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8 SCENE | August 2012 scenesarasota.com

16 THE CONCESSION HOSTS 2012 AJGA ROLEX CHAMPIONSHIP

18 ARTIST SERIES POPS IV AT SARASOTA BAY CLUB

20 CELEBRATING A 100-YEAR LEGACYIn our cover story we look back at the Toale family, marking a century of celebrating life.By Steven J. Smith | Family photo by Rob Villetto / Villetto Photography

27 ARMADILLOSWhen pest control gets tough, an unassuming professor takes the law into his own hands.By Virgil Suarez | Illustration by Erica Gilchrist

32 ELLAIt's a different world these days & nobody pays any attention to a little old lady on the bus.By Julieanna Blackwell | Illustration by Erica Gilchrist

36 FLY BY NIGHTA retired Air Force pilot and his North African fisherman guide hunt for a very unusual wreck.By Ward Larsen | Illustration by Jack Quack!

36

Beach ReadsAugust 2012 Volume 55 No. 7

42 PROTECT ME FROM WHAT I WANTA wealthy but aging developer leaves his shopping mall kingdom in the swamps of Florida for a journey to the bright lights of Vegas. He has some bad news for his daughter - but she’s got a surprise for him too.By Jarret Keene | Illustration by Jack Quack!

48 SASSY DANCERAn impromptu road trip takes a slightly desperate suburban housewife out of her dull grey life and into the Tech-nicolor of Miami Beach.By Mara C. Bell | Illustration by Jack Quack!

58 THE WATER THIEFLife on Mars can be mysterious. And it only compounds when water disappears from a system that should be totally secure.By Ben Bova | Illustration by Jack Quack!

67 THE WEDDING BANDA writer comes home seeking the story of a lifetime: which just may be a bit more than he bargained on.By Scott Ciencin | Illustration by Jack Quack!

74 WITH MY LOST SAINTSIn a dystopian future, two teens race against time for health — and love — by banking on what's really in a name.By Julianna Baggott | Illustration by Erica Gilchrist

27

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Enduring the test of time in any business is more often than not a very

challenging task. Changes in peoples’ needs, new technology and other

business variables make for many sleepless nights even for the brightest

entrepreneurs. So whenever we can celebrate the success of a well-respected

local business that has nurtured our community for one hundred years, we should

embrace the opportunity.

SCENE proudly features the story of Toale Brothers Funeral Home and Crematory

– adeptly run for a century by a wonderful family whose proud heritage of service

and dedication is an accomplishment to be chronicled and commended.

At SCENE, we are also celebrating. As the longest-running magazine in our

market soon entering its 56th year of publishing, we also continue to evolve

as we proudly serve our community. Hopefully you will delight in a few visual

changes in this issue. We’ve given the SCENE masthead and table of contents a

more contemporary look and we’ve gone out on a limb with this issue’s editorial

content. You’ll not find our regular monthly features as you turn the pages (relax

– they’ll be back next month!). With many of our social, arts and cultural events

cooling off in the summer months, we’ve branched out in a different direction for

your reading pleasure.

This issue is themed Beach Reads. We’ve gathered seven original short stories and

one stand-alone chapter by eight notable Florida authors. Two very talented Ringling

College of Art + Design students designed the story illustrations. They are amazing.

On behalf of SCENE’s dedicated and talented staff, we hope you like our fresh

new design and enjoy our unique issue content. After you savor reading each story,

the best thumbs up you can give us is to pass Beach Reads along to your family and

friends for their enjoyment.

See you in September!

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

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SCENE Magazine publishes 12 issues a year by RJM Ventures, LLC. Address editorial, advertising and circulation

correspondence to the above address. Sufficient return postage and self-addressed, stamped envelope must accom-

pany all manuscripts, art work and photographs submitted if they are to be returned or acknowledged. Publisher

assumes no responsibility for care of return of unsolicited materials.

Subscription price: $12.95 per year, $19.95 for two years. All contents copyrighted. Reproduction without permis-

sion is prohibited. ISSN 1535-8895.

Special Publications:

Arts & Cultural Alliance of Sarasota County's Arts & Culture Guide,

Doctors On The Scene, The Giving Book, Leading the Scene,

Men On The Scene & Women On The Scene.

LOCALLY OWNED, OPERATED & PRINTED FOR MORE THAN 55 YEARS

CEO/Publisher:

Executive Editor:

Art Director:

Editorial Assistant:

Account Executives:

Special Issue Director:

Contributing Writers:

Photographers:

Address

Phone

Fax

Website

Ronald Milton

Julie A. Milton

Michelle Cross

Adwoa Gyimah-Brempong

Greta Carlo

Wanda Martinetto

Debbi Benedict

Julianna Baggott

Mara C. Bell

Julieanna Blackwell

Ben Bova

Scott Ciencin

Jarret Keene

Ward Larsen

Steven J. Smith

Virgil Suarez

Cliff Roles

Rob Villetto

7269 Bee Ridge Road, Sarasota, FL 34241

941-365-1119

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scene | social

The top 72 juniors in the world of women’s golf were

invited to compete in this summer’s American

Junior Golf Association Rolex Championship held at

Bradenton’s The Concession Gold Club, an award-

winning Signature Jack Nicklaus Golf Course,

designed in association with Tony Jacklin. It was a

field whose talent was unquestionable: six of the girls

also qualified for the 2012 US Open.

Tournament winner Ariya Jutanugarn is the first repeat

champion of the Rolex event. Finishing at 18 under

par, this rising star of the LPGA broke her own record

of 17 under during last year’s event and defended her

title for another year. The second place finisher was

none other than her older sister at even par.

Thirty college coaches were present for recruiting

including UCLA, South Carolina, Vanderbilt, and

reigning NCAA champion Alabama. In all, nineteen of

this year’s top twenty-five programs sent scouts. Not

to be outdone, Yale, Princeton, Michigan, Miami and

more ensured that they were also represented.

LPGA stars Paula Creamer, Jodi Ewart, Jessica Korda,

and Brittany Lincicome were also in attendance;

Creamer was the speaker at the event’s Player’s only

Dinner. In a lovely local touch, Concession member

Mika Liu not only qualified for the event, but did so as

the youngest in the field.

THE CONCESSION HOSTS 2012 AJGA ROLEX CHAMPIONSHIP

Katie Tahara, Kiley Johansen, Megan Vandersee & Blaire Thompson

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Mariah Stackhouse, Karen Chund, Jaye Green & Casey Danielson

Moriya Jutanagarn & Allison Lee

Katie & Lexi McKenney, Paula Creamer & Julie Kickbush

Ashlan Ramsey & Shannon AubertKaren Arimoto & Kana NagaiAriya Jutanagarn

3 Day Event: November 1-3, 2012

Hosted By:

Pro-Legends of GolfJim Albus • Andy Bean • Bobby Cole • Jim Dent • Allen Doyle • Dow Finsterwald • Robert Gamez • Gibby Gilbert • Jenny

Gleason • Mikes Goodes • Lou Graham • Jerry Heard • Jim Holtgrieve • Tommy Horton • Sean Jacklin • Tony Jacklin • War-

ren Jacklin • Doug Johnson • Jim Holtgrieve • Tommy Horton • Larry Laoretti • Wayne Levi • James Mason • Jim McClean

• Bob Murphy • Bobby Nichols • Lonnie Nielsen • Jay Overton • Jim Owen • Phil Parkin • Brett Quigley • Dana Quigley • Joe

Rassett • Tom Shaw • Hollis Stacy • JM “Woody” Woodward • Jimmy Wright • Larry Ziegler Pros subject to change without notice.

More Than $200,000 Donated to “Golfers Against Cancer”

3 Day Event: November 1-3, 2012

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• Practice – Call for tee times:

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Members Club - 941.309.2900.

• 5:00 pm – David Edwards

Trick Shot Artist.

• 6:00 pm – Pairings Party

and Auction.

Saturday, November 3, 2012



• 7:00 am – Breakfast & Final Round

• 8:30 am – Shotgun Start

• Awards Party after Golf to include

Cocktails & Steak Cookout at The

Ritz-Carlton Members Club.

Friday, November 2, 2012



• 7:00 am – Breakfast

• 8:30 am – Shotgun Start

• Lunch on the course.

• 6:00 pm – Tall Tales Party,

The Bradenton Country Club.


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The beautiful Sarasota Bay Club provided

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from Side Show. The event is one of an ongoing

series of performances held around town by the

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Artist Series Pops IV at Sarasota Bay Club

Florence Katz & Helen Ettinger

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With three locations in Sarasota and Manatee counties, the fu-

neral home is now under the watchful eye of the third generation of

Toales: Jason, 33, and Jeff, 31.

Although funeral homes are historically Mom-and-Pop operations

that are passed down from generation to generation, Jason and Jeff say

they never felt pressure to take up the mantle of the family business.

“We were always given the option that, if you want to, the fu-

neral home is here,” Jason said. “But Dad said if you want another

career, go figure out what you want to do.”

Jason and Jeff then sat down and discussed it, concluding they

had a rare and unique opportunity — to preserve their family name

and extend its indelible mark into a third generation of service.

“We have a business with a good name and reputation, and a lot

of history in the community that we want to see go forward,” Jason

said. “Our slogan is ‘Celebrating Life,’ and that’s what we’re here to

do. We serve all faiths and all types. We are the community funeral

home.”

The First 100 Years

Established in 1912 by George Thacker, the community’s first

undertaker, the business (whose main chapel is located in downtown

Sarasota) was purchased in 1948 by George and Jack Toale, two Bra-

denton brothers. Two of George’s sons (Curt and Robert) and one of

Jack’s (David) succeeded them. Robert’s sons Jason and Jeff came into

the business full time about nine years ago and have assured it will

C E L E B R A T I N G A

100-YearLegacy

TOALE BROTHERS F U N E R A L H O M E & C R E M A T O R YBy Steven J. Smith | Toale Family photo by Rob Villetto / Villetto Photography

The story of Toale Brothers Funeral Home & Crematory is more than a chronicle of a respect-

ed Sarasota family-owned business that has endured one hundred years. It is a story of the

contributions of entrepreneurs and visionaries who, through the years, have nurtured a small

village and its residents through decades of tragedy and triumph to form the very foundation

of the Sarasota community they continue to serve today.


“Our quality service and dedication have allowed us to celebrate 100 years, which is an amazing achievement ...It’s what sets us apart and has given us our proud heritage. We look forward to serving this wonderful community for another hundred years.”


“Our quality service and dedication have allowed us to celebrate “Our quality service and dedication have allowed us to celebrate “Our quality service and dedication have allowed us to celebrate 100 years, which is an amazing achievement ...It’s what sets us 100 years, which is an amazing achievement ...It’s what sets us 100 years, which is an amazing achievement ...It’s what sets us apart and has given us our proud heritage. We look forward to apart and has given us our proud heritage. We look forward to apart and has given us our proud heritage. We look forward to serving this wonderful community for another hundred years.”serving this wonderful community for another hundred years.”serving this wonderful community for another hundred years.”


August 2012 | SCENE 21scenesarasota.com

retain the Toale name for decades to come.

The brothers take their family heritage seriously.

“I think that knowing our grandfather (George Toale) has been

very loving and nurturing, and our whole family has been very close,

it’s just carried over into the funeral business,” Jeff said. “We’ve al-

ways tried to make a connection with the families we serve. Dad told

me when I started here, ‘If you make a mistake, you have to walk

down the street and look these people in the eye.’ It always resonated

with me that we serve our neighbors.”

While Toale Brothers has organized some high-profile funerals

over the last century, Jason and Jeff were reluctant to talk about them,

out of respect for the families.

“I will say there are more moving parts to bigger funerals, such as

crowd control,” Jason said. “But that’s part of our job and we give the

same attention to smaller funerals that we give to the large ones. Each

and every celebration of life is as important to us as any other.”

The brothers said they serve a unique sector of the American popu-

lation in Sarasota, handling funerals for a wide variety of fascinating peo-

ple that have contributed a great deal to our society — and our history.

“You hear stories about a person who served in World War II,

who stormed the beach at Normandy, or people who fought in the

Pacific Theater, or captains of industry, or CEOs of major companies,”

Jason said. “We had a gentleman who survived the Bataan death

march. The stories you hear are just incredible. It’s a real history les-

son. And you see the values that got these people through such trying

situations instilled in the family members I sit across the table from.

It’s really, really incredible.”

Keeping Up in a Changing World

The size and scope of the funeral business has changed greatly

over the last century, and Jason and Jeff have become students of its

history as well as active participants in its evolution.

“You go back to when this funeral home first began, horse and

buggy drawn carriages would take the casket out to the cemetery,” Jason

said. “The funeral home also once ran an ambulance service, and at one

time the ambulance served as the funeral coach. That was a trend that

went on for years, before the formal EMS system was put in place.”

Cremation has also evolved as a popular choice since the mid-

1970s, the brothers said.

“Folks think it’s greener, more earth-friendly,” Jason said. “And

it’s more convenient. A lot of people move to Sarasota as a retirement

community. They move away from their family up north. So instead

of going through the expense and hassle of getting the whole family

together down here, many choose to have a cremation here and send

the ashes back up north to be buried in the family plot.”

Another trend the brothers have seen develop in their industry

is the video tribute.

“We have a screen and projector as part of our funeral services,

so the family can display a PowerPoint slide show of a person’s life and

times,” Jeff said. “It can comprise family photos from the ‘40s or a two-

minute video of home movies that can be played during the service. I

think our dad was more used to moving flowers around, whereas Jason

and I are more used to moving around a screen and projector!”

“We get the best reactions from attendees on video tributes, with

people saying they really enjoyed seeing an intimate glimpse of the

family,” Jason added. “It spurs more conversation between attendees

and members of the family. It really celebrates the person’s life.”

“It’s therapeutic for the family, too,” Jeff said. “They all get so

involved in developing the tribute. It brings them together as well.”

A Delicate Balance

Operating a funeral home can be demanding, because it is not

a 9-to-5 kind of job. Jason confessed it can be a challenge, balancing

work and a family life.

“This business operates 24/7/365,” Jason said. “Balancing my

time between my own family and the families we serve is one of my

biggest challenges.”

The brothers are quick to credit their employees, most of whom

have been with the company for many years. “Our company success

would not have been possible without the years of service of our dedi-

cated staff,” Jeff said. “We celebrate services as a team and consider it

a privilege to serve the Sarasota and Manatee communities.”

The brothers agree that running a business in such close quarters

with death gives them a greater appreciation of life. Some situations,

such as the funeral of a child, can be heartbreaking.

“But like a doctor or a nurse, you must be emotionally profes-

sional,” Jason said. “You have to know how to best serve the families

compassionately and professionally in their darkest hour.”

TOALE BROTHERS TIMELINE: A Legacy of Firsts

1903 1909 1912 1914 1930 1948

Sarasota’s first train arrives: The United States and West Indies Railroad and Steamship Company.

John Ringling arrives in Sarasota.

The predecessor of Toale Brothers opens with founder George L. Thacker as Sarasota’s first undertaker.

The funeral home brings Sarasota’s first hearse, also used as the community ambulance.

Catherine Toale, the first female licensed embalmer in Florida, graduates from Cincinnati School of Embalming.

Jack and George Toale purchase Thacker and Van Gilder Funeral Home from George L. Thacker and F. W. Van Gilder.


Giving Back

Helping the community makes them feel better, too, and community service has been a

part of Toale Brothers Funeral Home for generations.

“It started way back with our grandfather and great uncle,” Jason said. “Jack Toale was

involved with the Kiwanis Club and George was involved with the Rotary. Same thing with

my father and uncle. Both were involved with the Rotary here, they were active in the Shrine

Club, and now Jeff and I have gotten involved in the Young Professionals Group through the

Chamber of Commerce, and I also sit on the board of the Argus Foundation [which focuses on

such local issues as governance, education, environment and land planning, health and human

services, and transportation].”

The Toale brothers also take part in philanthropic endeavors like holiday giving to local

charities such as the Sarasota/Manatee Police Athletic League, Goodwill, and the Suncoast

Communities Blood Bank, to name a few.

“We’ve gotten on the Sarasota/Manatee County social services rotation list for the indi-

gent, where the family is not able to provide funds for a funeral,” Jeff said. “When we’ve been

assigned, we’ve worked with each county as far as handling the burial, whether through the

Sarasota National Cemetery or cremation or whatever.”

Preparing for the Inevitable

The brothers stressed that preplanning one’s own funeral — which they said is done by

about half of their clients — is an important part of easing the stress of one’s survivors, and

alleviates additional anguish of loved ones making emotional decisions that can create division

in families who are already in pain. Preplanning, they said, diffuses debates or feelings of guilt

as to whether the right choices have been made.

“There are two aspects to preplanning,” Jason said. “There’s the paperwork process that

makes sure I’m buried here or my ashes are spread there. Then there’s the financial part, which

is pre-paying for it. We guarantee the price going forward, so it’s a good value.”

“The biggest benefit is that the framework is already there,” Jeff added. “The tough questions

are already answered and when the time comes, it’s just a matter of putting the plan in place.”

The economic downturn has affected everyone, but Jason and Jeff asserted that they can-

not — and will not — take shortcuts in their business.

“It’s easy for me to cut corners and outsource different aspects of our job, and cut back

on staff,” Jason said. “I can’t do that and still provide the level of quality service to our families.

We just invested in a new crematory two years ago that’s essential to our business. We felt if

we had cut back on that we’d be doing a disservice to our families.”

“Our quality service and dedication have allowed us to celebrate 100 years, which is an

amazing achievement and one I want to see continue,” Jeff added. “It’s what sets us apart and

has given us our proud heritage. We look forward to serving this wonderful community for

another hundred years.” Terri Harrison contributed to the research and writing of this story.

Present Building at 40 North Orange Avenue.

1970s 1980s 1990s-2000s 2012

The second generation of Toales – Robert, Curt and David – assume leadership of the business. Toale Brothers expands cremation services with launch of crematorium.

Toale Brothers opens additional branch locations, launchesPre-Arrangement Services and a Marker & Monument Division.

Jason and Jeff — the third generations of Toales – implement 21st century technology including a comprehensive website and state-of-the-art projection equipment for video memorial tributes.

Today, Toale Brothers is one of the oldest, largest and most respected funeral homes in Florida.

Floyd W. VanGilder George L. Thacker

George E. Toale John P. (Jack) Toale

Main Street – 1917. Sarasota’s first funeral chapel. George Thacker was director & owner.

First Hearse in Manatee County – 1902.

Original Building at 40 North Orange Avenue.

941-955-4171 | www.toalebrothers.com



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They come through in the night.

He hears them outside the window, nuzzling under dead

leaves, scratching the ground for worms, tasty morsels. They nose

around, dig down to the fattest grubs. Armadillos, he’s convinced,

are not of this world, with their armor, the way their tiny ears angle

up like silver radar dishes.

How do they do it, find their way in the night? One min-

ute evading the heat of day in their burrows, the next scavenging

lawns by starlight. Destroying them. Pock-marking them. Rooting

through azaleas, prize daisies.

Armadillos, the great insomniacs of the animal kingdom,

that’s why you find them flattened on country roads, squashed by

trucks in the middle of cool nights. Cracked armor, festering coils

of entrails and sinew. Crows love them. Hawks too. Up, sleepless,

hungry, then dead by the roadside.

Rich sleeps, having stayed up for two nights – it’s their fault,

he wants to say, that he sleeps so poorly – they wreck his lawn, his

pride and joy. It’s taken him several months to get the St. Augus-

tine grass growing neat around the walks and flower beds.

When he bought his house, no others were going up. The re-

altor assured him his would be the only one here on Journey’s End,

that the lots surrounding his property wouldn’t be developed for

at least ten years. Yet this summer, builders started on the empty

lot next to his house. All that space available, and they chose to

build another house right up against his. Construction’s what has

set the armadillos running. Scared the armadillos out of their bur-

rows, all that cutting-down of trees, moving of earth. There must

have been a nest of them somewhere.

Rich knows armadillos aren’t stupid, which is why he’s de-

clared war on them. He’s declared it on his soon-to-be-moved-in

neighbors, too. In the night, when he cannot sleep, he walks over

and removes nails, dismantles 2x4s with his own saw. A couple of

cuts in the right places and the frame comes down. He did this a

few nights until he realized that it was a losing battle: as much as

he’d like to stall the construction, the builders just keep fixing it,

doing more each day. It’s inevitable.

For weeks the sound of the house next door going up ruined

his concentration. He’d gotten a new job here in Bradenton teach-

ing composition to undergraduates at a nearby little college, a go-

nowhere job but he wanted to be closer to his mother. His father’d

passed away during the recovery period after colon surgery. The

Friday he was supposed to be discharged to go home, a massive

coronary laid him low.

The ICU Code Blue surgeon blamed it on a blood clot. “These

things happen,” he explained, pulling the vermillion mask from his

mouth. These things do happen. Rich remembers his students’

excuses over the years – drunken uncles killed in car crashes,

grandmothers who tumbled down staircases, knife fights, drunken

brawls with loaded guns, tractor-trailer explosions on the highway

. . . these things happen.

Like the damn armadillos coming through and tearing up his

lawn. He wants not to think about them, or cancer, or all the crazi-

ness that keeps him awake at night.

He moved back to Bradenton because it was a quiet, no-

Arma�illosBy Virgil Suarez

Illustration by Erica Gilchrist

nonsense place where he could work on his book of com-

parative paragraph structures in student compositions. But

since he’s come back he hasn’t touched the manuscript.

His father’s dying sort of settled things for him. What’s the

hurry? It wasn’t like he was up for tenure. Heck, nobody re-

ally bothered much with him. He likes his invisibility in the

department. It’s his habit to only show up when he needs

to. He prefers to teach his classes, be good to his students,

and rush back home.

Other than checking up on his mother, taking her to

buy groceries at the Publix, watching football games, he sits

on his chair on the porch and shoots at the armadillos. There

are nights when he thinks he is winning the war, but then

he wakes up in the morning and finds his lawn pockmarked

with more holes.

During the summer nights, the insects fly up from the tall

grass to the street floodlights. They flit and flash against his

windows. The frogs gorge themselves on moths and mosqui-

toes, these green tree frogs that speck his window screens,

their translucent bellies flattened against the wire mesh.

He hoses bug spray onto his forearms and legs, wears

his jeans and a t-shirt, brings out a six-pack cooler of Roll-

ing Rock and drinks outside through the night. Drinks and

ponders his days as a teenager. He played baseball in high

school, but then he hurt his arm pitching. Afterwards, a lot

of his buddies stopped calling, hanging out. Rich didn’t re-

ally date much back in those days, and in college he spent

too much time at the library. Now, he’s afraid he’d violate

fraternization rules, sexual harassment laws, so he leaves

his door wide open during teacher-student conferences. He

cringes when the young girls call him “sir” or “professor.”

Not much has happened in Bradenton in the past twen-

ty years, and not much will in the next twenty. He likes it

like that. His parents loved it too; that’s why his father the

office furniture salesman chose to relocate to this spot on

the Gulf coast when Rich was three. They always nodded

when they talked about Bradenton being the right choice.

His father was a soft-spoken man who liked a good joke,

and a good round of cheap golf too.

Rich remembers his father shooting at the armadillos to

dissuade them from rooting into his tomato garden. It’s been

a long, long fight, Rich thinks while he drinks more beer

and reloads. Once, Rich shot a possum because the animal

startled him with its ugly snout and sharp claws right there

on the porch. He simply pulled the trigger and the animal

fell onto its side and stopped breathing immediately.

He buried it beyond the woodpile in his backyard.

That’d been many nights ago, perhaps a year or two

ago. That’s also what he appreciates about Bradenton, that

time passes unabashedly. He is in the right place. Rick sits



there, watching it ease from darkness to dawn, a bleaching of

the night sky he loves to see.

Tonight he spots a female scuttling from around a pine.

She’s with a couple of babies, trailing not far behind. The babies

stop to sniff the air.

Rich takes a swig of his beer, feeling it cool his throat. Then

he takes the rifle, aims at one of the babies, then changes his mind

and targets the mother. Mother’ll have more babies, he thinks.

He pulls the trigger. The report startles the babies. Rich re-

loads and aims at the bigger of the two babies, but it’s too late.

They scram across the street and into the tall grass.

Rich walks over to the dead armadillo, kicks its armor, and

studies the damage. Clean off. No head.

He picks up the animal by the tail, carries it over to where the

babies headed, and swings the mother’s corpse into the darkness.

That’ll teach them, he hopes. In a few days they’ll be back, Rich

knows, but for now it’ll get him a few days of peace. Maybe.

When morning comes, he surveys the yard in front and

around the house, throws the beer empties in the green recy-

cling bin, folds the chair and goes inside to sleep. He teaches

mid-afternoon and early evening classes on Tuesdays and Thurs-

days. He is always home.

He steps inside, removes his shoes and leaves them by the

door, then steps on the plush carpet of the living room, places the

chair behind the door, drops his father’s rifle, now his armadillo

eradicator, on the couch and goes to the bedroom to sleep.

Tonight an indigo 1970 Nova with the mag tires and hood

flair paint cuts its lights and drives up on the neighbor’s drive-

way. Rich has been on armadillo vigil for a few hours. He’s taken

out a half dozen beers already. Despite the bug spray, the mos-

quitoes are biting and it’s hot, muggy.

He didn’t see the car come around the corner at first, but he

turns toward it when it cuts its lights and crunches up the gravel

of the driveway next door. Luckily Rich knows he’d never be

seen because he sits in the porch with the lights off, though the

streetlight floods the entire corner lot and part of the neighbor’s.

He sees perfectly from where he lurks.

The car with its dark, shiny hood and top, idles there,

moonlight glinting off its slick paint.

Muffled music comes from inside the Nova. It sounds like

“Brass in Pocket” by The Pretenders, or some other 80s band.

In high school he’d had a buddy with a Chevy Nova like

this, only a lot less nice. They cruised up and down the main

drag, still too young to sneak into the bars, and besides the col-

lege girls made fun of them because they were still a couple of

dumb teenagers who looked it.

The driver shuts the engine off and soon enough its sound

is replaced by those of the night. Crickets, frogs, insects tick

against things.

Someone inside changes the stations.

Rich hears music again, more scanning, hesitation, and then

a song he swears he recognizes but not really because it’d been

a long time since he’s listened to the radio. He enjoys television

better, and only when it’s a necessity. He watches football, and

every once in a while a movie on HBO.

From where Rich sits, he can see how the driver, a young

man, rolls down his window and lights a cigarette. The illumina-

tion of his face and long, blond hair in the match’s brief flash.

“That’s cool,” the young man says.

“ . . . Damn it! . . .”

“Leave it, leave it.”

The young man smokes. He takes a long puff, holds it for a

long time, then exhales. Rich sees smoke plume out of the car

window and rise in the light.

“How you get this thing off?”

Rich makes out a young woman’s voice. It’s a bit drawn, raspy,

of someone who’s been drinking. Slurred words, feebly chosen.

There is quiet, then Rich observes the car moving. He imag-

ines some hanky panky going on. The two bodies move from the

front seats to the back. Then come knocks and thumps.

The thought of what those two are doing hardens in the back

of Rich’s mind and stays there, like the gulp of warm beer he

retains in his throat, feeling the suds dissipate. He swallows and

makes up his mind.

He rises from his chair quietly, puts the beer down and then

as he takes his first step, he knocks the bottle over. He freezes.

The car keeps rocking in the moonlight.

Rich moves from under his porch and walks toward the pine

trees on his front lawn, away from the car, but comes around so

that he can see through the rear windows.

As he draws closer, he feels the heat on his back. The light

shines bright and for an instant he almost changes his mind. The

surprise of what he thinks he is doing keeps his adrenaline up,

pulsing down his legs and arms so they become tense, his back

stiffens. He holds tightly to the rifle, keeping the barrel facing to-

ward the ground.

What does he think they are doing, those two? Having sex, he

thinks. Having sex in a car parked in his neighbor’s drive.

As he moves in closer, he sees them, a young man and a

young woman, in the back seat, white flesh flashing in the moon-

light, between light and shadow. Rich hears them. A belt buckle

hitting something. Ashtray? Rich can almost feel their breathing,

the boy’s voice so low in the girl’s ear: “Oh, man, oh, man . . .”

Something elastic snaps against flesh, and then everything

stops. All sound ceases inside the car.

Rich leans in as much as he can to get a closer look,

but he can’t see more than a bulk leaned over: two bodies

close together.

She mutters something Rich can’t make out. What did she say?

A frog starts to croak near the car and Rich doesn’t hear it.


Virgil Suarez was born in Ha-

vana, Cuba in 1962. Since 1972

he has lived in the United States

as a naturalized citizen. He is

the author of several works of

fiction, has edited several anthologies, and is

the author of eight collections of poetry, most

recently 90 Miles: Selected and New Poems,

published by the University of Pittsburgh

Press. He lives and works in Florida, making

Key Biscayne his home. When he is not writ-

ing, he is riding his motorcycle up and down

the Blue Highways of the United States.

What he does hear is the sound of his own

heart pounding deep inside his chest. He

stands still, but continues to look inside

the car.

Now he hears a buckle being un-

clasped, and the car begins to rock again.

Rich brings the rifle up and holds it in both

hands as he tilts closer toward the back

window, close enough to see his own re-

flection in the glass.

“Amazing,” the young man says, then

he slides his partner onto her back and

crawls on top of her. Now the car sways,

and Rich can’t look away. The girl’s white

legs are up, the bottoms of her feet hitting

the ceiling.

Then there’s a scratching, a rustling,

that same sound that’s been haunting his

dreams, the same sound that’s been in his

woodpile, his yard, his house, his mind.

Rich recoils, takes a step back and

aims the gun at the bodies tangled in the

back seat of the 1970 Nova. He places his

finger on the trigger. What drives people

to behave like animals? he thinks. They’re

no better than insects, than rodents, than

armadillos. Not these two.

He feels the trigger move beneath

his finger.

A man draws a line somewhere. This

is his house, his property. This is the place

where he just wants a little peace. Who

would believe this? he thinks. A grown

man peeping on a couple of punks screw-

ing in a car in the middle of the night?

Rich just wants to stand his ground, but

he’s shaken by what he cannot control.

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She stood at the corner. She was going to visit her friend. Old.

She never wavered or paced, nor did she fidget back and forth.

Solid, she stood on the sidewalk along a slim lawn that separated

her from the busy street — waiting for the bus.

Her name was Ella.

She wore a pastel tweed coat. She and the coat were a cut

from decades long past. She, not the coat, had shrunk in size. The

fluffy green strands from her lambswool knit hat were the only

parts of her affected by the breeze. Pastel eye shadow flaked under

her eyebrows and her red rouge had collected in the creases of her

cheeks. Her face held an expression of experienced waiting.

That was Ella.

It was midday. She only took the bus after the rush — fewer

people. Soon a young man in a faded jacket, possibly out of work,

joined her. Then a short Spanish woman leaned against a parked car

as she was reading a Spanish comic book. Ella didn’t move an inch.

She knew exactly where the bus would stop — right at her feet.

And so it did. The bus roared up and its doors opened before her

as the hydraulic mechanics lowered the stairs to her level. She raised

an arm, then a leg, pulling herself up to the first step. The young man

stood behind her. The Spanish woman waited at the back of the line.

When both her legs were on the first step, Ella extended her arms up

the railings and steadily placed her left foot onto the next step.

“I’m right behind you, don’t worry,” the young man said. The

Spanish woman huffed.

Ella boarded the bus, as she would have, with or without help

— slowly.

She noted she never had this particular driver before. She

grinned at him as she reached into her pocket for her Senior Citizen

Discount Card and some loose change. Her expression changed to

one of slight concern and she hesitated from putting the coins into

the fare box. Instead, she squeezed herself to the side to allow

room for the others to board.

The young man dropped a token into the slot and found a seat in

the front of the bus. The Spanish woman paid her fare with a card and

headed to the back, never lifting her eyes from the comic book.

At the very instant the doors closed, the bus hissed with a jolt of

acceleration. The driver must have been running late. Ella wrapped

her arm around a pole and spread her legs apart to assure herself

a steady stance. Holding her palm open, she counted her money,

touching each coin with the tip of her white gloved index finger.

“It seems I’m short,” she said to the driver.

The driver didn’t answer, swerving the bus around a pothole.

His expression was one of experienced toleration.

She pulled a glove off. “I seem to be a quarter short. I don’t

understand. I know I had it. I counted my money before I left the

house. I always carry exact change.” She slowly searched through

one coat pocket. “I always have my fare ready with my senior

card.” She dug into a second pocket. “Oh, this is so embarrassing.

I must have lost a quarter somewhere.”

An old beaded coin purse appeared from her pocket. Like a

prop, she unzipped it. Looking through its contents, she raised an

eyebrow to those riding on the bus.

“Oh dear, all I have is a five dollar bill.”

She looked at her fellow passengers. No one seemed to notice

her, or her situation. Two boys horsed around in the back. The

EllaBy Julieanna Blackwell



Spanish woman’s lips moved along with the comic. A fat construc-

tion worker snored, his head suspended within the motion of the

bus. A pretty young lady read the newspaper. A heavyset woman,

with gold teeth, stared out the window. So did the unemployed

young man. Indeed, her survey confirmed that no one cared about

the little old lady in the front of the bus.

“Maybe someone has change?” She flashed a sweet smile to

the possible solution.

By this time, the bus had reached the next stop. The doors

opened and two schoolgirls lumbered up the steps. Still straddled

around the pole, Ella squeezed herself to the side, again, to make

room. “Excuse me?” she asked. “Do either of you two have change

for a five dollar bill?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” the girls shouted, running to the boys in the

back of the bus.

The driver sighed as he steered the bus out into the street.

“I’m sorry, do you, ma’am?” Ella asked the heavyset woman.

“Do you happen to have change?”

“No, no, no,” the heavyset woman repeated, shaking her

head. Maybe she didn’t speak English.

As the bus rocked, Ella moved along the aisle. She passed

the sleeping construction worker and approached the pretty young

lady. “Excuse me? Would you happen to have change for a five?”

The young lady did something unexpected; she pulled out a

huge handbag from between her legs. “Hmm, let me see.”

“Maybe,” Ella stated, looking hopeful as she quickly glanced

out the window checking on how far the bus had taken her.

The young lady stopped short from opening her bag and sighed.

“No, I don’t. I just did laundry the other day, and, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

Ella slowly turned her head and glanced over to the young

man. “Do you have change?” she asked him.

“Oh, I wish I did. I have no cash on me at all, not even a to-

ken.” He shrugged.

“Oh dear,” she sighed. Ella was right — he was out of work.

“Maybe the bus driver will let you ride with only the amount you

have,” the young man suggested. “What, you’re just a quarter short?”

Ella’s expression changed with an amused eyebrow and she

moved back towards the fare box.

The driver cleared his throat. “Exact change, lady.” He sniffed.

“I’m only a quarter short,” Ella pointed out.

The bus listed through an intersection causing everyone’s

heads to sway.

“You know the rules; exact change.” The driver placed his

hand over the fare box.

“What has this world come to? An old woman rides the bus

every day and once she is a quarter short. Now, the city can’t sur-

vive without my twenty-five cents?” Ella asked.

The young lady said, “Just let her ride.”

“Really, let the old gal pass,” the young man added.

“Why thank you, but I can fight my own battles.” Ella turned

and leaned in close to the driver’s ear, pointed her crooked finger

and said, “I think after the amount of taxes I’ve paid to this city

over the years, I should ride for free.”

“Either pay or get off my bus.”

“There you go — there you have it. One can never depend

on the kindness of others,” she fumed. “Look at a bus full of pas-

sengers and no one has change for a little old lady. Except for these

two nice young people, at least they tried.” Ella motioned to the

pair. They in turn smiled at each other. She felt they made a hand-

some couple — too bad he was out of work.

“What’s it gonna be, lady?” The driver stopped the bus at a

stop sign and turned in his seat. “Either put that bill in the fare box

or get off my bus.”

“What!” Ella gasped. “The whole five dollars? And pay the city

extra for nothing? You’ve already taken me four blocks from my

house.” Ella shook her head. “Let me off here!”

“Fine,” the driver snapped.

The hydraulics hissed, as the doors swung open right where an-

other old woman happened to be standing — waiting for the bus.

“What a rotten world, when no one finds it in their heart to

help an old woman. And you,” Ella said to the driver, “I hope you

find yourself old and feeble some day. Then we’ll see. A city pen-

sion won’t be enough.” With the driver behind her, Ella’s expression

shifted to one of satisfaction. She made her exit off the bus, step by

step, down each stair — slowly.

The driver hesitated from closing the doors, waiting for the

other old woman to board. She didn’t move. She just stood there

— with Ella.

“Well, what about you?” the driver yelled.

The other old woman pursed her lips. “I don’t want to board

your bus. I’m waiting for someone.”

The doors slammed. The bus drove off.

Ella folded the bill into her coin purse, zipped it shut and slipped

it back into her pocket along with the loose change, one white glove

and her Senior Citizen Discount Card.

“Hello, Ella,” the other old woman said.

“Hello, Agnes.” The two old women coupled arms and started

walking.

“Ella, what was that all about?” Agnes asked, looking back to

the bus. “Don’t tell me you’re still pulling that ‘Little Old Lady Short

on the Bus Fare’ scam, are you?”

“Why should I pay full fare to go four blocks? Marvin, God rest

his soul, always said we pay too much in taxes.”

“But Ella, what if someone gives you the change?”

“Never,” Ella said, shaking her head. “When has anyone ever

given someone else change on the bus?”

The two old women turned and walked into a courtyard build-

ing — slowly.

Julieanna Blackwell is an author of short stories and the

humorous column, Skipping Down the Slippery Side of the

Slope, which appeared in the Naples Daily News. Juliean-

na grew up riding the CTA buses in the city of Chicago. She

lives in Bradenton with her husband and daughter.

The newest thriller from Ward Larsen...

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FlyBy Ward Larsen

Illustration by Jack Quack!

by NightDavis and Antonelli found their man pulling his boat onto the

beach for the night. He looked like a fisherman, a North African

version of Hemingway’s old man. He might have been fifty years

old, might have been a hundred. His skin was wrinkled leather,

somewhere between black and brown, cured by a lifetime of

saltwater and sun. The close-cropped gray hair was thin, and his

black eyes were set deep behind clouded sclera, as if they had

their very own measure of protection against the elements. His

hands were scarred like any fisherman’s, having been pierced by

hooks and fish spines, calloused from casting hand lines, hauling

anchor ropes, pulling oars.

When Davis and Antonelli walked up, the man stopped his

shoving and stared at them. There wasn’t any anticipation or an-

noyance. Maybe curiosity. Two westerners walking onto his spit

of beach, clearly with something on their minds. That couldn’t

happen often in Al-Asmat. Probably hadn’t happened to this guy

in all his years. Fifty or a hundred. Davis considered helping him

pull his boat a few feet higher onto the beach, but decided against

it. A guy who spent his life alone on the sea might take that the

wrong way.

Antonelli looked at Davis and said, “What do you want me

to ask him?”

“Just tell him I’d like to hire him.”

“He’ll think you want to go fishing.”

“Tell him I need to find something in the water.”

Antonelli said it in Arabic. The old man listened, replied with

one word.

“He wants to know what you’re looking for.”

“Okay, tell him.”

Antonelli did, and the old man looked at him quizzically,

probably trying to wrap his mind around the idea of using a boat

to find a sunken airplane.

Davis said, “I want to hire him and his boat for a day. Ask him

how much.”

She did, and got two words from the old man this time. It was

probably the longest conversation he’d had in a month.

Antonelli relayed his answer. “How much do you have?”

Davis took out his wallet and turned it upside down over

the weathered wooden seat in the boat. A small pile of twenties

and some other odd denominations fell out. Two hundred bucks,

maybe a little more.

The old man nodded, then spoke again. He was chewing

something now, and Davis recognized it as khat, the herb that was

wildly popular in this part of the world as a mild stimulant.

“He wants to know how you will find this airplane in the

ocean,” Antonelli relayed.

Jammer Davis, a retired U.S. Air Force pilot, has been sent to Sudan to investigate the crash of a top

secret CIA drone. Learning that an aircraft of some kind has gone down near a small fishing village

on the Red Sea, he must try to locate the wreckage. But he has nothing to work with, and his only

help is an Italian doctor, Regina Antonelli.


Davis took out the scribbled coor-

dinates he’d taken from Larry Green and

showed them to the old man.

The old man shook his head. Spoke

again.

“He says the ocean is very big, very

deep. How will you find it?”

It was a valid question. Davis had

done marine investigations before. He was

practically an expert. To find submerged

wreckage you wanted magnetometers and

side scan sonar. You used ships that had

navigation computers coupled to autopi-

lots so that search patterns got corrected

for wind and drift. Everything tight and

precise. Davis had none of that. He told

Antonelli his plan.

She told the old man.

He, in turn, looked quizzically at Da-

vis. A smile creased his mahogany face and

his clouded eyes sparkled. Sometimes you

didn’t need to know a person’s language to

understand exactly what was on their mind.

Certain expressions were universal.

This I gotta see. That’s what the old

man was thinking.

Which, Davis decided, meant that his

answer was yes.

* * *

Davis woke to a chamber of com-

merce morning, or what would have been

if Al-Asmat had a chamber of commerce.

He found breakfast — a chunk of bread,

some dates, and a small pot of coffee — on

a tray near the door. There was also a pair

of old shorts, folded once, and a tattered

old T-shirt, XXL. On top of it all was a note

written in a loopy cursive: Same restau-

rant, same time. See you there. Contessa.

Davis held up the shorts. They were

full of holes. Moths, bullets. No way to

tell. They looked like a tight fit, but for

what he had in mind that might be a good

thing. He went to work on breakfast. The

bread was stale, the dates fresh. He ate it

all. The coffee was magnificent, not be-

cause it was any kind of fancy brew, but

because he hadn’t expected any at all.

When he stepped outside the sun was

already up. Seven o’clock, maybe seven

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thirty. He doubted precision timekeep-

ing was a priority here. The air was still

and dry, which seemed at odds with be-

ing adjacent to the sea. The temperature

differential between the two should have

manufactured some kind of air movement.

There should have been alternating on-

shore and offshore breezes, cycling with

day and night. There was nothing.

Davis looked for a path that led to

the water, and quickly discovered that all

paths led to the water. He supposed that

was how it worked in a fishing village. The

old man was there at his boat, coiling a

line, and when he saw Davis coming he

smiled a smile that put two rows of yellow,

broken teeth on display.

Davis stopped right in front of him,

and said, “Good morning.”

The old man nodded blankly.

It struck Davis right then how hard this

was going to be. He didn’t speak a word of

Arabic. His skipper probably knew “fish”

and “dollar.” Maybe, “Down with Amer-

ica” or, “I am not a pirate.” That was the

best he could hope for. So they’d have to

do everything by pantomime. Pointing and

nodding and waving off mistakes.

The old man finished coiling his rope.

It was at least a hundred feet long, and

he held up one end to show Davis the

modification he’d been working on. The

old guy had clearly put some thought into

their mission, and Davis recognized it as

just what he needed. He nodded approv-

ingly, and thought, Okay, maybe this little

expedition will work out after all.

The boat was beached amid an out-

cropping of rock that was etched with tide

pools. Around the freeform ponds, smooth

shelves of stone were covered by gray li-

chens and green algae, and barnacle-like

shells clung for their lives as an easy morn-

ing surf sputtered over everything again

and again. Davis looked over the boat for

the first time in the light of day. It was no

more than twenty feet long, but the short

waterline was compensated for with thick,

tall gunnels. At the back, screwed onto the

blunt transom, was a Yamaha outboard so

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small it seemed comical. Davis eyed the gas

tanks. There were two, both pretty good

sized. Davis pointed to the gas supply and

stretched out his arms to suggest size, add-

ing an inquisitive face. Do we have a lot?

The old man pointed to the sun, then

arced his arm all the way across the sky

until it landed on the western horizon.

That will last all day.

Okay, Davis thought, so far so good.

He saw a chart on the seat, an old nautical

print that covered the local waters, every-

thing within fifty miles of the village. That

was probably the old man’s limit, as far as

he would take the little boat, which was

fine with Davis because the area he want-

ed to search was well inside. The chart had

two dozen X’s scribbled randomly across

the reefs, which made it look like a pirate’s

treasure map. More likely his hot fishing

holes. Or maybe his father’s — the chart

was dated in one corner. 1954. Is anything

in this country new? Davis wondered. The

depths on the chart were listed in fathoms,

and Davis decided that at least those mea-

surements couldn’t have changed much in

the last sixty years.

The old man watched Davis use a fin-

ger to roughly sketch the area they’d need

to search. It was near something called

Shark Reef. Davis sighed. The depth went

from two fathoms — twelve feet — to over

a hundred, the outer reef giving way to

a blue-water abyss. That being the case,

they were going to need some luck to find

anything. If the wreckage had gone over

the precipice, it would never see the light

of day again.

Davis reached for the mask and snor-

kel. He’d seen it last night, tucked under the

wooden bench. He put the mask to his face,

and it seemed to fit. The snorkel was like any

other — not much could go wrong there.

The old man was clearly done with

the preliminaries, because he went to the

bow and started pushing the boat to sea.

Davis went alongside, got a good grip,

and things went faster. The boat looked

smaller once it was in the water. It began

moving on waves that barely registered to

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any in the village. He was sure the old man had never heard the

term SPF in his life.

“Listen,” he said to get the old man’s attention. “We need a search

pattern.” Davis made chopping motions on the bench seat at even in-

tervals, then traced an interlacing pattern with his index finger.

The old man said it again. “Gamun.” He showed Davis the

receiver, showed him a base waypoint, and then hit a button la-

beled: OFFSET.

Davis raised his palms. “Okay, okay.”

He should have known better. You couldn’t live your life on

the sea and not, at some point, drop something valuable overboard.

A good lobster pot, a fishing pole, a valuable anchor. Sooner or

later something went over and you had to get it back. So the old

man would know all about marking a point and running a search a

pattern around it. Essential stuff, with or without Mr. Gamun. The

old man took the long rope and secured one end to the transom,

then showed the other end to Davis. He had fashioned a handle

out of what looked like a broom handle. Now it looked like a rope

for water skiing. Only Davis didn’t have any skis.

The seas were still light and the tiny boat rocked gently. Back

on the beach it had almost seemed like a reprieve; a day on the

water where he wouldn’t have to face jungle ambushes or break

up well-armed poker games. But now this little cruise seemed less

appealing. Davis was about to get dragged through the sea for

hours on end. He was going to have waves slapping him in the

face, saltwater pouring down his snorkel, the sun beating hard on

his back. Altogether, it put a serious damper on his yo-ho-ho.

Davis turned back to business. He touched the outboard’s

throttle, then gave a big thumbs up. “Up means faster.” He

made a big zooming noise and pointed to the engine. “Thumbs

down, slower.”

The old man nodded like he got it.

Davis considered more signals, but then thought, Screw it. It’s

time to get wet. The old man heaved the rope overboard and put

the idling motor into gear. Davis sat on the gunnel, and the boat

tilted to starboard. He back-rolled into gin-clear water, swam to

the rope and let it feed through his hand until the handle came to

him. Davis grabbed on and waited for the slack to play out. When

it did, he raised one hand out of the water and gave a thumbs up.

With a jerk on the handle, they started moving.

To find out what happens next, check out the novel Fly By Night

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the eye. The old man held out a hand, inviting his lone passenger

to climb aboard.

Davis stepped off of Africa and onto the boat. The old man

gave one last push seaward, and flipped himself over the rail

with a lot more grace than Davis had managed. There was no

Coast Guard safety briefing about life jackets or fire extinguishers

or emergency whistles. The skipper just went to the motor and

squeezed a bulb in the fuel line. He grabbed a pull-cord at the top

of the little Yamaha and gave a good tug. Nothing happened.

Davis didn’t say a word. Wouldn’t have even if he could speak

the skipper’s language. After five unproductive pulls, the old man

pulled off the cowling and started fidgeting with a wire. Davis was

not instilled with confidence. He looked at the other fishing boats

along the beach. There were seven, and of those, only three even

had motors, the rest relying on canvas and wind. None looked

more promising. The old man kept busy, but his hands were never

impatient or agitated. They were careful, almost respectful. Davis

realized that this motorized contraption, made in a factory ten

thousand miles away, was to the old man what a camel had been

to his grandfather — a temperamental thing that had to be coaxed

into the right behavior. A vital part of his livelihood. With the

cowling off, he gave another pull and the motor coughed. Two

tries later it began to run. The old man dropped the cowling back

into place and secured it, then pointed the boat north.

The seas were gentle, lapping at the bow in a soft rhythm.

Davis watched the old man look up at the sky, then back at the

village. He was probably taking bearings from landmarks, Davis

reckoned, using a process of navigation that had been handed

down by his father and grandfather. He half expected the skipper

to pull out a sextant or a compass.

Davis reached down and offered up the chart, stuck his finger

on Shark Reef. “Map?” he suggested.

The old man wagged a finger at him. “Gamun,” he said con-

fidently.

“Gamun?” Davis repeated, wondering if he was about to be

guided to sea by the whims of some mythical nautical god.

The skipper reached into his pocket and pulled out a handheld

GPS receiver. Made by Garmin. He smiled broadly. “Gamun.”

The old man gave the throttle a turn, and the little boat

pushed quicker through the sea.

* * *

They reached the search area two hours later. The old man

pointed to Gamun, and then down into the water.

Davis could still see the coastline to the southwest, a strip of

brown to split the variant blues of water and sky. In the distance a

big freighter was plowing west toward the Suez Canal. It seemed

motionless, a great rust-red slab, the only indication of headway

a crease of white spray at the bow. Davis pulled off his T-shirt.

The sun was hammering down, already searing into his back and

neck. He hadn’t brought any sunscreen, hadn’t thought to ask for

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Lionel Blatt returned his seatback and tray table to their upright

and locked positions. Having napped during the flight, he worried

he might have drooled or snored. But his lips were parched and

the chubby schoolteacher next to him was engrossed in her Kindle

novel, A Game of Thrones. Blatt’s wife had long wished him to en-

dure a somnoplasty. He was sixty years old, though. If he were to

go under the knife, he believed it should be for a serious ailment.

Heart. Cancer.

He yawned, rubbed his eyes and considered what to buy his

daughter, a women’s studies professor at, of all places, the Univer-

sity of Nevada in Las Vegas.

“Priestess in a whorehouse,” he’d joked with golf buddies.

They chuckled. One jerk, though, a Subway-franchise tycoon,

launched into a Limbaugh-derivative mini-rant about how he

shouldn’t have to pay taxes for loose feminazi college girls’ free

birth control. Blatt remained unsure of the connection between

that particular concern and his daughter. Although a Republican,

Blatt didn’t care for social issues. A war-film buff, he looked to his

personal icon, Clint Eastwood, for guidance. He even flirted with

the idea of getting a tattoo while in Vegas: WWCD.

Blatt was a mall developer. His mid-sized projects dotted the

Florida swamps, from Oldsmar all the way to Titusville. But the bulk

of his recent fortune came from flipping a few key parcels around

Orlando, where the Seminole Tribe and the Hard Rock Cafe had,

as a business journal observed, “bought before they thought.”

These days he directed a significant percentage of his wealth

toward his nonprofit. The Blatt Foundation managed a ranch near

an abandoned theme park in Silver Springs. Kids with disabilities

learned to canoe, burn marshmallows and enjoy the cypress-treed

wilderness. His wife ran the whole shebang and did a remarkable

job, though Blatt worried she might be sleeping with a chiseled

counselor her own age (thirty-six, though she had wrinkled and

weight-gained considerably since their marriage four years ago).

The foundation made him feel good. He suspected his daughter

Shelby loved him more for it. When their political debates grew

heated, she always returned to the matter of his legacy. Shelby

insisted it would ultimately define him. She encouraged his philan-

thropy. He was grateful for her attention.

Her gift, though. Shelby routinely brought up the organic su-

permarket chain Whole Foods — how she loved it despite it being

expensive. Well, he’d buy her a gift card. Cards were tacky, but he’d

given up trying to impress her. He was still hurt by her decision years

ago to become a vegetarian the week he’d sent her a box of Omaha

Steaks. She could have acknowledged her timing was poor. Heck,

just say thank you and spare his feelings. He was getting older, more

sensitive. He wished to cling to his illusions until the moment God

called him into the Great Retail Space in the Sky.

“Convention?” the schoolteacher said, jarring Blatt from his

celestial thoughts. She put away her electronic reading device as

the plane began its descent.

“No,” he said hoarsely, then cleared his throat. “My daughter

lives here.”

“Work in a casino?” Something about the woman’s unstinting

corporeality embodied all those bighearted Democratic ideals he

Protect Me From What I Want

By Jarret KeeneIllustration by Jack Quack!


hated. Her lax figure reminded him of the many hourly-wage work-

ers he’d hired and fired over the years. Well, she was exactly what

he deserved for flying coach these days.

“She’s a teacher, actually. At the college.”

“You must be proud.”

“Very.”

What he felt compelled to tell Shelby this weekend would strain

their already tenuous relationship. His confession might be a legacy-

tarnisher. As penance, maybe he’d promise to give her his Ritz-Carl-

ton club membership in Aspen. As punishment, maybe she’d throw

wine in his face. Selling off a girl’s lifelong dream of having a cabin

in the woods came with its own unique set of consequences.

* * *

Blatt didn’t like that his daughter taught until 6 p.m. — espe-

cially as that now left him with several hours to fill. It was still tech-

nically morning, so Blatt took a cab from Bellagio to Celebrity Cars

at the Palazzo. He was in the mood to eyeball luxury machines

that resembled dessert. He immediately gravitated toward “The

Blown Grape,” a 1939 Studebaker custom low-rider with a 570-

horsepower V8. It sat, glazed in deep-spectrum violet, between an

interior cocktail bar and sunlit patio tables. The car was so alluring

he wanted to sink his teeth into it. The price tag was $60,000. He

could buy it and drive back to Boca Raton. Instead he sat at a table

with an umbrella, ordered a vodka martini and studied the tight

tushes of young ladies.

In the shade he peered into his iPhone. Shelby had just Face-

book-posted an image of a work by conceptual artist Jenny Holzer.

It was a message that appeared on the LED marquee of Caesars

Palace in 1987: PROTECT ME FROM WHAT I WANT.

Blatt smiled. An artist could never get away with that now. Ve-

gas hotels today were too safe, sanitized, overly corporate, worried

about brand standards. Blatt never considered his brand. He sim-

ply built places where people could spend money and enjoy them-

selves. What was wrong with that? According to Shelby, plenty,

but she’d always been a half-assed socialist, arguing on behalf of

alligator nests, manatee populations, Native American land rights.

She failed to see the superficiality of her ideas, and that, without

gold, man was just another stupid, confused beast.

Oddly enough, outside the image-anxious casinos, the Strip

was devolving into a sideshow. Card-slapping immigrants pro-

moted escorts. Insane skid-rowers in dirty superhero costumes

charged tourists to have photos taken with them. T-shirted yahoos

carried plastic footballs of beer. When the mob ran Vegas, life was

better, it could be argued. In the olden days, confrontational art

emblazoned the signage, cops evicted creeps and people wore

suits at blackjack tables.

After finishing his drink, Blatt walked out onto the Strip and

glanced at the Caesars Palace marquee. Cher was back. His wife

would love to see that. Too bad. Next time.

“Free show?” said a timeshare salesman in a white shirt and bowtie.

Blatt shook his head. “All show-ed out.”

This fleeting encounter needled his conscience. He’d recently

sold the Ocala lakeside property to timeshare developers, friends

of his. Shelby had wanted his cabin that sat near the water since

she was a little girl. The offer was too good. He didn’t need the

money, a difficult fact to circumvent. But he could do so many

things with the money, like sink it into a Lakeland stadium proj-

ect sure to generate, well, millions more. She’d made him promise

years ago, before grad school even, not to sell. She mentioned the

cabin last time he visited six months ago.

He’d broken his word. Consequences.

The walk back to Bellagio wore him down. He took a shower,

put on a fresh Tiger Woods golf shirt, Greg Norman plaid shorts

and chewed-up Sperry docksiders. He called the VIP host to fetch a

Whole Foods card and went downstairs to play high-limit blackjack.

He quickly drank a martini and began to regret skipping lunch.

A few hands in, someone tapped his shoulder.

“Hey, I thought you were here to see your daughter.” It was

the schoolteacher from the plane. “She still on campus?”

He stood up from his stool and smiled. “She should be wrap-

ping up now.”

Awkward silence hung between them. She appeared to be

alone and was saying something to the effect of “Well, have a won-

derful time, nice to see you again,” and was about to turn away,

when he offered her a seat. She took it – to the relief of the room’s

employees, who sought to preserve an aura of privilege.

“I only play video BJ.” She seemed to excuse herself from the

game, indicating she would watch.

“Nope,” he said, impulsively taking a stack of thousand-dollar

chips from his pile and placing it in front of her.

He drank another martini. The schoolteacher — her name was

Mary — began to clean his, and the dealer’s, clock. It wasn’t long

before she accumulated an impressive display of badly arranged

chips. Between hands, they chatted about work. She had taught

music for 30 years. She was getting ready to retire, but found her-

self coming to Vegas more often. Which meant she should keep

her job, she joked.

For his part, Blatt disclosed his mall projects, not wanting to

get too technical. Work bored him. He asked about her personal

life, to which she replied: divorced, son in the Army, cats. It was

more than a little sad, the loneliness palpable, but Blatt admired

that plump old Mary had enough pluck to fly to Vegas by herself.

“How’s A Game of Thrones anyway?”

“Terrific. The HBO series is amazing.”

“Yeah, well, hobbits are pretty neat, I imagine.”

She said nothing, and Blatt suspected he’d confused the book

with Lord of the Rings.

Blatt would have let her rape the table, but Shelby texted

“Here,” meaning she was seated at their six o’clock reservation at

Prime steakhouse. God, time had flown.


He gently advised Mary to cash out.

“You’re right,” she said, embarrassed

at having enjoyed herself. “I should go.”

She began pushing chips toward him.

“Again, nope.” He snapped his fingers

at the manager. It was out of character, but

since he was buzzed he forgave himself.

The chips were brought over to the high-

limit cage. Blatt walked over then returned,

pushing a wad of bills into Mary’s hand.

Her expression fell. “I can’t take this.”

“You’re going to buy me one more

drink and then dinner,” he said. Mary

didn’t seem to notice or care that his words

were slurring.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the host, ex-

tending a yellow Hallmark envelope with

the name Shelby handwritten on it. Yikes,

the gift card! He’d almost forgot. Appre-

ciative, Blatt tipped him a hundred-dollar

bill. Absurd. Mary couldn’t help but raise

an eyebrow.

“Sure you need a drink?”

“Positive.”

At the center bar she paid for two Gib-

sons. They clumsily toasted.

“Onions,” he snorted. “In a martini.

Wow.”

“You don’t like it?”

He shrugged, then gulped down the

whole thing. “Love it.”

“Um,” she said. “You just ate an onion.”

“Apparently. C’mon, let’s meet my

daughter for dinner.”

“Oh no.”

He looped his arm around hers and

took a strange step, docksider sliding off

his foot. He tried to crab-claw the shoe

with his bare toes into a slip-on position.

“You’re drunk,” said Mary, unamused.

“Hardly. My foot lost weight.” He

screwed up his features into what felt like

an expression of sobriety. It must have al-

layed her worry because she was walking

with him again. She laughed. They began

to sing Santana’s “Smooth.”

After turning a few corners, they were

at Prime. From the maitre d’, Blatt could

see Shelby seated at a four-top, face illumi-

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Everyone became very quiet, very still. A waiter suddenly ap-

peared, filled glasses with ice-clanking water and disappeared.

“Seeing her how?” said Blatt, feeling instantly sorry.

Unimpressed, Anita sat back in her seat and inspected his

eyes. “The way anyone would want to have his daughter seen.”

“You’re looking at me weird, Ms. Anita,” he said. “I don’t like it much.”

“Dad.”

“You’ve had three boyfriends I know of,” he said to Shelby.

“What’s going on?”

“Dad.”

“Shelby,” he said.

“Lionel,” said Mary. “I should really go.”

“The wine list, Mr. Blatt,” said the waiter, laying down a thick

leather binder.

Blatt put his hands on the table and studied them for a mo-

ment. His fingers were fat, ugly. He’d used them to build, well,

nothing. But with a good brain for numbers he’d constructed vast

architectures of dumb, credit-charging pleasure. Here in Las Ve-

gas they’d clearly mastered the art of erecting delightful buildings.

Problem was, no one walking these casino floors knew the first

thing about self-control. They wouldn’t know discipline if it squat-

ted in their grubby mitts. His own fingers were deformed sausages,

the digits of a million other mindless brutes assembling edifices to

the god of money. The hearts of such primitives were sealed, he

realized. They beat drum-like for war, not love. Who could blame

women for seeking other women?

His iPhone made a sound, indicating a text from his lawyer. He

didn’t recognize was seated, too, also checking messages. He and

Shelby had each brought secret, unknown guests to dinner. Fine. It

was that kind of evening.

As they approached the table, Blatt pulled Mary close, which,

naturally, caused her to push away. It was a comical arrival. He

sniffed a bit of butch on the mystery gal.

“Better late,” said Shelby just as Blatt got within earshot.

“Let me guess, you’ll both have the fish.” It came out ruder,

cruder than he intended. He felt his face go hot and struggled to

keep from belching.

Shelby shot Mary a look of utter dismay and exhaled deeply.

“Dad? You OK?”

“I’m great! Shelby, this is Mary. Mary, Shelby.”

Mary extended her hand. “Such a pleasure. I hear you’re a professor!”

“I am. And who are you — or, what might you do, I should say.” The

implication was, of course, that Shelby suspected Mary was a hooker.

“Er, music teacher,” said Mary, grinning without showing

teeth. “Met your father on the plane from Tampa.” She glanced at

her thin silver watch. “You know, I prob—”

“Stay,” Blatt insisted, touching her arm. “Shelby, I haven’t met

your friend either.”

“Oh,” said Shelby. She looked nervously at the woman next to her,

then cast her gaze down at the table. The woman was darker-complex-

ioned than Shelby, Blatt noticed. Displayed poor posture, too.

“Anita,” said the woman finally. She rested her thick arms on

the table and leaned forward, as if to share a clandestine football

play. “I suppose you already know that I’m seeing your daughter.”

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scanned it to see that his wife — his lovely young wife who ran the

foundation that bore his name — had filed for divorce. The counselor,

no doubt. Fiat youth had defeated sound money.

The room started to spin. He stood up anyway.

The lights dimmed off and on. Before he could pass out, he

sat down and dumped a glass of iced water on his face. That felt

better. He blew a raspberry.

“Oh my God, you’re having a heart attack,” said Shelby, digging

frantically though her purse. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“I sold the Ocala property,” he said. “Sorry.”

Shelby was silent, motionless, mouth open. Then she crossed

her arms and said, “Wait, is this a ploy for sympathy? I’m supposed

to forgive you for losing the cabin because you’re drunk and in-

volved with a strange woman who’s not your wife?”

“I met Mary on the plane,” he insisted. “And I didn’t lose any-

thing. It was a million and a half, pumpkin.”

“Burn the cash for heat, then,” she said. Her lower lip began

to stick out, like a child. Like the little girl she was not long ago.

Blatt’s heart wept but his body was stunned.

“So what do you do?” said Mary to Anita. It was an obvious life raft.

“Helicopter pilot,” said Anita, chewing ice.

“Oh, now that sounds like fun.” Mary placed her hand on

Blatt’s leg under the table. “On the Strip?”

“You want to fly? I’ll take you after dinner. We can all go.”

Blatt said to everyone gathered, “I need a Porterhouse in my

stomach or I promise you I will die of alcohol poisoning.”

“Don’t die, Dad,” said Shelby. Removing her glasses, she

dabbed a tear with a black cloth napkin. She emitted something

like a tiny sob. They pretended not to hear it.

Blatt felt like a jerk throughout dinner. Every tasteless bite

was another step closer to sobriety. His life was slipping out of

his control. He had lost his current wife and was in the process of

losing his daughter, too. Soon he would be left with little scraps of

money. Success should have brought him more than this.

He and Shelby exchanged wounded looks, each feeling guilty,

wronged. Thankfully, Mary and Anita hit it off, the latter making

them laugh with tales of inebriated tourists behaving atrociously in

flying machines.

Later that evening, up in the sky, Anita was careful to not to

jostle the copter too much. The Strip resembled a forest of jew-

els. Turning a hard right toward Grand Canyon, Shelby leaned into

Blatt, resting her head on his chest. He slipped her the envelope

with the gift card and kissed her strawberry-smelling hair.

It should have been a blessing.

Jarret Keene is author of the poetry collections Monster Fash-

ion and A Boy’s Guide to Arson, and wrote The Underground

Guide to Las Vegas and the unauthorized biography The Kill-

ers: Destiny Is Calling Me-The Untold Story of America’s

Hottest Rock Band. Keene is a contributing music editor for

Vegas Seven magazine and teaches ancient literature at the College of

Southern Nevada. He lives in downtown Las Vegas.

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DancerBy Mara C. Bell


SassyOn February 14th while driving home from the grocery, Traci

ramped her sky blue van onto the highway like it was the space

shuttle Discovery, and she kept on going. Forty minutes breathing

fumes on the icy Baltimore beltway didn’t change her mind. Her

internal navigator needed a reset. She was heading south.

* * *

The day had begun as normally as burnt toast and jam. At six

a.m. Traci washed her face while her husband shaved.

“Oh, hon. We get Nibby this weekend again. Sue’s going on a

cruise,” Bob said to the mirror.

“Um,” she said, drying her face on a towel.

Nibby was her sister-in-law’s five-year-old who was allergic to

cats, so Butterfluff would have to stay at the vet’s. Traci squeezed

into her clothes and fed the dog and cat. Then she threw a coat

on and dragged the dog out by his collar. He gave her a distressed

look when sleet hit his head, but finally submitted to a quick walk.

Then she went in Sid’s room. He was sleeping through his alarm

again, his gangly thirteen-year-old legs growing off the side of the

bed like bamboo stalks. She shook her head and called for him to

wake up. Then she made eggs, an English muffin (separated with a

fork and given two pinches of cinnamon) and strong coffee for her

husband while he read the paper.

“Don’t scramble them too much, they get tough, hon. Nibby

will want her special cereal. We all out? Can you check?”

“OK.”

Amy asked, “Mom, did you wash my red skirt? I can’t find it.”

“Can you wear the blue one?”

“Are you totally crazy? I wore that Monday!! The bathroom

stinks. Sid needs to change the cat litter NOW. He never does it.”

Traci sighed. She was beginning to think her son had no ability

to smell at all.

The red skirt was in the laundry room between her brown

“Mom” pants and an old beige blouse, like a cardinal in a wood-

pile. Wow was it short.

“Are they going to send you home to change again?”

“What do you think, Mom, huh? Can you just lay off?!” Amy blink-

ed eyes ringed with dark eyeliner and a poisonous purple shadow.

Traci wanted to say that the red skirt didn’t look terribly warm

either with all the sleet they were getting, but held her tongue.

Amy could be volatile in the morning. She tried not to feel wound-

ed by it, but the blisters were rubbed raw. Instead, Traci shoved

the steaming plate of eggs in front of her husband. Bob looked up

from the newspaper.

“Hon, can you fold up the paper when you finish reading it? I

have to turn it back to the front. Your whole family does that, just

leaves it open when they finish.”

“Sorry,” Traci said. “Guess I was interrupted.” She’d planned to

finish the article while she ate, but with the winter mess on the roads

she’d need to leave early. Sometimes when she interacted with her

family she pictured foam darts zinging at her from all directions.

Sid was still sleeping. She turned on the lights and called out in her

most cheerful and encouraging voice, “Rise and shine!” Sid groaned.

Traci cleaned out the litter box. At seven a.m. Amy ran by

brandishing a mascara wand and her cell phone.


“Don’t forget my shampoo!” Amy said as she grabbed for the

door. “Blue bottle, but with the detangling not the thickening kind.

Everything else I put on a sticky on your grocery list.”

Amy hopped in her car and zipped off to high school, soon

followed by Traci’s husband with his briefcase and cell phone.

“Bye, hon,” he said, giving her a tidy kiss. “I’ll be a little late

if my meeting runs over.”

At seven-thirty Traci checked on Sid’s progress. She managed to

awaken her son by pulling his legs out of his covers and placing his

feet firmly on the floor, and then poured herself coffee. As she was

putting milk on her cereal Sid came out of his room holding one lime

green tennis shoe and looked like he might throw it at the cat.

“I can’t find my other shoe, Mom.”

There was an extensive search for the missing shoe (which she

found next to the TV) and a math book (which he decided he’d left

at school). They had dashed out of the house late, frightening But-

terfluff who performed an acrobatic scratching skid off the leather

couch. Traci had trouble balancing his breakfast bar and to-go cup

of milk along with her purse and coffee thermos and tripped over

the front door mat. She opened her car door with her pinky.

“You finish studying for the spelling test I was quizzing you

on last night, Sid?”

“What?” he snarled. He yanked out an earphone.

“Your spelling?”

“I’m all over it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she grumbled, but he’d re-

placed the earphone and was jerking his head to a phantom beat.

After running a few orangeish lights she managed to make it to

the middle school on time. Sid put on his shoes after they rolled up

to the school and spilled out of the car with his jacket unzipped.

As she pulled away she saw him saunter towards his homeroom

classroom building to the sound of the school bell, like he wanted

to be late. It made her feel like hollering, but she took great pride

in keeping her cool – someone had to do it. From the school Traci

made her way to her exercise studio for Sassy Dance. She would

have an hour free from responsibilities, other than working off the

extra six pounds she’d gained at Christmas.

Sleet blasted her face when she got outside. The sky looked

like it might puke up even more. She walked into the building shiv-

ering and took off her heavy quilted coat and gloves. Underneath

she was wearing bright pink Lycra shorts and a tight white sport

tank. In the mirror she could see that there was a roll of fat threat-

ening to poke out from underneath the tank shirt, and she was

badly in need of a haircut for her brown mop of curls, but in this

class, everyone was a goddess. The dance studio felt cold at first,

but then the music started pumping. Traci rolled her hips and shim-

mied with the beat. She followed the group as they turned and

twisted, hopped and clapped. Her feet knew just what to do. Soon

she was dripping. In the silence between songs Traci turned to the

skinny woman behind her.

“You new?” Traci asked.

“I’m following you,” the woman said, her face red and beaded

with sweat. “I have no idea what’s going on.”

“You’ll pick it up. I started this January. It was hard at first but

then I began catching on. I’ve been having a blast.”

“January?! You must be a natural!”

As the music started up again, Traci felt a buzzing glow run

through her body. She couldn’t help grinning. She danced like she

was on stage and twenty spotlights were trained on her. She had

never been a natural at anything before.

After class, she was back to reality: the groceries. There

was a short list of essential items for the house, and then Amy’s

sticky note. Amy could go through cosmetics faster than anyone

she knew. Her list was lengthy, and specific. It took twenty-five

minutes to track it all down, made more challenging because the

grocery was packed with residents from a nearby retirement home.

Twice she was nearly run over by a motorized wheelchair. Nor-

mally she found old folks charming, but for some reason a strange

fury had been bubbling up since she’d clomped out of bed. She

could almost feel fangs sprouting.

Her plan was to unpack the groceries, pick up the dry clean-

ing, vacuum the house, and get Nibby’s room ready for the week-

end. After that it’d be to take Butterfluff to the kennel, pick Sid up

from school and take him to football practice, fetch Nibby from her

mother’s so that Sue could go on another cruise, then stop by the

video store for some Disney flicks. Traci was good at making plans

and proud of it; she could squeeze more chores and errands into

a day than a congressional secretary. But somehow her planning

got away from her for the first time ever. Leaving the grocery store

parking lot, Traci noticed that her van’s dashboard distance-to-

empty indicator read 368 miles in tropical blue lights. She paused

to make a quick calculation. Three hundred and sixty-eight miles

meant thirty-one trips to the middle school, forty-six trips to the

grocery store, or thirty-eight trips to the dry cleaners. Three hun-

dred and sixty-eight miles was also one big hunk of highway. A

right turn out of the lot meant following the exact route she’d taken

thousands of times for twenty-one years; Peabody to First, First to

Oak, Oak to Clermont, and Clermont to Spring.

Traci turned left.

* * *

Once the traffic on the Beltway let up, a wave of euphoria

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sang. “Start it up!” This was something her kids would never toler-

ate, but they weren’t in hearing distance. She belted out the words,

and added some of her own.

In Northern Virginia, she stopped for ice for the fish. She got

Sid’s football helmet off the back seat, tucked the salmon inside,

covered it in cubes and placed it all back in a grocery bag. She also

took his “cool guy” sunglasses out of the cup holder. They were

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iridescent blue and fit perfectly on top of her head. Aretha came

on the radio as she pulled back onto the highway.

“What you want, baby I got it. All you need now, do you know

how I got it?” Traci sang. She wished she’d picked up an Aretha

CD. Pipes like these deserved an audience.

By the time she made it to North Carolina, her voice was

hoarse. She took a break at the Welcome Center. Traci’s stomach

rumbled. In her environmentally friendly cloth grocery bags were:

two pounds of salmon and a bunch of bananas (for her husband),

two bottles of expensive shampoo and conditioner, mascara, eye

shadow, nail polish and lip gloss (for Amy), one bottle of Man-X

body wash and a pound of American cheese (for Sid), a box of

Sugar Yumz cereal and mini raisin boxes with zoo animals on them

(for Nibby), and one bottle of cheap shampoo (for herself). In ad-

dition there was one very small but expensive bottle of face cream

guaranteed to rub out 98% of wrinkles fast fast fast.

She pulled out a mini raisin box and sat on a bench. An elderly

couple that had recently emerged from a salty camper with Ottawa

tags was sitting on the bench next to hers.

“Want one?” the woman asked. “We have an extra,” holding

out a waxed-paper-wrapped sandwich. It smelled like tuna.

“Sure,” Traci said. She usually avoided talking to or taking

food from strangers – which was exactly why she wanted to now.

“Thanks.”

“Can’t wait to get rid of this coat and put on a bathing suit.

We’re headed to Florida. How about you?”

Traci had never been to Florida. “Well,” Traci paused, biting

into the sandwich, “me too!”

“Isn’t that a coincidence? We’re going to Miami.”

“Yes, me too,” she said with a mouthful.

“Where you staying?”

“Uh, that big one on the water.” She waved her hand in the air

as if to make it more substantial.

“Which one?”

“Well, the one with the, uh,” she started, then noticed a con-

vertible with a blue top pulling up next to them, “with the blue

roof near the, um, dancing place by that really nice beach.” She

had described her dream destination (one with aquamarine water,

sunshine, and lots of joyful dancing people unlikely to snarl at her),

hoping that it was vague enough to satisfy the two.

“Oh, you must mean the Athena at South Beach.”

Traci smiled and shrugged.

By the time she hit Fayetteville, N.C. she got a text from Sid:

can u get here erly brng mlkshk. Sid’s school would be letting out

soon. She sent him a text message: take bus. He’d have a fit, but

she wouldn’t have to listen to it. Just past Florence, S.C. she got

a text from Amy: need postr brd 4 pep rally. Traci answered: no

problm. Sid replied in the middle of his math test: Why? She an-

swered: bcuz. Amy replied with: get pizza Beth n Suz comin ovr.

Traci typed: sure. Amy replied: and soda.

Traci made her way on down the coast. At

first she thought she’d stop for the night,

but when she got out of her car in Georgia,

it was still cold. She might not have a plan,

but she knew for a fact she wanted to be rid

of the coat. As she turned back on the high-

way, she got a text from Bob: get dryclng. She

answered: get Nibby then as afterthought

added, on roadtrp i95 S. Traci turned off her

phone and tossed it in the back with the gro-

ceries. Seven more hours of driving and four

diet Cokes and she arrived in Miami.

It was three in the morning when she found the Athena. It was

a restored white Art Deco boutique hotel right on the main road

fronting the beach with a large blue dome on top. The strip was

hopping, and the crowd was young. When she handed her keys

to the valet the salty ocean breeze passed right down her body

like a warm hand. She sashayed into the lobby past the crowded

bar still wearing her skintight pink workout pants and Lycra top. A

handsome young man working at the registration desk grinned as

though he’d waited up just for her.

“Any rooms?” Traci asked, smoothing her hair.

“Yes we do, miss. One. We can offer you the honeymoon suite.”

Traci’s heart beat faster. The cost would be huge, but she de-

cided she was worth it. She looked up at him and smiled. “Thank

heavens, I’m beat.”

“You’ll sleep like an angel, right under the blue dome,” he said

reassuringly. He nodded to the bellman.

“Luggage?” the bellman asked.

“Actually, groceries.” Traci pointed to her van outside the

glass doors, feeling nearly tipsy from pampering.

The bellman politely said, “Of course, ma’am.”

Exhausted, she fell face first into the round waterbed under

the twinkling lights of the blue dome. She didn’t move until ten

a.m. when the sun shone directly into her eyes. Outside the win-

dows she could see pastel Art Deco hotels lined up to either side

of hers along Ocean Drive like cheerful kindergarteners holding

hands, ready to dash through the coconut palms, across the white

powdery sand, and into the turquoise ocean sparkling beyond.

Traci grabbed a banana and the bottle of wrinkle cream (SPF 30)

out of a grocery bag and a towel from the bathroom and headed

straight for the beach. There was no point eating out. She wasn’t

going to waste money on anything but the absolute necessities – a

luxury suite and an unlimited supply of drinks.

It was a beautiful day. Bright blue waves were frothing in and


seagulls played over the water. A brown peli-

can dove into the surf with a large splash

and came up with a writhing mullet. She

wished she had a swimsuit. She looked at the

women around her. Half of them wore biki-

nis that looked like underwear; who would

know? She stripped down and stretched out

on her towel, then slathered her entire body

in wrinkle cream. “I’m on vacation,” she

thought, giggling. This was her first in years

that didn’t include whining children or rela-

tives, and she felt better than Butterfluff with

new catnip.

That night she washed her hair with

Amy’s (expensive) papaya-scented sham-

poo, washed her Lycra outfit (with more

shampoo) and dried it with the hotel blow

drier. She felt like a luscious papaya. When

she put on her clothes, she didn’t feel quite

ready to face the clubs along South Beach.

She hadn’t worn makeup in years and the

fluorescent lighting in the bathroom wasn’t

helping. She opened Amy’s mascara and

put some on. It was purple. Traci decided

she looked wonderful in purple. She add-

ed more. She also tried Amy’s sparkly eye

shadow and as a final touch, she painted

her nails with Amy’s silvery polish. Just the

smell of it made her feel fancy. The mes-

sage light was blinking on the hotel phone,

but she was too busy to be bothered. She

munched a cup of Nibby’s dry Sugar Yumz

cereal tossed down with a six ounce bottle

of minibar Chardonnay for dinner. Then she

hit the strip.

South Beach had one night club after

the next, and Traci wanted to try them all.

Some had hula girls; others, mixed drinks

in glasses large enough for Nibby’s Betta.

There were Conga drummers, men in tight

swim shorts draped with live boa constric-

tors, magicians, every kind of entertainment

under the Florida stars, and most of all, the

world’s most awesome dance bands. She

danced with old geezers, a handsome Bra-

zilian, a college student, businessmen, and

even by herself.

“Bamba, bamba,” the band sang out.

“Bamba, bamba,” Traci sang, twisting

in her bright pink pants.

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The next day she swam, went running on the beach, and bought a few cheap cotton

sundresses and a bikini from a street vendor who looked down on his luck. For dinner she

grilled salmon right near the water at sunset, which she shared with an entire family of

seven on vacation from Heidelberg. They all sat around the grill, watching Traci squeeze

lime (that she’d swiped from the hotel bar) onto the fish. The father, Otto, sported a small

red swimsuit shaded by an outcropping of sunburned belly. He joked with Traci and his

family as he handed a loaf of dark brown bread to his wife Margit. Their grown daughter

Lena and her husband kicked a soccer ball with their teenagers and an aged granny who

didn’t speak a word of English. Granny managed to grunt a few good kicks into a makeshift

palm frond goal while the kids cheered her on. Margit loaded paper plates with shrimp

and potato salad. Granny Schneider gave up the game, panting, and produced a bottle of

schnapps.

“Trinken!” Granny said, laughing. She passed the bottle and motioned for it to keep

going round their circle.

“Any of you like to dance?” Traci asked, taking a shot. “I’m a natural.”

“Sure!” Margit said, taking a second shot of schnapps. “Tanz!” she said to Granny Sch-

neider. Granny clapped and laughed.

Traci took all seven for a tour of her favorite nightclubs. Lena walked arm in arm with

her daughter down the sidewalk laughing and joking in German as they passed a variety of

peculiar characters entering the clubs. Traci watched them with envy.

“I want that,” Traci said to Margit, nodding at the two. She wondered if her own

daughter would ever feel that relaxed and happy with her.

Margit cocked her head. “I don’t understand. Perhaps my English?”

“That’s just it, me neither. Americans are supposed to be so friendly, but I can tell

which families are from out of the US just watching them walk together down this sidewalk.

You guys link arms and lean towards each other, different generations together. We only

hold hands with our little ones so we don’t lose them.”

“Or sweetheart, right?” Margit said. “Maybe you don’t want to lose them either.”

They started at the Angelfish and ended at the Pirate Gallows, sampling several bands

and sharing several desserts in between. Otto had an elflike dancing technique. Margit was

reserved and graceful. Granny showed marvelous enthusiasm. The teens had nice style. But

Traci out-danced every one of the Schneider clan. They left each other with bear hugs in front

of her hotel.

Otto said, “Bring your family to Heidelberg!” His face was still red and sweaty.

“Your family must stay with us,” Margit said. “We will all go dancing together!”

“I’d love to!” Traci said. She really would have, but she could imagine their families

together in Heidelberg. Sid would be trying to find a game console; Amy would be looking

for an internet cafe while Bob tried to find a restaurant with “American” food that he’d still

complain later “gave me heartburn.” Back in the room the phone light was still blinking.

She tossed her clothes on top of it and went to sleep.

Traci spent six days in Miami. Every day she spent at the beach, every night dancing,

then sleeping spread-eagled on her magnificent round hotel bed, facing a different com-

pass point each night and taking all the pillows. On the last morning she was informed that

her room was reserved for others that afternoon. With that news she fetched the remains

of her groceries and a few hotel soaps that smelled of coconut, and loaded up her car. She

found her cell phone in one of the bags next to Sid’s Man-X body wash. She’d missed 147

texts and 32 messages. She sent Bob a text message: home soon xox.

On the drive north through Florida, Traci surfed on a wave of elation from her adven-

ture. Up the highways of Georgia she marveled at how refreshed and happy she felt. Even

her body was invigorated by so much swimming and dancing. By the time she passed Flor-

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ence, South Carolina she felt less energetic with each passing mile.

One thing kept her going: she missed her family. All the magazines

she read in the grocery store checkout lines made it seem like her

family was totally normal: the snarling, the cutting words, the bar-

rage of criticism that rained down as reliably as dirty socks. Then

there were the media barriers separating each one from the others

like kennel runs, even when they were all in the same room. Well,

maybe most American families could live that way, but not Traci.

She’d had enough, but had no idea how they’d gotten into the mess

or what to do about it. Through North Carolina she focused on her

return to them. She thought about how two magnets can be. If you

turn them one way, they push against each other. All you have to

do is flip one around, only one, and zip: they don’t just connect,

they’re practically inseparable.

In Virginia as she rolled on, she realized that a gray muck of

guilt was seeping in. She had deserted her family, taken a vacation

by herself, ignored phone calls and wasn’t even bringing home the

dry cleaning. She wished her mom were still living. She’d know

how to fix things. As she approached her neighborhood she no-

ticed for the first time how much the electrical lines that crossed

over the streets seemed like spider’s webs.

Traci arrived home on Saturday at four. Her entire family

ran out of the house when she emerged from her van. At first she

wasn’t sure if they were a welcoming party or an inquisition.“We

were worried about you. You OK? You just needed a holiday?” Bob

asked as he tugged at a thread hanging from his sleeve. He was

wearing an unstarched shirt. With no belt his pants were dragging

low on his hips. There was ketchup on his chin.

“Mom, you’re so skinny!” Amy said, her head cocked to one

side and one hand on her hip like she might refuse entrance to the

house. “Your hair’s got red highlights in it.”

“And your skin’s brown,” Sid added, looking at her strangely, his

arms crossed defensively over his chest. “You bring us anything?”

“Soap,” she said in her most positive-sounding Mom voice.

“Why’d you go?” Sid asked.

“I told the kids you were in Florida,” Bob said, pushing his

glasses up on his nose. “Saw the charge for the hotel online.” He

held the front door open for her and followed her inside. “I was,”

Traci said, giving Bob a big kiss. It resulted in static electric shock

that made him jerk back.

“I left a couple of messages with the desk.”

“You did? That was so sweet.” Traci took his hand and

squeezed it. “I got the groceries.” She gave the kids each a quick

firm hug before they could scoot out of the way.

They ordered pizza and ate by the TV. Traci passed paper

plates and poured milk for the kids and beer for her and Bob. She

felt as though she should talk about her trip, and why she’d gone,

but now that she was home, she wasn’t sure where to begin.

“I missed you all when I was gone,” Traci said. She looked

around, but they all had their eyes on the screen. “I didn’t plan on

going so far. I guess I needed a break more than I realized.”

“Nibby broke my skateboard,” Sid said.

Amy tossed her head. “Because you pushed her too hard on

the hill.”

“The important thing is that you’re home safe,” Bob said, pat-

ting Traci’s hand. He leaned close to her and whispered so the kids

wouldn’t hear. “You’ve always been such a responsible person. I

knew you wouldn’t be gone long, but all the way to Miami? We all

felt like yesterday’s stale bread without you. I wished you’d called,

but let’s just write this one off. Forget it happened.”

Traci felt that more should be said, but instead, she held on to

the moment. Things could have gone much worse. It was a relief

that the kids were OK, that Bob wasn’t completely ballistic. Half-

way through the movie she fell asleep with one hand on a pizza

slice, her head lolling on Bob’s shoulder.

That night from her side of their bed Traci could see the last

curl of the moon. The dark room felt so familiar: her pillows, the

warmth of Bob beside her, the slight indentation on the mattress

where she always settled. She wondered about the way lives grad-

ually mould in unexpected ways. But even the window glass sepa-

rating her from the moon was fluid, as if she could reach out, grab

that bit of moon and twirl it around her finger like her wedding

ring. Maybe what she wanted was still within reach.

Bob fidgeted with the sheet. “When you went down there,”

he asked her, then paused, “were you meeting someone, or well...

looking for someone?” His voice sounded unsteady, like he wanted

to beg her not to answer.

“Yes, exactly,” she whispered, hopeful that at last she could ex-

plain. “I left desperate, but I had to go because I went looking for me.”

He grunted. Moments later emerged his nasal snoring.

On Saturday, Traci cleaned the house, wiped Nibby’s crayon

marks off the walls, washed and ironed the clothes, helped Sid

with his math, got the cat poop off Sid’s bed and washed all his

bedding. Sunday night Traci made a roast, twice-baked potatoes,

broccoli with mushrooms, glazed carrots, biscuits and an apple

pie. Everyone loved the food.

As he took his last bite of apple pie, Bob said, “I’m so glad

you’re home, and that everything is back to normal.” He looked

well rested, the part in his hair a crisp line.

“I liked the pie,” Sid said. “Can you type my history report?”

Traci looked at the pile of dirty dishes. Sid was on the couch

next to the kitchen playing a gory online shooting game. His fingers

tapped faster on his controller than Liberace on a piano, which made

sense because he practiced at this more than Liberace ever did.

“Sid, any chance you could help a little in the kitchen?”

“I’m in the middle of a game!” Sid said without tearing his

eyes from the screen.

She looked at Bob, but he was too involved with his new golf

magazine. Traci took the pan that held the roast and put water in it

to soak and loaded the dishwasher. Then she started to fill up the


sink as Amy walked into the room.

“Amy, could you help me a little with the dishes?”

“Mom, I just painted my nails!” Amy said, fanning them out.

Her fingernails had already changed three shades over the course

of the weekend and were now midnight blue.

As Amy spoke, the good china serving platter slipped from

Traci’s hand and shattered in the bottom of the sink.

“Oh CRAP!” Traci said, as Bob popped up from the couch.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Oh nothing,” Traci said, taking dish soap and dumping it un-

der the running water to hide the evidence. Bob went back to his

magazine as a large dome of bubbles began to rise from the sink.

Traci turned on the radio to drown out the shooting noises and

final throes of dying coming from the television. On the radio Mick

Jagger was crooning,

“I can’t get no satisfaction!”

It was one of Traci’s Sassy Dance songs! “I can’t get no satis-

faction!” she sang.

“Mom, stop!” Sid yelled.

“Cause I try and I try and I try,” Mick sang.

“I can’t get no!” Traci sang loudly, cranking up the volume.

She took large scoops of suds and tossed them in the air. Half of

them landed on the tile floor.

“When I’m ridin’ round the world!” Traci sang with Mick.

The ceramic tiles were now slick and bubbly. Traci went into her

Sassy Dance moves. She remembered every step, every grind and

every shimmy. She dumped more suds. She leapt and twirled and

did a belly roll.

“And I’m doing this and I’m typing that!” Traci sang, going

into a low twisting shimmy with a backbend as Mick urged her

on. “Cause you see I’m on a losing streak!” she sang back, rubbing

suds along her arms.

By the end of the song, Sid, Bob and Amy were all gathered on

the opposite side of the kitchen island. A soap bubble rose above

them, sparkling with delicate iridescence.

“Traci?” Bob said, pushing his eyeglasses up on his nose.

Traci looked down at the sink. The bubbles vanished with

small pops. She picked up the faucet sprayer and began to rinse

the remnants down the drain, turning the water up to full blast.

That thing could shoot! She began to smile.

“I’m fine, really,” Traci said. She aimed and fired at the game

controller, the golf magazine and the nail polish bottle, then took

out her entire family in one smooth and artful sweep.

Mara C. Bell is a fiction writer and poet who is currently

working on her first novel. An architect and Florida native,

she finds inspiration in drawing, dancing and writing under

tropical skies.

Denise MeiREALTOR®

Cell: 941.685.3198Offi ce: [email protected] Main Street, Sarasota, FL 34236DeniseMei.michaelsaunders.com

Ultimate Customer Service...

“As a service industry entre-preneur for many years, I know what it

takes to make your home buying experience perfect. It’s the only way I know how.”

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WaterBy Ben Bova


The

Thief“This is serious, Mase,” said Drake Callahan, his brow

creasing as he struggled to control his anger. “Water is precious

and you know it.”

Fourteen-year-old Mason Callahan thought about turning off

both his hearing aids but decided not to because (a) it would be

wrong and (b) his father would see him doing it and get even

madder at him.

“We’re not wasting water, Dad,” he said, with a glance at his

little sister, Mariah. She looked kind of scared, her eyes big and

solemn and riveted on their father’s stern face.

The three of them were in Mase’s cluttered bedroom, father

standing by the entryway with his arms folded angrily across his

chest while Mase hunkered down on the floor and scuffed one

softbooted toe on the lucky yellow rock he’d found on an excur-

sion outside. Mariah was sitting on a cleared spot on Mase’s bed.

For a moment there was absolute silence in the cramped little

room, except for the sighing of a gentle Martian breeze wafting

past the window of their habitation module.

“Mase, you’re older, that’s why I’m talking mainly to you. Or

maybe I should corral your buddy Tregon.”

“Dad, nobody’s wasting water! Not me, not Mariah, and not Treg.”

Drake unfolded his arms and scratched at his short-cropped

dark hair. “Well, the water monitors show that we’ve exceeded

our allotment for the past three months straight. We’ve gone over

our fair share. Not seriously over, I admit, but somebody’s using

more water than he should have and it’s getting a little worse each

month. I want it to stop. Rules are rules.”

“Yeah, sure, I know,” said Mason.

“This is Mars, kids,” Drake said sternly. “I know it’s home to you,

but it’s still a dangerous world in many ways. We have to be very care-

ful about how much water we use. Lives could depend on it!”

“But we’ve got plenty of water, don’t we Dad? I mean, there’s

an ocean of permafrost underneath us, isn’t there?”

“Yes, but it takes energy to melt that ice and make drinkable

water for everyone here. We all agreed to the water allotments,

and we’ve got to stick to them.”

“We are,” Mason insisted.

“Somebody is using more water than he should,” Drake said

darkly. “It’s got to stop.”

He turned abruptly and left the room.

Mason looked at his sister. “I’m not wasting water,” he muttered.

“Neither am I,” said eleven-year-old Mariah.

“Then who is?”

“Tregon,” she answered, without an eyeblink of hesitation.

“This must be one of his stupid tricks.”

* * *

“Me?” Tregon looked genuinely surprised. “I’m not using up

your water. You know that.”

The two boys looked a lot alike. Both were the same age,

both had dark unruly hair, both wore funky t-shirts and rumpled

jeans. Tregon was 10 centimeters taller than Mason, but so slen-

der that he looked almost frail. Mason’s eyes were lighter than


Tregon’s dark Hispanic ones.

“Well,” Mason said slowly, “if I’m not wasting water, and

you’re not, and my dippy little sister isn’t, then who is?”

Tregon grinned crookedly. “Let’s find out.”

“How?”

“Simple. We turn EMMA into a detective.”

* * *

Mason fidgeted uneasily at the doorway of the workshop as

he looked up and down the corridor, watching out for any ap-

proaching adults. It was mid-afternoon and everybody was at their

jobs, so the corridor was empty. Still, Mason searched both ways,

feeling more and more nervous with each passing second.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” he hissed at Tregon.

His buddy was sitting cross-legged on the workbench, his

head inside the humanoid robot’s open back panel.

“Almost,” Tregon muttered.

“Well, hurry it up; it’s almost time for the afternoon shift to

end. Everybody’ll be coming through this corridor and they’re

gonna wonder what you’re doing with EMMA.”

“What we’re doing,” Tregon corrected, with a chuckle.

“Come on,” Mason urged.

“Okay,” said Tregon. “Finished. All I have to do is replace the panel.”

He clicked the plastic panel into place, then picked up the

remote controller and thumbed its power key. EMMA stirred to

life; its round camera eyes began to glow, a slight whirring sound

buzzed from deep inside its chest cavity. The little robot was

slightly shorter than Mason, and only shoulder-high to Tregon.

Tregon said in the deepest voice he could manage, “EMMA,

review your new program, please.”

The robot turned on its wheels to face Tregon and said, “I am to

monitor water usage in the Callahan residence. From midnight to 0600

hours I am to check all water pipes in the residence for leakage.”

Tregon nodded. “Right. Good.”

“Let’s get back to my place,” Mason said, feeling relieved.

As the two boys hustled down the corridor, with EMMA trail-

ing slightly behind them, Tregon said, “My bet’s on Apollo.”

“Huh?”

Grinning, Tregon explained, “That’s one smart cat you’ve got,

Mase. I bet he figured out how to turn on the tap at your kitchen

sink. He’s your water thief.”

Mason shook his head in silent disbelief.

* * *

Two days later, Tregon admitted, “Well, it’s not Apollo.”

“And it’s not Sputnik, either,” Mason said glumly.

The boys were in Tregon’s bedroom, watching the sped-up

video that EMMA had recorded during the previous two nights.

Apollo napped in Mariah’s room, then got up, prowled, sniffed

here and there, lapped at his water dish, then napped again – all

in blurringly fast motion. Despite his growing worry, Mason had to

laugh at the video. Apollo was all over the apartment, flitting away

madly, while the dog Sputnik slept blissfully, unmoving except for

a twitch of his tail or an occasional scratch with his hind leg.

“And there’s no leaks in your pipes,” Tregon added. “At least,

none that EMMA could find.”

Mason shook his head. “Dad’s gone over all the pipes three

or four times. He’s even had a couple of guys from maintenance

check ‘em out. No leaks.”

“But you’re still using more water than you’re supposed to?”

Tregon asked.

“Somebody is,” said Mason. He hesitated a heartbeat, then

asked, “Look, Treg, I’ve gotta ask you...is it you? Are you sneaking

water from our place?”

Tregon looked totally surprised. “Me! No way!”

“Sis thinks it’s one of your tricks, and she’s got Dad halfway

thinking she might be right.”

“It’s not me,” Tregon said, utterly serious.

“Okay,” said Mason. “Then we’ve got to find out who it is,

before Dad goes ballistic.”

“He’s that mad?”

“I heard him telling Mom that it might be better if they stop

letting you visit our place.”

For one of the rare times in his life, Tregon looked sad. “He

really said that?”

“He’s pretty sore. I think it’s not knowing how we’re los-

ing the water that’s really got him spooled up. Dad’s a scientist,

y’know, and the worst thing that can happen to him is coming

across a puzzle he can’t solve.”

Tregon’s cocky grin returned. “Then we’ll have to solve it for him.”

* * *

“What are you two up to now?” Mariah asked the instant she

stepped into Mase’s bedroom.

Mason and Tregon were sitting on the floor with their backs

against the bed. On the floor in front of them was an open laptop

computer with a hologram shimmering faintly above it.

“Go away,” Mason snapped. “Go to your own room.”

“Oh no,” said Mariah, with her nose in the air. “You two are

up to something, I can tell.”

“We need some privacy, Mariah,” Tregon said.

“Why? What’re you doing?” Mariah scampered across the

messy room toward the two boys. Tregon quickly turned off the

hologram.

“Privacy,” Mason said firmly.

“No,” said Mariah, planting her fists on her hips stubbornly.

Mason growled, “If you don’t get out of here–”

Tregon interrupted, “What we’re doing is Top Secret, Mariah.

If you want to know about it, you’ve got to swear that you won’t

tell anybody.”

Mariah hesitated. “You mean, like, not even Mom or Dad?”

“Not even anybody,” Tregon said, with great seriousness.

“Look, Sis,” Mason said, “Dad’s blaming Tregon for our water

shortage–”

“He’s probably right,” Mariah sniffed.

Mason gritted his teeth, then continued, “So we’re trying to

figure out what’s really going on, and who’s stealing our water.”


“So what’s so secret about that?” Mariah asked.

“We can’t tell you until you promise not to tell anybody,”

Tregon said.

Mariah thought it over for all of five seconds, then said,

“Okay, I promise.”

“You’ve got to swear,” Mason insisted.

“Swear?”

With a crafty smile snaking across his lips, Tregon said,

“You’ve got to swear that if you don’t keep what we’re doing an

absolute, totally cosmic secret, Mase and I can take your doll col-

lection outside and bury them all in a crater.”

“Bury my dolls!” Mariah looked horrified.

“That’s the deal,” said Tregon. “If you tell anybody what we’re

doing, your dolls sleep in the sand.”

Mariah stood in front of the two boys, her face showing the

struggle going on inside her. She frowned, she grimaced, she

grumbled to herself.

At last she said, “Oh, all right. I swear I won’t tell anybody

what you’re doing.” And she plopped herself down on the floor

next to her brother.

“If you break your promise,” Tregon said, “your dolls...” He

drew a finger across his throat.

Mariah nodded solemnly. Mason turned away slightly so she

wouldn’t see him grinning.

“Okay,” Mariah said eagerly, “so what’s the big secret?”

“We’ve tapped into the base’s computer files,” said Tregon,

lighting up the hologram again.

“You hacked the central computer?”

“Just the water system,” Mason said, pointing at the bewilder-

ing set of colored lines criss-crossing in three dimensions.

“That’s the base’s whole water system?” Mariah asked, peer-

ing at the schematic hovering above the laptop’s keyboard.

“Most of it,” said Mason. “We couldn’t get the section where

the water pipes go out to the reactor.”

“Everything about the reactor is kept under special safe-

guards,” Tregon said. “I could hack into the files for the rest of the

water system, but not the part that involves the reactor; they’re

under special security codes.”

“People worry about radiation because the reactor’s nucle-

ar?” Mariah asked.

“It’s not a bomb,” Mason grumbled. “It can’t explode.”

Mariah looked as if she didn’t entirely believe that. Then she

asked, “Why do the water pipes go out to the reactor, anyway?”

Mason answered, “They need water to cool the reactor.”

“And they use the waste heat from the reactor to help melt

the permafrost, underground,” Tregon added.

“It’s a pretty cool system,” she said.

Nodding, Mason replied, “Except that there’s a leak some-

place, and we’re getting blamed for it.”

Tracing a finger along one of the red lines on the holographic

display, Tregon said, “There’s no leaks. If there were, they’d show

up on this schematic. The maintenance people check those pipes

all the time. They even have robots crawling inside the pipes to

check ‘em. No leaks.”

“Inside the pipes?” Mariah asked.

“Yup,” said Tregon.

Mason sighed. “Somebody’s taking more water out of the system than he’s supposed to.”“On purpose?” Mariah’s voice squeaking slightly.“On purpose,” Mason agreed.“Which puts us right back where we started,” said Tregon. “Missing water and no clue about how, why, or who’s doing it.”

Mason nodded as Tregon went on, “And whoever’s doing it,

he’s taking the water from the section of the pipes that leads into

your module.”

“He’s stealing our water!” Mason said, starting to feel angry.

“What makes you think it’s a he?” Mariah asked. “It could be

a girl, you know.”

“A girl? Give me a break!” Mason looked disgusted by the idea.

“Boy or girl, somebody’s taking water from the pipe leading

into your module,” Tregon said.

“But the maintenance robots haven’t found any leaks,” said

Mariah.

Mason scratched his head, very much the way his father often

did. “Wait a minute. The maintenance robots are programmed to

look for leaks, right?”

“Right,” said Tregon and Mariah in unison.

“But they’re not programmed to look for a pipe that some-

body might’ve added to the system.”

“Added?”

“Our thief,” said Mason, “must’ve connected a pipe to the

main line that supplies our module. He takes some of our water

away with the pipe he’s tacked on to our line.”

Tregon shook his head. “Nah. That would show up as a leak.

The maintenance robots would spot it.”

“Not if the thief’s pipe has a valve on its end,” Mason said,

grinning at them both. “A valve that he only opens when he wants

to steal some of our water. A valve that he keeps closed when the

maintenance robots are checking our section of pipe.”

“You think?” Mariah asked, her green eyes wide.

Tregon looked intrigued. “Then the thief knows how to get

into the water system.”

“And add at least one pipe without letting anybody know it’s

there,” Mason said.

“And he must know when the maintenance robots are coming

through,” Tregon added.

“It’s got to be somebody who knows the system backwards

and forwards,” Mason agreed.

“Who could it be?” Mariah asked, almost breathless with ex-

citement. “And why is he stealing our water?”


Mason noticed she no longer thought the thief might be a girl.

* * *

“Why can’t I go?” Mariah asked.

“You stay here,” Mason told his sister, “and warn us if Mom

or Dad shows up.”

Mariah, Mason and Tregon were in the tiny kitchen of the

Callahan’s module. Mason had unscrewed the panel under the

sink and laid it on the floor. Tregon was sitting crosslegged beside

it, squinting at the tiny screen of his wristphone.

“Besides,” Mason went on, “you’re too big for this job. You’ll get

stuck down there.”

Mariah frowned at her brother, but said nothing. She thought

of all the times she had twitted Mase about being taller than he.

Now Mason was getting even.

“Maybe I oughtta go,” Tregon said. “I’m the skinniest.”

“I’ll do it,” Mason said firmly. “You watch the schematic and

follow my beacon.” He picked the tiny disc of the radio beacon off

the floor and tucked it into the pocket of his cutoffs.

Tregon nodded. “I can see it on the screen now.”

Mariah bent over Tregon’s shoulder and saw the hologram of

colored lines that represented the system of water pipes. A tiny

red dot was flashing away in one corner of the display.

“Okay,” Mason said, taking in a deep breath. “Here I go.”

“Be careful,” Mariah whispered to him.

“Sure.”

Mason slithered beneath the sink and crawled on his belly

into the darkness beyond the opening in the wall.

“Boy, it’s cramped in here,” he muttered into the phone

clipped to his ear. He heard Tregon’s voice, “You’re following

the pipe that carries water into your module. See any pipes that

shouldn’t be there?”

“Not yet.” Mason inched along the narrowing passageway,

his flashlight in his right hand. “Just the one pipe.”

“It bends to the left just a meter or so in front of where you

are,” Tregon said.

“Yeah, I see the bend.”

“And then it goes down to join the main pipe.”

Mason was sweating. It’s hot down here, he said to himself. I

thought it’d be cold.

He felt the pipe. It was cold to his touch. He could hear water

gurgling.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Water’s flowing through the pipe!”

Tregon’s voice answered, “Your sister’s taking a drink.”

“Oh. I thought somebody was stealing our water.”

“Naw. Just Mariah.”

The cramped tunnel seemed to end up ahead. Mason saw

that the pipe elbowed downward, into a dark shaft.

“I’ve reached the spot where it goes down,” he said.

“Right. I can see the beacon. Can you get down that shaft?”

“It’s pretty narrow,” Mason said, peering down into the black-

ness. His flashlight’s beam seemed to be swallowed up by the dark.

“It only goes down three meters,” Tregon said. “Then the

pipe joins the main one.”

Mason leaned over the edge of the shaft and played his light

along the pipe. “I can see where it joins the main pipe.”

“Is anything else there?” Tregon asked. “Another pipe at-

tached to yours. Or maybe to the main?”

Mason edged further over the lip of the shaft. “No,” he re-

ported. “No other pipes. Just the one from our kitchen, connected

to the main.”

“Blast,” Tregon muttered. “Nobody’s tapped into your pipe.”

“Guess not,” said Mason, wriggling back from the edge of

the shaft.

“Then who’s stealing your water? And how’s he doing it?”

“I’ve got another question for you,” Mason said, sweating

even harder than before.

“Another question? What?”

“How do I get out of here? I’m stuck.”

“Stuck?”

“I’m trying to back out, but I can’t. Something’s got me hung up.”

Tregon could hear the fear in Mason’s voice. Without hesitation

he said into his phone, “Hang in there, Mase. I’ll come and get you.”

“I am hanging in here! It’s all I can do!”

Mariah said, “Tregon! Wait! Let me go after him.”

But Tregon was already crawling under the sink. “I’m slim-

mer,” he called back to Mariah. “I’ll get him.”

“Here,” she yelled to him. “Take this cord with you. You

might need it.”

Tregon stopped only long enough to grasp the coil of electri-

cal cord that Mariah was holding out to him. “Where’d you get

this?” he wondered.

“From Dad’s tool box. I thought it might come in handy.”

“Good thinking,” Tregon said, clutching the coil in one hand.

Then he slithered forward, after Mason.

He heard Mase’s voice in his wristcom. “I think my shirt’s

hooked on something. Like a nail or a screw or something.”

“Okay, okay,” Tregon said, feeling excited and a little afraid.

What if I can’t get him out? he asked himself. What if his parents

come home and he’s still stuck?

It was dark in the tunnel, and Tregon hadn’t thought to bring

a light. But at last his hand bumped into something that felt like

Mase’s softbooted foot.

“That you, Mase?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you turn around?”

“No room!”

“Okay, okay.” As he fumbled in the darkness Tregon said, “I’m

gonna tie this cord around your ankle, then we’ll drag you out.”

“We?”

“Your sister and me. We ought to be able to haul you free of

whatever’s got you caught up.”

“I hope so,” Mason said.

Tregon knotted the cord around Mason’s ankle, then started

slithering backwards along the tunnel. The walls and floor felt gritty,


dusty, but smooth enough. Nothing sticking out to get caught on.

Finally he was under the sink. Breathing a sigh of relief, Tre-

gon crawled out, the cord firmly grasped in his right hand.

Before he could get to his feet, though, he saw that Mason’s

father was standing in the middle of the kitchen, fists on his hips.

Mariah stood beside him. She looked scared.

Drake Callahan looked furious.

* * *

“I’ve never seen your father look so spooled up,” Tregon said,

with genuine awe in his voice. “I thought he was gonna explode.”

Mason still felt guilty about the whole thing, especially about

getting himself hung up on a projecting bolt in the tunnel. His Dad

had hauled him free, but it had torn Mase’s shirt and rubbed a raw

bruise along his chest.

“I can’t stay long,” he said. “Dad doesn’t want me to see you.

If he finds out I’m here...” Mase’s voice trailed off.

The boys were in the maintenance locker, out at the far end

of the settlement where the maintenance crews stored most of

their equipment.

“He won’t,” Tregon said lightly. “Nobody’d think of looking

for us out here.”

“But if he does...”

Tregon tapped his friend’s shoulder. “He can’t possibly get

any madder at you than he is now, can he?”

Despite his fears, Mason broke into a grin. “No, I sure don’t

think so.”

Tregon grinned back at him. “So let’s find a breathing mask

and an air tank.”

“I don’t think we ought to do this,” Mason muttered.

“Hey, it was your idea. Remember?”

Mason had to admit that Tregon was right. But he hadn’t

meant it seriously. He’d just been thinking out loud. If we can’t

find the reason for the water loss from looking at the outside of

the pipes, he had figured, then the only thing left to do is take a

look inside the pipes.

“I didn’t mean that we should really do it,” he said.

Tregon reached for one of the breathing masks hanging in a

row along the wall. “Hey, it’s a good idea, Mase. A logical idea.”

“A crazy idea.”

“Not to me.”

Mason shook his head, but helped Tregon lift one of the

heavy air tanks from the cradle on which it rested.

“If it’s my idea,” he said, holding the green tank in both

hands, “then I should go.”

“With those big shoulders of yours?” Tregon kidded. “You

got yourself stuck under your own sink. You’d never get through

the water pipes.”

“Neither will you. Not the smaller ones, anyway.”

“We’ll see.”

Reluctantly, Mason helped Tregon slip his arms through the

tank’s shoulder straps and buckle the waist cinch around his slim

middle. Tregon pulled the breathing mask over his face.

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“Check the air flow,” he said, his voice muffled by the mask.

Mason looked at the little gauge on the tanks. Air was flowing.

“You’re okay,” he said.

Tregon nodded and the two boys stepped past shelves of

more equipment, to the very end of the structure. An airlock was

set into the end of the wall. Mason could see the dusty red surface

of Mars through its thick window. The normally clear air was a

dark sickly yellowish color, with clouds billowing up far out at

the horizon.

“Looks like a dust storm building up out there,” he said.

“Good,” said Tregon. “That’ll keep everybody’s attention

away from us.”

There was a big hatch set into the floor, with a wheel sticking

up from its heavy dome of steel. The boys had checked the water

system’s schematics: there were no alarms attached to the mainte-

nance hatches. At least, they hadn’t found any in the schematics.

Half expecting an alarm to start hooting, Mason helped Tre-

gon turn the wheel that unsealed the hatch. No alarms. Only a

slight squeaking sound from the wheel itself. It took both of them

to lift the massive hatch and swing it back.

Mason couldn’t see Tregon’s face inside the breathing mask.

But his friend stuck out his hand and said, “Here I go.”

But Mason said, “Wait.”

He trotted back to the shelves and searched quickly until

he found a spool of buckyball cable. Wire-thin, the material was

much stronger than steel. Carrying it back to Tregon, Mason knelt

down and tied one end of the lightweight cable around Tregon’s

left ankle.

“In case you need some help getting back.”

“The voice of experience.” Even though Tregon’s face was hid-

den by the breathing mask, Mason could hear the grin in his voice.

Mason nodded. Then he grabbed Tregon’s hand. “Good

luck, bud.”

Tregon slapped Mason’s shoulder lightly, then said, “Here I go.”

He climbed down the ladder and disappeared from Ma-

son’s sight.

* * *

The pipe was narrow. And the water was cold. Tregon could

feel his air tank bumping against the top of the pipe while he

“walked” on his fingertips and toes through the icy water. This is

cool, he thought. Kind of like swimming.

Mason had attached a lamp to a sweat band and snugged it

over his head, so wherever he looked there was enough light to

see the plastic insides of the main water pipe. The water flowed

smoothly, gently; Tregon could push himself through it without all

that much trouble. Every now and then he heard a gurgling sound

and saw bubbles drifting past him. Somebody must have turned

on a tap someplace, he thought, and a valve opened to allow the

water to flow.

“How’re you doing?” Mason’s voice sounded thin, almost

feeble, in the communicator built into the breathing mask.

“Okay,” Tregon answered, surprised that it took so much ef-

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fort to say anything. “It’s pretty cold in here.”

“You want to come back?”

“Not yet.”

Tregon had memorized the layout of the pipes. His aim was

to slither all the way down to the point where the access pipe

from Mason’s module connected with the main. There has to be

another pipe attached in here somewhere, he said to himself. A

rogue pipe that the thief snuck into the system. Has to be!

But there wasn’t. He saw seams in the pipe, where sections

had been cemented together. Some of the seams had a thin, slimy-

looking coating on them, most didn’t. He saw valves and joints

where other pipes tapped off the main. Nothing that he didn’t re-

member being in the schematic. Nothing that didn’t belong where

it was. Nothing that indicated somebody was stealing water.

Why would anybody want to steal water, anyway? Tregon

asked himself. If you need more water you ask the water board.

They hardly ever turn anybody down.

There it was. The pipe that led up to the Callahan’s module.

“I see your access pipe,” he said into the mask’s micro-

phone.

“Anything else?”

“I counted six pipes between the place where I went in and

yours.”

A pause. Then Mason’s voice, sounding disappointed, “Six.

Check. That’s what the schematic shows.”

“No extra pipes.”

“No thief.”

Tregon shook his head. He could feel his long hair sloshing

around in the water.

“Guess I might as well come back,” he said, feeling disap-

pointed.

“Guess so.” Mason sounded just as glum.

It was a tight squeeze to turn around inside the pipe. Tregon

felt his air tank scraping along its curved plastic wall. But after a

few wriggles and bumps he got himself headed in the right direc-

tion and started back.

At last he climbed up and out of the pipe, dripping wet, and

yanked off his breathing mask. Mason started to help him slip out

of the air tank’s shoulder straps.

“Hey! What’re you kids doing in here?”

They looked up and saw one of the maintenance technicians

heading toward them, a deep frown lining his face.

Tregon and Mason looked at each other and said, “Uh-oh.”

* * *

Tregon’s cutoffs were still dripping water onto the floor as he

and Mason stood before the maintenance chief’s desk.

“Inside the main water pipe?” The maintenance chief clearly

was having a hard time believing it. He was one of the older men

in the Mars settlement. His hair was silver gray, but he still looked

trim; his coveralls didn’t bulge in the middle, the way some of the

other elders’ did.

They had wrapped a blanket around Tregon. Mason, standing

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beside his friend, said, “We were trying to find out who’s stealing

water.” Then he added, “Sir.”

The maintenance tech pointed to the breathing mask and air

tank. “They stole this equipment. And damaged it.”

“We borrowed it,” Mason said quickly.

“And it’s not damaged,” said Tregon.

The maintenance chief got up from his desk and walked over

to the equipment. He bent down and lifted the air tank.

“Maybe it’s not really damaged,” he muttered, looking the

tank over carefully. “But what’s this crud smeared on it?”

Mason saw a grayish slimy-looking goo sticking to one side

of the tank.

“That’s the stuff that was on some of the seals in the piping,”

Tregon said. “The tank must’ve scraped some of it off when I went

through.”

The chief touched the goo with a fingertip. And frowned.

“Glop,” he said, reaching for a tissue to wipe his finger. Turning to

the technician, he asked, “What is this stuff?”

The tech shrugged. “Darned if I know.”

“Some kind of sealant?” the chief mused.

The technician shook his head. “We don’t use any sealant

inside the piping.”

“Then what on earth is it?” the chief demanded.

* * *

Drake Callahan scowled at the boys. He was sitting at his

desk, his son and Tregon standing at attention in front of it. The

maintenance chief had marched Mason and Tregon to Callahan’s

laboratory as soon as he had determined that no damage had been

done to the water system.

Mason’s father sat there for many long, silent moments.

Tregon wondered when the explosion would come. He thought

he saw the beginnings of a smile on Dr. Callahan’s face, but he

figured that was just wishful thinking. He and Mase were in for

trouble, real trouble, and he knew it.

At last Dr. Callahan said slowly, “That was an incredibly stu-

pid thing you two did.”

Mason glanced at Tregon, then replied, “We were trying to

find the water thief, Dad.”

“Were you.” The way Dr. Callahan said it, it wasn’t a question.

“Yessir,” said Tregon.

“You might have been seriously hurt. You might have dam-

aged our water system. Did that ever occur to either of you?”

“We didn’t get hurt and we didn’t damage the pipes,” Ma-

son said.

Dr. Callahan started to reply, hesitated, then said only,

“That’s true.”

“We were just trying to help,” Tregon said.

“We wanted to find the water thief,” Mason repeated.

“And did you?” Dr. Callahan asked darkly.

Both boys shook their heads.

“No, we didn’t,” Mason admitted.

“Wrong.”

“I know it was wrong, but – ”

Dr. Callahan was definitely smiling, Tregon realized.

“I don’t mean that what you did was wrong – although it

was,” said Mason’s father. “What I meant was that you did find

the water thief.”

“Huh?”

“That gray slime on the air tank. Do you know what it is?”

“Glop,” said Tregon.

“Bacteria,” said Dr. Callahan. “A colony of underground bac-

teria. Martian bacteria.”

“Martian?” Mason gasped.

With a nod, Dr. Callahan said, “We’ve know that there are

colonies of bacteria living deep underground, way down below

the surface. They’re similar to bacteria types on Earth that the

biologists call SLiMES: subsurface lithotropic microscopic eco-

systems.”

“Lithotropic means ‘rock loving,’ doesn’t it?” Mason asked.

“Right,” his father answered. “They eat rock.”

“They look slimy,” said Tregon. “That’s for sure.”

“We’ve found Martian SLiMES living kilometers deep, below

the permafrost layer,” Dr. Callahan went on. “They must have sensed

the liquid water in our pipes and come up to take advantage of it.”

“So there was a water thief, after all,” Tregon said.

“They wormed their way into the pipe, through the seals be-

tween sections of piping,” Dr. Callahan explained. “Maybe there were

pinhole leaks in the pipe and that’s how they found the water.”

“You mean we’ve been swallowing Martian bugs in our drink-

ing water?” Mason asked, feeling alarmed.

Dr. Callahan shook his head. “No. Our drinking water is

filtered.”

“But we’ll have to figure out a way to keep them out of the pipes,”

Tregon said. “Otherwise they’ll take all our water, sooner or later.”

Dr. Callahan laughed. “The biologists will tackle that prob-

lem. But they don’t want to drive the SLiMES away altogether. It’s

much easier to study them up here, instead of way down deep,

where they usually live.”

“We actually helped the biologists?” Mason asked.

His father’s stern expression came back. “Don’t think you’re

going to be congratulated. What you did was dangerous. Foolish

and dangerous. You’re not heroes.”

“Maybe not,” Tregon said, beaming his biggest grin. “But I’m

the first guy ever to go scuba diving on Mars!”

Ben Bova is the author of more than 125 futuristic novels and nonfiction books about science and high technology. In his various writings, Dr. Bova has predicted innovations from the Space Race of the 1960s to the discovery of ice on the Moon. Dr. Bova received the Lifetime Achievement

Award of the Arthur C. Clarke Foundation in 2005, “for fueling mankind’s imagination regarding the wonders of outer space.” His 2006 novel TITAN received the John W. Campbell Memorial Award for best novel of the year, and he received the 2008 Robert A. Heinlein Award “for his outstanding body of work in the field of literature.” In 2012 the National Space Society recognized him as a Space Pioneer.


We��ingBy Scott Ciencin


The

Band“Can I see it?”

He holds out his hand. An old bloated hand reminding me

of a century-old cypress: varicose veins for vines, coarse peel-

ing skin for bark, blackened scabs for knots. The ring is exactly

how it was in the news photos. A third of an inch wide, a hole

chipped into the top like something had taken a bite out of it.

Which in a way it had.

“You didn’t fix it.”

“Naw. Don’t no one would really think it happened least-

wise. A real conversation starter, yah? Great at parties.” He

grins, flashing big false teeth flat as picket fence posts. “Hey,

I got a good one for you. You still keeping that book? Funny

things people says?”

I draw a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Hitches a few times,

a jackhammer powering down, almost revealing my panic. He

doesn’t catch on. “Sure.”

“Okay. So Ella and me, we gets these customers in, these

Georgia gals down from hoighty-toighty Hotlanta. This here,

this is a jewelry store. Economy being what it is, prices are what

they are. I’m more than fair. But some people...”

He doesn’t notice my hands squeezing each other, knuck-

les popping whiter than fresh hospital sheets. I want to hear

about the bullet. I need to know what it felt like when the bullet

hammered his ring and sparked jokingly away instead of enter-

ing his brain. Him on his knees in the corner, hands over his

head, knowing he was about to die, hearing the shot, feeling...

what? Was he knocked unconscious? How had he kept the fin-

ger? So few details in the news reports. A writer lives for details,

dies without them.

“So these gals,” he goes on, “a little plump, both of them.

Big sun hats, big sun dresses, orange and purple and red and

green, like a grenade went off as they was strolling past the

produce down at farmers market on Main but they either didn’t

notice no how or was taking pride in their gaudiness, couldn’t

tell which. But they from Hotlanta so they some hot shit, right?

You know the type.”

I did. I grew up in a crap house on Siesta Key near the ca-

nal, a fourplex my father owned and rented out. Million dollar,

two million dollar houses prowling up down the twisting palm-

lined avenue, every one of them bloated from breathing in the

rich sea air: heavy, moist, intoxicating. On the stroll, delusional

and surgically stressed trophy wives power-walking their high,

proud and unmoving silicone chassis. Ahead of them, desper-

ate, wild-eyed hundred pound poodles on bungee leashes. I


scored enough cash selling weed to those ladies to get to L.A.

and start film school.

“They try to unload some costume jewelry they insist is

diamonds and pearls. I smile and wish them luck with that. On

the way out, just as the door is literally tapping one of these

pig-faced women in her plump rump, she done looks over her

shoulder and says to me, ‘you have a blessed day.’ I think that’s

the end of it, but she still standin’ there, smiling and batting

her lashes like she’s done gonna drop her panties and stroll on

into Sunday services and she adds, ‘where we come from, you

ignorant cracker, that means go fuck yourself.’ And then she

takes her leave.” He smiles, pleased with himself. “Isn’t that just

beautiful? I think that’s beautiful.”

I can’t wait any longer. Fingers shaking, I raise my phone,

scroll to notes.

“Oh, right, so that’s how you do it now. People do every-

thing on the phones, isn’t that it? You got a folder for whatcha-

callit, colloquialisms?”

I don’t answer. Bands of iron tighten around my ribs while

ice drips down my spine.

“You must be freezing. Right under the air-conditioning

vent like that. I’ll go turn it off.”

Whatever’s in my eyes now stops him. His smile performs

a magic trick: vanishes. He doesn’t have to say that he’s only

seen the look like what I’m giving him once before, in the eyes

of the boy who robbed his store three years earlier and shot

him. But it’s clear. And I’m too afraid of what’s waiting for me

back on the coast to feel ashamed.

I read it off to him. Exact. “‘Age doesn’t provide wisdom;

only regret.’ Your words. After you’d been shot.”

He shrugs. “I shoulda seen what he was fixing to do soon-

er. Maybe I could’ve talked him out of trying to throw away

both our lives.”

Breathless. Waiting. “That’s all?”

“That’s enough, I’d say.” His hand, the one with the dam-

aged wedding band, rests on my shoulder. My quaking eases,

doesn’t stop. “I ever tell you how much you remind me of the

neighborhood strays back in Arcadia, when I was a boy? I think

that’s why I gave you a job that summer. Now... you got trou-

bles, don’t you? You think I can help.”

My voice: raw and breaking. “I’m dead if you can’t.”

So I tell him. About the Mazuchelli family in Burbank (I

couldn’t even manage to get in with Hollywood gangsters,

Christ...) How much I owed them, how it turned out they want-

ed into the film business like everyone else, but just needed

a great script and how nothing I pitched got their interest...

except old Avery’s story. Except what happened with him and

his ring, which had been all over the news. But they leaned in,

all ears, to the story I said I could deliver, the one no one had:

What happened after.

“They never caught the boys?” I’m nearly hyperventilat-

ing.

“Nope. And that’s fine. Way I see it, we all had a near miss

and now we could just go on with our lives. I just prayed he or

any of his friends never done nothing like that again. Nothing

else for it, really.”

“That night, what did you do? What did you feel?”

“Well, I was happy!”

“I’ll bet. You had your life back! Did you go out and cel-

ebrate?” I keep encouraging him but this is like fishing in the

Gulf with red tide rushing in.

“We had sex. That was good. Course we do that a lot. My

brother Ned is a pharmacist, don’t tell anyone, but he hooks us

up with the blue pill and... shiiiiit.”

I feel another headache coming on but I can’t get angry,

he’s trying, I won’t get what I need if I say what I’m thinking.

Count to ten. Count to ten. If I repeat that ten times...

Sympathy spoons up in his dark gentle eyes. “Look, I got

nothing for you. I get it. You’re not the first come here wantin’

what you’re wantin’. Most of these people, I just tell them to

have a ‘blessed day,’ basically. But with you, you’re, ah...”

“One of your strays.”

“There’s just nothing. You’re looking for the O. Henry

twist. That whole crazy chain of events that one thing kicked

off. How almost dying made me reevaluate my life and reach

out to people who wronged me or whom I had wronged. Kevin,

I’m sorry but I’m a boring old fuck. I like Sudoku. I gamble a

little racing the greys and scream myself hoarse like a damn

fool at the DeSoto speedway. I was in the war but mostly I was

just a supply clerk. Ella and me been together goin’ on 50 years

and not once have we strayed. I ain’t done nothin’ crazy, nei-

ther before or after what happened. What happened happened

and then it was done.”

His hands were steepled before him. Glare from a jeweler’s

lamp seared the gold expanse on his ring finger, caught in the

blackened teethlike jagged grooves left by the bullet strike. He

caught my stare, sighed.

“Who is that other writer you like so much? Saki? And that

guy, he had the TV show with the horses going around the car-

ousel and he had a big bald goopie egg of a head—”


“Roald Dahl. Tales of the Unexpected.”

“Right! That big busty gal from Dynasty, she was in a cou-

ple of them stories and she was real young. That’s what you’re

looking for, yah? Some crazy thing...” He held up his hand and

the glow dropped from his ring like tears after a heartbreak,

slow and easy and beyond anyone’s control. “Like the ring still

being busted years later needs to have, ah, symbolism, and rel-

evance and themes relating to, uh, how we relate, in relation-

ships and marriage and shit, fair the by... like if I had gone home

that day and I’d found my brother and my wife going at it or

something, right, and under any other circumstances I done

woulda for sure just shot them myself but I was like ‘this is just

life’ so I yelled ‘room for one more’ and jumped in and we been

a happy threesome ever since. Now we do swinger’s clubs in

mattress factories and I’m not happy unless I got a ball gag in

my mouth, right? That kind of thing?”

I actually brighten up at that.

“But nothing like that happened and I ain’t puttin’ my name

to that. Could it be, like, genteel or religious? Like, I’d had a rov-

ing eye and sinned in my heart before that day and I was just

about to commit the mortal sin of adultery but I saw the face

of Jesus in that bullet when they showed it to me later and uh...

naw, I’m not puttin’ my name to that either...”

“There’s got to be a metaphor in there.”

“Surely, surely in the fictional sense I’m sure there is. But

in life shit happens and then there is more life and there’s more

shit and it just keeps going like that. I just don’t know how to

help you.”

We sat in silence in his workshop. I glanced to the door-

way, to the modest showroom beyond, the Closed sign hanging

above the locked door. A man in a suit tried the door anyway,

shook his head, moved on, frustrated. No one I recognized. But

then it wouldn’t be.

“No one knows you’re here? You didn’t say you were com-

ing back home?”

I shook my head.

“You told these Burbank people about me? That this really

happened, you weren’t just making it up? So even if I hid you

out here, eventually...”

“Yeah, eventually. They have reach.”

“They have reach...”

I saw him looking at me then. Studying my face the way

I’ve been studying his. “What?”

He eased back on a stool. A big man, twice my size. Torso

like an overstuffed bag of flour. Muscular arms with tattoos

I’d never noticed when I’d worked here before college, ink he

scratched like it was new. A puppy on one bicep, a kitty cat

on the other. Wide trusting eyes. Details. Sometimes it was

just murder to keep up with them all. “That light in your eyes.

Potentiality is what we called it up in the rice paddies. I was

infantry for all of two weeks before I was transferred out. Long

enough to see boys younger than you playing out their whole

lives in their heads every time they thought they saw a glint of

something in a tree. Their whole lives, burning like the sun, like

a prize waiting to be taken. Staring at diamonds all day, seeing

that refracted light, it’s a mite like that. All the things they wish

they had time to do...”

Excitement wound through me. “A bucket list!”

“Like in that movie?”

“The story starts here, today. Maybe there’s something you

always wanted to do. Some path you were on once and you

were led off it by circumstances. But it stayed with you. Some-

where in the back of your head you’ve always wondered ‘what

if.’ Maybe you wanted to go to Egypt and see the pyramids. Or

run away to the circus and walk a tightrope. Maybe run for of-

fice and take on Washington. That could be the movie!”

“I don’t like heights.”

“Okay, but you get my point.”

“Huh.” The fingers of his right hand sinuously pulse and

writhe over his wounded wedding band. “I’ve led a pretty

happy life. I’m fulfilled, except...” He glances out to the shop

and the Closed sign. Casts his gaze downward. “There is some-

thing.”

My wildly beating heart is almost in my throat. “You can’t

be ashamed of it. No one’s going to judge you. I just want the

truth. I want you to be honest with me, be honest with yourself,

you’re safe, you can be who you’ve always wanted to be, do

whatever that one thing is you’ve always wanted to do, you—”

I don’t know when the hammer leaped into his hand. I do

know when it connected with the side of my skull.

* * *

It wasn’t a smooth transition. I didn’t just immediately lose

consciousness and wake up where I am now on the long black

marble table, two spent rolls of duct tape holding me in place.

It was awkward, it was embarrassing, it was almost comical. Ex-

cept for the pain. The terror. A voice in my head screaming, this

is happening you have to get out. The feel of his heavy bulky

body above me, behind me, around me, not so much grap-

pling as smothering, razor burns from his stubble scraping into

the back of my neck, the sharp nasty tang of his cheap shav-

http://www.theespo.com


ing gel and the sickly sweet of the baby powder he’d doused

himself with after showering. The struggling until the hammer

finally stopped catching me on meaty bits and connected with

my ankle when we were playing Twister, somehow, the rush

of vomit, the weakness, the slamming of my forehead into the

table until I was too weak to do anything but cry and he finally

had me down.

“It was just animals when I was a boy,” he said. “Mice and

then squirrels. A raccoon once, but they’s nasty. The neighbor-

hood strays, even the pets that done set to wander, they was

easy and you could get something outta that. Just feed them

some drugged meat and down they’d go. Down to the work-

shop. You’re right, Kevin, everything you said. A man shouldn’t

be ashamed of who he is, what he is. Of the things he needs.

Age only brings regret if you let it.”

My mouth had been open a little when he taped it. My

tongue was stuck to the gloomy part. It was hard to swallow.

The tape is tight over my ribs and gut. Hard to breathe.

He’s staring at his broken ring. Easing the

band in tight short semicircles around his

thick finger. “I think I got that metaphor now.

It’s that as much as I might love my wife, as

close as I might feel to her — and I do, I’d

never bring her a moment’s pain — there’s

always been, the way this ring is now, a lit-

tle chipped part, a little something missing.

A kind of unity that wasn’t there, that I did

feel... this is going to sound crazy... with those

neighborhood pets. When they were as you

are now, we were wed. When that light of all

they ever might be came into their eyes and

into to me as they passed, we were one. In

a way that even holy matrimony simply can’t

provide for, if you take my meaning.”

Count to ten. Count to ten. Count—

“But they just dumb beasts. They could feel, but not think.

Not as you or I.”

Jewelers’ blades in his hands. Plastic on the walls. Ham-

mers. Saws. No...

“I never lied outright to Ella. I told her I was disappointed

I didn’t see action in the war, but didn’t explain why. I told her

my childhood was troubled and left it at that. All truth, just not

the whole truth, not freely giving of myself as I am with you,

now that—”

The tinkling of bells. Footsteps from the alley entrance. Ella,

neatly put together, aging gracefully and beautifully, cartons of

rich smelling Thai takeout and her birdlike hands. Staring.

“Oh,” the man with the cracked wedding band says.

Her eyes meet mine. I plead, I beg. I’m that boy who

worked at the shop, the one she and Avery had over for dinner

who knows how many times, who washed and polished their

El Camino, who sat with her on the old porch swing behind the

house eating beef jerky and looking up at the stars telling my

stories, whittling out my dreams with words, telling jokes, mak-

ing her smile, and for a moment she sees me, really sees me,

and I know there’s a chance and I know I should be signaling

her to run, to save herself, but I want to live, and she doesn’t

know, can’t know what her husband is, I don’t think he really

accepted it ‘til today, and she’s shocked, she’s surprised, she’s

processing, she can save me, with a word she can make him

stop and she’s thinking about it, I can tell, she pities me, she—

The universe slips, it shifts, something in her brain switches

over and in a blink there’s nothing in her gaze. Not for me. She

turns it on her husband and her eyes fill with the light of uncon-

ditional love. She’s made her decision.

“I need this,” he says. He’s watching her. What he said

before was true, I can see that, he won’t hurt her. He’d sooner

end his own life than bring a moment of pain to hers. He’s

looking for that hurt, wondering if he’s harmed her with the

little sideshow she just walked in on, with keeping this part of

himself from her?

There’s no pain in her. She’s accepted this is how things

are now, her thin hands working her wedding ring, caressing

it, marrying him all over again in this crazed instant. This is the

‘for worse’ part, and it’s bad, but if it’s needed, if this is what

he needs...

(Help me, Goddammit!!!)

I can’t imagine anyone loving like that. It’s one part insan-

ity, one part the most beautiful and dangerous thing I’ve ever

seen, and I feel a wetness down my leg as my fear collapses my

self-control. I’m dead, I’m dead now, she’s made her choice,

why would I think she’d choose me, I throw up a little in my


mouth and think I’ll choke, and I’m dizzy and the room is keeling, but I don’t choke, don’t pass out, don’t—

“If you need this,” she whispers. “All right.” A nod. A thin but warm smile. “All right. You need any help?”

“N-no... I got this.”

She sits down with the food beside his microwave. This is a thing that’s happening and she’s made her deci-

sion, she’s treating it as if he just got a delivery and had to focus on his work, as if this were normal. Shit happens,

then more life, then more shit, then...

“Thought you might want some lunch... Avery, hon, there’s some bad smells in here. You want I should...”

She stops herself. Thinks about it. Gets it. “No, no real point yet, I suppose. Smells’ll be worse later. I’ll see what

cleaners we have under the sink, maybe something with a pine scent.” Watches me struggle. “That tape enough?

I can get the handcuffs from Christmas, the special ones—”

“No, no, no. This is good. We’re good.”

“Aah right. I love you. Meatloaf later. I’ll keep it warm. Don’t worry if you don’t eat any of the Master Changs,

probably got MSG anyway. You take your time.”

“All right.”

“All right.”

Then she’s gone. Then he’s looking at me. Then to his ring. He’s slipping it off. I’m writhing. Trying to scream.

Trying to get loose. I can’t see him anymore. There’s tapping, something tightening, a vise? I smell something

burning. He’s going to burn me. I hear liquid. A sizzling. Smelting? Is he going to pour whatever he’s melting in

my mouth, my eyes, oh God—

This time I really do pass out.

* * *

When I wake I am in the trunk of a car. Avery’s ratty old El Camino. Cool night air sifts onto me. The trunk is

open. I’m looking at Avery and Ella. My wrists are handcuffed together in front of me. Takes them a while. They

bang me up quite a bit getting me out of there, spilling me onto a white painted line separating spaces in the vast

parking lot of a deserted grocery store far from the nearest lamp. A wind kicks up, a stray shopping cart rolls,

squeaking, stops. Ella crouches next to me and I am crying again, my knees up protectively, a fetal position. Her

cold lips touch my ear.

“It’s like with those boys. They’re on with their lives, we’re on with ours.” She steps back, takes her husband’s

hand. Even in the dim light, a shard of golden light, a gleam of insane brilliance, breaks off his wide wedding

band. It’s whole. It’s complete. The missing piece filled in.

Ping! A tiny key falls within my reach. I lunge for it, fumble for freedom. When I look back, they’re driving

off.

* * *

Stopped at a light.

“Avery?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re the most generous man I’ve ever known. I ever tell you that?”

“Figure it all evens out. He’s got his story now.”

She takes his hand, rests it on her thigh, smiles down at the wedding band, now a perfect match to her own.

Snuggles against his shoulder. “And we’ve got ours.”

Scott Ciencin is a New York Times bestselling author of adult and children’s fiction with over 100 titles from Random

House, Simon & Schuster, Scholastic and many others. He also writes for the Sarasota Film Festival as “The Insider”

and works as a scriptwriter and creative consultant for film, comic books, video games and more. He is currently

at work on his next novel.


By Julianna Baggott


This is the heaven of tree-lined streets, sidewalks,

homes cocooned from infection in their nonporous plas-

tic bubbles, which glint in the sun. I tell Allyster that I’d

like to roll down the car windows, feel the sun and wind

on my face, but he reminds me that I can’t risk the con-

tagion, especially not in my weakened condition.

We’re looking for my heaven specifically. 1411

Browning Drive. We’re close. I would recognize this

street anywhere. “Maybe this street was named after the

poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” I say. Allyster slows

the rental car. “The proctors had me memorize her po-

ems — I love thee with a love I seemed to lose/With my

lost saints.” I glance at Allyster. “They must have had me

memorize it because she had to memorize it.”

“There’s no other explanation,” Allyster says. “Not for

anything we know, except what we’ve taught each other,

accidentally. Except for our daily lives which weren’t re-

ally ours anyway.”

And there’s the house of my heaven. Allyster parks

the car. The air in the car goes quiet and hallowed. I’ve

seen pictures of this house all my life — the pale beige

clapboard, the brown door, the ivy still thriving beneath

the bubble, which probably amplifies the warmth like a

greenhouse. The driveway is empty. The inflatable walk-

way that leads from the front door and eventually locks

onto the door of the car — airtight — has that same sheen

and ripples in the wind.

This is the home of Susan Wraith.

My original.

I’ve known this house forever but we had to steal the

address.

A sketch of her face sits on the seat between us. Her

face is my face. And yet, I don’t know my own face well.

The proctors never allowed mirrors, which is why Allys-

ter got so good at making likenesses. The other pupils

begged him for portraits, also not allowed; he made them

and let people look at them only during a short study

break before lights out. Then he’d open a window and

burn the etching in an empty garbage can. Except mine.

He let me keep mine.

With My

Lost Saints


Allyster’s original took art lessons. The proctors were

forced to teach him to draw. Luckily, his original also knows

how to drive, which is why he can operate the car at all.

Allyster would recognize Susan Wraith if she ap-

peared in an upper window right now, but would I? Even

though her face is my face?

My name is Susan Wraith, too, of course. How else

would I know to look up when someone said those two

words? I want someone to call my name. I want to lift my

head and find that it’s my mother at the front door, call-

ing for me! But this is farfetched. And if she were calling

for me, she wouldn’t be calling me at all...

It’s like coming home to a foreign land. In ten days,

I’ll be eighteen, and Allyster will turn eighteen in two

months. It’s time we got to come home, isn’t it? “We

deserve homes,” I say.

“That’s what I want to hear,” Allyster encourages me.

“We are deserving!”

In the next few days, we’re going to kidnap Susan

Wraith. Allyster and I. We’ve never stolen anything in

our lives, but we are going to steal a human being — in

hopes of saving my life.

* * *

Long ago — before penicillin and vaccines — peo-

ple had many children because few survived childhood.

The poor needed children to work the farms. The rich

needed heirs.

(This is something I’ve read. I know this. Does she

know this, too?)

It’s what I thought about when Proctor Elizabeth told

me the news in my hospital room — why I exist, what

level of insurance my heavenly parents paid for, and how

I’d soon be appropriately scarred and sent to the other

hospital, the one in hell, where people go to die.

She wasn’t supposed to tell me until I turned eigh-

teen. But I asked her to visit me, to sing when they turned

out the lights. Maybe I sensed that I wouldn’t be beloved

much longer.

Weary and angry, she pulled a chair to my bedside and

stated the facts. “You’re a clone,” Procter Elizabeth said. “The

decision to clone a child is a natural one for the rich. With so

many virulent super-diseases now, their children often per-

ish before adulthood. Bearing more children wears on the

mother’s strength, degrades her body. You’ve been raised to

replace your original if she dies. Like the school play. You

were once an understudy for Brita March, weren’t you?”

I nodded, unable to speak. The news was as terrifying

as it was satisfying. My life — our lives in the Ward of Be-

loveds — made sense. I didn’t understand the science of it,

but I knew, deep down, that this was the truth, the purpose

of my life. It’s a truth not many people ever get — and rarely

with such clarity. (We have been taught to always look for

positives.) I folded the edge of my sheet, my hands shaking

and I looked up at Proctor Elizabeth, waiting for more.

She’s scarred like all proctors, a line down one side of

her forehead through her eyebrow, lightly along the lid of

one eye and then down her cheek, tear-like from there to

her jaw. She made no attempt at sympathy. Her voice held

a barely muted glee. I realized then how much the proc-

tors hate us.

I didn’t understand. “And now that I’m eighteen,

what’s changed? What if Susan Wraith dies tomorrow?

I’m still of use, aren’t I? I could still go to heaven and live

with my heavenly parents if I’m good, can’t I?”We’d been

taught from birth that we were each given our own ver-

sion of heaven — the cooing of our specific parents’ faces

on screens mounted on our cribs. Hell existed outside of

our gated school — the impoverished hell of The Zones.

Our ward, like purgatory, existed between the two.

“It has nothing to do with good or bad. We used

those concepts as threats to keep you well-behaved,”

Proctor Elizabeth said. “It ’s random. If your original

dies, you take that child’s place. If the original lives,

there are two options. If your parents only paid for

Level I insurance, the basics, you are scarred and

sent out to live in one of The Zones at eighteen.”

“Elroy Wincester,” I said. I’d seen him on the bus ride

to the one good hospital where we go when we’re very

ill. While riding through hell in the long dark car to get

to it, they told me to close my eyes. But I looked out the


window through my splayed fingers to see those on the

streets. So many people, worn and tired. They shuffle and

shove among each other. So many of them have the scars

that run down their faces, like the proctors. I believed

what I’d been told — the scars were a punishment for the

sins of their nature. There was something within each of

them that wasn’t worthy. The scars were administered by

the government, but also sometimes self-administered.

“People know the sin within them.” I felt sorry for the

scarred. There were so many of them — face after face,

sliced down one side, a long risen seam.

And then I could have sworn I saw Elroy Wincester,

standing in a long line outside of a building with a dark-

ened door. It looked like a government handout line. He

was cold, shifting his feet, shoulders hunched, hands in

the pockets of his thin coat. He had the long rough scar

of a proctor, which I now know is the scar on all clones

that aren’t ever of use, not just proctors. I told myself I

was wrong. We’d been told that Elroy had gotten called

to heaven to live with Mr. and Mrs. Wincester.

As I looked away, Elroy spotted me. He mouthed my

name then waved and shouted. “Hurry,” I told the driver.

Was I afraid of Elroy now? How could I be? He was so

kind and good.

He was fast enough to get one hand on the window.

I heard his muffled voice. “Susan! Susan! Find me, okay!

After! Find me!”

The driver sped up. Elroy pounded the trunk with his

fist. It was over.

“What about Elroy?” Proctor Elizabeth asked.

“He did everything right. Always. He was so good.

After he was gone, you told us he’d joined his family: a

beautiful reunion of souls! But I saw him in hell.”

“We tell you whatever makes sense, that the good go

to heaven, the bad to hell. But it’s senseless. Reality isn’t

reasonable. Except the Zones do feel like hell, though,

Susan. I’ve walked those streets. They are hell.”

How many times had she explained this to pupils like

me as they turn eighteen? It seemed practiced. Was this

the best part of her job? “What’s the second option?” I

asked her.

“Some parents pay to continue insurance — in case

their child, in adulthood, needs you as a donor. You’re

really of no use as an understudy anymore. At a certain

point, you can never really pass as your original. If need-

ed for parts, the pupils are given plastic surgery for their

facial features, new identities, and they live in one of the

Protected Areas, where they’re more likely to survive.

Some marry and have children. Some even have enough

money to choose to clone their own children. We’ve had

some multiple generations that way.”

“But we’re beloved. You’ve all told us that again and

again. Was that a lie?”

“No,” Proctor Elizabeth said. “They pay handsomely

to clone you children. You are beloved. It’s just that your

status as beloved has an expiration date.”

She looked old to me then, unbearably old — fine

wrinkles, budding jowls. I hated her. In fact, for the first

time in my life, I understood hatred. “What about you?” I

asked her.

“I was once like you,” Proctor Elizabeth said. “I was

going to be sent to hell, but I got lucky and got a proc-

tor post. Who else would know how to care for clones

but clones? One day, my original may need me for parts.

She pays monthly for the privilege — unable to afford

the surgeries for me. If she stops paying, I’m no longer

of much use.”

“You aren’t like me,” I reminded her. “I’m dying.”

This was the truth that the doctors never really wanted to

state, but I knew that my case was terminal.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” She walked to the window.

“Ironic how?”

“If you were an original, you’d need your clone. But

you’re a clone. Your original is not going to come and

save you. Susan Wraith doesn’t even know you exist.”

“Tell my parents I’m sick. I’ll die if I’m sent out of this

hospital. Tell them!”

“Dear heart,” Proctor Elizabeth said, “don’t you

think they’ve been given the opportunity to up their pay-

ments? They know. Of course they know.”


* * *

Duct tape, rope, a cloth to use as a blindfold. A knife,

not to kill her, just to threaten her. A crowbar to jimmy

a window — though we hope to catch her outside, per-

haps in school where the kids are still allowed to shuffle

among each other.

Allyster puts all of these objects on the orange com-

forter of the hotel bed. We’re staying one town away

from 1411 Browning Drive. “It’s good they let us watch

all the movies they’ve watched. How else would we

know how to kidnap someone?” Allyster says.

“We don’t know how to kidnap someone,” I remind

him. “Hopefully, we won’t need to. When we talk to her,

maybe she’ll understand. I’m more than a twin, right?”

“You should lie down.” He’s always afraid I’m about to

die, suddenly, without warning. How many times have I ex-

plained that mine will be the slow painful kind of death?

I’m tired though so while he puts everything into his

satchel, I climb into bed. There’s only one bed, a double.

We had to tell the desk clerk we were newlyweds or he’d

have made us get two rooms. We made that mistake in

another hotel lobby. We were called fornicators and in-

vited to take our business elsewhere.

Allyster and I aren’t fornicators. Not yet. But I think

I’d like to be a fornicator with him, under the orange

bedspread in this dim hotel room, before we kidnap a

human being and feel that weight and shame forever.

We’ve only kissed once, the night he rescued me. Al-

lyster broke out of school to visit me in the hospital, late

at night, and he made it all the way to my room. It was

the night before they were to take me to the hospital in the

zone. I told him everything Proctor Elizabeth had told me.

He found me a set of clothes in the doctor’s lounge,

baggy and ill-fitting. He broke into a room full of re-

cords and emerged with my entire file — the one that

stated the address of my original — and then, together,

we escaped. Security is high — to get in. But getting out

wasn’t so hard. Back stairwells, service exits.

Once out on the streets, he didn’t know where to go.

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But I knew, yes. Elroy Wincester. We retraced the route

of the car, and I found a building with the darkened door.

“This one, I think.”

Eventually a line formed. We sat across the street,

watching. “There he is!” I pointed him out.

It took two weeks living as Elroy lives, in cul-

verts and shanties, until he helped us make

a plan. Beyond the Zones to the east, there

are checkpoints that, once passed, take you

into the outskirts of heaven. Elroy had con-

nections to the underground network.

Proctor Elizabeth was right. Hell is hell. But

Elroy got us everything we needed.

I was Elwyn Foundry and Allyster was Merton Varga.

When we were finally in a rental car driving around heaven, I

turned to Allyster and said, “Thank you, Merton.”

He didn’t say, “You’re welcome, Elwyn.” He kissed me on

the mouth — full and sweet. “You can’t die,” he said. “We

don’t just owe them for our existence. They owe us, too.”

I think of this now as he gets under the covers with

me. He says, “Remember when you were twelve and

they gave your perfect chin a scar with stitches?”

I’ve thought about this too. “You think that Susan

Wraith was learning to skateboard in secret, don’t you?

And that her lie was exposed because she was injured?”

“Maybe she’s rebellious.”

“Now we’re rebellious, too.”

“We were so taken care of there was no need to rebel.”

We were pampered and protected for their sake. I try

to imagine what he would look like with a scar — raw

and raised, stippled with blood, running down his fore-

head through his eyebrow, light along the lid of his eye

and then down his cheek to his jaw. I would love his

scar. “So many things that never made sense now do.”

“I’m glad we never learned to speak the way they

taught us,” he says, “wearing headphones in the lan-

guage lab — like, like, like, you know?”

“I’m glad too.”

“Here.” He pats his chest.

I put my head on his heart and close my eyes. “Do

you think Allyster Brooks is out here somewhere? Do

you think we can find him? After ...”

“I don’t want to find him.”

“Don’t you want to see your heaven?”

“This is my heaven.”

I look up at him and this time, I kiss him. I love thee

with a passion put to use/In my old griefs, and with my

childhood’s faith.

My body feels hot at its core, as if inside me there

was a glowing coal.

When Allyster pulls away, he says, “We could get

married, one day, and live somewhere far away from all

of this. There are other countries. We’ve gotten this far.

Once you’re well, we can keep going.”

“Let’s keep going forever,” I say. “Forever and ever.”

* * *

Because I feel weak, Allyster goes out alone to fol-

low Susan Wraith. I want to glimpse my parents and even

some version of myself, but I simply can’t. The jolt of be-

ing that close to my heaven took a lot out of me.

In the evenings, he tells me her patterns. Today, he

talks about lockdown at school. The screening process’s

intensity — everyone is given a daily medical check be-

fore they can step foot in the halls. He gets in the shower,

scalding away the day. We’ve lived so protected that we

have to be extra careful.

“We’ll never get in.”

“I don’t want to break into her house.”

“It’s your house too.” He turns off the shower and

eventually opens the door, letting loose all the steam.

I know almost every inch of that house. We’re shown

exterior and interior footage. They update the images ev-

ery six months. I notice when they’ve gotten new cur-

tains, a new range, a new bedspread in my room. “How

did we ever believe their lives would be something we

could one day walk right into?” I walk into the bathroom,


staring at my fogged reflection.

Allyster stands wrapped in a towel tucked in at the waist. His chest is

bare — muscled and pale. Beautiful. Last night, we did things together — in

bed, in the dark. I know much of his body now by touch.

“I saw Jinny Wilshire,” he says. “Remember her?”

“She was just a year behind me. She left three years ago — to go to Hell.”

“Her original must have died because she attends the regional high

school. She plays the flute still. She was carrying that small black case.”

“They had her practicing the flute all the time,” I say softly. “Jenny

Wilshire. She was so mean and now she attends high school.”

“She might even know Susan Wraith.”

I walk out of the bathroom and pick up Allyster’s smartphone. We only

have smartphones because all of our originals have smartphones. “Look her

up online. See if you can get a number. Call her.”

“No,” he says. “It’ll give us away. If I call and then Susan Wraith goes missing...”

I look at the phone in my hands. “I want to hear her voice. I’d know if it

was really her or not. I’d know it in her voice. I would.”

“I’m going back out.”

“Tonight?”

“Susan Wraith is rebellious. She might make it easy for us. It’s Friday. She

might go out. I have to give it a try.” He walks back into the bathroom to get

dressed. We’ve been taught modesty. He emerges fully dressed. He picks up

his satchel — the one filled with supplies.

“If you get an opportunity,” I ask him, calmly, “are you going to take it?”

He can’t look at me. He nods and puts on his coat.

“I’m coming too.”

“Are you sure?”

“This might be my only chance.”

“Don’t come.” He looks at me in a way that scares me.

“I want to talk to her. I have to.”

“I don’t know if this is going to work out the way you think.”

“I have to see her for myself.”* * *

We park the car down the street and sit low in the seats. I feel nauseous.

My mouth tastes slightly metallic. My stomach hurts. Familiar symptoms. Al-

lyster knows by the way I squeeze his hand that I’m not doing well.

“I can take you back to the hotel,” he says. “And come back alone.”

I draw in my lips and shake my head. “I want to stay.”

It was an infection that damaged my kidneys. They try to keep us free of dis-

ease, cut off from the Zones of Hell, but we share water, food sources. Disease

is always possible.


One thing is certain. It’s not a genetic disease. My

original and I are the optimal versions of our parents.

“What do you think she’ll say when she sees me?”

Allyster turns to me and cups my face in his hand. His

eyes are lit by the street lamp. He runs his thumb down

the line where the proctors have their scars — down

my forehead, lightly touching one eyelid, then down my

cheek. He says, “There are still three days on their poli-

cy. You don’t turn eighteen for three more days.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not here to talk her into giving up her kidney,

Susan.”

“Well, I know that she might say no. I know that.

And we’ll cross that bridge when we– ”

“Three more days,” he says.

And just then the door to their house opens from

within. Pale light shines into the inflated walkway. There

is Susan Wraith — more robust than I am, fuller and

broader. Maybe even taller. Her hair is just like mine.

No. Mine has been cut to be just like hers. She closes the

door and the light fades quickly.

Still, we can see her as she makes her way, crouched

low, to the lock at the end of the walkway, the one that’s

supposed to make a seal with the car door.

I look back at Allyster. I know what he’s thinking. I

shake my head. “You can’t,” I whisper. “You can’t.”

“They’ll take you in. They’ll get you the best care

that money can buy. They’ll cherish you.”

Susan has made it to the end of the walkway now.

She’s working on the locking system. It releases so quick-

ly, her hair is blown from her face for a second.

Allyster turns the key, but doesn’t turn on the head-

lights. He says, “Even if she thought of you as more than

a twin, did you think her parents would ever let her give

up a kidney for you? Did you think they’d ever love you

the way they love her?”

Susan has stepped out into the open night air. The

door automatically closes behind her. She isn’t dressed

warmly enough for the night. Maybe grabbing her coat

would have aroused suspicion. She starts walking quick-

ly down the sidewalk, her arms wrapped around herself,

hugging herself tightly.

A light goes on in the house, on the second floor. A

shadow passes by a window, like a moth. Is it my moth-

er? My father? I could become all they have left in the

world. They would love me. They would have to. I would

finally get everything I ever longed for, everything I de-

serve. 1141 Browning Drive.

Then I remember the ending of the poem. I love thee

with a love I seemed to lose/ With my lost saints. I love

thee with the breath,/ Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if

God choose,/ I shall but love thee better after death.

“After it’s over,” Allyster says, “we’ll drive back. We’ll re-

appear at the hospital and say we ran away and spent a few

days in Hell. They’ll tell us the news — that there was an

accident and your parents need you. I looked in my files, Su-

san, while I was in the hospital, looking for a way out. There

were records from my appendicitis. I’m a Level II. If they don’t

need me in two months, I’ll move into the protected areas to

continue as a prospective donor. They’ll change my face, and

I’ll find you, Susan. We can be together.”

He puts the car in gear but doesn’t lift his foot off the

brake. All he has to do is gun it, pop the car up over the

curb and run her over.

“They’ll think it was a drunk.”

“A drunk,” I hear myself say. “A drunk, that’s all.”

“The world is full of drunks.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Plus,” he says, “she shouldn’t be out. If you had that

house, those parents who loved you, would you have

run off into the night like her?”

“No.”

“Let me do this,” he says.

“But I love her.”

“You can love yourself now. You can be yourself.

Please.”

I shall but love thee better after death. I know the

poem because Susan Wraith was taught the poem. Did

she really pay attention to it? Did she memorize it because

it was assigned or because she loved it?


Julianna Baggott is the author of

18 books, under her own name as

well as pen names Bridget Asher

(The Provence Cure for the Bro-

kenhearted) and N.E. Bode (The

Anybodies Trilogy). Her most recent novel, Pure,

the first in a dystopian trilogy, was a New York

Times Editor’s Choice, and is in development

with Fox2000. She teaches in the College of Mo-

tion Picture Arts at Florida State University.

I fasten my seatbelt and nod.

That’s all. Only that. After being good

for so long, is that nod such a crime?

“Thank you,” Allyster says, and

he raises his fist in the air. “God!

Thank you.”

He grips the wheel, steps on the

gas, and it feels, for a second, like it’s

lifting ever so slightly from the earth,

as if it’s not going to go forward and

crush the delicate body of Susan

Wraith, but is going to peel from the

earth and veer into the sky.

THEY ESCAPED THE APOCALYPSE...

Download the free PURE app

Now in paperback

pure-book.compure-book.com

Also available in downloadable audio and e-book formats

From national bestselling author Julianna Baggott

Now in paperback Also available in downloadable audio and e-book formats

“ Make room on your shelf for PURE...dark and wildly imaginative.” —Entertainment Weekly

“ A great, gorgeous whirlwind of a novel, boundless in its imagination. You will be swept away.”

—Justin Cronin, bestselling author of The Passage

“ The most extraordinary coming-of-age novel I’ve ever read.” —Robert Olen Butler, Pulitzer Prize winner

Hachette Book Group

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