The acoustics of the room were not good, but she liked the way the notes reverberated between the ceiling joists and exposed duct work. A lovely dust bunny waltzed through the grid of light and dark that rested on the floor. She savored the feel of her instrument between her knees, the slow smooth strokes of the bow and the deep rich waves of sound that vibrated her body, then bounced off the walls the floor and the ceiling and returned to vibrate within her soul. 

Sinclair was on his way to pick her up. She knew that she should be getting dressed to go out, but the pleasant light and the sound of Vivaldi's Concerto in G and the feel of her cello were too seductive. She sat and played as the time ticked by and the shafts of light flowed in at an angle which was ever more acute. Sinclair startled her when he entered. Usually he pouted a little when she was late, but, when he saw that she was still in her slip he smirked and a ribald glint flickered in his light green eyes. 

Sinclair circled behind her and gently kissed the curve of her neck. She continued to play. He nibbled on her earlobe and she stopped bowing. He grasped the neck of the cello and the instrument slipped gently from her hand. Sinclair gingerly placed the instrument in the nearby stand and returned to her. The bow clattered as it fell from her hand to the floor. In an instant he had her on the hardwood floor and was on top of her, simmering with lust, covering her face with kisses. Suddenly he stopped. She reached for him, wanting him to transport her to the same passionate place they had found the week before, but he withdrew. 

"What's wrong this time darling?" she asked in the most soothing and breathy tone she could muster. 

"I... can't," he mumbled and let his head hang limply so that all she could see of him was his bald spot. 

"Don't tell me it's because you feel He's watching us, again." 

The last time he was unable to make love to her, he had told her it was because of an overwhelming sense that Leonard Bernstein was looking down on them and wouldn't approve. 

"No, it isn't that," he tucked his lower lip under his top teeth to stop its quivering. 

"It isn't anxiety over that Fidel Castro thing, my love?" 

"No. I'm positive of that. Dr. Offenbach made it clear to me last Thursday that my feelings of misgivings about the perceived failure of the Cuban Revolution would most likely manifest themselves in gastrointestinal discomfort rather than sexual dysfunction." 

Dr. Offenbach! The sound of that name filled Alicia with loathing. Sinclair believed all of her wild theories. Six months earlier she had convinced him to dispose of all his boxer shorts and wear only nylon briefs. She explained that the snug fit of his new underwear would trap more body heat in his nether regions and thus stimulate a feeling of well being and oneness with all living creatures. It was Dr. Joetta Offenbach who had convinced Sinclair to dispose of his African Violets and all his other beautiful house plants in an effort to slightly lower the oxygen level in his apartment. Sinclair had dutifully followed her advice, noting that too much of anything, even clean fresh air, might prove harmful. 

Sinclair rolled over onto the floor, still avoiding Alicia's eyes. 

"I didn't want to have to tell you this." 

"You needn't be afraid of telling me anything, darling." 

"Dr. Offenbach has advised me that it might be best to avoid all relationships, platonic and physical until I've worked through my feelings of trauma caused by the emotional reaction of my third grade music teacher to the news of John F. Kennedy's assassination." 

Alicia arched her eyebrows, and her face exploded into a cheery smile. It took her several seconds to realize that Sinclair was not joking. 

"Dr. Offenbach discovered, under hypnosis, that even though I seem relatively well adjusted on the surface of my subconscious self, when she stepped me through the long forgotten events of that November afternoon, it was seeing Sister Naomi standing in front of that chalkboard crying into her songbook that was the hidden source of my sexual problems." 

Alicia stared at him sitting on the floor next to her, his electric blue bikini briefs clinging to his shiny ankles. He glanced up at her arm to find that her vaccination scar, like some malevolent cyclopes, forced his gaze to the fading squares of sunlight on the dusty floor. 

"Alicia, I can see how it might sound far fetched . . . " 

"Oh no," She heard herself interrupt and thought of June Allison playing the role of steadfast supportive woman backing her man to the bittersweet end. "What's farfetched about a grown man who can't get it up because of being traumatized in childhood by seeing a nun weeping over the loss of the first Irish Catholic President of the United States?" Alicia no longer had to squint against the haze. Sinclair stole a glance at the side of her face. He was uncertain if he detected complete support or utter sarcasm in her tone. 

"Well, in a way it does make perfect sense, Sinclair." 

"It sounded a lot more . . . credible when Dr. Offenbach explained it." 

"No, really, Sinclair. I understand." 

"You're such a wonderful girl. So supportive and nurturing," Sinclair snuffled, overcome by emotion as he stood up and shuffled like a penguin toward the bathroom. By the time he emerged with a tissue, his pants were pulled up and Alicia had decided what to do. 

The music in the elevator might have been Gershwin or Peter Frampton, the volume was low and the car was crowded, so it was hard to be certain. She had almost changed her mind standing there in the lobby of Dr. Offenbach's building staring at the directory. There, between Obstetrics "R" Us in Suite 301 and Ogden Enterprises, Suite 706, was that name spelled out in little white letters tucked neatly in their slots and locked safely behind a sheet of glass: Joetta S Offenbach Ph.D., Suite 905. The sight of the woman's name drove her to the elevator. She's not even a medical doctor, Alicia thought. She's just like a college professor, only worse, and she has Sinclair in her thrall. 

Alicia felt the half hitch in her stomach clench when the bell sounded on the ninth floor. She thought of staying safe in the anonymity of the elevator. She could ride to the top and then down again to the lobby and no one would even notice. The doors started to close before she pushed her way forward. An ancient looking black man wearing a shiny straw fedora and a suit that once fit him stuck his hand out and the doors sprang open again. As she pushed her way out, she smelled the old man's cologne. He was wearing a lot of it, and she tried to remember its name, but before it came to mind the elevator door had closed behind her and she heard her heels clicking on the linoleum. They were the highest heels she owned and uncomfortable to boot, but she wanted to appear as tall and imposing as possible when she confronted this siren who had befogged the man she loved. 

She wandered down the hall, having to turn around and go back the way she came after noticing that the Suite numbers started at 908 and got larger the further she went. Alicia finally came to 905 and read the sign several times before she opened the door and went in. 

She wore a white smock. Cat glasses reflected the fluorescent glare from the ceiling giving her eyes a Daddy Warbucks vacancy, and her thick yellowish white hair was piled heavily on top of her head as if it were sculpted out of mashed potatoes. "Are you Doctor Offenbach?" Alicia asked with much more amazement in her voice than she had wanted there to be. 

The woman's face brightened as she answered in a voice that sounded like someone who waited tables in a truck stop. "Goodness me no, Honey! This is your first appointment here, huh?" She slid the window open and poked a form on a clipboard toward Alicia. "You fill this out for me, doll, and I'll get you fixed up." 

An appointment-- she hadn't thought of calling for an appointment. She'd pictured herself marching into the doctor's office and confronting her. Alicia realized how silly she'd been to think of their meeting in terms of a scene from some prime time soap opera. Of course there would be a waiting room and a receptionist. Why hadn't she thought of that, she wondered, now that she was confronted by this retired lady wrestler and a two-page questionnaire requiring answers that seemed intensely personal. 

Where does this Offenbach bitch get off, hiding behind this beehive redneck mamma who hands out forms containing questions so probing that they have to be designed to titillate rather than inform! She thought. 

Alicia was about to tell the woman in the window that she just wanted to see the doctor to discuss a personal matter when the door opened and a patient walked in. He was over six feet tall and must have weighed in at close to 300. His hair was glossy and slicked straight back. He was wearing crisp grey coveralls that had his name embroidered in bright orange over the left pocket-- Basil. She thought it was odd to see a name like that embroidered on workman's coveralls. Bud, or Roy, Billy Bob or Freddie Mack was the kind of moniker you expected to see, not Basil. She glanced up at him and then back down at the clipboard, but he didn't even seem to notice she was in the room. 

The woman in the window called out to him, "The doctor's been waiting for you, hon. Take them cigarettes out of your pocket and leave them in the lobby if you know what's good for you." He pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket and tossed them on the white coffee table. They hit the ratty magazines and ricochetted to the floor. He walked over and picked them up and put them on the table again. Then he disappeared through the door. 

As he had walked past her, she could hear him breathing, winded from bending over to pick up the cigarettes. He smelled like a jar of stale cumin dumped into a damp ashtray. The woman in the window had disappeared. Alicia called softly "Oh miss." There was no answer so she put the clipboard on the window sill and sat back down. 

A few moments later, the woman returned and took the clipboard. "Honey, you didn't answer these questions," the woman said. Alicia took a deep breath. "I think those questions are far too personal." 

Alicia braced herself for a scolding, but all the receptionist said was "I agree with you a thousand percent, but Sweetie don't you think you could let us intrude on your privacy just enough to find out your name and address?" She offered Alicia the clipboard and a pencil. "Just between you and me darlin' all we really need from you is your name and your insurance company's name." 

The woman waved the clipboard slightly, as if gently undulating a colorful toy in front of a petulant toddler. Alicia reached for the clipboard, then hesitating said, "If I fill out that part, can I see Doctor Offenbach this morning?" "I've got you scheduled for ten thirty, Mrs. Wilder." 

"No, I'm not Mrs. Wilder, I'm Alicia Murray." In her confusion, the woman looked like she just swallowed drain cleaner. "So you're not Jeanna Wilder, you're just a drop in?" "Exactly!" Alicia answered, wishing that she could see what was in the woman's eyes. "I'm, just real sorry Missy, but the doctor is all full up with appointments today. Her schedule's so tight I couldn't get you in there with a shoe horn and a bucket of Vaseline." Something about the last part of what she said had a practiced air to it, as if the woman used this phrase a lot. 

"What if you have a cancellation?" Alicia asked. 

"Well if we have a cancellation then you could probably get in, but that ain't likely. The best thing is to make an appointment. I've got some time tomorrow at three fifteen," the woman said, tapping her long fake fingernails on the open surface of the appointment schedule which sat on the cluttered counter just below the window. 

"I'll take it," Alicia said, disappointment evident. 

As she turned to walk out, loud bellowing followed from behind the door where Basil had entered. The noise seemed to rise and fall, then fold back over on itself until it brought to mind an image of a walrus trying to swallow an electric guitar. The woman saw that Alicia was alarmed. "That's nothing to worry about sweetie. Just a little Primal Scream Therapy goin' on." 

Walking back to the elevator, Alicia wondered how Sinclair could take his therapy seriously. Giants named Basil bellowing behind closed doors in the vain hope that it could end a nicotine addiction, nuns crying over dead presidents making people impotent, truck stop receptionists in cat glasses . . . Dr. Offenbach was queen of the loons. 

Sinclair was successful. In spite of a softening market, his gallery was very profitable, selling the works of noted abstract neo-impressionist post-modern sculptor and biker Heino Winkman, whose sculptures made of beer cans blasted at close range with a 410 shotgun had been praised by noted art critics as "jagged, pure emotion," and "angry but subtle interpenetrations of space." Each of Winkman's works fetched tens of thousands of dollars. Sinclair had also profited handsomely from the recent sales of surrealist painter Constance Rodman's quasi-aboriginal bark paintings, and four of her lithographs of famous lesbians. Sinclair was a charming and intelligent man. Why was he so influenced by this Joetta Offenbach, she wondered? 

Alicia went home, put on an Ofra Harnoy tape and cleaned out her refrigerator. She always did that when she was angry and frustrated. The music soothed, the cleaning gave her a sense of control. She was in charge of the refrigerator, an Inspector General, carefully opening plastic containers, examining their mysterious contents. The fuzziest substances went in the sink and down the disposal. Some left over tuna went into her cat's bowl. She needed that sense of power, that feeling of being in control of her own leftovers and destiny. 

The following afternoon she arrived at Dr. Offenbach's office a few minutes early. She was surprised to see a new receptionist. The new girl was scrubbed up, dazzlingly healthy and all-American, looking like one of those models in the cigarette ads who entice you to foul your lungs with tar and nicotine. The girl smiled and gave Alicia a slight wave, but said nothing. 

Alicia sat on the African print loveseat and waited nervously. In a few minutes, the girl called her name and she went through the door and down a short hallway to Dr. Offenbach's Office. 

The doctor sat behind her desk. Her short straight hair was mostly grey. Her skin was rough and slightly yellowish but translucent enough to reveal tiny veins just below the surface, like leafless crimson vines clinging to a stucco wall. She pursed her mouth revealing deep vertical wrinkles on her upper lip. Her green eyes had brown flecks and revealed nothing. They reminded Alicia of her cat. 

"I'd like for you to tell me a little about yourself and why you're here if you don't mind. That way I'll be better able to help you with whatever problems you trust me to help you deal with," she said soothingly with a slight trace of an accent. Her voice reminded Alicia of Ingrid Bergman. 

"I didn't really come to talk about myself. I came to talk about you." 

"Yes, I see." The doctor smiled again, completely calm, as if she understood exactly what Alicia was saying. 

"My boyfriend is Sinclair Appleton . . . one of your other-- rather one of your patients. He's told me that you counseled him to stop seeing me-- me and everyone else . . . not that he dates any other women, but all his friends and everything. I guess what I'm asking is WHAT'S THE DAMN DEAL HERE, OFFENBACH!" 

The doctor lost none of her composure even after Alicia shouted at her. "I'm sure that you comprehend the difficulty of my situation, Miss Murray. There are certain restrictions regarding the discussion of what transpires between other patients and myself. Certainly you appreciate the need for confidentiality between myself and those I counsel." 

"Oh, I understand that completely, but it's just so . . . unfair of you to tell my boyfriend that he should stop seeing me because of something Lee Harvey Oswald did in nineteen sixty two. " 

"November twenty second, nineteen sixty three. And Mister Appleton has not been in this office in more than thirteen months." 

"What!" Alicia was stunned. All the quirky things he'd done, all the excuses he'd made, all the advice he'd claimed this woman had given him-- it was all lies. "You mean it's been over a year since he's talked to you?" 

"That is entirely correct. Please understand that I feel it inappropriate to discuss Mr. Appleton any further. Now, is there some way I might help you? You seem to be burdened by a great deal of hostility and considerable pain. Perhaps if you stopped transferring it to me, together we could find a way to work through it." 

Psycho babble. Alicia mentally stapled the word to the experience and filed it in a wrinkled grey cubbyhole somewhere in her cerebrum. 

"Yes, perhaps we could work through it. It now seems that someone I loved and trusted has been lying to me," Alicia heard herself saying. 

Before she knew it the hour was up and she was reluctant to leave. Doctor Offenbach was still smiling at her. Alicia felt good. 

"You know, doctor, you've been amazingly helpful." 

"I just guided you through your feelings, any strides you made toward successfully dealing with those feelings, you made happen for yourself." 

Alicia stood up and seemed to float the few steps needed to reach the door. Her hand grasped the knob and she turned to look back at the doctor, who was still smiling, warm and reassuring. 

"Just one more thing, Doctor? Do you think I should keep on seeing Sinclair?" 

"I can't presume to tell you such a thing. What matters is not what I think, but what you think, Miss Murray." 

"You can call me Alicia if you'd like." 

"Thank you, Alicia. Miss Chambers will make another appointment for you if you'd like." 

She's right, Alicia thought, slipping her checkbook back in her purse and jotting a reminder of her next appointment on her calendar as she walked out of the office toward the elevator. What matters is what I think

Orville Heller
Pitiful Valley Mobile Home Park
#3B
Pity's Sake, TX 75301

January 27, 1985

Dear Orville,

I was wondering if in your travels you had ever come across a fella by the name of Eustice Tarrybone. He's in town this week for that revival over at the Temple of Faith Assembly of God. Anyway he's gonna be preaching his message all this week and I was curious to know if the two of you had ever crossed paths. I have not personally met the gentleman, but from what
I hear tell, the two of us wouldn't exactly get along too well.

I have it from a very reliable source that the
Reverend Mr. Tarrybone is a dyed in the wool, washed in the blood (or should I say bottled in the bond) closet dipsomaniac. Can you imagine it! Of course I'm not meaning to pass judgement on the man until I know for a fact that he's a drinker, but ole Mrs. Dalrymple who lives near the Bide-A-Nite Motor Court where he's staying is concerned about some of the going's on that she's witnessed, and from what she's told me I can't blame her.

Mrs. Dalrymple hasn't discussed the matter with me in great detail yet, but I do know this: On Tuesday night around 8:47 she saw a blonde woman with a kidney shaped birth mark on her right shoulder drive a 1964 blue Dodge pickup with a busted left tail light to the back of the Bide-A-Nite and unload a goodly amount of Texas Star Malt Liquor in 18 ounce cans into the back window of Reverend Tarrybone's room -- six cases, give or take a can. Not only was
this woman delivering beer, she was immodestly and extravagantly attired in what Mrs. Dalrymple called a tight cut slack suit, which she said she'd seen on sale in the ladies department at the K-Mart over in Collierville for $14.77.

After this woman passed the alcoholic beverages inside to Reverend Tarrybone, she crawled in the window herself and didn't leave until 6:37 the next morning. All through the night Mrs. Dalrymple said she was awakened by the sounds of shrieking and laughter. She said she thought that they were playing rock 'n' roll music too, but wasn't certain of it because her hearing aid plays tricks on her sometimes.

Anyway, I was wondering if you knew anything about this fellow. You know I never pass judgement on drunkards and lowlifes until I get all the facts. Let me advise you to keep this information in strictest confidence -- you know how I hate gossip, especially about our Brothers in the clergy.

I have to run to the telephone and speak with Pastor Bludgeon over in Collierville. I'm trying to find out if that slack suit was really on sale for $14.77 and he'd be in a position to know better than anybody I can think of.

I know he's a man of great discretion like ourselves and won't be party to any proliferation of falsehoods or rumor concerning a man of God who's been observed drinking and consorting with women of loose morals who have the audacity to wear slacks.

By the way, I spoke to Otis Greebagh over in Busch County this morning and he sends you his regards. He's got him a new store over there in one of those wet precincts and I was wondering if anybody had come in there recently in a blue pickup and bought any Texas Star Malt Liquor.

Have to run now.

God Bless Your Hide,

Orville Heller
Pitiful Valley Mobile Home Park
#3B
Pity's Sake, TX 75301

February 12, 1985

Dear Orville,

Poindexter from down at Gruntpoppers Pet Store over in North Zulch stopped by here this morning and said you was in there last Tuesday asking about the purchase price of a big ole African Mambo Snake. He said that you told him you was gonna set up a tent over there behind the used car lot with that immigrant Cambodian boat boy your church is sponsoring.

What has got into you, Orville? Haven't I warned you to keep away from them Charismaniac influences! I knew this would happen when you revealed to me that you'd got the (so called) spiritual gift of talking in tongues. I declare, cousin I get so concerned about your Eternal Salvation sometimes that I barely
have the energy to worry about my own.

Let me tell you a little story about someone you know. Do you remember young Winkford Ticklepitty? He's that frecklefaced boy who lived next door to
Mr. and Mrs. O'Steen over by the pickle works. Anyway, he went off to junior college and got mixed up in one of them charismaniac youth groups.

His mamma and daddy weren't too upset at first, because he was such a wild boy in highschool, getting his student teacher in a family way, and getting expelled for selling the younger kids them cigarettes
he rolled from pencil sharpener shavings and telling them it was marihuana. His parents were just glad that he was spending time with Christian Youth
instead of in jail or with drug addicts or communists or rock musicians or liberal Democrats.

Well, he got all confused when them charismaniacs got hold of him and the last time he came home from school he took all his clothes off at the Dubonnet Danceland. Shameful! Sheriff Shackleford was just
leaving the VFW hall when he heard the women screaming and went over and took poor young Winkford into custody. They made him put on a pair of rubber
boots and a raincoat from the volunteer fire department, but evidently he was determined to go naked. They found the boy in the cell the next day with a case of double pneumonia.

Now don't you tell me that there's not something wrong, seriously wrong, with a boy who'd act like that. His parents are real concerned about the boy's mental state and I don't blame them. I have to say that I truly wonder if associating with those youth groupers didn't push him over the edge, and to be candid, Orville, I wonder if you aren't getting a little too close to that precipice yourself. You
start fooling round with snake handling and such and you're likely to get bit.

You be careful now,

Orville Heller
Pitiful Valley Mobile Home Park
#3B
Pity's Sake, TX 75301

March 31, 1985

Dear Orville,

It's been awhile since I've heard from you. I figured you was upset with me admonishing you for getting into the snake handling line, and that that was why you haven't written in several months.

I haven't written because Mrs. Sidney Dupree of the Sniderton Dupree's was round this way last week and told me that she had heard from Felix Gruntpopper the last time she went through North Zulch. You may or may not be aware that she and his sister-in-law, Rose-of-Sharon, are second cousins on their mother's side. Anyway, she told me what happened at your tent meeting. You know that I've never been one to say "I
told you so," but I did tell you to be careful.

You're just lucky they didn't try to carry old Mr. Loggerton over to the county hospital in Frijole Springs seeing as how they closed last week the day after the paper went to press, and that Dr. Drinkwater was able to treat the poor man right there in town with the snake bite kit Freed Dolittle's boy had left over from Boy Scout camp.

I'm glad to hear that your snake handling days are behind you. If you're still intent on proving your faith by performance of dangerous deeds, you might take a clue from Rev. Deemetrius Walker. You remember him, the Nigra preacher. Well, he and his wife, Hernia Jean, have renovated the old Gas 'n' Go out on farm road 5243.

The funny thing about that place is it used to belong to your Uncle Emory Mellon who rented it to Bradley and Lizabeth Belcher. They had a little convenience grocery for a few years, also sold live bait and rented videos. They did pretty well what with all the traffic on 5243 headed out towards Lake Sprinkle, but last year Bradley had a stroke and they both went to
live with Lizabeth's sister in Hearne.

Anyway, the Walkers have rented the place and put up a big neon sign that reads: The Apostolic Temple of Holiness Church of the Divine Redeemer African Methodist Episcopal Tabernacle of God in Christ. Everyone in town thinks they're being pretty frivolous spending money for a sign that probably cost more than the rest of the property put together,
including that motor home parked on blocks at the back of the lot, where the Belchers used to raise chickens. But I know for a fact that Hernia Jean's brother in law got it for them wholesale from a business associate he has down in New Orleans.

Well, ole Brother Deemetrius has gathered quite a flock out there. My grandaddy told me that the black community in his day was always raring to come see a traveling preacher who could mix it up with a water moccasin. Evidently Pastor Walker has tapped into
that excitement with a new twist on an old theme.

It seems that his wife is deathly afraid of snakes, so he came upon the idea of handling catfish. They're a little harder to keep than snakes, who aren't picky eaters, but if you come in one morning and look in the tank and they're all belly up, at least you can get the congregation together that evening for a fish
fry I suppose.

Anyway, they handle catfish over at The Apostolic Temple of Holiness Church of the Divine Redeemer African Methodist Episcopal Tabernacle of God in Christ, and by their Faith they are not finned.

I would imagine that it could be quite exciting. Catfish are covered with a kind a mucousy film that makes 'em slick and harder to hold than a snake. I suppose that you could also argue that they're more relevant to the New Testament than serpents. Afterall, the Lord performed a miracle with loaves and fishes, and He was teaching the disciples to be fishers of men, and you don't hardly ever think of Jesus and serpents at all. At least I don't.

Hope you have learned your lesson and hope to hear from you soon. You're in our prayers every Wednesday.

God Bless,

Orville Heller
Pitiful Valley Mobile Home Park
#3B
Pity's Sake, TX 75301

April 5, 1985

Dear Orville,

I was certainly pleased to hear from you over the weekend. Things a quiet here in Oatmeal once again following a weekend of intrigue and excitement at the Christian Youth Conference. I knew you'd hear about it eventually so I thought the sooner the better, and that it might be easier to take coming from one of your own kin. I even considered borrowing Mr. Heinekopf's telephone and calling you regarding this matter, but bad news already travels fast enough and he was so upset that I wasn't about to ask him to let me make a long distance call.

It all started on Wednesday when that little
Cambodian boat boy your church is sponsoring arrived here in town with Mrs. Tuttleberry and the youth choir. Now I've never been one to judge a book by it's cover, but something about that boy's very name seemed to portend disastrous happenstance a comin'.

When I greeted Mrs. Tuttleberry and the choir she introduced me to each and every one of the children. I could sense her dread when it came time for me to meet-- him. Imagine poor Gussie Tuttleberry's embarrassment having to actually say that boy's name out loud.

Now I realize that the Southeast Asian culture and language are a lot different than ours, but having a name that sounds like a vulgar term for fornication, even though it is spelled differently is just not right in America. Why it's embarrassing for everyone concerned.

Of course I tried to make things more comfortable by immediately changing the subject, but I was so flabbergasted that I made the mistake of engaging that young Phuc in conversation. I could barely understand him with that accent of his but I did manage to get him to understand that there were sandwiches and punch waiting for the group in the fellowship hall.

Anyway, we got to talking about food and the
different varieties and before you know it, the little Phuc had most graciously volunteered to cook a traditional Asian delicacy to culminate the progressive dinner we had planned for Friday evening before our special screening of the filmstrips. He showed me a PF Flyers shoe box he had brought with him that was full of little jars of spices, bottles of sauce and funny looking cooking utensils. He also had this rounded washtub looking pan that he called his walk.

I thought the youth might enjoy some kind of ethnic food since the only type available around here is the tacos down at the Dairy Queen over in North Zulch. He gave me a list of things he needed-- things like rice and celery and onions and peppers. He told me he had one special ingredient that had to be fresh, but that he'd see to getting that himself. I had no idea how special that ingredient would turn out to be.

Old Miss Erbay stopped round on Friday afternoon all upset because her little cocker spaniel was missing from her yard. Mr. Heinekopf dropped by a few minutes later and asked if anybody had seen anything of his little daschhund. I told him the same thing I'd told Miss Erbay, that both animals had been hanging around by the kitchen door earlier in the day, but there was no trace of them to be found anywhere around the church. We all three looked.

It wasn't until after the filmstrip and the lesson was over that I found the dog collars, they were in the garbage can amongst the celery stalks and onion peeling, and I remembered that crazy boy asking me if it would be okay for him to walk the dogs! When I confronted him, that boy just stood there grinning like he was proud of himself for feeding those fine Christian Youth two of my neighbors' cherished pets. It beat just about anything I've ever seen!

Poor Old Miss Erbay was so upset that Dr. Dickie had to give her thorazine to calm her down and Velma Mae de Villers had to sit up with her all night long. I was afraid that Mr. Heinekopf being a Vietnam veteran and all was going to have a flashback or something and go on a rampage. When he found out what had become of his weenie dog, his lips got almost purple and the veins in his temples bulged like those steroid popping weight lifters you see pictures of in magazines.

I know for a fact that he was at the VFW hall until the wee hours trying to convince a few of those boys that hang around there drinking beer that they should maybe have a neck tie party for your poor little boat boy. I was concerned enough about it to have Sheriff Shackleford go talk to them. He advised them all to go home and get in bed. He also advised Mrs. Tuttleberry to get the you-know-what out of town.

We were lucky in that none of the youth found out what they'd eaten. I know Mrs. Tuttleberry was glad of their ignorance, because a long bus ride on a hot night can make you queasy all on it's own.

You probably know all about this by now, but I just thought I'd write and let you know what went on.

God Bless You,

He felt old today. One of his grandkids would be celebrating her 16th birthday in two weeks and he had never seen the child. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter as he crunched through the meadow toward the treeline. 

The cabin was somewhere beyond the firs, he didn't always remember the exact direction, still he never worried about losing his way. Big rocks and twisted ravines, their edges softened by falling needles, served as the landmarks he would recognize once he was up among the trees. 

It was humid today and the air felt uncomfortable around him. A tiny stream of sweat surged in droplets down his sides, soaking into his loose fitting flannel shirt where the tail met the waistband of his trousers. May was making venison chili for lunch, but it wasn't chili weather. When he had asked her to make a pot for him last night before bed it was crisp and cool on the back porch and the breeze promised wonderful things as it wafted the first scents of autumn from the valley. Funny, he thought-- how the good weather seemed to work it's way upward to this place, but bad weather always descended from the summit. 

A chipmunk scrabbled over a squat rock and dove into a dark recess. He cursed when he thought of the peanuts he'd had May buy at the store. He wanted to carry a few around in his pockets to toss at the chipmunks. 

The sticky air made the climb toward the house unpleasant. I left my family and moved here with May so I'd never have to experience this discomfort again, he groused. Just as he made it to the trees he felt a stab of scarlet pain creep up his arm and cross over to his chest. He switched his stick to the other hand and continued hiking at a slower pace. 

May would worry if he wasn't on time for lunch. She never liked him to go on his daily trek alone. "Faw down, break hip someday maybe," she would scold in English that had not improved in the seven years they'd been living together. The chili will wait. You don't have to eat it right away like that stuff she cooks in the wok, he thought. 

What breeze there had been in the high meadow did not blow in the trees and beads of sweat began to form on his upper lip and on the back of his neck. He ran a bony hand up under the long hair that fell past his collar. The last time he'd seen his son, Bill, he'd overheard the boy tell that fat wife of his that dad was turning into a hippie. "Screw him." He said it out loud and the forest around him absorbed the sounds. It was all right for Bill to go off to college, smoke dope and take whatever, screw around with women and then have to marry that chubby one, but when his dad met May and had taken her in, he was a "dirty old man." Another fifty or sixty yards would find him at the dry creek bed that ran past the back of the cabin. He was tired and winded and made himself sit down on a rock he recognized. 

He had gradually stopped seeing Bill and his family even on holidays. It was easy enough to become estranged after giving up on Bill's big sister, Emily. Emily mistakenly thought that she'd been supposed to stay behind and take care of poor old dad after her mother died. The withering cancer that took her mother so slowly that you could almost watch her death arrive like the second hand on a clock coming full circle to point straight up on New Year's Eve, was also strong enough to kill any scraps of love that father and daughter once felt for each other. 

He'd urged Emily to move out and she'd taken up with that sculptor. He'd seen the bruises and heard her excuses regarding how they'd gotten there, but never confronted the battering bastard. It wasn't his business. She could've left at any time. If she'd swallowed her pride and asked for help or a place to stay, he'd have given it to her. He had offered her money. It was the one thing he had plenty of, and the one thing he knew how to give his children. She'd told him to go to hell. 

That October she moved away and got married. It was a civil ceremony and nobody had been invited. The grandchild had been born the following spring. She sent a note telling him she had named the baby Elizabeth, after it's grandmother. 

After he rested the pain should have gone away, but it was worse and his breathing more labored. So this is what it is like, he thought. It had come to his grandfather and his father and now it was his own. He'd done his best to postpone the arrival, eating the right things, and exercising with the same faithful regularity that others reserved for church. It had become his religion slowly over the years. The early morning walks refreshed him and served him well during all the years he worked. He'd always been proud of the shape he kept himself in. 

When May came into his life, at first just to cook and clean, he could tell she found him attractive. She liked his shock of white hair, the broad shoulders, and she told him that a handsome old man with no belly was a rare thing. She tried to fatten him up, but he just increased the number of miles he walked each day. Always the kind of man people got out of the way for, he strode fearlessly from one end of Central Park to the other and back each day. 

His son, Bill, had been outraged when he learned of his father's plans to close down the apartment and move to New Mexico. Bill called him a fool, said it right to his face. Later, the wife had the effrontery to call long distance and inquire if they might move into the empty apartment. "Bill would never admit it, and he'd kill me If he knew I were asking this," she said, her voice like a faraway hacksaw cutting through a nail, "but commuting all the way in from Nelsonville is really hard on him." 

He was renting the cabin, but his attorney was working on selling the apartment and once that was handled, he could use the money to buy the cabin and a lot of the surrounding land. This gentle place was where the two of them would spend the rest of his days. 

He tried to get up and go home, less than half a mile now. He thought he could smell chili cooking. The sounds of the land went tinny and he had to pee. Suddenly he doubted if he knew exactly in which direction the cabin lay. 

October, November, December, counting out the months on fingers which were numb now, he resolved to bring Emily and Bill and their families up for Thanksgiving. The harder he breathed, the less air he seemed to get. Feathery grey clouds, the kind that hold a little bit of rain, scraped the western summit and the breeze freshened. He wanted to lie down, but knew if he did, he would never get back up.

Everyone came to the funeral. Ace, Charlie's old buddy from army days, was half bombed on cheap vodka. They'd been close -- so close in fact that they used to insist on sharing the same whore at their favorite bawdy house in Troung Minh Ky. They drank together, played cards together, and got penicillin shots together. They had always hoped that they would somehow die together like Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. When they came home from the war, they went to night school and studied accounting together. Every Wednesday evening they went bowling together. Now they'd never be together again. Ace put his head down on the back of the pew in front of him as a Presbyterian minister who had never even met Charlie prepared to deliver a sonorous eulogy. Ace was seriously contemplating finding a vanload of diabetics to jump in front of. 

And Robinson was there. Robinson was Charlie's boss, the manager of Deaton's Department Stores. He stood in front of the open casket and stared down at his faithful employee. Robinson had seen dead bodies at funerals before, but this one looked so dreamy-- as if at any moment it could open it's eyes and climb right out of the coffin. Suddenly the mournful organ music would be replaced by a throbbing Salsa, and the body would become the Charlie they all knew and loved and would jump up and shout, "Lambada, everyone!" 

Charlie had worked in the accounting department there at corporate headquarters for eleven years. For the past four, he'd been helping Robinson embezzle lots of money. The two of them would skim off a little of each month's profit and stash it away in a Cayman Islands bank account after running it through a stunningly bland array of dummy corporations. Practically feeble minded, ninety six year old Mildred Deaton had no heirs and little use for any more money. They'd been after her for years to create some kind of Employee Stock Option Plan, at least for top management, but she was so distracted that she'd never sit still for any serious discussion. He and Charlie had built the chain up to nine stores from the three original locations and felt they deserved a piece of the action. 

Robinson fought back tears. The flag draped coffin not only held Charlie's big body, but all Robinson's hopes of escaping the tax man, four ex-wives, and a stretch in the pen. Robinson knew that with Charlie gone it was only a matter of time before a new bookkeeper would have to be hired and before it all closed in on him. 

A somber young man in a dark suit slipped up quietly from behind and gently took him by the elbow. For a terrible instant, Robinson thought it was a member of the FBI's white collar crime unit leading him out to a dark colored Ford sedan, but he soon realized that it was the funeral director showing him to one of the few vacant seats. Robinson was also considering suicide. Where was that van with the diabetics? 

Midge, Charlie's fiancee, looked strong and beautiful in her black dress. Not many women can wear hats with veils and pull it off, even at a funeral, but Midge had style. She always looked good in clothes. Charlie had always said so. Midge and Charlie had been engaged for eighteen years. Through his two tours in Vietnam she had prayed every night for his safe return. Midge had saved herself for Charlie, the time he spent in the service, and all the years he'd been working at Deaton's. She'd wanted to get married as soon as he'd gotten back stateside, but he'd not hear of it. No, he had to wait until he was financially secure. She suggested once that they live together and Charlie had actually blushed. His ears burned and he got that shy old fashioned smile she loved and he told her, "There are two kinds of girls, sweetie. The kind you marry and the kind you fool around with."

Ace joked that there were actually three kinds of girls, the two kinds Charlie had mentioned, and Zelda. Charlie always referred to her as a girl, but here she was at his funeral and she was almost forty years old. Midge had planned her whole life around good old Charlie and now that he was gone she wondered why she felt more relief that sorrow. As she sat analyzing her feelings she became angry realizing that she'd been planning her life for all those years instead of living it, and now her life was half over. How could I let him do this to me, she asked herself. 

Her anger and the fact that she wasn't wracked with grief made her feel so guilty that she worried that God might suddenly strike her down. She pictured an entire busload of diabetics screeching down the street, crashing right through the wall of the chapel and crushing her, leaving everyone else-- the true mourners-- without a scratch. 

Ace's wife Zelda was there. Tears ran down her face, cutting through the coats of makeup like an ancient river carving a canyon through soft stone. She was pregnant with Charlie's child. Ace had no idea that Charlie had helped himself to Zelda, but really wouldn't have minded. Zelda loved Charlie almost as much as she loved Ace, and Ace loved Zelda almost as much as he loved Charlie. Now Charlie was dead and Zelda pictured him in heaven watching reruns of The Twilight Zone with Rod Serling. Zelda imagined that Charlie and Rod were now good buddies. All of Charlie's friends were still alive and wishing they could be dead in heaven watching TV with him. 

Charlie had no family left, so Ace and Zelda rode with Midge in the limousine. No one said a word all the way to the cemetery. Zelda imagined Charlie being deeply touched in heaven and asking God if there was any way to comfort his friends. She imagined God saying ina a rich bass voice that comfort seldom came from heaven anymore, that Charlie's friends would have to find a comfort from within. 

Ace watched the motorcycle cops who drove along with the funeral procession. What a great job, he thought. Speeding through city streets on big Harleys with lights flashing and siren wailing, stopping traffic at intersections, wearing black leather jackets and tall boots, those guys got all the excitement and none of the danger. 

It was a bright sunshiny day and when they turned into the gate at the cemetery the place looked like a picture postcard from God. The neatly trimmed lawns were nature's own brand of shag carpet. Colorful flowers rested on many of the graves. The light reflected softly from the polished head stones and birds sang in the gardenia bushes while bees hummed harmony in the honeysuckle. The scent of the flowers mingling in the air was like angels' perfume. As they assembled at the graveside Zelda noticed a tiny wren hopping in the lush grass. The bird cocked its head and glanced at the mourners. The bird hopped to within a few feet of her, paused a moment as if captivated by how sad they all looked, then flitted away. 

Charlie was dead, but life had to go on. At the gravesite, the minister mentioned the promise of a life eternal through Jesus Christ, and how faith in God's infinite love and justice would help the living carry on in spite of their loss. The preacher was right, Midge thought. Life couldn't stop just because big old Charlie had croaked himself by accidentally getting broad-sided by a bus full of diabetics on their way to the diabetics convention. The birds knew that. In heaven, Charlie and Rod Serling knew it. God knew it. Those who survived would have to discover it for themselves. It will dawn on all of us by degrees, Zelda thought. The sun will rise and set as usual, the wind will blow through the Vietnamese wind chimes on the back porch, and spring will change to summer, to fall, to winter, and return. The mailman will still bring the bills and the L.L. Bean Catalogs, teeth will get cavities, people will go on putting mayonnaise on tongue sandwiches, and diabetics will still take their insulin and join support groups. 

Two weeks after the funeral, Zelda went to the doctor. He confirmed her suspicion. She was pregnant. Ace would have to be told. You can't hide the fact that you're pregnant forever. The baby would eventually be obvious and the medical bills would be one more thing for Ace to worry about. He'd wonder what had been going on because he hadn't touched her in months. She would have to tell Ace that the baby was Charlie's, and was afraid of what he might do. He'd been drinking more heavily since Charlie's death and had quit his job. He hadn't shaved in eleven days. Zelda had thought it wise to get rid of all the razor blades in the house. Oh why did Charlie have to die? 

Robinson locked himself in his office. He needed to be alone, to think and plan. He spent hours at his computer going over the books that Charlie had manipulated so well. Worry replaced hunger and he didn't eat for two days. Had he been a smart man he would have realized that when the whole ugly thing came to light it could be blamed on Charlie who was dead and wouldn't care. Robinson was not too smart. He'd gotten as far as he had because he was very lucky and because he wasn't afraid to suck up to Mildred Deaton. There's a big difference between being lucky and being smart. "Lucky men feel guilty, smart men do not," his father used to say. 

Midge immersed herself in work. She was a dental hygienist. She took X-rays of people's teeth and put gritty toothpaste in little glass containers for Dr. Klugman and told his patients when it was okay to spit. Charlie was in heaven watching reruns of The Twilight Zone and though Midge tried not to, she still felt guilty for not missing him grievously. Dr. Klugman tried to comfort her, but knew that it would take a long time for the hurt to subside. He knew all about pain and suffering, inflicting plenty of it upon his patients. He also knew what it was like to lose a loved one -- his wife had run away with an Iranian cab driver, a diabetic. The pain of his failed marriage dogged him for almost seven years until he found a method of dealing with it. 

Dr. Klugman spent two hours every day in solemn meditation searching every little corner of his mind for the key that would end all human suffering. He was convinced that he had almost found it one Tuesday in the spring of 1985. He kept searching daily; he felt he had come so close that knew it was still in there somewhere. Dr. Klugman loaned Midge four books on meditation and made her promise to read them. She made the covenant gratefully, hoping that reading boring stuff might help her sleep. 

Midge read the first book in only two days and decided she should give meditation a try. She picked out a mantra, settled herself comfortably on the couch, and started to chant softly to herself, but nothing much happened. 

She expected to feel like she was levitating or to see flashing colors. She felt only boredom. Perhaps she should buy some incense and burn it to create the proper atmosphere. Maybe the right kind of incense will make me float and see colors, she thought. 

Robinson couldn't stand it any longer. He had to have something to eat. He went to a corner hamburger stand and ate two cheez-burgers with extra pickle and an order of salty half raw french fries. He spilled ketchup on his tie and was staring at the stain as he wandered down the street. Zelda was on her way back from the OB/GYN's office and Robinson, still staring at his tie, bumped into her. They looked at each other, two deeply troubled human beings, and the worry in their eyes reached out and touched something inside both of them. They were drawn together by a force not unlike that which draws fuzzballs to sweaters on cold dry days. After very little conversation they decided to go for a drink. 

Ace threw up all over himself. He had tried to mix cheap vodka and lumpy oatmeal with the same pain killer found in the prescription brand Motrin while watching daytime television. The combination proved too much for his stomach. He'd seen hundreds of gruesome casualties in the army and never vomited. Daytime television was the catalyst. With all the real suffering in the world, why did Madison Avenue and the networks go to such great expense to manufacture the artificial suffering that went on in soap operas? The thought of it proved too formidable -- up came the oatmeal, the bottle of pain killer, and the cheap vodka. 

Robinson had four piña coladas and Zelda had sparkling water with a twist of lime while they told one another their troubles. Zelda went first. Robinson may have been an embezzler, but he was still a gentleman and ladies first was the order in which his world was structured. She moaned about being pregnant with Charlie's child and about how Ace was drinking and out of work. She worried aloud about the doctor bills and where the money to pay them would come from. Robinson was so touched by her plight that he ordered another round. He drank his frozen beverage too fast and got a cold headache. Zelda saw him pound his forehead and emit a low moan. She mistook it for sympathy.

He knew he was drunk and shouldn't spill the garbanzos, but she had just bared her soul so Robinson gave in and told Zelda all about how he and Charlie had doctored the books and how his ex-wives wanted more alimony. He didn't mention the tax man or the penitentiary. He didn't have to; Zelda understood. 

Midge looked in the index of the third book to see if it contained a reference to incense. There'd been nothing in the first two books about it. Finding nothing in the third book, she checked the fourth, which contained only a passing reference to Nepalese Temple Balls. If the holy men of Nepal used large round chunks of hashish to help with their meditation, why couldn't someone in America do it? She would ask Dr. Klugman's advice on the matter. 

Charlie and Rod laughed and had a good time. Charlie told war stories and Rod talked about his years in television. Charlie wondered why you didn't see any of the good shows on Earth anymore. God knew the answer, it was because Charlie didn't have cable. It was a lazy day in heaven; things were good there. 

Zelda finished her fifth sparkling water and had to pee. In the ladies room she came up with an idea. Why not hire Ace to fill Charlie's old position? Then everything would be fine. Ace would have a job, Robinson would stay out of jail and there would be plenty of money for the alimony and the doctor bills. Robinson thought it was a wonderful solution and said that he should of thought of it himself. He tried to order one more for the road but the bartender refused to serve him so he paid the bill, left a meager tip, and asked Zelda if she would mind driving him home. 

Midge went to Dr. Klugman with her problem. He confessed that he'd experienced a similar dilemma when he first started meditating. He advised her not to bother with incense or Nepalese Temple Balls and rolled out a big tank of nitrous oxide. Midge sat in the dentist chair and took off her shoes. She looked so sweet and pretty relaxing there that long dormant feelings stirred in Dr. Klugman. 

When Zelda got home Ace was in bed. She undressed and got in beside him. Ace woke up and craned his neck to look at her. He needed to be loved and for the first time in a long time he wanted to be loved. Their lovemaking lasted a lot longer and was a lot better than it had ever been before. They held one another and talked and laughed when it was over. It didn't matter that Charlie was dead; his child would live on, and Ace would think that it was his own. 

Robinson slept until noon the next day. An insurance company representative called and woke him up. It seemed that the coffee maker in Robinson's office had shorted out and caused a small fire. The damage was not severe, but the computer disks containing all the books had been destroyed. There was a little smoke and water damage but Deaton's was fully covered. It didn't matter that Charlie was dead; the evidence had burned. Now he and Ace would have plenty of time to return the money the stolen money and cook up a new set of books. Robinson was lucky. He felt guilty. 

Midge woke up with Dr. Klugman holding her. She laughed and giggled. They decided to get married and move to New Zealand. Dr. Klugman asked her if she liked cab drivers and she said that she didn't. Shamelessly happy, she was finally going to be someone's wife.  

The sun rose and set. The wind blew through the old Vietnamese wind chimes on the back porch. Seasons changed, and life went on. The mailman scuffed up the walk and dropped the electric bill and L.L. Bean's spring catalog into Ace and Zelda's mailbox. People in Auckland got cavities for Dr. Klugman to fill. Robinson went to the deli for tongue with mayo on pumpernickel. Maybe someday they would all meet someone like the kind church secretary. Charlie and Jesus watched TV in heaven and people who were recently diagnosed joined the diabetics support group at the YMCA. Things were good.

Oh, sure-- we all know that the Federal Government is bigger than the Internet and China combined, and that on a daily basis they waste more money than the entire world has spent fighting every single war since Hannibal crossed the Alps on elephants, but politicians are only supposed to promise to cut the size of government. They aren't supposed to actually do it! 

These Republicans are really starting to get dangerous. Let's look at the ruthless intent of H.R. 670301, recently introduced in the dead of night. If this travesty of a resolution ever became law it would slash the funding of the Veterans Tap Dance administration from the current level of $1.7 billion over the next five years to only $1.2 billion! You need only look to the OMB's recent report on Modern Dance Therapy and Its Effect on Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, to realize how these heartless cuts would have a devastating effect on the positive results the VTA expects to, someday, achieve. 

And what about the fate of the 13,000 federal employees who work for the VTA at their recently completed complex in Maryland. The new, 18 acre campus with its twin towers was constructed at a cost of 28.5 million, only 20 million more than was originally estimated. What kind of financial impact will these drastic reductions have on the economy of Southwest
Montgomery County? 

The cuts will also create a ripple effect for the 35 counselors and therapists who actually work with veterans at the 13 regional offices. Executive Director Winston Applebaum told reporters recently that the cuts could increase the length of time veterans seeking Tap Dance therapy will have to spend on the already lengthy waiting list. "This is no way to treat the men and women who gave so much to defend our country in time of need," he said in a satellite interview from his vacation home in Santa Fe,
New Mexico. 

When grilled by reporters about the proposal, Speaker Gingrich, just back from a religious pilgrimage to Boys Town with Ralph Reed, who he affectionately refers to as Peewee, showed his typical lack of concern and attempted to brush aside criticism with his usual mean spirited reliance on facts and quantitative analysis. Just because an average of $11,000 is spent for each veteran served by the agency, and just because there is no real evidence indicating the tap dance therapy employed has any positive effects on the veterans who complete the program, the Speaker seemed to think that the draconian cuts are
warranted. 

In response to earlier criticism that the VTA was inefficient, Director Applebaum referred to a just completed study commissioned last year. "We just spent $800,000 to hire a private consulting firm. The results of that study showed us ways
to improve our efficiency by as much as .003%. We'd planned to implement their recommendations starting in 1998, but with these cuts looming We're not sure we can afford to now," he lamented. 

An earlier, more disastrous version of H.R. 670301 would have called for block granting the money to the states. "I envision a program where veterans who need this type of treatment could enroll in Tap Classes at their local Recreation Centers run on a state or local level away from the huge centralized planning of Washington," Gingrich snarled. 

While it is true that 86 other programs exist to provide essentially the same services, and that 94.5% of the VTA's operating budget is spent on administrative costs, Applebaum defends the work of his agency, claiming that other programs rely on Modern Jazz, Ballet, Square Dancing, and Clogging. "What should we do," the Director asked, his voice clouded with emotion, "tell these veterans to play taps over the Tap Dance Program?"

"I know," said the young man waiting to be fitted with an artificial leg, "The lines are so long that they never seem to move. Some poor guy who came in here yesterday was bleeding real bad from his ears and he waited and waited, and he got real pale and finally he wandered off that way and out of the building." 

"Back when I was a kid, we had the finest healthcare system in the world. Doctors had private offices and you could call ahead and make an appointment to see one. You only had to wait an hour or so, and the Doctor would treat you and then you'd pay his bill. If you had to come back for a second visit you saw the very same doctor." The old man had their rapt attention. 

"You only had to wait for an hour?" the woman asked in disbelief. 

"Yes, but it was so expensive that only the wealthy could afford to go to a doctor," the one legged young man added. 

"It wasn't cheap, but the average office visit used to cost around fifty dollars. A few people didn't get to go, but most of the country had something called private insurance. It paid the bills for them if they weren't able to. I pay over eight thousand a year for my health tax, insurance used to cost less than that." 

"Only eight thousand-- you're lucky, old man. I shell out seventeen," someone muttered from down the line. 

The intercom sputtered and a woman with a thick accent made an important sounding announcement that no one in line could
understand. The people in line looked at one another, then shrugged. The woman with the goiter wondered if the lithe young woman standing next to the crowded bench had a serious condition or if she was waiting for some kind of liposuction. It couldn't be cosmetic surgery, she reminded herself. That was outlawed ten years ago when the Central Bureau deemed it an unnecessary waste of healthcare resources. 

The pregnant Asian woman next to the old man groaned slightly and looked embarrassed. A huge puddle spread across the floor. 

"Oh God," the one legged man complained, another one's water just broke." 

"That's the third one this week," the old man added. I wonder if they'll come get her or if she'll domino here on the floor like the last one." 

A heavy set Hispanic man burst through the entrance and pushed his way to the head of the line. He pounded on the wire reinforced glass of the admitting window and muttered something in Spanish. The security latch buzzed and a heavy door swung open just long enough for two burly orderlies in crisp green uniforms to place the man on a gurney and wheel him through. 

"How come he doesn't have to wait in line?" several people grumbled. "Yeah, what was it he said to get past the guards?" 

"My guess is that he told them he was an illegal alien-- but you can't really blame him. He probably just came here looking for a better life," the Asian woman said between clenched teeth and contractions. 

"How did it come to this?" the man with one leg wondered aloud. 

"I think it happened in the late 20th century. You know, back when Presidents were elected instead of appointed by the National Security Council the way they are now. Anyway this one President got elected by making a lot of promises," the old man said. 

"What kind of promises?" 

"Oh he promised to cut people's taxes, to end welfare as we know it, and to provide universal healthcare coverage." 

"What do you suppose happened, old timer?" 

"Well we both know that taxes never went down," the old man replied. 

"Yeah, and now everybody is on welfare and you say that healthcare used to be good. I guess he got the other two promises mixed up."

The attack had started the night before. He knew that they were not ready for it, that the ragged guerrilleros couldn't take a city the size of San Miguel. Taking Estanzuelas had been easy. A town of less than three thousand people, it had fallen quickly. Their group only suffered three casualties, but Antonio had been one of the three. Antonio was dead. Soon they would all be. 

He is pinned down in an alley next to the mercado. He thinks of how on a normal day the plaza would be full of merchants and shoppers by this time of morning. The mujeras and the ninos would be going from stand to stand, looking at the produce, haggling with the vendors. Today there are dead men in the market. The vendors do not come to open their stands. The women do not come to buy. He thinks about running but knows it is useless. 

Andrès is in the alley a few yards from him with his arm twisted beneath him and a red puddle around his face. Andrès had tried to run and the government troops cut him down. Andrès is dead, el mejor parte de sus comrades son muertos, the better part of the men he had lived with and trained with are all dead. The songs of the birds are dead, and even God is dead. 

The sun rises over the tops of the buildings like a giant eye searching for the quick and the dead, nourishing one, decomposing the other. The flies, accustomed to the mercado, buzz around a new fruit. Deadmen, he thinks, are the fruit of war. 

The fruit lies ripe and rotting on the ground around him. The government troops have him pinned down in an alley; he is wounded in the leg; he is going to die for a cause he has stopped believing in. 

He tries to remember why and when he had stopped believing in the revolution. It might have been Estanzuelas when Antonio died or when Andrès ordered the execution of the captured government troops. 

The sound of fire from several blocks away brings the image of the helpless captives back to him. He remembers the vengeful face of Andrès as he ordered the killing. Six soldiers captured from a total garrison of eighteen and Andrès has to see them die. 

"Why must we kill them," he had asked and Andrès had looked at him with an air of superiority. 

"Extranjero, no puedes comprender la causa sin viviendola." 

Andrès had always called him extranjero, stranger, and the way he said it always denoted a trace of contempt. "You can't understand the cause without living it." 

Andrès didn't live the cause any more than anyone else did, he just enjoyed killing for it. He is looking at the pool of blood that gushed from the mouth of Andrès. A few flies dance on its coagulating surface. Andrès did not enjoy dying for the cause. Esta seguro. War is a campesino, he thinks, who harvests out of season. 

Tied to fear like a prisoner staked to an anthill, he begins to sweat. He is cold with fever and unusually lightheaded from the loss of blood. "Why is the waiting so tedious?" He asks in a low voice. He thinks about the rusty chain of events that lead him to this, his sitio demuerto, and tries to sift through them, as if a concrete meaning will present itself like gold nuggets in a prospector's pan. He dips into the stream of his consciousness and searches for bits of golden meaning in the swirling water of his thoughts. 

There is Ginny's golden hair. Radical Ginny, the coed he fell in love with. She changed him with that blonde hair and that shapely revolutionary rump. He had gone to the meetings just to be near her. He didn't listen to the speakers, he couldn't concentrate on anything but his fantasies of Ginny's passion lying fallow and then blooming beneath him in fits of heaving and breathlessness. 

He wanted her body and would do anything to get it. She changed him gradually. He went from liberal to radical to revolutionary, becoming more like her and less like his father. The maquinas are quiet and he peers around the corner. Bullets pound into the wall quite close to his face and he jerks his head back and thrusts the muzzle of his machine gun around the corner and returns fire with his eyes closed. "Those guys are just as afraid to die as I am. That's why they don't rush me." 

It is quiet except for the dull voice of pain in his left leg, the pounding of his pulse against tympanic membrane and the song of the busy flies. There is the voice of his father. Dear old Dad, the staunch Republican lawyer, standing in a three piece suit with a gin and tonic in his hand, raising money for Nixon and encouraging his son to take more of an interest in politics. Dad, who always had something to say, was standing there speechless when he heard that his son was joining the Peace Corps instead of going to law school. 

The tenses shift and he loses track of time. He is no longer thinking in terms of past present and future, metaphysics, long abandoned religious beliefs, the golden haired love of Ginny, or any other car on that train of events that left him dying in the alley next to the mercado in SanMigueladonde vea a la cara de Andrès con la sangre adelante de la boca, where he is looking at the face of Andrès with the blood around his mouth. 

His position in the alley is not tenable. Why do they not charge me, he wonders as the beads of sweat run down his brow. Salt stings his eyes, a clear high note of discomfort in a symphony of pain. The sun radiates down on him now in a way that would warm a healthy man to the marrow, but he shivers in his cold sweat, the sweat de muerte. 

He is shivering and thinking now of the bulky turtleneck sweater Papa wears in the Karsh portrait. How warm that sweater would be right now. He sees every detail of Papa's picture, the bulky sweater, the beard, the Santa Claus twinkle in the wizened eyes. "Hemingway is to blame as much as Ginny. Damn his stories of Spain and the Republic." He had joined the band of Andrès because of Ginny and Papa and his father. Ginny would never be able to resist a man who had actually taken part in armed insurrection. Papa had planted the seeds of this absurd adventure with his writing; Ginny had fertilized with her lusty body, and his father had watered with indifference. He had wanted Ginny to idolize him and he wanted his father to see beyond the status quo. He wanted to live the things Papa had written about. 

Bullets pound the wall in front of him. He tries to stand, pressing hard against the wall, as if to drain the bricks of their strength. He takes a few painful steps and collapses in the swirling semiconsciousness that serves as the doormat in front of his threshold of pain. The wound bleeds a little more. Sangre seeps from the coagulating lump that has formed around the exit wound the bullet tore in his leg. 

He is aware of the pain, penetrating through the circles of thought like a scalpel cutting through layers of skin, fat, muscle, membranes, finally leaving a vital organ exposed. Ginny was lovely in the candlelight of her bedroom. She undressed as he watched her in the mirror while bullets kick dust spots from the paving stone where his head lies. His father didn't even bother to go to the airport to say goodbye as he crawls toward the safety of a doorway. Return fire, he thinks but is not sure which direction the bullets come from. 

He squeezes the trigger of his maquina and sends death crashing through the second floor window of the tienda across the street. The shards of glass, gems in the sun, sparkle as they fall to the street. He squeezes the trigger once more, fights against the recoil, and manages to stand up. 

His head is almost clear now, filled less with thought than with pain. The image of the street is in focus before him, dirty little tiendas filled with cheap clothes and shoes. 

The mercado is empty of merchants and shoppers. Nadie viene hoy para comprada. Today no one comes to buy. Hoy vienen morir. Today they are coming to die. Two frightened soldiers crouch in a doorway around the corner and hear his heavy scuffing footsteps as he approaches the edge of the wall. His shadow precedes, silently glidng across the dust of the dirty street, like a brass band announcing his arrival. He squints against the sunlight as he looks back over his shoulder at the body of Andrès, and takes a deep breath. Savoring the air, he knows he has few breaths remaining. She was wearing perfume that smelled like hyacinths. The soldiers see his shadow reaching out before him, a banner on a warrior's lance, and they tense before the kill. Three crunching steps and he will round the corner. The pain becomes part of him; his mind embraces it and turns it to dullness, and he didn't go to the airport and he never answered a single letter. Two agonizing steps and he will be in the street. He leans harder against the wall, taking some of the weight off his wounded leg, and he put a shotgun to his head in Idaho and pulled the trigger. One more step and he is there. 

The soldiers hesitate for an elastic second and one fires his maquina, playing the final song for the young American. As the impacting bullets force him backward, he squeezes the trigger and tries to remember why he is fighting back. Three of his bullets strike one of the soldiers. The tool of the reaper is now part of his toll. The harvester is now the harvest. 

All that is left of him enters the swirling maelstrom of death, like a soap bubble riding a watery tornado into the bathtub drain. He has killed without knowing. The wounded soldier clutches his throat and gives what would be a harsh cry if his vocal cords had been intact. Sangre pours from around his clutching fingers, and into the dusty street. In a matter of seconds there is no pain or pleasure, right or wrong, good or evil, day or night, love or hate, innocence or corruption, life or death. There is only the swirling as existence pours out the drain of one sphere to the spiggot of another. 

The machine guns of the city are quiet now, for he was the last fighter among the guerrilleros de Andrès. Soldiers are gathering the bodies to be burned. They speak little. A sparrow begins to sing.