Elaine Faber

I grew up in Sebastopol, CA, in the 1950s, the last remaining town in Northern California with a working railroad train going down Main Street.

With a lack of shopping establishments, we had to drive 7 miles to Santa Rosa to shop.

It's interesting how our perception of distance has evolved. What used to be a half-hour drive over bumpy country roads at 30 miles an hour in a stick shift Buick is now accomplished in 7 minutes on a blazing freeway in our air-conditioned hybrid Lexus.

We only went to town to shop for school clothes, Christmas presents, or Easter dresses and shoes. Finding a dress for Grandma often took most of the afternoon, going from shop to shop, trying on numerous dresses, and checking prices.

My favorite thing about shopping day was Penny’s Department Store. Penny’s had a modern pneumatic tube system used for payment.

The saleslady would ring up our merchandise at a cash register, but she had no cash drawer. She would write a receipt and place our money into a container, then put it into a pneumatic tube system. With a “shoosh,” the container would be sucked through the clear plastic tube system, and I could watch it move across the ceiling to a cashier with a cash drawer sitting behind a glass office on the second floor. She had a separate tube for each cash register below. She would take the money from the container, place our change and a copy of our receipt back into the tube, and send it whooshing back through the tube system. It would make its way back across the ceiling and “plunk” into the tray behind our saleslady. She would open the tube and return our change and receipt. This process took about 5 minutes to reach the cash office, to be processed, and returned to the customer.

No one had thought up a shopping mall yet, so the stores we wished to patronize were often a block or two apart. At noon, after walking from store to store, carrying our packages, we stopped at the Kress’s fountain for “a bite to eat,’ which usually meant hot turkey sandwiches. Finally, mid-afternoon, exhausted, each of us hauling big shopping bags filled with our day's purchases, we would hike back to the car.

Daddy would come in from a hard day’s work of building houses all day. His red-checked shirt, tan coveralls, and boots were usually covered with sawdust. I know how much he must have hated Mama’s inevitable words that followed. “We stopped at Kress’s today for a ‘bite to eat’, so we’re just going to have a light supper tonight!”

Daddy was a meat-and-potatoes man, but on shopping days, when we stopped for a ‘bite to eat’ at Kress’s, it meant Mama wouldn’t be fixing a big dinner. Daddy had to contend with soup and a sandwich. I don’t suppose he ever went to bed hungry, but he didn’t always get his meat and potatoes, especially on shopping days with Grandma.

In recent years, fixing a “light supper” because I stopped for a “bite to eat” at the mall is a memory I share with family. They have come to know the phrase from my all-day shopping adventures with Grandma and Mama; memories of long ago that I will never forget.

The days grew shorter, the air crisper, the nights longer, and the whisper of leaves falling on the roof began to awaken each Christmas bird.  Something sang to them, calling them, until they wiggled with joy, crinkling their crepe paper walls. Soon, the Christmas ornaments would be lifted from their crepe paper beds where they had slept since last Christmas.

As the special Day grew nearer, the Christmas tree birds felt a thrill in their springy wire clips and gold porcelain bodies and their bright, feathered tails.

The youngest Christmas tree bird lay warm and snug beneath Gold Bird. Soon he would be on the Christmas tree with his Christmas bird friends and the others. Some of the round ornaments had beautiful paint, but weren’t as beautiful as the Christmas tree birds with their springy wires and pinchy clips. He closed his little red eyes and dreamed about Christmas Eve. He would look down from the Christmas tree at the family gathered by the fireplace, singing Christmas carols. Being part of the Christmas Eve celebration made him feel alive.

Perhaps today was the day. He imagined being taken from his box and hung on the tree. It would become a thing of beauty. “I’ve been thinking that I am the most beautiful Christmas bird,” he whispered to Gold Bird, his voice trembling, filled with self-admiration.

Gold Bird’s tail feathers quivered. “Oh, really. What makes you think so? Blue glass bird is made of exquisite hand-blown glass, and it has a fine blue feather tail. The antique bird is missing some of its tail feathers, but its glass is so fragile, you can see through it. For that matter, most of us are more beautiful than you.” He fairly shook as he scolded the young bird, lying in the tissue below him.

“Well, I don’t care what you say. The Christmas tree would not be nearly as beautiful if I weren’t right near the top.”

Gold Bird, being older and wiser, turned his head away.  “You conceited fellow, it would serve you right if you got left behind this year. You obviously don’t know the true meaning of Christmas. You don’t deserve to be included in the holiday events.”

The young Christmas bird trembled. Thinking he might be left behind scared him a bit, but not enough to change his opinion of himself. With a slight tremble, he added, “You don’t think that could happen, do you? I don’t mean to sound conceited. It’s not that I think you aren’t very handsome, but my tail feathers are longer and softer and fluffier than yours, and…my paint is much shinier...”

“Tut tut,” replied Gold Bird. “I won’t listen to hear another word.”

For several uncomfortable days, the young bird lay in his soft cocoon of crinkly wrapping paper. Gold Bird’s words haunted him. “You conceited fellow, it would serve you right …” Not to be part of the Christmas Eve celebration?  He could not bear the thought.

The days grew shorter and the nights longer. A soft sprinkle of snow blanketed the roof. The wind whistled through the trees, their bare branches just visible through the tiny window at the end of the attic. The long dark days of November edged into December.

Footsteps on the attic steps awakened the Christmas birds early one morning. They held their breath as their box was carried down the stairs. “It’s time! It’s finally Christmas! Soon we’ll be on the Christmas tree!” the Christmas bird whispered. The young Christmas bird lay in the box under Gold Bird, wrapped in soft white tissue paper. His friends were lifted, one by one, from beside him. He heard them squeal as they were hung on the tree. He could faintly hear the music. He could hear the children laughing; he could even smell the cookies! “It’s nearly time,” he whispered to Gold Bird.  “It’s nearly my turn.” Gold Bird’s fluffy tail no longer tickled his nose. His box was tossed into the corner; empty except for the little Christmas bird. He was alone.

His comfortable bed was now a prison, his beautiful body lay swaddled in crinkly tissue paper. Muffled Christmas sounds reached his ears. A tiny plastic tear formed in his little red eye. “I’ve been conceited and proud, and now I’ve been left behind.”

He lay alone and forlorn through December. The Christmas season was nearly over, and he had missed everything. On Christmas Eve, the family gathered to celebrate the birth of Jesus. The Christmas tree bird lay in his box in the corner, imagining the tree with his Christmas bird friends hanging on its branches, along with the round ones he had scorned. “They may not be as beautiful,” he thought,” but they are on the tree, and I’ve been left behind.”

The little girl read the Christmas story. “They wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid Him in a manger.”

Christmas bird thought, “I’m wrapped in swaddling clothes, like the baby Jesus,” and he imagined the tiny baby, sung and warm, lying in a manger. He heard the daddy telling how Jesus came to earth as a tiny baby, and if we loved and trusted Him, He would take us to heaven and we would not be left behind. The Christmas bird sniffed, “I know what it’s like to be left behind. How much worse if I should be left behind in Heaven.”

He felt his box jiggle, the crinkling tissue paper lifted away, and he felt the warmth from the fireplace. “Look, Mommy! It’s another Christmas birdie. He has a tear in his eye. Can we hang him on the Christmas tree?”

Daddy helped her hang the little bird near Gold Bird.  Looking down, the joyous Christmas bird saw the family gathered around the tree. He felt the love in the room. Finally, he was where he needed to be. Gold Bird gave him a loving glance. “Welcome to Christmas. Did you learn anything?”

The tear in his eye had turned to gold, glinting in the firelight as he swung toward Gold Bird. “I understand,” he whispered. “Christmas is not about who is most beautiful, who is round, or who has a springy tail. The true meaning of Christmas is God’s gift to everyone; the birth of Jesus. When we accept His Gift, we will never be left behind.”

A fantasy story based on facts about 911 and a Halloween full moon.

Even six weeks after the World Trade Center attack on September 11, 2001, the nation continued to mourn the loss of over 3000 innocent victims when two airplanes crashed into the towers.

Several days ago, the editor of the Sacramento Daily Sun burst into my office. “Clive,” he said. “Pack your bags. You’re going to Salem, Massachusetts, to cover their Halloween celebration. Let’s give the subscribers something to think about besides the 9/11 tragedy.”

He had me at, ‘pack your bags!’ With yet another gut-wrenching editorial on my computer about the 341 firemen lost in the Towers, I was up for anything to get away from the twenty-four-seven news cycle.

October 31 is big news in Salem. Every year, 250,000 visitors swarm the city to experience haunted houses, costume balls, live music, dances, and holiday parades. This year, due to a full moon scheduled on October 31, the first full moon on that date since 1974, Salem planned even more spectacular events. Apparently, the occurrence of a Halloween full moon happens only four or five times each century! The next one isn’t expected for another twenty years, October 31, 2020!

Entering Salem, I was impressed by the witches and goblins, pumpkins and ghouls decorating houses and businesses, much like we decorate for Christmas back home. Witches are big in Salem all year long, due to the history of the Salem witch trials, but this year, even more so, what with the full moon phenomenon. Apparently, Salem’s city fathers thought the citizenry had grieved the 911 tragedy long enough and should get their minds back onto business as usual. Let the nation grieve if it must. Salem would strike while the moon was full!

Cornstalks lined the streets. Jack-o-lanterns hung from each lamp post. Shopkeepers dressed as witches and warlocks, ghosts and vampires. Every shop window displayed witches and cauldrons, spirits and ghouls. Tourists clamored through the town atop horse-drawn hay wagons and carts.

I ate lunch at a little diner and delighted in the attentions of a charming waitress with long black hair, sparkling gold eyes, and fluttering lashes. With a glance, Jenny churned up feelings I hardly remembered, being a widower well past middle-age, and an almost regular church goer.

Imagine my surprise when she handed me a napkin with a message inside. Meet me outside tonight. 11:25 P.M. Come alone. I must see you.

I left my lunch half-eaten and stumbled outside to ponder the situation. With her charms, she had the pick of any young man; what could she possibly want with me? I interviewed shopkeepers and snapped photos of the holiday events that day and well into the evening. Even knowing it was a fool’s errand, at 11:15 P.M, I was drawn back to the diner like a moth to a flame.

****

At 11:20 P.M. Jenny wiped down the last table, flipped over the CLOSED sign and locked the café door. She had nearly given up hope of the middle-aged man with silver-white hair and mustache arriving at the last possible moment to change her destiny?

Jenny wrapped her cape around her shoulders and stepped out the front door. There Clive stood, a puzzled expression on his face. She was blessed with a sixth sense, knowing when the phone would ring or a visitor was at her door. An oppressive spirit had even settled on her the morning of September 11, feeling something evil on the horizon. She had powers over men, but on this night of night, with the full moon overhead on this auspicious date, her fate lay in the hands of a stranger. Without his cooperation, she could not escape the family curse.

“Hello. Thanks so much for coming.” Jenny placed her hand on Clive’s arm, in an effort to bend his will to her own needs. “You’re the only one who can help me.”

“I’m happy to oblige. But why ask a stranger? Don’t you have family or friends who could help you?”

Jenny lowered her head, brushing her lashes against her pale face. Her lips trembled as a tear trickled down her cheek. A curl of white hair tumbled onto her forehead, seemingly out of place among her mass of black curls.

“Here, here, now. None of that.” Clive brushed Jenny’s hair back into place. “I’ll help you if I can, my dear. Don’t cry.” He tipped up her chin and dried her tears with his handkerchief. “Now, give me a smile and tell me all about it.”

“I fear you’ll think me crazy, sir, but I swear I speak the truth.” Jenny sat on a bench and began an inexplicable tale.

“I am a descendent of the judge who unjustly hanged Sarah Good as a witch in 1692, right here in Salem. Since Sarah Good’s death, the judge’s descendants have suffered a terrible curse. Upon the rare occasion, only about four or five times each century, when the full moon is overhead on All-Hollow’s Eve, any of the judge's female descendants between the age of 18 and 21 is in grave danger.

“As the full moon is upon us this night for the first time in 27 years, and to avoid the curse, I must find a middle-aged man with long silver-white hair, who resembles the judge who sentenced my poor ancestor, Sarah, to death. Before midnight, a drop of this man’s blood must be placed on a particular stone that stands at the edge of town.” Jenny’s dark lashes fluttered.

“Would you shed a drop of your blood on Sarah’s commemorative stone to save me from the curse?”

“What kind of curse, my dear?” Clive raised perplexed eyebrows.

“It is so terrible, I dare not speak it aloud.” Whispering these words, Jenny clung to Clive’s shoulder and wept piteously. Would it be enough to convince him to go with her to the stone? And, once there, could she muster the courage to do what she must do to stave off the curse?

****

Clive was speechless. Never had he encountered such a stunning creature that so captivated his heart within minutes of meeting. Never has such a ridiculous tale so captured his imagination. He was inclined to leap from the bench, take her by the hand, and race to the stone in question. Only with great difficulty did he pummel his rash impulses into submission and sit back on the bench, staring into the starry sky.

The full moon hung blood-red over the city, casting an orange glow across the sidewalks, still churning with costumed tourists, jostling and laughing, their joyous songs of nonsense carried into the black sky on the night wind.

The young woman stirred in his arms, her sobs finally ceased. She dashed tears from her cheeks and looked up at him. “You will help me, won’t you? I’m so desperate. We only need a teeny-weeny drop of blood, really. I’d be ever so grateful.”

If she truly believed her outrageous tale, considering the unusual request, even a gentleman couldn’t help wondering, how grateful? On the other hand, just exactly how much was a teeny-weeny drop of blood and just how crazy was this charming girl? Clive shivered.  A thin cloud crept across the center of the moon, seeming to cut it in half.

Clive glanced at his watch. 11:40 P.M. “Well, let’s get on with it. Can we walk to the stone?” He would humor her and see where all this would lead. His hand rested around a small penknife in his pocket. If a tiny drop of blood is all it takes to satisfy her fantasy and win her gratitude, I can do that.

The wind whistled overhead as the cemetery loomed into view. Groups of tourists ambled amongst the gravestones. Raucous laughter burst from the direction of Bridget Bishop and Martha Corey’s graves, also victims of the 1692 Salem witch trials. From the sound of merriment coming from the shadows, one would think it was an amusement park rather than a cemetery.

Jenny squealed as a man dressed as a vampire loomed from the bushes. Clive put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She was really a dear little thing, and his heart stirred. He wanted so to calm her fears. Perhaps he’d bring her coffee in bed tomorrow morning…

Sarah Good’s commemorative stone gleamed in the moonlight.

Jenny ran her fingers over the grooves in the stone forming the letters– Sarah Good 1653 – 1692 “Poor thing. I’m so sorry, Sarah. Please forgive my ancestor.” Jenny glanced at her watch. “Are you ready?” She drew a huge serrated bread knife from her purse. “We don’t have much time. I only have two more minutes. Clive?” Jenny’s beautiful smile, only moments ago holding so much promise, faded, replaced by a fiendish leer. Only his blood splashed across the accursed stone would make her smile now.

At the sight of Jenny’s wild eyes gleaming gold in the moonlight, Clive stepped back. The thrill of the lovely lady and moonlight adventure faded and common sense prevailed. Jenny would not settle for a pricked finger and a drop of blood. With the knife in her hand, she crept closer and closer with murder in her eyes.

“Hold on, there, young lady.” Clive backed away, glancing left and right. Where had all the costumed tourists gone? The witches and ghosts and had disappeared at the first sight of Jenny’s knife.

In the distance, Clive heard the town clock begin to strike. Twelve o’clock…the witching hour. Bong…bong…bong. The hour that a real witch, if there was such a thing, might easily murder a stranger to thwart her twisted notion of an imaginary family curse.

Bong… bong… bong. Clive’s dull evenings suddenly held more appeal. He wished he was back in New York, playing solitaire, and had never heard of Salem. Bong… bong… bong.

Bong… bong… Jenny shrieked and rushed at him, the knife raised...

Paralyzed with fear, Clive put up his hands, closed his eyes and held his breath, waiting for the death blow. Bong! Midnight!

Seconds ticked by. Clive opened his eyes, ran his hands up and down his chest. “I’m still alive?”

Jenny’s cape and the bread knife lay on the ground. She had waited seconds too long past the stroke of midnight but… Where was Jenny?

Sarah Good’s gravestone gleamed in the moonlight where a small black cat huddled on the stone, her tail whipping around her black toes. A white blaze crept over her nose, across one golden eye, ending beside her ear. She stared up at Clive, terror in those golden eyes, enough to soften the hardest heart.

“Jenny?” Clive whispered, stepping closer to the stone. He’d never believed tales about witches turning into black cats, but... He stroked the little cat and peered into her eyes. He gasped. Jenny’s golden eyes stared back. The curse!  “Only my blood could have protected her from the curse. She needed me... She still needs me.”

He would write his 2000-word newspaper story about Salem, about the haunted houses and the costume ball and the decorations and the Halloween parades. The story would be colorful and for a few minutes the Sacramento Daily Sun readers could forget the tragedy that took almost 3000 lives on September 11.

He would write about tonight being the first full moon on October 31 for the last twenty-seven years, but he would not write about a 300-year-old curse that turned a Salem witch into a little black cat. Who would believe it?

Clive cradled Jenny in his arms. “Don’t worry, Jenny. You don’t have to worry ever again. I promised to help you, and I won’t abandon you now."

.....

If you enjoyed this story, check out my 13 mystery novels at Amazon. Black cats are my favorite!!

‘Found cat’ advertisements were posted, and a lady responded, claiming Angel was her lost cat, Miss Boopkins. She is coming to claim her, and Black Cat is distraught that he will lose his ladylove and their babies. (Written by Black Cat.)

All too soon, the crunch of tires in the driveway announced the arrival of Angel’s lady. Daddy met her in the yard.

Mrs. Stubblefield had a gray bun on top of her head and wore a pink T-shirt with Miss Boop-kins scrawled across the front. She was carrying a pink cat carrier with lace around the door and a big red bow tied on top. “Miss Boopkins” was emblazoned on the side. Cynthia pulled Angel and all the babies into her lap.

I sat beside her and growled, fighting the urge to fight for my family until the breath left my body… but I knew I couldn’t. I had to put up a front for Angel and Cynthia’s sake. A bloody cat-fight to the death wouldn’t make Angel’s leaving any easier on either of them.

The door squeaked open. I froze, facing the moment I had so long dreaded. Daddy came in, followed by Mrs. Stubblefield. She set down the huge cat carrier, her face wreathed in smiles. She leaned over the blanket in Cynthia’s lap. Angel looked up, and their eyes met, and Mrs. Stubblefield burst into tears.

Tears of joy, I guess. It was too much. I had tried so hard to be brave, but I couldn’t hold it together. I’m not proud of myself, but I ran straight out the door and over to the woodpile. Waves of suicidal thoughts one minute and homicidal thoughts the next, raged within my breast, and I didn’t know who I should kill first; myself or Mrs. Stubblefield.

I heard Cynthia shriek and looked up. I guess she was throwing a fit after all, despite her promise to be good and let Angel go back to her home.

She was on the porch, calling. “Black Cat. Here, kitty, kitty. Come back. I have something to tell you.”

Yeah, right. As if I needed a lecture on civility while Mrs. Stubblefield popped Angel into the ridiculous whore wagon she called a cat carrier. I started to run away through the vineyard. I stopped.

I owe Angel a decent goodbye.

A broken, defeated soul, I slunk so low across the yard, the pine needles stuck to my belly fur dropped to the floor as I crossed the porch.

Inside, Mrs. Stubblefield sat on the rug with Cynthia, cooing over the yet-to-be-named cream colored kitten. Daddy sat on the couch, all smiles.

What’s going on here? How dare he smile? Cynthia looked up, “Oh, there you are, Black Cat. Come and meet Mrs. Stubblefield. Angel isn’t her cat after all, but she wants to take the little cream kitten home with her. Isn’t that wonderful?”

At that moment, a beam of sunshine from the window cast its light across Angel and Mrs. Stubblefield’s faces. If I didn’t know better, I swear I heard a chorus of angels.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Mrs. Stubblefield stroked the cream baby across her cheek. “I think I’ll call you…Miss Bubblekins…Yes, that’s what I’ll call you.”

I shuddered. That my daughter should go through life named Miss Bubblekins! But the kitten wound her toes in and out and mouthed an appreciative silent mew. I guess any lady who would wear a T-shirt with her cat’s name spread across her boobs can’t be all bad. Miss Bubblekins… would be going to a good home with a satisfactorily besotted owner, which, after all, is the goal of any mother and father cat.

Conversation was underway. Was the baby old enough to leave her mother, or did she need to stay several more weeks? There were two schools of thought. On the one hand, Miss Bubblekins had only started to drink milk from a bowl the day before. On the other hand, there was no doubt Mrs. Stubblefield would move heaven and earth to see that Miss Bubblekins got enough to eat, even if it meant getting up every two hours throughout the night to feed her with a baby bottle. Because of the distance Mrs. Stubblefield had driven, Daddy relented and agreed she could take the kitten home with her. We all kissed the baby goodbye and wished her good luck.

That afternoon, Angel and I snuggled on the blanket with the remaining two kittens, Rambo and Mittens.

“I know she’s going to a good home,” Angel said, “but I’m sad to see her go so young. I thought I’d have more time to get her on the right track.”

“Yes, but that’s the way things ought to be. You give them life, teach them right from wrong, set them toward a good home, kiss them good-bye, and wish them luck. That’s what a mother cat does. You don’t have any regrets, do you?”

Angel sighed. “I guess not. Though I do regret that she was named Miss Bubblekins.” Her mouth twitched.

I rolled over and showed off my magnificent white tummy, put my feet in the air, and laughed. “And I do regret calling her cat carrier a whore wagon.”

Angel glared at me. “You didn’t!”

“I did, but I have to admit, when they put her into that pink monstrosity with the lace around the door and the red ribbon, she did look kind of cute, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but she looked awfully little in there.”

“I’m betting she was in Mrs. Stubblefield’s lap before they hit Nevada City.”

“Yes, I’ll bet you’re right.” Then Angel put her paws around the other two kittens and dragged them a little closer to her heart. If you looked really hard, I think she had a little tear in her eye. Or could it be that I was looking through my own tears? It’s hard to say.

****

Amazon:  Black Cat and the Accidental Angel:   http://tinyurl.com/y4eohe5n

Barely distinguishable from the surrounding leaves, the gossamer wings of two Praying Mantises fluttered violently, battling to the death.  As the silent war waged on, the leaf crumpled, and the female Mantis lost her death grip on her mate. She fell, landing soundlessly on the blanket where a toddler lay sleeping beneath vines hanging heavy with hops.

In the distance, women stripped oval hops from vines pulled from 12- feet-high wires and dropped them into long cloth bags hanging from their shoulders. Gradually more and more of the stripped vines lay barren and trampled in the pathway. Large naked wires hovered overhead. In the spring, rows of new plants would grow, twisting round the wires, reaching skyward toward the nourishing sun and rain until they blossomed and produced fruit. Then would come the harvest and the cycle would begin again.

Mary halted her work and checked her watch. She dropped her bag and ran to the blanket where her sleeping toddler lay in the shade of the hop vines. Unaware of the recent battle overhead, she flicked the Praying Mantis off the blanket, opened a basket and removed a diaper, changed the baby, pulled up her coveralls and buckled the straps.

Before the attack on Pearl Harbor, she would never have believed she would be working in a hop field, leaving her baby unattended. Her small paycheck was necessary to supplement her husband’s military check for dependents. She agreed to the back- breaking work of picking hops because she was able to bring the toddler to the field.

Conscious of the time lost tending the baby, Mary covered the child with a light quilt and checked the direction of the sun. The child’s blanket would remain in the shade for at least another hour. She kissed her forehead and ran back through the stripped vines where she had left her half- filled cloth bag.

Her companions had moved somewhat ahead, leaving her alone in the center of the field. She pulled the headscarf from her head, wiped her brow, and refastened the heavy bag to her shoulder.

Mary could hear the girls’ exaggerated tales that bore only the faintest resemblance to the truth. Peals of laughter filled the air, as the stories became more provocative.  The foreman weighed bags of hops and recorded the weights beside each woman’s name. The numbers were totaled weekly, paying a few cents for each pound of hops picked.

The smell of stale cigarette smoke warned Mary of the foreman's approach, probably coming to fuss about falling behind the other girls' production. They didn’t have to stop every 20 minutes to run and check on a baby. The foreman approached, sucking on the stub of his cigarette.

"You’ll have to keep up with the others. If that baby makes you fall behind, you won’t be able to bring her out here,” he growled. "I don’t want to come off like an ogre, but we’re on a time frame. The crop has to be in within three weeks or the hops will rot. If you can’t keep up, I’ll have to get someone who can. But since Lilly’s gone, I’ll let it go today. Work faster, will ya'?” He tossed the cigarette and with the ball of his foot, ground it into the tangle of vines.

Mary turned to her task and pulled hops from the hanging vines and stuffed them into the sack. When she had stripped all the hops within reach, she pulled, and the vines tumbled down. She felt a stab of pain in her back and shoulders as she leaned over to glean the remaining hops on the ground.

Her thoughts returned to the baby. She hated bringing her to the field. But the money was too tempting. If she worked hard, she could earn $25 a week. One hundred and fifty dollars for the six-weeks picking season would help this winter when there was no seasonal work. If bringing the baby to work continued to be a problem, she would have to keep her older daughter home from school to baby-sit. These days while husbands were at war, wives and mothers did what was necessary to survive.

Wilson had mentioned Lilly, the first woman to welcome her to the field. Most of the other women were silly girls that didn’t have to face the possible reality that her husband might not return, or the responsibilities of caring for children. Lilly understood. She was a middle-aged Asian woman with small children. Her family had lived here for three generations, and her husband owned a local grocery store. Lilly thought owning their own home and a successful business would protect them, but it hadn’t. After Pearl Harbor when the USA entered the war, the country worried about living alongside Japanese American citizens.

Yesterday afternoon, military men pulled Lilly into an Army truck. The women rushed to intervene, arguing that she was no threat, but to no avail. The men explained that she and her family were being taken “to keep them safe” until the war ended. Lilly’s United States citizenship could not compete with wartime racial prejudice.

The women had cried. “What about their grocery store? What is an "internment camp?" When can she come home? How can the United States do this?” There were no answers.

Lilly’s misfortune secured Mary’s job. For the next few weeks, she would pick hops and save her money. When hop season ended, she would find other work. Her dependent’s check and ration stamps would get them through this winter. Next spring, she would plant a victory garden. Her son would collect items for the rubber drives. They would buy a War Bond. She would knit socks for the boys overseas and contribute to the rag drive. Next year there would be beans, berries, apples, and more hops to pick. Perhaps the war would end, and Ed would come home. Somehow, she would endure.

She heard her baby cry. She took the bag from her shoulder and walked back to tend the child. The field was quiet except for the sound of her feet crunching the vines beneath her feet.

***

The Praying Mantis sat on the trampled vines near the child. Her peaceful world had turned upside down, her home yanked down, trampled into the earth, ripped asunder by unknown forces. She was powerless to stop the destruction.

The woman’s footsteps echoed louder. The Mantis rose to her hind legs and defiantly waved her antenna toward the threatening danger. Within the ruins of her world, defenseless compared to the giant approaching, she prepared to fight to the death to protect her unborn children. She would endure. She had to endure, because she had no other choice.

Alice pulled in her driveway and stepped out of her Prius. Her neighbor, Millie, hailed from across the street. “Yoo-hoo! Alice! Wait up. Happy Fourth of July!” as she scurried across the street.

Millie was the last person Alice wanted to talk to. They had nothing in common. Millie’s husband, George, collected Revolutionary War memorabilia. Their house looked like a war museum. Why did Millie put up with such nonsense?

Millie ran up, breathlessly, “Are you coming to the Independence Day celebration at the Vet’s Memorial Building? It starts in an hour. They’re having a military band, Viet Nam veteran speakers, and fireworks after the meeting. You’re welcome to ride over with us.”

Alice lifted her grocery bags from the back seat. “Sorry, can’t make it. Gotta’ get these things inside. Frozen stuff, you know. Talk to you later.” She hurried into the house. She felt a twinge of guilt. Snubbing Millie wasn’t very nice, but Millie was so gol-darned boring. Every conversation somehow turned to her husband’s latest E-Bay purchase. A Minute Man rifle. A battered sword. A faded British shirt. Alice sighed. Who cared about all that stuff anymore? What difference did it make, anyway, two hundred years later?

The 4^th of July was such a nuisance. The fireworks always made the neighborhood dogs bark and the next morning, the streets were a cluttered mess.

Alice went to bed early. She pulled the pillow over her head and closed her eyes… It helped block out the sound of fireworks down the street.

Alice jerked and twisted. What? What was that? She opened her eyes to find herself standing in the middle of a battlefield! The boom-boom of nearby firecrackers became the sound of a beating drum. The sun blazed down on men wearing brilliant red jackets. Sweat poured from their faces as they marched in a straight row toward an outline of shadowy figures in buckskin, hiding behind rocks and trees.

Redcoats? English soldiers? A battlefield? She didn’t belong here! She couldn’t be here. That’s it!  She must be dreaming. Wake up! Wake up! The field would soon be littered with dead and dying men. She turned to run.

Someone grabbed her arm and yanked her down behind a rock. Her heart pounded. She could smell the sweat on the man crouched beside her.

Grimaces lined the faces of the older soldiers, knowing what was to come. “Hold the line, men. Steady now.”

Younger soldiers, terrified of the unknown, sniffled as each beat of their drum brought the redcoats closer. Though the ragtag soldiers were outnumbered by the advancing troops, they had the advantage with the cover of trees and rocks. The men primed their guns with powder and ball and squatted in the dirt, waiting, waiting as the formidable enemy advanced, step by step.

Alice had to get away. This couldn’t be real! She knew she was dreaming! Why couldn’t she wake up?

The drumbeat stopped. Silence! What happened? She peeked around the rock. There stood the redcoats, frozen in time, guns at the ready, feet in mid-step. The flag drooped, unmoving. The drummer’s drumstick hung above his drum, suspended in mid-air.

Alice lifted her head toward the brilliant sky where scattered patches of clouds gathered as though suspended from wires. Overhead, a bird hung motionless...

She opened her eyes and blinked against the darkness in her room. “I was dreaming!” Dreams were, after all, just snatches of thoughts and memories, sounds and sights stored willy-nilly in one’s mind, and pulled into a fractured scenario to haunt our restless minds. She shuddered, thinking of the day when her dream had been the reality for young men and old who would not live to see another sunrise.

She turned toward the window. Rivulets of rain streaked the glass, curving and twisting as they traversed the pane. Outside, the tree in the backyard wavered in the breeze of an unseasonable summer shower. The Fourth of July celebrations and fireworks must have ended by now. Alice put her hand to her pounding heart. It was just a dream. Everything was fine. Just a dream.

Alice rose from her bed and found a book about the Revolutionary War in her library. She sat in a rocker and began to read:

For the sake of independence, farmers, storekeepers, bankers, men from all walks of life, rebelled at the tyranny England imposed on their fledgling nation. Ill equipped, with antiquated guns and untrained, the Continental soldiers chose to fight a highly trained army made up of Englishmen, German mercenaries, and Hessians.

The Revolutionary war lasted over eight years.
The estimated population in America in 1776 was three million.
80,000 militia and Continental Army soldiers served at the height of the war
25,000 American Revolutionary soldiers died during the war
8,000 more Revolutionary soldiers died later from wounds inflicted during battle
17,000 Revolutionary soldiers died from disease
25,000 Revolutionary soldiers were wounded or maimed
1 in 20 men were affected.

All for the sake of following generations, so we could have the freedom to make laws and live by our own rules as established by the Declaration of Independence.

Alice called and left a message on Millie’s answering machine. “This is Alice. Sorry I couldn’t make it tonight. I hope you had fun. I promise I’ll come with you next year. Our freedom is important, isn’t it? We need to remember what the holiday cost our forefathers. It really matters.”

Alice returned to her bedroom. Boom! Another firecracker cracked in the night. Alice stared at her reflection in the dresser mirror. “Does that child have any idea what he’s celebrating or why? We all take so much for granted.”

****

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While sorting through my cedar hope chest recently, I discovered my wedding gown and honeymoon nightie. A few shreds of rice still clung to the folded honeymoon finery. I remembered those precious days as I folded and smoothed the purple nightie and thought about our unusual honeymoon.

Our wedding was on a perfect June day in 1962. The sun shone through the stained glass windows and the church was filled with flowers and music.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” and we were man and wife, 20 years and 18 years old respectively.

Following the wedding reception, we raced through torrents of rice, eager to begin our trip to a secret honeymoon site. When we arrived at our motel in the little resort town, we planned to go “out to dinner.”

While dating we had eaten at hotdog stands, drive-in movie snack shacks and BBQ’s with family, but we had never eaten at a real restaurant. For me, going “out to dinner” symbolized a rite of passage. A candlelight dinner would be a cherished memory, the perfect beginning to our wedding night.

The sun shone hot on our heads as we drove with the top down on our 1958 MGA. The excitement of the day took a toll on my young husband. His head began to throb and maybe “nerves” played a role as well. In our day, “the wedding night” created some anxieties than many young grooms don’t experience today. Several hours later we reached our honeymoon cottage on the shores of a sparkling lake. My young husband threw himself on the bed, head pounding, eyes aching, a wet cloth held to his forehead, and begged to be allowed to die in peace. He wasn’t up to dinner at a fancy restaurant.

“Tomorrow, honey,” he promised, “just let me go to sleep.”

A brand-new blushing bride, I pushed a grocery cart through a tiny grocery store in the resort town on my wedding eve, and selected spaghetti, hamburger, tomato sauce, lettuce, and salad dressing. I soon found myself in front of a tiny stove in our honeymoon cottage, cooking spaghetti while my new husband groaned on the bed.

“I hope this isn’t a sign of what’s ahead,” I thought, as I added a pinch of salt to the boiling water. “This is NOT how I planned my wedding night.”

Monday dawned bright and clear, a hot and perfect June day and we slept late, lulled by the lapping waves on the nearby shore, headaches and anxieties of the day before a forgotten memory. We spent the afternoon in the park in the shade of a willow tree, watching the squirrels. We kissed and spoke of where we would have our special dinner that night, a celebration of our one-day anniversary. We swam and frolicked in the lake. My new lord and master climbed a nearby diving board. “Hey, Hon, look at me,” he shouted, spreading his arms and launching himself in a perfect swan dive into the sparkling water below.

Somewhere between “Look at me,” and the sparkling water below, something went dreadfully wrong with his perfect dive. He hit the water with a resounding “kersplash.” Breaking the surface of the water, he held his hand to his left ear.

“I think I broke something.” The local emergency room confirmed, indeed, a broken eardrum. The doctor advised bed rest and a quiet night…

As a recently married woman, I pushed a grocery cart through a tiny grocery store in the tiny resort town and selected hamburger, tomato sauce and French bread. On my one-day anniversary, I stood in front of the stove, my young husband sleeping off the effects of pain medications. The water lapped onto the shore next to our honeymoon cottage as I sighed and heated the previous night’s spaghetti sauce.

Tuesday dawned bright and clear, and we slept late, being lulled by the lapping waves on the nearby shore. All afternoon we streaked across the beautiful waves in a rented speedboat, churning up the water. We talked of a romantic dinner that evening to celebrate our two–day anniversary. The sun shone deceivingly on my husband’s bare legs and they changed from white, to pink, to bright red.

My young husband moved slowly toward our car, each painful step tugging at his sunburned legs. He tried to pull on his trousers but the effort was too painful. My young husband lay on the cool asbestos tile floor (who knew?) of our honeymoon cottage, moaning. “I don’t think I can put my pants on. Sorry, Hon. No fancy dinner. Maybe tomorrow.”

A fairly jaded wife, I pushed a grocery cart through the grocery store in the tiny resort town and selected hamburger, tomato sauce and cookies.  The storeowner smiled. After all, I had shopped there three days in a row and a contender for his newest most-frequent shopper. I vowed to speak to mother about marriage. If this were going to continue, I would need to learn to cook something besides spaghetti.

Wednesday dawned bright and clear, we slept late…  We spent the afternoon driving around the lake. In the late afternoon, we stopped at a nice restaurant before any further calamity. We celebrated our three-day anniversary. It was as romantic as I had imagined. My husband’s head didn’t ache, his ear didn’t throb, his sunburn had faded to a dull pink, his pants were on, we didn’t eat spaghetti and I didn’t have to cook.

After dinner, at a drive-in theater, necking in the front seat somehow didn’t have its pre-marriage appeal. We determined it would be best to leave when the movie was half over. It was getting very late, nearly 9:30, after all, and we were anxious to return to our honeymoon cottage.

Thursday dawned bright and clear, and we slept late, lulled by the waves…

By late afternoon, we thought about the events of the week. A migraine, a broken eardrum, a sunburn, and it became clear that we should cut our honeymoon short and return home before any further disaster occurred. I felt the need to speak to mother about marriage in general and recipes in particular. By early evening, we bid the honeymoon cottage farewell and started for home.

We were both eager to reach home and resume… what honeymooners resume. The air was warm and balmy as we left the resort town. A crooked road down the mountain would take 30 minutes off our travel time. Driving the mountain road was difficult, with switchbacks and no roadside safety rails. Slowly maneuvering hairpin curves, eyes wide, we saw broken, twisted cars in the canyons below. Had they run off the road or were they shoved into the canyon to dispose of them? Reaching the bottom of the mountain, the valley stretched before us, and the terrible ordeal was finally over.

My young husband shifted gears and revved the engine. Nothing happened. He shifted to another gear and stepped on the gas. Nothing happened. The car coasted into a convenient gas station. He crawled under the car, and found…. a broken axle. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he thought about what might have happened if the axle had broken at the top of the mountain on the winding road. We were safe, thank God, but how would we get home, 80 miles away?

As a mature, experienced wife of four days, able to handle any emergency, I dropped coins into the public telephone. Daddy answered, and I said, “Daddy, come get me….” whereupon, Daddy exploded,

“What’s wrong? Where are you? What has that horrid beast done to my baby girl?” I explained that the beast had done nothing that I didn’t want done, but never the less, the axle on the MG was broken and we needed a tow.

Daddy drove for an hour and a half to rescue his baby girl. He towed the car 80 miles unceremoniously at the end of a rope; a discouraged young bride and disgruntled half-frozen groom steering the MGA.

If we had seriously analyzed the disasters of the week, and felt them to be prophetic of our future life together, we might have applied for an annulment the next morning. Perhaps we were too naïve, too inexperienced, or too much in love to realize the pitfalls that lay ahead. Sixty-three years have passed and my husband’s hair is gray and my face is wrinkled. Through our marriage, we have encountered sickness and health, success and failure, joy and sorrow, but we continue to face life’s challenges together.

I placed the nightie back into the hope chest. The pungent aroma of cedar clung in the air as I closed the lid. I closed my eyes, thinking for a moment of those exciting, wonderful days and relived the thrills, frustrations and romance.

Returning to the kitchen, I put a pinch of salt into the spaghetti bubbling on the stove. Like a pinch of salt, it takes a touch of adversity to enhance the flavor so we may appreciate the fullness of life.

I smiled at the memory of a honeymoon cottage by the shores of a sky-blue lake, and a tiny stove, where another pot of spaghetti bubbled three nights in a row. Despite the unusual circumstance we shared that week, it was the most wonderful, exciting, perfect honeymoon a woman could ever experience, because I was with the man I love.

BLACK CAT AND THE ACCIDENTAL ANGEL

After finding the lost cats, Black Cat and Angel, a newspaper ad was posted. A lady responded, believing Angel to be her lost cat. (Narrated by Black Cat as he faces the loss of his ladylove.)

The crunch of tires announced the arrival of Angel’s owner.

Mrs. Stubblefield wore a pink tee shirt with Miss Boop-kins scrawled across the front. She carried a pink cat carrier with lace around the door and a red bow on top. “Miss Boop-kins” was emblazoned on the side in script that matched Mrs. Stubblefield's tee shirt. Cynthia sat on the floor and pulled Angel and all the babies into her lap, as if to say, “You’ll only take them over my cold dead body.”

I sat beside Angel and growled, fighting the urge to take out anyone who came too close. I was willing to fight for my family until the breath left my body… but I knew I couldn’t. I had to put up a front for Angel and Cynthia’s sake. A bloody 'cat- fight to the death' wouldn’t make Angel’s leaving any easier on anyone.

I froze, facing the moment I dreaded. Mrs. Stubblefield set the cat carrier on the floor and crossed the room, her face wreathed in smiles. Angel looked up and their eyes met. Mrs. Stubblefield burst into tears. Tears of joy, I guessed.

It was too much. I tried to be brave, but I couldn’t hold it together any longer.  I’m not proud of myself, but I ran straight out the door and over to the woodpile. Misery filled my heart. Waves of suicidal thoughts one minute, and homicidal thoughts the next, raged within my breast and I didn’t know who I should kill first; myself or Mrs. Stubblefield.

I heard Cynthia shriek. I guess she was throwing a fit in spite of her promise to be good and let Angel go back to her owner.

She was on the porch, calling. “Black Cat. Come quick. Here kitty, kitty. I have something important to tell you.”

Yeah, right. ...As if I needed a lecture on civility while I watched Mrs. Stubblefield pop Angel into the ridiculous whore wagon. I started to run away through the vineyard. I stopped. At least I owe Angel a decent good-bye. A broken, defeated soul, I slunk so low across the yard, pine needles stuck to my belly fur and dropped to the floor as I crossed the porch.

Inside, I found Mrs. Stubblefield on the rug with Cynthia, giggling and cooing over the kittens.

What’s going on here? Too much jocularity for such a somber occasion.

“Oh, there you are, Black Cat," Cynthia said. Angel isn’t Mrs. Stubblefield's after all, but she wants to take the cream kitten home with her. Isn’t that wonderful?”

At that moment, a beam of sunshine streamed through the window casting a glow across Angel’s face. I swear I heard a chorus of angels singing, Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Mrs. Stubblefield stroked the cream baby. “I think I’ll call you… Miss Bubble-kins… Yes, that’s what I’ll call you.”

I shuddered. That I should live to see a daughter of mine go through life called Miss Bubble-kins… but the kitten wound her toes in and out and mouthed an appreciative silent mew, which apparently meant she approved. I guess any lady who would wear a tee shirt with her cat’s name spread across her boobs can’t be all bad. It looked as if… Miss Bubble-kins… would go to a good home with a besotted owner, which, is the goal of any father cat.

On the one hand, Miss Bubble-kins had only started to drink from a bowl the day before. On the other hand, Mrs. Stubblefield would likely move heaven and earth to see that … Miss Bubble-kins… got enough to eat even if it meant feeding her with a bottle. We all kissed the baby good-bye and wished her good luck.

That afternoon, Daddy took Cynthia to the vineyard, and Angel and I snuggled on the blanket with Rambo and Mittens.

“I know she’s going to a good home, but I’m a little sad to see her go so young. I thought I’d have more time to teach her more cat things,” Angel said.

“That’s how things ought to be. You give them life, teach them right from wrong, and kiss them good-bye. That’s what a mother cat does. You don’t have any regrets, do you?”

Angel sighed. “I do regret naming her Miss Bubble-kins.” Her mouth twitched.

I rolled over, put my feet in the air and laughed. “And I do regret calling her cat carrier a whore wagon.”

Angel glared at me. “You didn’t!”

“I did, but I have to admit, when they put her into that pink thing with the lace around the door and the red ribbon, she did look kind of cute, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but she looked awfully little in there.”

“I’m betting she was in Mrs. Stubblefield’s lap before she turned the corner.”

“Yes, I’ll bet you’re right.” Then, Angel put her paws around the other two kittens and dragged them a little closer to her heart. I think she had a little tear in her eye. Or could it be that I was looking through my own tears? It’s hard to say.

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 (Multiple varieties of pumpkins have various names. Here are just a few.)   

“If I’ve told you once, Jack,” Papa Red Warty Thing said. “I’ve told you a dozen times not to stray so far. Look at you. You’re already at the end of your tendrils and into the road. When the tractor comes, you’ll be smashed flatter than a fritter!”

Turning toward his parents, Papa Red Warty Thing and Sweet Sugar Pie, unruly Harvest Jack huffed, “I’d rather be a fritter than bored to death, lying face up in the sun like my cousins, Baby Boo, Wee-be-Little, and Jack-be-Little. They never stray past the first twist in their vines.”

Harvest Jack’s pumpkin cousins gasped. Such disrespect! Such defiance! And with Halloween and Thanksgiving right around the corner. Unheard of in polite Cucurbita Pepo society! They turned away from the disobedient cultivar and buried their tendrils and stems beneath their prickly leaves.

“That child shall be the death of me yet,” Sweet Sugar Pie declared. “How does he ever expect to become a pumpkin pie acting like that? It’s your fault. Your ancestors never looked like the rest of us. They were always rebellious.”

Papa Red Warty Thing shivered. “If the lad doesn’t change his attitude, he’s likely to end up gutted, with an ugly smirk carved on his face.”

Sweet Sugar Pie waved her sticky leaves in dismay. “Don’t even think such a thing. My family has a proud history of becoming harvest pies for the past 72 generations. Grandma Sirius Star would roll over in her mulch if she heard of such a vulgar future for one of our clan. I know that some of the Rock Star and Howden crew across the field plan to be gutted and carved up. Some even look forward to lighted candles stuck where their innards used to be. That’s not the future I want for our boy.” A drop of morning dew trickled from her stem, down her rounded middle, and plopped into the dirt.

“Now. dear. Don’t carry on so. The season isn’t over yet. It’s just growing pains. I’m sure he’ll come to his senses when he matures a bit.”

Papa Red Warty Thing was wrong, for by now, Harvest Jack had wandered into the road and lay directly in the path of the giant tractor grinding its way down the road, swooping up all in its path, and dumping the unfortunate ones into a hopper to be carried off to an uncertain future. Sweet Sugar Pie shrieked, “It’s coming! Beware!”

Harvest Jack heard the engine and turned toward the sound. “Uh Oh!” The seeds in his belly shook in terror. Papa Red Warty Thing was right. He was about to be crunched into a fritter.

A raven swooped down and landed on his stem. “It serves you right for wandering into the road. Papa Red Warty Thing warned you.”

How he wished to be alongside little, white, cousin Baby-Boo, or little cousin Wee-be-Little’s tiny, orange body. Their future was assured. They would become cute little decorations, perched alongside a costumed vampire doll in the middle of a mantle, or maybe in a wheelbarrow surrounded by harvest leaves and acorns and a couple Rock Star or Howden’s. Even his distant cousin Lil’ Pumpkemon with his white body and orange stripes might end up on the front porch with his larger cousins.

Directly in the path of the tractor, Harvest Jack’s future was destined to be ground into pulp.

Suddenly, he heard guttural, humanoid sounds reverberating through his stem. Harvest Jack felt himself lifted and then felt the cool earth beneath his bottom. What happened? He was lying just inches from Papa Red Warty Thing and Sweet Sugar Pie. Somehow, he’d escaped the wheels of the tractor and was back in his own row of cultivar cousins. “Oh, Papa Red Warty Thing! You were right,” Harvest Jack cried. “I’ll never disobey again. I promise I’ll grow up and become a Harvest dinner pie, but…may I choose which kind of pie I want to be?”

“Of course you can, my dear,” Sweet Sugar Pie cooed, stretching her loving tendrils over her son. “Your great aunt was a pumpkin streusel pie with a gingersnap crust, and your great-grandfather was a pumpkin cheesecake.”

“Good! When I grow up, I want to be… Let me think! I know just the thing. I want to be a cherry pie!”

Sweet Sugar Pie glared at Papa Red Warty Thing and shook her sticky leaves in anger.

“What’s wrong,” Harvest Jack cried. “You said I could choose what kind of Harvest pie I wanted to be.”

“My dear, you can’t be a cherry pie, because you’re a pumpkin.” Papa Red Warty Thing patiently explained.

Sweet Sugar Pie screamed. “According to today’s social media, if the lad wants to be a cherry pie, then he can be a cherry pie! This is your fault, Papa Red Warty Thing. You’ve always been too lenient on the lad!”

We quarreled this morning. I threw his favorite blue cup across the room and it shattered on the hearth. I screamed “I hate you!,” and ran out the door. I kicked the tires on my car.

I was angry all morning. Every time the phone rang, I was sure he was calling to apologize. Why didn’t he call? I wasn’t about to call him. He was wrong, right?

The afternoon dragged by. Now it’s 5:00 P.M., and I left the office. … The traffic was terrible and I was anxious to get home. It’s not that I was sorry. It’s his fault we quarreled, but it’s too tiring to stay mad. I want things to be the same between us.

The cars crept along the freeway and I checked my watch.

He should be home by now, waiting for me, listening to music, drinking a glass of red wine. I’m sure he bought me flowers. I can’t wait to see what color he chose. If they’re red, I know he still loves me.

Rain and leaves swirled across the highway and gathered on the edge of my windshield. My eyes stung with tears as I remember saying, “I hate you.” The wind shield wipers swished, and seemed to repeat, “hate-shoo, hate-shoo, hate-shoo.” I didn’t mean it. I reached in my purse for my cell phone and touched a melted chocolate candy kiss, his gift to me. I licked the chocolate off my fingers and smiled, remembering the night not so long ago and his words, “This kiss signifies my love.”

How I yearn to tell him I’m sorry, even if he was wrong. I want his arms around me. I want his lips to caress my throat. I want everything to be as it was before we quarreled.

I pull into the driveway, but I don’t see his car. It must be parked in the garage. I know he heard me pull in, and even now, I imagine him rushing to the door with a glass of wine and the flowers. In a minute, I’ll be in his arms. He’ll kiss me and whisper, “I’m sorry…”

I turn the handle on the front door. Why is it locked? I pull my key from my purse  and unlock the door. The room is empty. I call his name. Where can he be?

A gust of wind rushes in, slamming the door behind me. My heart pounds as my gaze is drawn to another chocolate candy kiss as it rolls off the table. A single sheet of paper flutters in the air and settles to the floor...