Britons all harvested and shared with families and communities. 

     Holiday stories remind us of our instincts to share and cooperate to survive. We have a traditional version of the 'first Thanksgiving' story. Corrupted as it is, it still manages to illustrate the point. We have 'Good King Wenceslas' looking out on the Feast of Stephen, the day after Christmas later know as Boxing Day, to bring comfort to a man who appears to be homeless and starving. His warmth spreads to everything he touches, even the very sod where he tread. He instructs his servant to walk in his steps to keep from freezing.

     Remember, too, the fable of the ant and the grasshopper. The story based on Greek mythology was considered such an important lesson it is mentioned in the Book of Proverbs. The ant worked all Spring and Summer improving and fortifying her dwelling as well as storing food away, while the grasshopper sang and played. Consider too that ants live in a highly developed and cooperative community, while grasshoppers do not. Survival depends on only on foresight and diligence, but also on group effort.

     The lessons of all of the seasonal stories make a singular point. The real gift of the season is the gift of life and confidence in the future through working with other for the common good. It is not something that can be purchased on the last Thursday of November from 5PM-1AM Friday. Coupons not required.

      

Holiday Ghost Story

     Charles Dickens' most familiar works is A Christmas Carol. Published originally as a serial, it was unique in it's telling of a ghost story as a Christmas tale. It comes to us as a novella, several films and stage productions, including a musical. Lest we forget, Mr. Magoo's Christmas Tale.

     I wonder if perhaps the story should be put into current context. Marley could be Michael Milken, Allen Stanford, or Bernard Madoff. Scrooge, no doubt would have to be transformed into Kim Karashian. She certainly earned the right by raising money in the name of aid to the Phillippine Disaster Relief and then kept 90% of the proceeds. Bob Crachit might be President Obama, trying to keep everyone feeling fed, secure and optimistic even though families have been stripped of what insurance they could afford and are still going hungy without jobs. What about Tiny Tim? Need you ask? We are all cast in the role of the cripple who wants to believe things will turn out for the best.

     Selfish, maniacal people may seem to prosper. They may try to grab more than their due. Sometimes, the lack of due diligence causes more harm than good and makes getting ahead an illusive dream for the common person. However, the Spirit of Christmas Future brings the common man to right and the others to the justice they deserve. The human spirit can not be down-trodden for long. People do rise. At the end of the story we as the multiple players of Tiny Tim, we stand up and shout God Bless Us Everyone!

The Magic Of, Well, Magic

     Magic is what we call the power of manifestation or the utilization of universal energy. Magic is neither black or white in and of itself. Energy is neutral until put into use. Blessing or curse are the shadings of intention as directed by love or hatred.

    Love magic is empowered by desire and benevolence. Love magic is target driven, but it leaves in its wake an aura that draws other blessings to the 'magician.' 

    The danger of 'hate magic' is that the negative emotions such as jealousy or revenge with which it is charged are difficult to focus and control. Innocent bystanders are endangered. The blow of a missed target causes the malevolence to swell and take possession of its director.

     We are the magic of magic. 

When You Love Somebody

     He closed the door. His entire body seemed to deflate as he leaned his back against it and the latch clicked. A flip of the switch over his left shoulder turned off the porch light. A car motor started and quickly faded in the distance. 'Thank God that's over. I couldn't go through that again.' Neither person had been happy for quite some time so when conversation turned into pleading into begging to try again he was caught off guard. 

     "When you love somebody, you can't just say it's over. Not like that. Not like that!"

     "We don't get along anymore. We make each other miserable. You told me that. We've grown apart. I'm sorry, but we can't go on like this."

     "You're right. We can't go on like this. We can go on by making it better."

     "We can't get better. Don't you see that?"

   "I will wait for you to change your mind. I will wait another lifetime if I have to. I will be with you somehow. That's how it is when you love somebody."

     "It's late. You should go."

     This is how the scene played out. He knew in his heart ending their relationship was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. Still, it felt mean. He pulled himself away from the door, heading for the bedroom. The phone rang.

     He wasn't going to answer. He knew it would be him. He was drained and had nothing new to say. The answering machine picked up. "This is the highway patrol. There's been an accident."

    He snatched up the receiver. "Hello. Accident?"

    "We found your name and phone number in the wallet of the victim. I'm sorry to tell you your friend didn't make it. Do you know if he had relatives? How can we reach them?"

     "No. I was all the family he had. Sorry. I'm not -"

     "Of course. I'll call you tomorrow. Good night."

     He set the receiver back in its cradle and staggered to the bedroom. He turned on the light. One wall was dripping in blood. It read: I'm still here.

  

Expensive Bargains

     Once upon a time in America, we as a people aspired to being part of something greater than ourselves. Family and family friends, our parish or congregation, our community, state, country. These relationships were how we connected to the world at large, valuable beyond any price...until the war of the 'big sales' began their assault. One by one, Memorial Day, Independence Day, Labor Day, and Veteran's Day were bartered away for a bargain. Thanksgiving is the next to fall, assaulted by even bigger sales by Walmart, Kohl's and Macy's...and perhaps others taking the second line. We are trading everything held sacred by those who came before us for what? A discount on things that will be resold on eBay or in the garbage bin in a few months.
     I think it bears mentioning that as infamous Wall Street and banks have become, they maintain a reverence for the holidays. There are no midnight, Red Apple or early bird sales of stocks, bonds, or CD's. None of these employees are forced to sacrifice family time in order to keep their jobs, even though markets in other parts of the world are open on American holidays. An industry that functions to raise capital and make money manages to respect family traditions by being closed. Ironic, isn't it? They seem to have learned from Ebenezer Scrooge what the rest of the country has forgotten.
     My grandparents, aunts and uncles, even a cousin or two and my father live in the memories of holidays past. They enrich the present. They instill hope for the future. I'd rather have those memories than 30% off anything.
     

If You Would Know Me

     He gazed into his companion's searching eyes. "If you would know me, really know me, I will tell you what I am. I am the emptiness that fills a cup. I am shapeless. I am nothing. I am everything. I am the droplet sliding down a windowpane. I am a puddle, a stream, a river, the ocean. Water is only ever itself, but always defined by the boundaries. I am Soul defined as body. I both anticipate and dread escape from my limitations. Be with you? I am you."

Jokers And One-Eyed Jacks Chapter 14

     When the woman woke, she was instantly alarmed. For one thing she was tied to the bed so she couldn’t move. For another, she didn’t know where she was. Hospital, obviously by the white interior of the room and the beeping, blinking equipment, but how did she get there? She rang for a nurse. There didn’t seem to be one around. She rang again and tried to reach the  plastic cup of water on the stand adjacent to the bed. Why must hospitals always arrange for things to be just out of reach? No one answered. No one did anything about it. Fingers touched the plastic cylinder just enough to spin it off the edge. Cup, melting ice and straw crashed to the floor. I bet they come now. Hospitals cannot abide mess. Her thought proved to be prophetic. A nurse followed by an orderly with a broom and dustpan arrived almost instantaneously. They were followed by a distinguished looking older man she presumed to be the doctor. Older than the nurse and orderly, but about the right age to be of interest to the patient. Everyone got busy sweeping and clearing, checking her pulse and looking into her eyes with one of those penlights her boyfriends used on dates in automobile backseats. When the doctor placed the cold stethoscope on her left breast, she tingled with thoughts of being in love.

“How do you feel, Miss —uh, I’m sorry, we don’t know your name,” the doctor inquired while the nurse continued making adjustments to this and that thing and writing notes on a clip board.

“My name is —, never you mind. Who are you? Where exactly am I?” the woman demanded to know.

“You are in hospital, of course. You’ve had us all quite concerned. You took a dangerous fall.”

“Fall? When? I don’t remember no fall! How long have I been here? What day is it?” 

“Your accident occurred three days ago. You have been here for two. Today is Monday.”

“That means I fell sometime Friday?”

The doctor nodded.

“So where did this fall take place?”

“You apparently fell on the steps outside the St. Louis Cathedral and hit your head so hard you’ve been unconscious until now.”

“I don’t understand. If I hit my head, why are you giving me blood?”

“Like I said, you took a really critical fall. You lost a lot of blood.”

“What was I doing at the cathedral? I had no reason to be going there on a Friday —was it afternoon or evening, Doctor? See? I don’t even know what time of day I was supposed to have fallen.”

“Evening. Perhaps you were going to confession?”

“Confession? Oh, doctor, you truly do not know who you’re speaking to,” the woman laughed. “Confession  is no place to go for fun on a Friday evening!”

“Perhaps with more rest, you will remember more about what happened.”

‘Wait, Doctor, before you go. Have I had any visitors? I mean, does anyone I know know I’m here?”

“Sorry, no visitors. Like I said, we don’t know your name so we don’t know who to notify. Do you think maybe you’re a tourist? Might you have been coming from or going to a hotel in the area? If you’re not from here it would explain why no one has called looking for you.”

“I don’t know. I-I just don’t know. I guess this is what being a foundling feels like. The babies are lucky. They don’t know what they don’t know.” Tears began to trickle down the woman's cheeks.

“Try and get some rest. Often in cases like yours the memory comes back just like that.” The doctor snapped his fingers. “Don’t worry yourself. This is normal for this kind of injury. You’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Everyone aside from the patient cleared the room. The doctor dimmed the lights and quietly closed the door.

In the hallway, the doctor said, “Nurse, a word, please.”

Taking the woman by the arm, he led her a few feet away from the door and spoke very quietly. “I want to know the moment this patient wakes again. If her memory returns, we can begin therapy. If not, so much the better. She will still need therapy, but of a completely different nature. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the nurse replied.

♠♥♦♣

As the patient closed her eyes for sleep, she sighed I’ve been dealt baby hands before and won the game. What I need now is to draw a wild card. Yessir, a one-eyed Jack could be my knight in shining armor.

Slowly her chin rolled into her shoulder. Her breathing slowed. 

Instead of the soft bed, she is laying on something hard. Someone’s stoop. She is cold on stone in front of a building somewhere. The sun is just starting to dawn. She is cold. Of course she is cold. She has no blanket, not even any clothes. Suddenly, she is being lifted and held. A man is talking baby-talk to her asking her where she came from. She wants to tell him, but she doesn’t know. She coos and dribbles instead. That seems to satisfy him. He carries her to a house where he lays her on a bed. He places pillows all around so she can’t roll off the edge of the bed. He leaves her there. Scared, she cries. She wails actually, close to screaming. 

The man comes back. He picks her up and holds her and says he is sorry. He had gone next door to borrow a baby bottle. He says the lady warmed some milk for her. It tastes good. As he holds her and she sucks on the nippled bottle, she notices that the man has a patch over one eye. Otherwise a noble and kind face.

Later when she learned about playing cards, she called one-eyed jacks “Daddy” cards. As a youngster she didn’t know that one-eyed Jacks were considered to be so lucky that gamblers had them tattooed on the wrist of the hand they held their cards with. She just knew meeting her Daddy with one eye was the luckiest day of her life. She was a born winner.

When she woke the next morning, she still didn’t know who she was. She just wasn’t scared anymore.

Jokers And One-Eyed Jacks Chapter 13

Sebastian turned the corner onto Chestnut Street and noted the for sale sign in front of  Mrs. Beaupain’s house. This would be the thrid time the house has sold since his favorite neighbor died ten years ago. He wondered why people didn’t set down roots like they use to. When he was growing up people only moved if there was a job transfer or a divorce. Otherwise children like him grew up in one house, went to one school for eight grades, and one high school. No one went away unless it was for college or find a job and get married. Such thinking made him sound old to himself and he was only thirty-never mind. 

After pouring himself a glass of iced tea, he sat down in front of his computer. He logged in to the newspaper archives. He typed Margueite Deauville into the search window. The article reporting her disappearance popped up immediately. 

“Police are asking for the public’s help in finding a woman who disappeared last night from the French Quarter. According to the woman’s husband, Marguerite Deauville disappeared last night sometime between nine and ten o’clock. The couple had gone out to dinner with friends where they shared the news they are expecting their first child. Later in the evening, Mrs. Deauville excused herself from the table to go to the powder room and never returned. Anyone who has seen her or who might know of her whereabouts are encouraged to contact police.”

Sebastian held the photo shopped photo next to the computer screen. They were virtually identical. So the old gypsy woman was indeed the long lost Marguerite Deauville. Where has she been all these years? Why was she apparently living on the streets when she had a family who would have loved nothing more than to have her back home? However, the twenty-five million dollar question he faced was: how do I break this news to Ursula, Gigi and Charles? He printed the article, making three copies. Sebastian would keep one, give Gus one, and take the last with him to dinner tonight. He wondered which bourbon he should bring as a chaser.

Something clanked downstairs, the sound of metal hitting metal. At first he didn’t know what it could be, but then he realized it was probably mail being pushed through the door. His iced tea could use topping off, so he took his glass downstairs. There was only one item on the floor near the front door. It was a large white envelope. When he picked it up he could see it had been opened and then taped shut again. He froze when he flipped it over and saw the address label.

The envelope had no business being there. The address belonged to his friend Cliff Nolte in Brooklyn, New York. This was the overnight packet that contained the last letter he received from Sean. The letter that he didn’t see until after Sean was killed. The letter he refused to read. How had it wound up at his house. His New Orleans address was no where to be found on it. Was Cliff in town for a visit? 

Sebastian couldn’t open his door fast enough to greet his best friend. However, Cliff wasn’t on the veranda. No one was. Sebastian stepped out so he could look down the street. No one was in view on the street. 

From around the corner a car horn sounded and brakes screeched. From the end of his veranda, Sebastian spotted the cause. Arpels, Mrs.  Rafferty’s bichon frisé had gotten out of her yard again. Sebastian ran to the street to retrieve the errant dog. As he came back around the corner he encountered his worried and grateful Irish neighbor. 

“There you are, you little dickens!” Mrs. Rafferty exclaimed.

“I live here, Mrs. Rafferty,” Sebastian grinned as he handed over the escapee.

“Oh, you!” Mrs Rafftery laughed. “You know full well I was talkin’ to me dog. Thank you, Sebastian. I’m afraid one of these days Arpels is goin’ to get herself killed. We’ve never been able to figure out how she gets out! She doesn’t do it all the time. You’d think she’d have gotten over it as old as she is.”

“I’m always happy to come to Arpels rescue, you know.”

“Thanks again, Sebastian. How have you been keeping yourself. I was sorry to learn about what happened.”

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Since you’re here, may I ask you a question, Mrs. Rafferty?”

“Of course. What would oyu like to know.”

“Just now someone stick an envelope through my mail slot like the one you sent to me in New York. Did you happen to see anyone walking or running away? Or the postman? Has he been around yet today?”

“Nossir. Can’t say I saw anybody. Mr. Sayville made his deliveries a couple hours ago. Why? Was it mischief?

“Hard to say. Certainly strange.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for ya, Sebastian, like always. I’ll let you know if’n I see anyone suspicious. Well, I’d better get this one home. I left a pot on the stove.”

“See you. Take care, Arpels.” 

Sebastian went back inside and examined the envelope once more for any signs of his Chestnut Street address. Nothing. He pulled the end of the tape. Inside was exactly what he expected. Sean’s letter. Sebastian had not the slightest curiosity in its contents. As he had commented to Cliff when he first received it in Brooklyn, the postmark was the day Sebastian arrived in New York. Sean was most likely just reporting about the Monsignor’s coronary bypass surgery. That was old news by now. He took the large envelope as well as the letter with him to the kitchen to retrieve his iced tea. The larger envelope went into the trash. The letter he was contemplating burning on the gas stove. He thought better of that. Instead he proceeded to the garden patio where he planned to feed it to the gas grill. 

“Aren’t you at least going to read it first?” he heard a voice ask.

“Sean?”

“I wish you would read my letter before yo set it on fire.”

“Go away. There is nothing for you here. I don’t want you here.”

“That’s because you haven’t read my letter.”

“Forget about the fuckin’ letter, Sean.” And with that Sebastian lit the gas grill, tossed in the letter and closed the lid. “There now, it’s gone. Done. Go!”

Somewhere someone had an outdoor stereo playing the Four Seasons. “I’m workin’ my way back to you, babe, with a burnn’  love inside. Yeah, I’m workin’ my back to you babe and the happiness that died —”

Sebastian sat down on one of the wrought iron patio chairs. He buried his face in his hands which were resting on his lap. He was crying and he didn’t want to cry. “God damn you, Sean! Just go away and leave me alone. You’re the one who fucked up, not me. You’re the one who died even though I pleased with you to hang on. You’re the pervert, not me. You’re the one who lied, not me. I don’t want to feel sad over you. I don’t want anything to do with you. Leave. Me. Alone.” Sebastian continued to cry inconsolably. He was so distraught he didn’t even hear the garden gate open and close.

“Sebastian?” he heard a voice ask.

He looked up. CJ was crouched down next to him and had placed an arm across Sebastian’s shoulders in an attempt to comfort him. 

“CJ. What are you doing here?”

“It’s a quarter to seven. You promised my aunt you’d be at her house no later than six thirty, so I came by to see if you wanted a ride. What’s happened to make you so unhappy?”

“Nothing. Just a sudden case of the blues, I guess.”

“You cookin’ somethin’ in the grill?  Somethin’s burning.”

“Shit!” Sebastian shouted and he got up to turn off the gas. “Give me a minute to wash my face and I’ll be ready to go.”

“Sebastian, if you’re not feelin’ up to an evening with people I understand. Ursula will understand also.”

“Thanks, CJ, but I think the best thing for me is to go out and be among the living. I’ll wash up. It’ll just take me a couple minutes.”

When Sebastian returned, CJ was admiring the garden. “My parents designed and planted it. I just replace plants as they die.”

“It’s beautiful, Sebastian. Just like you.’

“I’m not beautiful, CJ. Just adorable sometimes.”

CJ stood toe to toe with Sebastian and put his arms around him. “You’re beautiful now, Sebastian, now that you’ve been crying. Even knowing this I promise you I will never make you cry.” He coldn’t resist the impulse any longer. He kissed Sebastian full on the lips, and then parted those lips with this tongue and kissed him until Sebastian finally responded in kind. 

When the kissing was over and they were standing looking at each other, Sebastian began to weep. “Well, we can check broken promise off the to-do list.”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think tears of happiness count. Shall we phone my aunt and tell her somethin’s come up and we can’t make it to dinner?”

“You dirty man! Come in here and make me cry and now you’re going to cheat me out of a free home cooked meal? Shame on you, CJ!” Sebastian rotated his hips causing his pelvis to rub again CJ’s. “Yeah, somethin’s come up all right, but it’s gonna wait until baby’s been fed.”

CJ laughed and kissed Sebastian on the cheek. “Prick tease.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Like what/ What’s the worse thing anyone has ever called you/”

“Late for dinner. Now let’s go. You go back the way you came in. I need to get something for Ursula from the house and lock up. I’ll meet you in front.”

Sebastian picked up the photos and a bottle of Wild Turkey someone had given him that remained unopened, locked back and front doors and met CJ at the curb.

As they pulled away, Sebastian looked back at the house. An upstairs curtain moved.

Jokers And One-Eyed Jacks Chapter 12

Sebastian caught up with Gus Meinhart, the police detective he had been speaking with earlier. “Hey, Gus, you got a quick minute?”

“Sure, Sebastian, what’s up?”

“I was wondering. Could I possibly get a copy of the photo your guy took of the victim?”

“That’s kind of odd, Sebastian. Even for you. May I ask why?”

“I want to take it to someone I know who has an age progression program to se if he can reverse the process. Something about this old woman seems familiar somehow.”

“Why didn’t you say so! I can do you one better than giving you the photo. I can have one of the guys at headquarters run the photoshop, for lack of a better word, for you. Get in the car. I’m heading over there now.”

“Terrific, Gus! I didn’t know ya’ll were so high-tech.”

“Watch what you say, boy, we may not be New York, but we all have color TV down here,” Gus quipped. “Wait here a minute. I see our guy is still here. I’ll tell him to meet us over there.”

Sebastian stood outside of the car and watched Gus walk over the an older guy carrying a camera. After a brief conversation, Gus returned.

“He’ll meet us there in a half hour, Sebastian. Is there anywhere else you’d like to go while we wait?”

“Actually, before we leave, could we take another look at the house she apparently fell from?” 

“Be my guest.”

Sebastian walked with the detective over to the house, but Sebastian’s eyes were on the townhouse across the street.  He tripped on a brick that had shifted in its place in the street and nearly fell down. 

“Watch yourself now, Sebastian. The precint can’t afford a civilian injury.”

“Sorry, Gus. I got distracted I guess.”

“You guess? You have taken your eyes off that house since we started over here. You haven’t even so much as glance at the house you said you wanted to see. You gonna tell me what has you soo spellbound?”

“Nothing really, Gus, except some broken glass here in the street near the curb.”

“That’s nothng unusual, Sebastian. There’s got to be more to it that that.”

“Well, there’s that pair of broken french doors up there. Probably where this glass fell from. Interesting don’t you think, Gus?”

“Yeah, sure. A real rubic’s cube.”

“Anyone live in this ol’ place that you know of, Gus?”

“I don’t know hin as such. Some ol’ guy. Lives alone near as I can tell. Says he’s a duke or something. I think he’s a little off his nut, but harmless.”

“I met someone yesterday who told me he lives here. Invited me to come to call. I thought the place was empty, so I was surprised when he gave me his card.”

“I think I’d toss that card and forget about it. Like I said, I think he’s a bit touched,” Gus said as he pointed to his temple. “Shall we go now?”

“Yeah, let’s see that magic your guy can work on that photo. Know what, Gus? I think you should have somebody sweep up this glass and take a look at it. Might find something interesting.”

As they approached a couple of police officer that were taking down the yellow tape, Gus ordered, “Murphy, how about you and your partner there get someone from forensics to sweep up that broken glass over there and take it to the lab.”

“Sure thing, Detective.” The two stopped what they were doing to find someone from CSI to do the detective ordered. 

Not long after arriving at headquarters, Sebastian had a copy of both the original photograph of the deceased woman as well as the simulated younger version. He thanked Gus and the photographer and left. 

He hopped the St. Charles streetcar and took out the two photos to study them again. He was amazed at their similarity. After seeing both of them, it was surprisingly easy to see the younger woman in the older one’s face. He was convinced he had seen the younger face before. All he needed to do now was verify his suspicions as to her identity. 

And then what?  She was still alive yesterday when the he saw her face in the mirror. So how could she be who he wants her to be? Once again, more questions than answers.

Suddenly there came strains of that song again, the recording by Meatloaf. He looked up just in time to see car waiting for the streetcar to pass with the windows rolled down and the stereo playing. At first glance, Sebastian would have sworn the driver was Sean and he was smiling at Sebastian. Sebastian smiled back. The smile turned into a grimace when the impossibility of it being Sean registered and remembered how he felt about him. The music faded into eventual silence as the streetcar continued on its way.

Sebastian decided this was imagination not a vision. Sean was gone. Period. He returned the photos to the manila envelope, and anticipated his stop.