A Penny in Time Chapter 7: Changin' Addi-Paddi (part 2)

I was going to tell him that no matter what was decided, I wanted him to know that I liked him for being who he was. I snapped the scarf out of the belt loops and stood before a mirror on the far wall adjusting it so that it laid symmetrical, then yanked one end longer than the other. Mr. D. waved the crisp piece of paper, as if to hurry me along.

 "Elizabeth Conner, bring the misbegotten."

"Come on, Yugo," I cuddled him close as I walked out the front door Mr. D slammed shut and locked.  There was movement in the bushes and I thought I saw a face, but it disappeared so suddenly I wasn't sure I had really seen anything at all.  "Mr. D. there's someone..."

He cut me off abruptly with,  "All are at the Perfect Chambers.  And from now on, you must call me Mr. dIAmand.  We mustn't tarry, the proceedings have already begun."

Mr. D didn't say another word as he strode toward the center of the city, me trailing behind, Yugo warm and heavy in my arms.  It seemed I had just caught my second wind, when Mr. D trotted up a set of stairs leading to the largest building of the city and held open a massive, glass door etched with a figure eight, which I recognized as the symbol of infinity.

I thought Mr. D had gone back to his high and mighty manner, but he whispered as I entered, "I shall wish for us the best outcome, the best for us all."

He preceded me into the chamber, leaving me below as he ascended stairs to the first level, nodding to those in the aisle seats, then found a seat in the front row.

The room must have been the size of Atlantis, and as I scoped it out I could see it, too, was shaped in a huge figure eight, with twenty tiers of seats in each rounded end, narrowing into the middle open space where there was a stage.  The place was jammed full of Monosapiens.  The room buzzed with talk, until I walked up in front of a stage where a panel of five sat.

A million eyes had tracked my every footstep up here.  Now I felt like Daniel in the lion's den before a bunch of ravenous creatures waiting to pounce on me.  The silence was so silent that I heard my own breathing.  Yugo was strangely quiet, too.  My right hand lay over his chest and I felt the evenness of his breathing and soft thudding of his heart.  How could he be so serene when I was a whirlwind of anxiety and doubts?

"You are Elizabeth Conner."  The cream-colored, furry hand slapped a gavel down, echoing the sharpness of his voice. His nameplate read ‘Judge Ludwig’.

It was a statement, not a question.  I nodded, clutching Yugo a little tighter.  A female sat beside Judge Ludwig and tapped a pencil, eraser side down, on a file folder, a fat file folder. Until she spoke, Mrs. Furbal looked like a really nice grandmother, with heart-shaped pink lips and wearing granny glasses.

"We have compiled facts of this case presented before us regarding the misbegotten."  Mrs. Furbal riffled through papers and handed a sheet to Judge Ludwig as he continued.  "The misbegotten by the name of Yugo, brought into the Perpetual City by one Elizabeth Conner."  He looked at me as if I should confirm what he said, so I nodded.

"First of all," the five Monosapiens on the panel peered at me, like they measured me for good sense, "this is not a judgment of you.  We understand the dilemma you are in, one of emotional attachment to the misbegotten, without a clear comprehension of the larger issues, which we hope to clarify for you."

Mrs. Furbal spoke next, avoiding me, focusing on the paper in front of her.  "The larger issues are:  if acknowledged, the misbegotten must be claimed by his parents; there is the question of what is to be done about the coupling/uncoupling; and what deleterious effect will this have on the progeny of the couple, the economical  repercussions, and ultimately, what effect will this have on our society?"

"Well said, Mrs. Furbal," remarked the man sitting on her right, Mr. Reader.  In agreement, the others, Mr. Stix and Mr. Light, nodded and smiled like puppets.

The judge met my gaze.  I would not let them override the 'larger issue' of murder.  "You can't justify murder, can you?" I challenged.  I heard a low rippling of voices around me, but I couldn't actually make out anything said.

That didn't seem to faze Judge Ludwig.  He explained, in a deliberate and precise tone, once more, the 'larger issues'.  "It is unfortunate that there must be such a drastic and undesirable recourse to correct an individual's mistake, but it is preferable to rectify the mistake rather than rend the fabric of society.  Those who go outside the legal union to find personal love hurt not only a mate, but the offspring, therefore all of society.  If couples were allowed to divorce, it would bring pain, as well as changes, to all.  This must, and will be, the prime consideration of the Perfect Council."

I was sweating and cold, for suddenly I found myself in a quandary.  I didn't want to say divorce was a good thing, because I didn't believe it was.  Hadn't I been hurt because of my parents' divorce?  I liked the idea that families stayed together. I liked the idea of a perfect society.  Would Yugo die if I agreed with the Perfect Council?  I couldn't let that happen, no matter what.  But I certainly didn't know what I was going to do about it, either.

I glanced around me. Only one in the crowd of clones looked directly at me, a woman with slightly different eyes and mouth, who clasped a blanket in her hands, and she appeared desperate, on the brink of standing up.  She wet her lips several times, wringing the blanket tighter and tighter.  Yugo chirped, as if he recognized her, wanting her attention, just as I hoped she would speak up.  For I, too, recognized her as the anxious face I had seen hiding in the bushes at Mr. D's house.

"Elizabeth Conner!"

I jerked back to attention before Judge Ludwig.  Yugo yelped, wiggling and straining to look behind me, making it nearly impossible to hold onto him.  I was ready to duck out of here and let these guys settle future issues for themselves.  I wasn't sure if I wanted to change things for the better, but I did know that I wanted to go home and that my mother would understand about Yugo.

Five faces loomed before me, without an ounce of sympathy for either Yugo or me, in spite of what they might say.

"By what defense do you wish to redeem the misbegotten?"

The room full of Monosapiens waited for my answer.  My brains were scrambled and my voice had dried up; I thought any minute my heart would hammer a hole in my chest.    "I'll take Yugo home with me!" I exclaimed.

"No!" thundered Judge Ludwig.  "You will have the duration of the recess to prepare your defense.  Dismissed!"

The gavel cracked.  I sank down on a nearby bench and tried to unravel my disordered thoughts.  Yugo's very life depended on me, and all I could think of was how much I wanted out of this mess.  I rocked Yugo, wanting a response from him, but he struggled to free himself from my arms.  He was looking for that woman.  But if she cared at all about him, why didn't she claim him?  And there may as well have been an ocean between me and Mr. D, for it seemed pretty certain he wasn't going to help us, either.

There wasn't any way out of this building, and besides, where could we go?  Back out there in the wastelands with those horrible creatures that wanted a free meal?  Right now, though, it seemed like inside or out, we were facing some pretty terrible odds trapped here with the Perfect Council sitting in judgment. If I ever had to save my life, it was now.  Strange, I thought suddenly, it's Yugo's life that's at stake, not mine.  But sometimes, it felt we were one and the same.

Yugo plopped into my lap, radiating trust that rankled me, for I was full of despair.  I cupped his face with my hands, and stared at him, trying to fathom his confidence. 

  Then it clicked!  Mr. D had said something was wrong with this society, and that must be the key to this whole thing!  If only I could unlock the secret before it was too late.  If only.  And time was running out.

The Write Seasons Greetings

I have to take stock of the pantry, order the prime rib, buy the ingredients for the  pies, edit the address list, Mary Sue likes Cran-Apple juice, Ted likes V-8, Sugar Snaps is toddling, put the tree up on a box or table, and I forgot Sissy’s birthday card.  If I could just get out the newsletter, a really good one, that would take care of half the obligatory notes in the one-hundred ten Christmas cards.  I can do that between the 9th and 10th and get all those in the mail with all the packages, on time for Christmas Eve.

Or, I could just forget it.  But every year I argue with that inner voice that urges me to do a creative newsletter, maybe with an artful, hand drawn Santa and sleigh over the roof tops, or a bucolic scene with deer and bunnies and magically decorated trees, snow falling, and of course, starry night sky—-ah, no, if it is snowing it wouldn’t be starry, then maybe snow on the ground.  Or quick! copy a graphic and send out e-cards. Oh, right.  Now I am exhausted just thinking about it.  Why does it have to be so hard?

Well, it does not have to be hard.  I know, I wrote the book KISS, Keep It Short and Simple, and I’ve learned how to quick start a writing project. Although it sounds contradictory, listen to the chattering thoughts a few seconds.  Is there a recurring theme—-leaving out all the expletives?  For me this year, there is nothing particularly newsworthy. Okay, then, what about an artsy approach?  Hmmm, what pops in mind is a wine glass pouring out words onto the paper.  Okay, I can go with that and a simple line that the family is happy, healthy and will be celebrating the holidays together.  Last year, the newsletter had twelve  paragraphs bulging with anecdotes, some hilarious and some quite disheartening, in a calendar format, as my life had been one incident after another the whole year. I could laugh about it in retrospect and apparently, so could others.

What makes a good Christmas newsletter?  News about the family. It is in the telling. “Well, it’s that time of year again….” does not make for a felicitous greeting.  Start on a positive note, simply “Merry Christmas!” can be a good start to a chatty newsletter.  If you are not good on the computer with graphics, buy some seasonal cheerful paper which has the added benefit of shortening the format.  The idea is to make your readers feel as though you are talking to them, not bragging or to induce envy of your good fortune or make others feel sorry for you, or dread hearing the same old thing from you year after year. It is a short story. Short sentences are far easier and memorable than long, run-ons. Remember that a sentence is built on threes:  a noun, verb and adjective; a beginning, middle and end, and at least three sentences to a paragraph. Use the CCI concept:  compare, contrast and interrelate. As an example:  We were so fortunate to have our clan, six couples, 5 children, one bachelor, together for a Christmas ski vacation. Our nephew Kyle, a competitive racer broke a record in the Jingle Bell run, but unfortunately, also broke his ankle the first day. However, as all true romantic stories have a happy ending, by the end of the week, Kyle was engaged to his high school sweetheart, a charming waitress who brought him a daily cup of coffee as he sat by the fireplace. Kismet?

I suspect for most people, it is hard to find the right tone, or voice, to write one’s story. Is it far nobler to be serious or more impressive to be charming, witty, and funny? Or far better to be yourself, which may be plain spoken, out-spoken or reticent.  If the whole thing of writing out a newsletter is overwhelming, don’t stress, address.  Get the envelopes done and the letter becomes an accessory.  Once you begin, the rest will come easy.

Then again, “Merry Christmas! Happy New Year y’all” works  like a charm, too.  Sign your name to the card and you are good to go.
Happy Holidays
Jacquie

A Penny in Time Chapter 7: Changin' Addi-Paddi (part 1)

I could not settle down, so I got up and wandered around the house.  Normally, I'm not a worrywart, but I was upset that there wasn't anymore food for Yugo, and worried what little he had had to eat would only make him hungrier when he woke up.  To distract myself, I thumbed through a history book in Mr. D's library and read the two page-history of the Perpetual City while Yugo and Mr. D slept.  Their whispery snores were in sync with one another, which made me laugh out loud as I came back into the room.

I scrunched down on the couch. Yugo curled up beside me, still sound asleep, but sending warm vibes that coated me inside out.  He purred and I read.

Although their civilization was thousands of years old, the history book only recounted the last thousand of years:  from 999 to 2000, the city, the people, the society, everything was exactly like it had been, was and would be.  The rest of the book was pictures, and I had the creepy feeling I could walk outside and find those very landmarks still in existence.  Maybe, I looked over at Mr. D sleeping, the very same people.  I had heard that history repeats itself, but I had never thought about it literally.

One fact snagged my attention, about the race itself.  Mr. D's genus was Mono, of the family sapiens, and reproduction was "homogenesis", which I found in the glossary meant "reproduction in which successive generations are alike".  I folded the book shut, wondering if 'they' were all of like minds, too.  Maybe I stood a chance against a committee that shared genes with Mr. D.  Then again, maybe I didn't, if Mr. D had mutated from the rest of 'them'.  Back and forth, back and forth went my thoughts, always leaving me flooded with doubts.  I wish the whole process had started, therefore, had been decided, and was already over.

I heard rustling outside, then a thump against the door and nearly knocked Yugo off the couch when I jumped to my feet.  Mr. D bolted from his chair and with his massive hand upraised, blocked me from the front door.

"No, childling, stay!"

Any other time, I might have been offended at being ordered like a dog, but Mr. D, obviously unnerved, only meant to protect me.  And Yugo, I think.

"Mr. D, I don't think anyone is trying to break in."  I pointed to the billowing curtains.  "It would have been easier to come through the open window." 

He patted his chest, where I imagined his heart beat.  "I have never witnessed so many strange events."  He appeared thoughtful, looking from the window to the door.  "I've never left that window open before now.  And there's never been any disturbance at my front door."

"Mr. D," I took a step forward, "let's look outside and maybe we can figure out what's going on."
He nodded to me.  "But you must stay here."  He took purposeful strides to the door and whipped it open.

There was a brown package on the welcome mat.  Mr. D stooped and gingerly peeked inside.  "Oh, my!" he gasped, as I bumped into his back.

"What is it?"  I knelt beside Mr. D, nudging his leg to get a closer look, trying to send reassuring vibes to Yugo so he would stop his frightened mewing.

"It's..." Mr. D plucked the bag up and smiled at me, a rather pained smile I thought, "a care package.  For Yugo."

Mr. D stepped over me, back inside.  "Well, Dusty, I dare say that Yugo will have something good to eat, real food for the nuzzling.  I'll fix it and you feed him."

After I dusted off my knees, though I really didn't have to because there wasn't any dirt on my jeans, I followed Mr. D into the kitchen.  Yugo had slipped off the couch and was waddling behind me.  "Look at him, Mr. D!  Isn't he cute?"

Mr. D kept his back to me.  "Who would do such a thing, leave this for a misbegotten?" he mused, fussing over the large nursing bottle.

I hadn't forgotten that Mr. D called Yugo 'nuzzling', which I thought might be an affectionate term.  "Maybe his mother did.  Or someone else who doesn't think it's right for babies to be left out in the desert to die."  I took the bottle from Mr. D, who frowned like my old principal did the time he caught me swearing when I slammed my locker shut on my left hand.

Yugo pawed at my legs until I picked him up.  He snatched at the bottle, giving short 'yurps' as he suckled and I tried to balance both him and the bottle with my hands.  Mr. D marched out of the kitchen, leaving me alone and wondering what I had said to upset him.

Yugo must have sensed my confusion, for he stopped sucking long enough to peer at me intently, and suddenly a lot of unfriendly faces flashed through my head.  Mr. D must be as anxious as I was about this upcoming confrontation.  Maybe he had mixed emotions about which side he was going to be on, or what the outcome would be for Yugo and me.  I had only begun to appreciate how hard it must be for him to accept changes, let alone campaign for them.  But there was someone else out there who wanted to help us, too.

"Mr. D," I walked over to his chair and he looked up at me, "if there are two of you that feel the way I do about Yugo, then maybe there's a lot more.  We might stand a good chance of convincing the Perfect Council yet."

Yugo started hiccupping.  Mr. D's nostril flared and he sighed, impatiently waving his hand at Yugo.  "He needs to be patted on the back."

I flipped Yugo over my shoulder and burped him.  "There's something you're not telling me, Mr. D, something that's troubling you.  And it's not Yugo, is it?"  I put him down on the couch.
Yugo was content to settle between the cushions and go back to sleep.  He seemed to have grown another six inches since I had fed him.  Yugo gave back to me the love I felt for him as I scratched his head and I was reluctant to let go of the good feelings that flowed between us.  But I had to get some things clear.  I went over and sat on a footstool in front of Mr. D and waited for him to speak.
He cleared his throat a couple of times.  "You're right, Dusty.  Something is wrong, very wrong."  He startled me by reaching over and touching my cheek lightly, then continued.  "You have read," he gestured to the closed history book on the arm of the couch, "about our history.  Was it not extraordinary?"

The way he said it, gave me the impression he meant it in a negative way.  "Yeah," I replied, "I thought it was a bit odd."

"In what way?" he asked kindly, leaning closer to me.

"Two pages about a perfect society.  I mean, I guess I thought history told about wars, conflicts, changes, you know, all that happens over years and years.  Like evolution."

"Exactly."  He smacked his hands and smiled like I had answered the winning quiz question.

"Exactly what?" I retorted, baffled by his smug expression.

"Our recorded history begins with the perfected society."  He massaged his knees.  "From the time of our recorded history, there are no wars, no unresolved conflicts amongst us.  That is why we can exist in the Perpetual City in harmony, a totally homogeneous society.  There is no poverty here, for here everything is in balance with our resources.  Even our arts and sciences have reached the state of perfection, where all needs are satisfied, for each and everyone of us.  Everyone is alike, and there is always agreement.  Every action is carefully considered, every consideration balanced.  Our marriage contracts are forever and each couple rears two offspring until the age of twenty-one, one quarter of a life span.  We are a self-perpetuating society."

He paused and took a breath.  I let all this information sink in, trying to pinpoint what it was that disturbed me.  After all, it sounded just fine to me.  "Families stay together, right?"

"Yes."  Mr. D locked eyes with me.

"I don't see the problem."  I held his gaze for a long minute.

"Couples partner for a lifetime; there is no such thing as separation.  Each misbegotten comes from an unlawful union, and threatens the balance.  Ergo, there cannot be misbegottens."

Mr. D stroked his chin, and I was hypnotized by the long, silken strands undulating along his arm.  I knew his reasoning was wrong.  "What about love?" I blurted out, startling both of us.

"There are many forms of love, Dusty," he answered quietly, and I detected a note of sadness, too.  "The good of all is the highest form of love, is it not?"

But before I could answer him, there came a resounding knock on the door.  This time Mr. D seemed neither surprised nor unprepared as he opened the door.

"It's a summons for us to go to the courthouse immediately."

Peer Mediation Can Help

"If you can avoid the physical violence and bring people together, you have accomplished what, from the beginning of time, mankind has considered a noble end.” - Richard Blumenthal


“Right in front of my eyes, those 20 students transformed into leaders and into activists.”
by Danielle Ross, MyCorneroftheWorld

“I’ll never forget that Thursday morning last year when my students and I sat together in class and cried.

What could possibly bring a class full of high school students and their teacher to tears? Bullying. We were sharing our personal experiences of being bullied and reliving those feelings that we push down but that don’t ever really go away. It had been 25 years since my “friends” had called me asking about homework and giggling in the background from a party I wasn’t invited to. Twenty-five years later and the pain came rushing back when I shared the experience with my peer counseling students. And I wasn’t the only one; student after student shared similar experiences that happened to them, mostly during elementary school.”

Read the entire article>>


Making Peer Mediation a Part of Campus Life
EducationWorld.com

“Teen skirmishes over rumors, perceived put-downs, and he-said-she-said arguments might seem inconsequential to adults, but to kids they can be major distractions. Mediation by peers can clear up misunderstandings quickly and improve school climate. Included: Ed World visits a peer mediation conference.

In schools, student conflicts can simmer for days. Starting with a glance, a whisper, or an innuendo, and seasoned with rumors, such conflicts can boil over into clique showdowns, shouting matches, threats, or worse.”

Read the entire article>>

Practicing Kindness

6 Simple Ways Children Can Spread Kindness in Schools
by Dr. Michele Borba

Practicing kindness is what helps children tune into other people’s feelings and needs, trust more, step out of their own skins to understand others, and become UnSelfies (my term for kids who are “more we, less me” oriented). Each kind act nudges kids to notice others (“I see how you feel”). Care (“I’m concerned about you”), empathize (“I feel with you”) and help and comfort (“Let me ease your pain”).

Helping students practice kindness also activates empathy and creates more caring schools. That’s why I consider “Practicing Kindness” as an essential habit of empathy.

Over the last years, I’ve observed countless classrooms around the world as I researched ways to nurture children’s empathy and reduce bullying. Here are a few favorite ways educators help students practice kindness and acquire empathy from my book, UnSelfie: Why Empathetic Kids Succeed in Our All-About-Me World. The book includes over 300 practical ways based on the latest science, and none cost a dime, and are simple to implement.

Read the entire article>>

Forcing the Hand of God: Chapter 24

The transfer Rodger had requested had come through the end of September. A month by ship to Burma then onto China where he was reassigned to the Flying Tigers at the base in Chenkung, China.
Drumming his fingers on his desk, he re‑read letters from Adele and Ada.

Time. He had lost its sequence. It seemed so long ago that he had been home. And not even him, someone else. He folded the letters and put them back into the envelopes.

He riffled through the paperwork that pressed on him like rubber bands over too many sheets of paper. He pushed it all aside, then stood up and stretched. Men milled around the outer room, rumbling voices all around. He heard snatches of conversation; a poker game was in progress. Outside seemed quiet enough. But something was in the air; he could smell it, like ozone before a storm.

Rodger walked outside, around the building, listening. He strained his eyes against the night, slowly sweeping his head left to right. Then he heard the faraway drone of an engine. He wanted to go after that crazy Jap, still around after all these months. Sweat tickled down his armpit and his heart beat wildly, but he reconsidered and calmly called out orders.

“Pickens, get Jackson. Tell him it’s his chance to sack the Wolf. Hurry up! Keys, Mannor and Robins, we’ll crew the plane.”

Because Jackson was scheduled for first flight in the morning, he had gone to bed, blissfully sober. He came at a run, struggling into his flight suit while Stony Pickens, arrogant and self-possessed, casually walked behind him.

He’s good and he’s trouble, mused Rodger.

Jackson glanced up frequently at the men loading his plane with armament, hastily pulling on his gloves, and helmet, then checking his boots and zippered pockets. A tense grin played about his lips that Rodger envied. Once he caught Stony looking hard at Jackson, his jaw pulled taut and his eyes narrowed.

As Jackson prepared to board, one of the mechanics cried out, “Oh, come on, Stony, wish him well! Be a good sport!”

Stony attempted to smile, to wave off the implications. Rodger understood Stony’s resentment, how much he wanted to go instead of Jackson, to be the one who claimed the kill.

Jackson’s engines awakened, the intense vibrations stirring the night. Rodger and Stony stepped aside to watch the take‑off. Rodger flashed the victory sign.

Rodger whistled softly, swallowing down his own envy as he watched Jackson out-maneuver the Zero, concealing himself in cloud layers, filling the sky with his noise, dropping on top of the Zero. They tangoed in the sky. Jackson had the advantage, and then lost it. But neither could gain a position for the kill.

The take‑off aroused all of the pilots from sleep, and they stood outside to await the outcome. The men on the ground listened, wondered, and placed bets.

For several minutes, they could see no sign of Jackson in the sky. Rodger checked his watch, searched the sky again. The dark mantle of night began to pale into an azure line running across the horizon, as if it were turning itself inside out.

Rodger was the first to see the flaming plane approach the field. In spite of his crippled aircraft, Jackson made a skillful landing, earning the admiration of the whole group. The fire crew rushed out to extinguish the raging fire that had gutted the tail section. Jackson hopped off the wing and, fire extinguisher in hand, helped put out the fire.

A group collected around Jackson as he walked back to the barracks. Once inside the debriefing room he removed his flight helmet and gloves then paused in his silent striptease act. No one spoke.

Finally, Jackson shook his head from side to side.

Stony tried to suppress a grin as he clapped Jackson on the shoulder.

“Right nice of you to have your sport and leave him for someone else!”

There was chorus of laughter, of relief and gratitude.

Rodger trailed behind the group. He heard the Night Wolf’s plane returning and shouted,
“He’s back!”

They scattered, heading for the outermost bushes. The Night Wolf made one low pass over the outside perimeter of the airstrip. In the starry predawn, a piercing howl echoed. The wounded Zero left, leaving a smoky trail.

“Ya got him, Jackson!” cried his wingman. “He’s hurt bad, too!”

Rodger walked beside Jackson. The lean, handsome face turned to him.

“Mine was the first strike, sir. I should have made sure.”

Rodger clapped Jackson on the shoulder.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You did some pretty fancy flying. So did he. All’s fair, you know.”

And fair for me, too, he thought.

Captain Robins rubbed his hands together. “Sir, we’re starting a little poker game, it being so close to breakfast and all. Would you care to join in?”

 Rodger stopped short, inhaling the acrid night air, sucking in all of the stars above.

“Deal me in.”

The rustle and click of poker chips rang sharply as he came in the door. Six men sat around the table, waiting for him. Their boisterous talk filled the tiny room, and someone was bent down rummaging boxes, looking for beer. Finally, the short, balding mechanic in a rumpled uniform produced eight capped bottles of beer. Someone threw a metal opener that skipped and clanked across the table.

Rodger watched until four of the men had taken a beer before he reached for a warm bottle. As he uncapped it, foam spilled over in quiet rivulets, oozing down the sides of the bottle, over his hand, dripping onto the floor. He wiped his hand dry on the side of his pants. He swallowed the salty, welcomed beer quickly, then abruptly plunked down in a chair.

“Five card stud, joker wild.” He took the deck, handed it to the man on his right to cut, and began the deal. Cards landed in place before him. “Ante’s white, limit ten dollars. We’re playing with American dollars.” He slipped the cards together and then fanned out the edges to peek into them.

Stony watched each man look at his cards. Rodger had once heard him say he could find clues in the reflections of an eyeball. Rodger dropped his eyelids, shifting his loose change from his right pocket to the left side, then leaned back into his chair. He found his silver dollar. Throughout the game, he would touch the edge of his pocket.

“I’ll see you and raise you five.” Stony let the chips rain down. After fifteen minutes, he had lost three successive hands, as had Rodger.

“I’ll call.” Rodger laid down his straight.

Stony fanned out his club flush, snapping each card down onto the table. “Read ’em and weep, Colonel,” Stony smirked, raking in the chips.

“Last hand for me,” Rodger said, mentally reviewing the upcoming daily roster.

Daylight streamed through the dirty windows. Each of the six men frequently whisked away beaded sweat from their foreheads. Two folded their cards and waved good-night. Rodger had dropped close to a hundred bucks, but he still felt lucky.

Time dragged around each play made. Four were still in. Rodger upped his bet by five dollars, hoping to narrow the odds. Two men folded, leaving him pitted against Stony.

Rodger leaned forward, rotating his shoulders as if to work out a kink. Stony chewed on the end of his mustache. He threw in another blue chip. Rodger tossed in one, picking up a red. Stony squinted, slowly pushing his red one into the pile. His eyes focused intently on Rodger, then he smiled. Rodger smiled back. Stony added another blue chip. Rodger eased in a blue one, then scooted another blue one beside it. Stony continued to smile, playing contentedly with his blond mustache. He scratched his chin, then picked up two blue chips and tossed them into the center.

“I’ll call.” Methodically, he exposed his hand.

Rodger laid down his royal flush on top of Stony’s ace, king, queen, jack, and ten. Only by a hair’s breath, he thought. But then again, that’s all I need to win.

The two who had folded, dropped the legs of their chairs so that they could lean over and see the lay of the cards.

Robins whistled, rolling his eyes backward as Rodger raked in the chips.

“That was real close, yes siree, real close!” he exclaimed. “There ain’t enough odds in the world that’ll say a combination like that will ever be seen again!”

Rodger nodded. “That’s for damn sure.”

Stony chuckled. Stretching his long arms overhead, he arched his back and yawned loudly.
“Not my lucky day by a long shot. Guess I’ll get some shuteye. I’m not due out till three.”

He stood up to go, then casually challenged, “Play you Cold Hand for a hundred, Colonel.”

“You’re on.” Rodger shuffled the cards, giving the deck to the man on his right. As each man flipped the oncoming card up, he stared straight ahead into the other’s eyes. When all five had been dealt, there lay an eerie hush about the room. Rodger looked quickly at his cards, noting that he had three threes. Then he glanced over to Stony’s hand and recoiled slightly when he recognized the aces and eights. Dead Man’s Hand. No one said anything.

Rodger swept the cards up and compacted them into a neat pile.

“Clean up and let’s get to work,” Rodger ordered.

Superstitious nonsense, he thought as he walked to his office. As he passed the board, he pulled the flight sheet down and replaced Stony’s name with his own.

After lunch, Stony stomped into the office, his mouth compressed and eyes ablaze. Rodger continued reading the paper in his hand, until Stony cleared his throat.

“Sir, could I have a word with you?”

Rodger looked up “What is it, Pickens?”

“I think I’m entitled to an explanation about the change in the flight schedule,” Stony spat out, “Sir.”
“Right.” He tapped the sheet of paper in his hand. “I reviewed your flight time. You’re due for some time off. And I need a few hours. That’s it plain and simple.”

“I want to protest—-”

“So noted, Pickens. Get some rest.” Rodger picked up his pen and began to sign the x’d lines.
With a thud, a clump of bills hit the upraised sheets of paper Rodger held in his left hand. He pocketed the poker winnings.

“Thank you, Pickens. This change has nothing to do with the poker game. My logs are up for review, and I can’t let any minor infractions show up. Don’t take it personally.”

“No, sir, I won’t take it too personally.” Stony turned and stormed out of the office, banging the door.

During the briefing, Rodger forced himself to act more enthusiastic than he really felt. The flight plans were limited in scope and field, the usual from the brass. He resented it as much as his men, but he pretended it was all perfectly sensible; and he pretended not to notice when his squadron blatantly disobeyed the cockeyed mandates.


Once airborne, he became just another pilot, working as part of a team. Reno was his wingman. The others, Steve, Coolly, and Nick, wasted no time doing preflights and run-ups. Rodger felt the current flowing between the planes, uniting them, washing over them, as blood goes from the heart to all parts of the body.

They took off with a direct vector, climbing north with one hundred forty miles to reach the Burma border, a routine mission. The flight spread out at the bomb line; all eyes swept constantly back and forth for enemy aircraft, making sure the sky was clear.

Reno cried out, “Bandits! Nine o’clock high.”

“Red Leader. Advance throttle and climb to twenty‑five.” Rodger initiated a climbing turn and leveled off at twenty‑five thousand feet. All of the others followed. Sweat slid from his armpits down to his wrists. They were working men now. No thought for anything else.

“Holy smokes! Red Leader, look what’s comin’ in from the south!” Reno banked slightly for a fuller view.

“Increase right bank!” Rodger barked.

As fast as they executed the turn, the Japanese Nates were out of sight.

“Lost ’em all, dammit,” moaned Coolly. “Nothin’ to write home to Mom about tonight.”

Then at eight-thousand feet, coming from the opposite direction, a single Nate skimmed along the cloud cover. Rodger pulled a quick ninety‑degree turn with Reno right beside him, level with the Nate, six miles back, their P‑38s screamed after him.

Reno dived behind him, staying level, but the elusive Nate remained two miles out of range. Finally at one‑thousand feet Rodger lined up the red nose, red rudder, and mid‑section of the Nate in his sights.

There was a short burst of flames, and little holes popped out on the fuselage. One more longer burst, and the engine and wings took the strikes. In a graceful dive, the aircraft began its descent, smoke spewing out. Rodger lined up astern, very close this time, and fired again. Huge hunks of the aircraft, flailing as if imbued with life, flew into space with dizzying speed. The canopy shot straight up, hovered for a second, and then tumbled over and over. The parachute blossomed, drifting slowly down to earth.

Almost immediately Rodger and Reno were rejoined by the others, along with the rest of the Japanese force.

Reno yelled, “Red Leader, break left!”

Rodger twisted over left and up into the sun. Getting into position behind the enemy leader, he tailed him hard until he had him in his sights. He pressed the trigger; a line of holes burst into the enemy’s wing. With grim determination, Rodger executed a hard barrel roll, passed over, and came into him again.

He heard strikes against his tail, but didn’t allow his eyes to wander from the sights. Again he fired. Two long, one short. The fuselage and tailpipe danced with fiery colors and gray‑green smoke. Rodger looked over to the cockpit. The pilot was dead, slumped against the controls, forcing the plane into an erratic spiral dive.

“Hot damn, Colonel!” sang out Nick. “We done ’em all in!”

“Red Leader here. Any damage?” Relief and pride in his men mingled with a sudden exhilaration. “Well, the boys at home aren’t going to believe us when we tell them about the ones that didn’t get away!”

They headed back to base. Upon approach, in tacit agreement, they made a low pass in unison.
The last one out of the debriefing room, Rodger walked across the compound toward his office, where he met Stony.

“Congratulations, Lt. Colonel. I heard you had a very successful day.” Stony crossed his arms and stared daggers at Rodger.

“Right. I expect the Night Wolf will be back tonight. You had better be prepared.”

Without another word, Stony turned and strode to the mechanics hut, issuing orders in a loud, surly voice; he looked like an emperor at the arena. Two mechanics scurried from the newly arrived ships to go to Stony’s, giving it a shakedown.

Rodger laughed aloud, wishing he had a picture. Then he shook his head, as if to brush off the lightness and good spirits. He went to the officer’s club, following the voices that led him to Banjo Billy in the poker room.

“Banjo, a word with you.” Rodger waved a flaccid salute to the other men.

His “Yessss, sir” was punctuated by the slapping down of cards.

“Couldn’t have come at a better time or to a better man.” He swept the jackpot into his hand, pocketed it, and saluted Rodger.

Rodger had cultivated a certain metallic edge to his voice while a captain on the high school football team, a voice that he knew how to use effectively.

“I have your request for a leave. Illnesses in your family.”

Squaring his shoulders, Banjo Billy replied, “Yes, sir. My mother and my wife. My mother’s in the hospital, and my wife’s having a difficult pregnancy.”

“There’s no one else that help out? No other family members?”

“Well, sir, no, but I’m, well, I’m an only son. The only man around. I mean; they need me.”

“Combat experience is at its lowest, and we need men with your background. You know that.”

“I know that, sir.” Banjo Billy frowned, distressed. “I’d only be gone a month leave, sir.”

“The war might wait for you.” Rodger shrugged. “Your request has been cleared by the Colonel himself. The transport leaves tomorrow, late afternoon.” He handed the orders to the and stared long and hard at the young officer.

Banjo Billy wavered. Rodger could see the captain’s resentment outlined in the clean-shaven, boyish face. But every opportunity he had, Rodger would pound home to his men: a man’s prime commitment, his first loyalty, is duty.

“Report to me at sixteen hundred hours.”

Banjo Billy looked around him. The guys were beginning a new hand of poker, each one talking to everyone in general. Rodger bet himself that he would not reach the count of one hundred.

“Excuse me, sir—but I’ve reconsidered. It’s probably more dangerous flying home. I’ll stay here and do my own, honest work.” He cast an anxious glance at Rodger. He ruffled the slip of paper, without actually tearing it up.

“Hey, Banjo, are you in for this hand or not?”

“In. But you guys don’t stand a chance in hell!” He quickly shoved the paper into his back pocket.
It was a bittersweet victory for Rodger. He went to the bar and motioned the bartender for bottle of half‑empty Jack Daniels and a clean glass. He left without a word to anyone.

Unlocking his office door, he remembered being twenty not so long ago. He sat heavily in his chair, pulling himself up to his desk, tipping the bottle into a glass. Without the lights on, the room had a gray cast to it. Rodger played with the shadow of his glass on the desk top. He lit a cigarette. His body tensed, and he strained to hear the noise. Yes, there it was.

He relaxed then, slouching back against the chair. He raised his tumbler, the amber liquid sloshing back and forth, in a salute as the beautiful screams of Stony’s Mustang split the still of dusk.

He told himself that Stony was not cursed; a poker’s hand had no meaning behind the game. Survival took skill, timing, and well, yes, luck. But you had to be good. Or lucky.

“Here’s to you. Go get ’em.” As the screeching tires left the pavement, Rodger downed the last mouthful of whiskey. “May the best man win.”

THE END

Forcing the Hand of God: Chapter 23 (part 2)

“I know, good knight, I know,” Adele murmured back. She dropped his hand and went back into the kitchen, leaving him and Aunt Carrie facing one another.

“Oh, Rodgie, how can you let yourself be beaten so!” Like a pampered squirrel, she nested into the chair, worrying her question.

“Don’t know. It’s funny, but you don’t even feel it,” Rodger gulped at his beer, “until later. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“It’s bad enough. You should see yourself!” Carrie pointed at him. “Is that any way for a man of your age and rank to behave?”

“Only if I win, Aunt Carrie,” he grinned. “Then I’m the hero of the hour.”

Madeline appeared. “Would you kindly prepare for dinner?”

Rodger nodded to the girls’ room. “I’ll call them.”

Adele bustled into the living room, then up the stairs. “No, the baby’s asleep. I’ll bring Heather and Rachel down.”

He drained the rest of his beer. The uncomfortable silence in the room pulled at him like over-stretched elastic. He wished this part of the night over so that he could relax with Ada and Adele.

Dues. He had to pay the family dues.

Rachel and Heather ate side by side, sneaking glances at him. Madeline silenced them with a reproachful look before either could question him. Rodger put down his fork and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.

“I’m curious whether Captain Midnight goes after those Japs tonight. Last night he almost bought it.”
Madeline slapped down her napkin. “Isn’t it bad enough there’s a real war raging all over Europe without a silly, make‑believe hero?”

His jaw tensed as he stared down his mother.

“I’ve known a dozen Captain Midnights, Mother. Real guys.” He pushed away from the table. “I’ll be back, girls. Warm up the radio.”

He let himself out the back door, walking up towards the riverside, pounding out his anger in every step. Over and over in his mind, he sought a way out from the endless arguments. He stopped by a sycamore tree and leaned against the rough bark, twisting his head back and forth, trying to ease the tension.

He bent down and picked stones to skip across the river, thinking of Tommy and the days they had played on rafts down here. The summer days he had fished. The picnics with Dee Simmons. Skinny-dipping. And making love on a woolen blanket. And a dozen things he had wanted to tell his father.
He flipped another smooth stone across the water, counting the ripples from three centers. Then he took his time strolling back to his mother’s house. He checked his watch. Just in time for Captain Midnight.

Adele sat on the edge of his mother’s bed, nursing Jonelle as Rachel and Heather hovered around the crackling radio. Rodger leaned over between his sisters and twirled the knob until the announcer’s voice barked, “The makers of Ovaltine® sponsor the following program.” He sat cross‑legged in front of the radio with Rachel and Heather, engrossed until the very end.

He turned to Adele. “Now, radio, that’s a worthwhile past time.” He stretched, raising his arms. “I’m going next door to talk to Ada. Come with me.”

Like a startled katydid, Rachel jumped up from the floor. “I think I hear Ada at the door now.”

“Let’s go down and see her!” sang out Heather. Both girls darted out the bedroom and down the stairs.

“Jonelle’s finished nursing.” She handed the gurgling baby to her husband. “Go see Daddy. Here.”
With Jonelle on his shoulder, he led Adele down the stairs.

Madeline rushed over to Rodger and scooped Jonelle out of his arms. “Ada look! Don’t you think she has John’s eyes?”

Rodger swiped the baby out of his mother’s hands. Her eyes bugged out, but she didn’t make a sound. He presented Jonelle to Ada, who opened her arms to receive the squirming bundle.

“I…I think,” Ada stammered, “that Jonelle has your hands, Madeline. Her fingers are so long.”

Madeline bit her lip. She examined her nails.

“I hope she has Adele’s personality.”

Rodger gathered his bag in his left hand.

“I do, too.” He marched to the door, turning to see his aunt emerge from the kitchen. “And Aunt Carrie’s smile.” He held the door open for Ada and Adele to exit. “Good night, Mother. Good night, Aunt Carrie.” He blew kisses to his sisters.

“Thank you for dinner, Mother. The casserole was delicious!” Adele stopped by his side. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

Madeline looked to Carrie, who held onto a pie dish in her chubby hands. “Won’t you stay for dessert? Ada brought us a strawberry cream pie.”

Rodger nudged Adele with his elbow.

“No, thanks. Maybe tomorrow.”

Out on the sidewalk, Adele snatched his shirt sleeve. “Just what gives you the right to be so damn rude to your mother?”

He threw off her hand.

“She irritates the hell out of me!”

Adele put her hands on her hips. Ada went on into her house with Jonelle. Fireflies sparked the evening air. “Your mother is scared, Rodger. Try to understand.”

He tore the wrappings from a new pack of cigarettes, punched one out, stuck it between his lips, and fished in his pocket for a match. He lit the match and held it away from the tip of the Lucky until it burned half‑way down. “So now you want to play the peacemaker?”

Adele’s raspy breathing, timed to his own, linked them in an odd agreement. She pointed her finger at him, stabbing the space between them.

“You’re a brat.”

He batted her finger with his right hand. “You sound like a granny.”

She laughed. “Maybe I’ve been around them too long,” she jerked her head backwards, indicating the house. “To be truthful, I understand why they get on your nerves.”

He stepped to her side, clasping her about the waist. “Don’t start that nagging. That’s one of the things I loved you for. You never were a whiner or nag.”

Adele hugged him. “But, Rodger, you can’t get your way all the time.”

“Why not?” He flicked away the cigarette stub.

“Because!” Adele shot back. Rodger opened the screen as Adele pushed open the front door of Ada’s house.

Ada sat on the couch, pillows propping her elbows as she held Jonelle and sang a lullaby to her. She had a surprisingly deep and gravelly voice.

Rodger watched her stroke Jonelle’s cheek, seemingly lost for a moment in the mystery of the baby and her song. Adele waited for Ada to finish the lullaby before picking up Jonelle.

“I’ll feed her once more, and maybe, just maybe the walk home will put her asleep for the whole night.”

Ada settled back into the couch. “Don’t count on it. Those night feedings might go on for another month or more.” Adele padded down the hall to the bedroom, leaving Ada and Rodger alone. He drummed the arm of the chair with his fingertips.

“I could rig up your sewing machine so that it’ll be easier to use.”

Ada massaged her hands, shaking her head so that her fine gray hair trailing from its chignon swayed like miniature streamers.

“You’ve done quite enough, mister.”

When Rodger frowned at her, she gave a dismissive a wave of her hand.

“Oh, all right. If you insist and have nothing better to do with your time, I’d be pleased to have you do it.”

“I have the time.” He avoided her eyes, until he could stand it no longer. “What’s the matter?”

“You.” Ada inched closer to him. The fine material of her flowered dress stretched taut against her bosom. “Tell her the truth, Rodger.”

He bolted upright. “Goddamn it! Why is everyone ragging on me?”

Ada pursed her lips. “It’ll not be right between the two of you if you keep secrets.”

“I don’t keep secrets.” He stared fixedly at her.

“I’ve known you too long, Rodger, not to know when you’re hiding a piece of the puzzle.”

He blushed, remembering how important it used to be to him to put in the last jigsaw puzzle piece. Ada never scolded him for keeping it in his pocket for a day or two, but she always made him put it in, finally.

“I have to go back,” he lowered his voice. “I have to square things for Mary Elizabeth.” He leaned down and smacked the kitten as it leaped for his shoe. “I have this dream. Every night. Running away from Mary Elizabeth and LinChing as they stand in front of the mission, begging me to take them home. Only there’s no home.”

The kitten sought refuge in Ada’s lap. She petted it absent‑mindedly.

“But Jonelle...,” Ada’s voice cracked.

Rodger searched Ada’s loving face.

“She’s in good hands.” He looked away, out the window at the dark shadows of the leaves on the tree. “I’ll come home.”

Adele came out of the bedroom, Jonelle asleep on her shoulder. Rodger hurried to the buggy by the chair and wheeled it over to Adele. Ada smoothed out the blanket, her hands working around Adele’s as she lay the baby down. Rodger propped the door open and took the buggy down the steps onto the sidewalk. He waved to Ada as Adele hugged her goodbye.

Adele hopped to catch up with him, clutching his hand as they walked side by side. The wheels of the buggy squeaked. He sighed as they came upon their brightly lit porch.

“Must cut the grass in the morning,” he said as he opened the door.

Adele pushed the buggy indoors. “Let’s just take it easy tomorrow, honey,” she pecked his sore cheek. Rodger winced. “Oh, sorry.” She went to touch it, but he pulled away.

“I’m tired tonight. Are you?”

“I haven’t boxed in the ring,” Adele faced him, the tartness of her voice betraying the comfort of her words.

“What is it you want from me, Adele?” Rodger crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

“I don’t know,” she paced in front of him, wringing her hands. “Maybe that’s the question I should be asking you.”

“Jesus, Adele! I want you to be happy. The baby to be happy.” He chewed his lip. No, this wouldn’t wash; she wouldn’t be compromised with a vague truth. “I don’t know. Something inside of me.”

“What? Losing your father? Sam? Mary Elizabeth?”

“None of that. All of it.” He closed his eyes. “I thought today about how LinChing busted his bones to do the right thing all the time. On top of those planes like he was personally responsible for them, he had his kid, too. Trying to do the right thing.” His left cheek and ear throbbed, shooting pangs along his neck. “You’re on me lately about every damn thing I do.”

“I want you…you,” she stumbled over her words, “to want to stay with us.”

“It wasn’t my idea to start this war.” He watched her through slitted eyes.

“No, but it seems to be your game.”

“I’m a flyer, honey. You knew that before we married.”

She sighed in defeat. “I know. I guess I thought because I changed after having Jonelle, you would, too.”

He grabbed her by the hands and embraced her.

“I’ll always provide us a good home and be a great daddy. You wait and see.”

Adele hugged him hard. “I’ll be here. I’ll wait.”

“And,” he pulled back to look into her eyes, “I’ll bring you more silver, marble and silks from China.”

She stared long and direct at him. “Just bring yourself back in one piece, mister.”

Soft mewing sounds came from the buggy as Jonelle awoke.

“There, there, hush, hush,” Adele cooed as she lifted Jonelle from the buggy and took her to the nursery.

Rodger watched them disappear into the room and then turned into the bedroom. He hastily undressed and crawled between the cool sheets.

He heard the sheets rustling and felt the warmth of Adele’s body when she climbed in bed beside him. She encircled his waist with her arms and snuggled into his back. Sleep enfolded him.

In the middle of the night, a pocket of coldness where Adele should have been shocked him awake. He listened for her above the pounding of his heart.

She moved through the hallway, to the door and paused.

“Rodger?” the alarm in her voice distressed him. “What’s the matter?”

He sat on the edge of the bed, cradling his head in his hands.

“Nothing. Come to bed.”

She slid in behind him, hugging his shoulders, pressing her face against his back.

“Are you in pain?”

“No.” He sat still, then turned and lay down, pulling her into his side. “I have to tell you something.”
Hiccupping cries pealed throughout the house. Adele sprang out of bed and ran down to the nursery. Minutes later, she returned with Jonelle nestled against her shoulder. Rodger reached over to the bed stand and flipped on the light, illuminating Adele’s face etched in worry. He patted the edge of the bed.

“Come here. It’s not that bad. And you probably know anyway.” Adele sat down beside him, and he put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her in a gentle hug, careful of the nursing baby. “I’ve put in for a transfer for China. The Flying Tigers.” He shrugged. “May or may not happen.”

Adele cradled the baby against her shoulder, patting her on the back and nodded her head in time with the taps. Jonelle burped, sighed and closed her eyes, whispering baby snores.

“Sooner or later, I knew you’d go back.”

“I want you to understand I have to go back.” He sighed, pulling her close to him and kissing her ear lobe. “You know, for God, motherhood, apple pie, and all that.”

Adele pressed her forehead against his.

“No,” she muttered, shaking her head back and forth. “For you, Rodger.”

She took the sleeping baby back to her bed. He thought he heard muffled sounds of Adele crying. He waited, his shoulders aching from being tensed.

She tripped into the room, dancing in front of him with her nightgown fanned in her hand, and pulled taut, her body outlined by satin. He watched, fascinated. She dipped and swayed, inviting him with a wave of her hand. He rose, accepted her hand, crushing his body into hers, moving in time with her undulating hips. Her eyes closed and her head tilted back, she parted her lips and waited for his kiss. He met her lips. They waltzed. He pressed his cheek against hers, thankful for this hour. In the light that cast their ghostly shadows about the room; all else forgotten, they danced.

Helping Children Feel Safer

Easing Kid Worries About Our Unpredictable World
By Dr. Michele Borba
MicheleBorba.com

Terrorism. ISIS. Bombings. Beheadings. War. School shootings. Pedophiles. Cyberbullying. Kidnappings. Global warming. Tsunamis. Earthquakes. Sexual abuse. It’s a scary world out there for us, but how do you think the kids are faring?

Let’s face it-we live in frightening, unpredictable times. But if you are feeling a bit jittery about violence, turbulent weather conditions, current events, or a troubled economy, imagine how our kids must feel. Talk of uncertain times permeates the world around them. Graphic television images of real disasters and terrifying events just reinforce their fears.

Think about it: this is the first generation of children who have watched broadcasts of war, terrorist attacks, natural disasters and school massacres in their own living rooms. Make no mistake: the image of the world as a mean and scary place is affecting our kids’ well-being. In fact, George Gerbner coined the term “Mean World Syndrome” describe a phenomenon when violence-related content in the mass media makes viewers believe that the world is more dangerous than it actually is. And that syndrome seems to be one that our kids are catching.

Read the entire article>>


How to Help Kids Feel Safe After TragedyBy Grace Hwang Lynch
PBS Parents

In the days and weeks following a high-profile tragedy, kids may have a lot of questions about whether something like this could happen to them. In fact, parents themselves may have a lot of worries about the safety of raising children in this world. It's normal for both adults and kids to feel anxious after such a publicly devastating event, but there are things you can do to minimize the stress and maintain a sense of normalcy.

Here are some tips from psychologists.

It's Normal to Be Concerned.
Youngsters who have heard or seen news reports about disturbing events may be reluctant to return to the classroom and other public spaces. Moms and dads may even feel anxious about dropping their kids off at day care or school, after hearing about tragedies that happen to children. "Parents are following instincts to be alarmed and to be fearful," says nationally certified school psychologist Eric Rossen, Ph.D. But Rossen stresses that we need to remember these are isolated incidents. "It's important to continue to remember that this is such a rare event, statistically and objectively speaking. It's hard to bear because it's so rare."

Read the entire article>>

Forcing the Hand of God: Chapter 23 (part 1)

Rodger finished lowering the kitchen cabinets in Ada’s kitchen Friday morning. Adele left him on the porch with Ada as she fed Jonelle in the back bedroom.

Ada wiped her hands across her thighs. “I’ve so enjoyed this time with Adele and the baby. You—-you’ve been busy. Like a carpenter wasp.”

His laughter exploded from his throat. “And I’m surrounded by queens.”

Ada reproved him with a sharp glance. “That’s not what I meant.” She tapped her glass with a finger. “Is it the upcoming fight?”

“No.” He cocked his head, amused by her interrogation. “I’ll pull it off.”

Ada pushed away from the table and went inside, bringing back a box tied with a satin ribbon. She handed it to him.

He jerked the ribbon off, tossing it onto the ground. As the lid slid off, he sucked in his breath as he stared at the black silk boxing trunks with white satin insets at the legs. He swallowed, meeting Ada’s penetrating eyes.

“I thought these would go nicely with your robe,” she said softly.

“Thanks,” he said, setting the bottom inside the lid, “I didn’t expect this. I bought the silk for you.”

“Yes, I know, but I wanted to do this for you,” Ada smiled. “Does the shoulder hurt at all?”

“Not a bit.” Rodger motioned to Adele as she came out the back door. “Look, honey.” He took the trunks out of the box.

“I know,” Adele winked at him. “I helped.” Both women chuckled. Adele leaned over his shoulder, close to his ear. “We did it all behind your back, and,” she tweaked his nose, “underneath your very nose.”

He stood, pushing his shoulder blades into one another.

“I’m outnumbered.” He caught Adele exchanging a quick glance with Ada. “You two just think you’ve outsmarted me.” He flexed his arms.

Adele’s face wrinkled in concern, but Ada stood abruptly, stopping Adele from saying anything. Rodger stood and held the door open for them. He walked back and picked up his boxing trunks and stuffed them carefully into his gear bag. Ada’s kitten attacked him from underneath the chair by the door. Rodger swatted at it.

“Pest!” he growled as it scrambled to the far side of the room.

Ada bent down and swept it up with one hand.

“Poor, Kid,” she soothed. “I thought you’d like him, Rodger.”

He waved impatiently at them; then, seeing he had wounded Ada, changed course.

“Oh, I do, kind of,” he tried to smile, hoping to ease the pinched look from Ada’s face. “I don’t like surprise attacks, is all.”

Ada grinned. “He’s friendly.” She put him down on the floor. “So sure that no one will harm him.”

Rodger rubbed his hand along his jawbone. “That cat reminds me of the Night Wolf. This crazy Jap raids the American air bases at night. All by himself. Does a fair amount of damage, too. You know what’s funny?” He looked fixedly at Ada. “Not one of us guys can get him. Out-maneuvers every single damn one of us.”

Adele closed in beside him. His neck tingled, like telegraph wires were connected to them, vibrating. He knew she tapped into his secrets. But he’d choose the time, a good time, to tell her.

“Wish me luck, my ladies.” He opened his arms to embrace Adele. “In a couple of hours, I’ll find out what I’m made of.”

Adele ground her cheek against his chest.

“Good luck, good knight,” she whispered.

Ada crossed her fingers and held them up.

“We’ll be thinking of the victory knock‑out.”

“I’ll be home in time for Captain Midnight,” he said as the door slammed shut behind him.

He walked along the familiar route conscious of the prickling heat and streams of voices around him. He nodded back to those who called after him. He swung his bag in time with his step and whistled an airman’s tune.

Wary faces turned on him as he strode through the gym to the locker room. The lanky Negro boy shuffled his feet as Rodger tossed his gear into the locker. He paused, waiting for the boy to look up.
“Something on your mind?”

The boy’s head snapped up and his eyes riveted on Rodger’s, his voice a husky whisper. “Lots a money comin’ down on this here fight.” Rodger shrugged, narrowing his eyes at the boy. “Don’t have nobody tending ya. I’d do it.”

Rodger studied the well‑formed muscles of the boy’s arms and shoulders.

“Sure. Earn yourself a cut of the winnings.”

“No, mister,” the boy put up a large, flat palm, and spoke fervently. “Don’ want no money. Jus’ you win.” His eyes burned.

To hide his surprise, Rodger bent down and laced his one shoe, then the other.

“Gonna do that, son.” He straightened. “Let’s work out. What’s your name?”

“Theys call me Li’l Les. Name’s Lester.”

Lester tossed Rodger a jump rope. He began a slow, easy hip-hop from side to side.

“Lester,” Rodger picked up his tempo, “you and me will be a winning team.” Not missing a beat, he whipped the rope faster and faster, wondering as he put his body through the routine paces, what Lester really wanted from him. The boy anticipated his needs, staying out of the way until he was needed. Rodger silently tallied the winning take. He knew the crowd had backed his opponent. A couple of hundred bucks, at least. More, maybe three hundred, on the second fight.

Shorty bounded into the room, waving his arms.

“Rodger! In the ring!”

Rodger flung aside the jump rope, pulled off the lightweight gloves and dropped them on the floor. Lester sat in his corner, dangling the regulation gloves in front of him as if exhibiting some kind of a trophy. Rodger snaked through the ropes and stood before Lester as he worked the laces tight on each glove. The crowd bunched around the young man in blue trunks, Reb’s friend. Rodger sized him up. A knockout in the first round. Big Red had schooled him on guys that came into the ring like bulls. Determined. All set for a kill. Easily killed.

The air crackled with alien voices. Rodger scanned the tops of the heads. He knew no one. Lester took his position behind the corner post. The voices blended to a drone.

The smell of his own sweat stung his nose. He clicked his mouthpiece into place. He felt sharp, ready. Energy coursed through his arms and buoyed his legs.

The bell clanged. He jumped up. His opponent in blue satin trunks with black initials “C T” on the left leg came bobbing into the center like a rubber toy.

Rodger slowed his step, teasing the man into a dance. C T swung wild, and Rodger stepped lightly away from the flying fist. He waited. CT came into his quarter circle.

Rodger cut him down.

The crowd was stunned into silence. Then the buzz swelled into a roar, crying victory for the next man, Reb. Lester offered Rodger the water jug and spit tube. His quick motions were efficient, yet oddly deferential.

Lester leaned and whispered in his ear, “Don’ like it quick, do they?”

Rodger shook his head, watching Reb getting laced up in his gloves. About the same build as he, maybe a pound or two heavier. Reb’s olive skin glistened with sweat; hard muscles rippled as he flexed his arms. He casually swiveled his head, giving Rodger a hard, brief once‑over.

“They want their money’s worth,” Rodger patted Lester on the shoulder. “I’ll give ’em what they want.”

He sucked his mouthpiece into place and waited for the bell. Reb stared him down. Rodger leaned forward, not blinking. Reb blinked, bobbing up as the bell jangled. Rodger was on the balls of his feet and swaying as Reb came at him.

They sparred. Reb was not so easily led as his friend, a better match for Rodger. Rodger pulled away from an uppercut. He nicked Reb’s jaw. Reb came in for him from the left. Rodger blocked. This man knew about dancing, too.

After the second round, Lester scolded, “Keep inside of ‘im. Don’ let ‘im come into your right.”

Third round. Shorty, commanding as a referee, bounded out of the ring. Rodger eyed the surly throng that lined the outside of the ring. Money poked up from fists, waved about like banners.

The bell. He leaped into the center of the ring. Reb charged him. Too late, he saw the gloved hand coming at him. He took the blow on his ear. The pain surprised him, giving Reb the edge. Rodger took another blow in the gut.

“Come on, old man, come and get me,” sneered Reb.

Maddened, Rodger lunged at his smirking opponent. He fended a blow to his left. Then his head cleared, and he knew the game Reb played.

Rodger dropped away from him, taking a sting on the shoulder. Reb closed in. Rodger bored down on top of him. One-two, one-two, one-two, three.

It was over.

Rodger looked down at the astonished face of Shorty. He smiled.

“Pay day,” he said. He turned and walked to his corner where Lester rubbed his aching shoulders and toweled him down.

He relished the cold of the metal post against his spine. Lester’s face was split by the white of his smile. Rodger tilted his head back and spoke wearily, “Just bill me as the ‘Bloodless Wonder.’ Madison Square Garden.”

Lester nodded in happy agreement. His hands worked deeper into the aching of his flesh. Reb and his friend were gone, out of sight of the crowd that had roared just a few minutes ago for their victory, now the men and women muttered angrily as their money changed hands.

Rodger shrugged off Lester. He took the towel and patted his face. His ear burned. His eye had already filmed over. The bodies crowding around the ring swayed back and forth. He inhaled deeply, breathing out hard. He climbed out of the ring and headed for the showers.

Lester trailed behind him. Voices trumpeted, and Rodger heard his name. He ducked into the stall and twisted the faucets on hard. Hot water pelted him, and he closed his eyes as a cloud of steam engulfed him. He drifted, then hearing voices, he lathered quickly and rinsed, stepping out, greeted by a towel thrust from Lester’s hand.

“Shorty’s got somethin’ for ya,” Lester gloated. “Man, oh, man, ya took in some winnings.”

Rodger dried off, careful of the tender spots. He felt his left eye begin to swell, and as he surreptitiously peeked into the mirror, he noted a bruise on his cheek. He dressed. Lester dogged his footsteps until he spun around and spoke to him “Listen, go tell Shorty I sent you to pick up my cut.” As Lester nodded and sprinted away to the main gym, Rodger ducked out the back door. He looked to his left, then his right, up the street and down, just in case Reb and his friend were waiting for him. It might have been a fair fight, but there are no honest losers.

As he came to the corner, his eyes strained to catch any movements in the shadows, and his ears prickled at the sounds of voices behind him. He strolled along, scanning to the right and left of him all of the way to his mother’s house.

The women bunched in the kitchen, not aware that he had come in the front door. He rattled his duffle bag, throwing it against the wall as he approached the kitchen. His Aunt Carrie screeched at the sight of him. Madeline turned from the sink and eyed him severely.

“Such savagery, Rodger.” She gripped the counter’s edge. “I’d thought you’d have outgrown this nonsense.” She wiped her hands on a green towel and motioned them into the living room.


Adele stepped away from his mother and aunt and ducked into the downstairs den where Jonelle slept. He rubbed his forehead.

“Not as bad as it looks.”

“You’ll be the death of your poor mother,” Carrie flung herself into a plump, upholstered chair. “Not to mention your wife.”

Adele laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Sit a spell. I sneaked a cold beer from home. Rode at the baby’s feet.” She placed the bottle into his hands. Then, cupping her hands over his around the bottle, she pressed them gently against his cheek. “To the victor belong the spoils.”

Painfully, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “How do you know some things before I tell you?”

Adele kissed him on his good ear. “Intuition.” She straightened, stepping away from the couch. “A lady always knows her knight and, like a good book, knows how to read him.”

Rodger caught her hand and held it, pulling her close again so that he could whisper in her ear. “I’m a good read in bed, too.”

A Penny in Time Chapter 4: I Do, Again (Part 1)

Slinky went with me and Sylvia the day we were to try on dresses.  She got along just fine with Sylvia.  Susan and Sylvia could sit in a corner and talk about bridesmaids' dresses and perfect shoes for the next hundred years.

I finally screwed up enough courage to come clean.  "Sylvia, I'm not going to be a flower girl in your wedding."  Her eyes bugged.  "I'm just too old to be flinging flowers around."

"Oh, of course, Elizabeth.  But I still want you to be in the wedding, as my bridesmaid."  She smiled like it was the brightest idea she'd ever had, and what's worse, Slinky nodded in agreement.

I shook my head.  "No, really.  I don't want to trip or anything.  I hate to be the one to spoil your big day."  I gave her a lame smile back, thinking how much she spoiled my life.

"I'll serve punch with Slinky, okay?  And you won't have to get me a special dress, or anything."
My Dad looked disgusted and didn't say much to me the rest of the day.  I should have pointed out to him how I was saving him the expense of the powder-blue satin and velvet dress that was not worth it for little ole me, who wouldn't be caught dead in a dress like that, even at her own funeral.

I considered wearing plaid sneakers with my plain, sleeveless blue dress. Leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded across her chest, Mom eyed me critically.

“Hey, it’s a fashion statement,” I flung my arms wide and twirled. “And comfortable. I’ll be standing awhile.” I grabbed my scarf and with dramatic flourish draped it around my neck.

“The trouble with ‘statements’ made in anger,” Mom straightened and wagged a finger, “is that you live to regret them. Chose your battles wisely.”

“Whoa, what about individuality, Mom-the-artist?” I mimicked her stance with my hands on my hips.
“I guess it is a matter of definition. Are you an individual or a just a rebellious teen? One is taken seriously, the other is not.” She turned around and left me there to think about it.

It was a beautiful June day for the wedding. I wore the blue dress with the scarf, but chose comfortable white ballerina shoes. I borrowed my mother’s diamond stud earrings, which were a little larger than the diamond in my newly pierced nose. My Dad’s parents picked me up two hours before the ceremony and clearly avoided looking closely at the center of my face the entire way over to the church.

I felt queasy during the ceremony, and concentrated on not throwing up, parked in the front pew with my grandparents.  The bride came down the aisle, a white-laced illusion.  The groom appeared by her side.  And they recited their vows.

How can they take vows to love, honor and cherish one another through sickness and health, till death do them part?  Surely it must have crossed Sylvia's mind that my Dad had said those vows once before.  I wondered if Mom really wished Dad all the happiness in the world, or if she were sitting at home feeling as rotten as I was.

I stood beside Slinky at the refreshment table, and helped pass out the three-hundred plates with slices of white cake with raspberry filling and butter cream frosting that I didn't even taste.  The reception line went on forever, with the band playing dippy love songs that couples slow-danced to.  Every chance he got, my Dad introduced me as “Elizabeth, my daughter,” in one breath.  Finally, someone, I think it was the matron of honor, announced the bride and groom would leave for their honeymoon after the last dance.

Slinky waved frantically at me.  "Your Dad's looking for you.  He wants to dance with you."
"I have to go to the bathroom.  Too much punch."  I hurried out of the room.  I didn't feel like dancing with someone who couldn't remember my name.  I joined my grandparents outside as the crowd threw rice at the departing newlyweds.

     All I wanted to do was go home and watch my favorite TV program with my Mom.  I mean, if spending the evening with my Mom sounded like a good idea, then you know I must have been a sorry space cadet.

"Hey, Princess," my Dad's voice carried miles, as he beckoned me after shutting the door of the black limousine on Sylvia's veil.  "When we get back from Hawaii you come spend the weekend with us, okay?"

Grandma gave me a little nudge.  "Go over and kiss him good-bye, real fast, like a bunny."
I wasn't going to run across the lawn in new shoes that hurt my feet and end up skidding half-way to Oregon just to give my Dad a kiss good-bye.  I suppose I could have hopped like a bunny and made a real spectacle of myself, but then someone would have told my Mom and she would have lectured me for an hour about it.

Instead, I waved.  "Bye, Dad.  Have a nice time," although by the look on his face I don't think he bought my sincerity, which made me feel kind of bad all of a sudden.  So I walked over and gave him a big kiss on the cheek.  "Really, Dad, have a good time." And, I thought, do some soul-surfing while you’re at it.

He hugged me for a long time.  "All of us will go next time, okay?"

I said nothing.  He and Sylvia could go on a trip every year or twice a month, but I didn't want to be with them.  Maybe they deserved each other, I didn't really care.  Things were never going to be the same with me and my Dad, and I guess I'd have to get used to that, but I didn't have to like it.  I wasn't going to let him go without a little hurt of his own.

"Hey, Dad," he turned, still smiling at me as I spoke, "please don't call me 'Princess', okay?"

He looked stunned a moment, then his smile returned.  "All right.  I'll see you in a couple of weeks, okay?"

I watched until they were out of sight.  I waited forever for my grandparents to say their farewells so that we could leave.  Slinky immediately started babbling when she got into the car, comparing notes with my grandmother.  I leaned my head back and shut my eyes, while Slinky rattled on and on about the lovely wedding.

It seemed a small bit of eternity with all the farewells.  I heaved a sigh of relief when I made it to my bedroom, and changed into my jeans and sweater.  The house was quiet and my Mom was in the back bedroom working on an art project for her class next Friday.  This, I decided, is how things should be, and settled down with a cold glass of milk before the television.  The only thing that spoiled it was a rerun of "Star Trek, the Next Generation" that I had already seen, but no matter, I liked it anyway.
Reruns were a lot better than being with Dad and Sylvia.  It was like we were aliens that didn't speak the same language.  I miss the way my life used to be, when Mom and Dad were together.  I miss the old Slinky that wasn't involved up to her shaved armpits with boys, clothes and make-up.  Frank got a job at McDonald's™ and I don't see him much, either.  I wish I could change everything back again, make it right, and everyone would be happy.  Only it seems everyone is happy, except for me.

Summer was the season for changes for me.  My body "blossomed" as Nana and Mom kept saying; shopping took on a whole new twist as I had to have bras, an electric shaver, and all sorts of things to accommodate Mother Nature.  I didn't have that much time for Dad, as I kept pretty busy with babysitting jobs every weekend and three weeks in August, yard work with Dean and Fran, earning plenty of money for new clothes.  I took my new position as Class Treasurer seriously and looked forward in the fall to starting tenth grade with the honors' class.  I was beginning to feel more responsible for my own life, like I could make decisions for myself and think through problems on my own.  

Dad didn’t seem to notice the changes.  We got along all right, like people do when they see each other once in a while, chatting about everyday stuff.  It had been a month or more since I'd spent a weekend with them at their condo, and when Dad asked me to stay over, I said I would.  I brought my star stencil kit and intended to ask him to help me do the ceiling.  I was stunned when I walked into my bedroom and saw what Sylvia had done to it.

My unstained bed and dresser were white with ugly, little gold scrolls here and there.  White curtains outlined the windows and the bedspread was the most hideous pink, ruffled thing with teeny red roses that I had ever seen.  The little porcelain unicorn sat smugly in the middle of the dresser.  I thought I'd throw up right then and there!  All my posters, banners and pictures were stacked neatly in two boxes.  The Disneyland banner I had brought to put up wilted in my grip as I blinked and blinked, hoping this ugly scene right out of Grimm's fairy tale would disappear.

But it didn't.  Dad draped his arm around my shoulder.  "What do you think?  Fit for a Princess, huh?"  His eyes twinkled and he grinned.  "Sylvia worked for three days to get it ready for you.  Like it?"

"Oh, Dad!" I slapped my forehead and acted like I had a sudden, horrible thought.  "I forgot I have to babysit tonight!  Could you take me home right now?"

"Sure, I'll get my keys."  He looked at me strangely, not moving.

"Could you take the other box, Dad?  There's no sense in leaving this crap here for anyone to trip over."  I picked up the larger box and made for the front door.  "Hope I didn't mess up your dinner, Sylvia."

"That's okay, honey, we'll do something special next weekend.  Maybe we can shop in the morning and catch a movie in the afternoon.  All right?"

"Sounds just great," I said, and I knew the sarcasm was unmistakable, even without the dirty look my Dad gave me.

"What's wrong with you, Elizabeth Conner?" he growled as we stood by the car.  "You're acting like an obnoxious child!"

"I'm sorry!  I guess I could have called Mom to come get me."  I straightened out the Disneyland banner on top of the star stencil box before Dad slammed the trunk shut and squashed himself down into the driver's seat.

"I don't care about that!"  He half-turned, his hand clutching the steering wheel and shaking the keys at me.  "You're not the sweet little girl that you used to be." 

"You're right, I'm not!"  I was steamed, too.  "You're not like the father you used to be, either!"
"Well, I haven't changed, Elizabeth."  He jammed the key into the ignition.  "I don't want anymore of this attitude problem, do you understand?"

Forcing the Hand of God: Chapter 22

Ada lagged behind Rodger and his uncle as they left the ticket window to go outside and wait in the boarding area. The platform shook as the ten‑o‑five came rumbling in, on time. Rodger nodded, satisfied, and pocketed his father’s railroad watch. Dust whipped through the air as the passenger train came to a noisy halt.

Rodger clapped his uncle on the shoulder.

“Be a while before I see you again,” at once regretting Kyle’s departure, but weary of his advice, “so take it easy, old man.”

Kyle threw an arm around Rodger’s shoulders and spoke confidentially into his ear.

“Remember what I said about the three kinds of heroes?”

“Yeah, the scared, the quiet, and the showy ones.” Rodger thought of his dad, his self-confidence all these years, knowing what he was about.

“Well, there’s another kind. The military man. Not the glory hound or fighter jock. This man’s intelligent, capable, and above all else, loyal. To a fault. No mountain too high for him to scale or a war too far away. He walks along the edge of an abyss and dares man or God. He’s the man the Greeks immortalized.” Kyle sighed, dropping his arm from Rodger’s shoulder.

Rodger kept his face expressionless. Kyle frowned at the ground.

“Reconsider going overseas, son. You’ve done your duty.”

Rodger smiled. “You’d better say good‑bye to Ada again. Never figured you for a love‑’em-and-leave‑’em kind of guy.” He went and sat on a bench as Ada met Kyle.

Ada gave Kyle a sisterly hug. But Kyle’s hand reached and held Ada’s, prolonging the lovers’ moment. Rodger looked away. Seeing Kyle and Ada together made him a little uncomfortable, yet it hadn’t surprised Adele at all.

He made a fist and pounded lightly on the wooden back of the bench. There had been so many little things that got to him. Perhaps he’d been away from home too long. He’d felt a keen disappointment with his uncle, the only man left in the family who should have understood his position. He closed his eyes, letting the sunshine warm his face. Ada had said his father had given him wings; it seemed lately everyone wanted to clip them.

When he looked over again, Ada was standing alone. Kyle waved from the window as the train pulled away. Rodger jumped up and walked briskly to Ada’s side. Thank God she didn’t cry. He reached for and squeezed her arm.

“Want a cup of coffee at Joe’s?”

Ada nodded. “We shouldn’t be too long, though,” she peered at him, “if you’re serious about remodeling that kitchen. Adele said she would be at the house by eleven‑thirty.”

“Of course, I’m serious, that’s why I bought all the material,” Rodger retorted, leading her by the arm to the car.

“And left it so that I have to climb over it every time I go out the back door.”

As Rodger eased onto the car seat next to Ada, he pitched his head backwards toward the depot.

“I’ve lost the only ally this side of the continent.”

Ada’s laughter blended with the purring of the Chevy’s engine. “It must be hard living with women.”
Out of habit, Rodger scanned the sky above and over each shoulder before he released the brake. “I find salvation at the gym.”

Ada watched him. “Are you doing well?”

Rodger parked the car at the diner and grinned at her. “Better than I thought. I’m in great shape, and it’s all still there.” He squared his shoulders. “Those two kids don’t know what they’re up against.”

Ada’s lips drew thin. “Do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you trying to prove something?”

“That I haven’t forgotten.”

“I don’t expect you’ll ever forget much, Rodger.”

Ada slid out the door and walked unescorted into the café. Rodger followed her and sat across from her at a table.

“Miz Ada,” the proprietor scurried beside the table, nodding respectfully at her. “Rodger? Is it really you?” The small man’s eyes bulged comically. “Sure good to see you back, son.” Joe beamed. “Home for good, son?”

“No, leaving soon.” Rodger shredded the paper napkin along the edges. “Just coffee for us.”

“Right up. Fresh pot, too.” Joe wiped his hands on the white apron as he left.

The silence stretched between him and Ada until Joe slapped the cups down in front of them. “Now, you come round and see me while you’re here. Talk about the old times.”

“I will, Joe. See ya around.”

Another customer came in and sat at the counter. Rodger recognized Mr. Tollsend, the president of the Longhorn Bank. He nodded to Mr. Tollsend, then faced Ada.

“Offered me a job last week.”

Ada stirred her coffee, although she hadn’t used either sugar or cream.

“Have you considered it?” Then setting the spoon alongside the cup, she added hastily, “The pay would be good. Adele and Jonelle would be happy here.” Her forehead wrinkled. “And, Rodger, you’d be good at a management job.”

Rodger lowered his voice, “I told him I’d think about it. But,” he recoiled, “I’d never fit in, Ada. You know that. Maybe I’ll go to college on the GI bill. There’s a future in airplanes for commercial use.”
Rodger scratched the bridge of his nose and leaned onto his elbows, close to Ada. “It’s gonna be a hot ‘un today, Miss Ada. A real scorcher. Maybe me and the wife’ll go on down to the creek for a spell and let the kids catch ’em some crawdads.”

Ada bit her bottom lip to cover her smile. “I’ve missed your incisive comments on our small town ways.”

“Commentator, that’s me.” He slurped his coffee. He held up a hand and ticked off his fingers.

“Weather, kids, family; or family, kids, and weather.”

Ada paused, the cup halfway to her lips, then replaced it without sipping any coffee. “Perhaps there’s a reason to think about one’s family. There’s safety in the familiar.”

“Safetytown, U.S.A. It’s what the damn war’s all about.”

“No, Rodger,” Ada gazed at him evenly, “that was World War I.”

Rodger drummed his fingers on the table. “Adele seems to like it here.”

“She’s the kind of woman who makes her own life, Rodger.” Ada gave him a little smile. “She’d adapt in the Mojave Desert.”

Rodger played his napkin corner back and forth. “I think it’d be a mistake to move her out to Texas with me. I might not be at one base too long.”

Ada shook her head, negating him. “You’ll have to give yourselves time to make happiness. Get used to one another.” She slumped back against the chair. “All this week you’ve been working frantically. Have you ever heard of a carpenter wasp?”

Rodger chuckled. “I feel a parable coming on.”

Ada continued, ignoring his remark. “Carpenter wasps are the most intelligent species of either bees or wasps. They cut tubular nests in wood. The males die during cold weather, but the females live on to start a new colony.”

Rodger draped an arm over the end of his chair. “So I better finish this project before the first snowfall?”

“No, I just brought it up so I could get around to asking what’s bothering you.” Ada chipped at the tabletop with a fingernail. “I remember you when you were younger. Always attacking the yard work before a big game or fight with the vigor of a man possessed.”

“Maybe I am possessed.” He tried to figure out what Ada wanted from him. She had loved Sam and Uncle Kyle. Not exactly the kind of men who were root‑bound. “This town’s too small for me.”

Ada turned her head and looked out the window. “There’ll be changes. Just you wait and see how fast this town changes, Rodger. It’s in the air. And perhaps,” she twisted back to stare directly at him, “you’re part of it. Rachel talks about going to college, maybe getting into medicine. A career! And your mother encourages both girls to think about a college education and a career.”

He pondered that for a moment. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He pulled out his wallet and laid the dollar across the check. “This’ll cover it.”

Standing by the car, he pulled himself into a long stretch. Ada cocked her head to one side. “Your shoulder healed fast.”

Rodger hunched his shoulders, then pushed them in small circles. “Been working out every day. Makes a difference.” He paused, and she stopped beside the car. “If you want, I’ll go with you to the cemetery and tend Sam’s grave. Anytime.”

Ada’s face set, a sad mask of her other self.

“No, Rodger. I’ve said my good‑bye.” She eased herself into the car, and Rodger shut the door. Ada rolled down the window and leaned out to speak to him. “When’s your match?”

He walked around the car, opened the door, and got in. “Friday afternoon.”

Ada nodded. She sat pleasantly silent on the way home. Rodger hummed. They spied Adele rounding the corner with the baby buggy at the same time.

She waved, hurrying over to them as they climbed out of the car.

“Whew! I feel like I’ve walked a mile!”

“Come in and rest a spell with a cold drink.” Ada gripped Adele’s elbow and led her to the steps. “Rodger can bring the baby and buggy up onto the porch for us.” Adele disappeared into the house with Ada.

Rodger bent over his sleeping daughter. The deep creases in her face had smoothed out, and she no longer looked like living parchment paper. She suckled in her sleep. He tapped her tiny fist with his forefinger. She stirred.

“Hey, doll baby,” he whispered, “it’s Daddy.”

Jonelle opened one sleepy eye and then closed it again. She yawned and threw her fisted hands into the air, arching her back. Rodger leaned in and scooped her up.

“Come out and see the world.” He sat on the porch step and propped her in his arms.

He wanted to say something important to her, like a father should to his daughter, but the words evaporated. Jonelle strained against his arm. Such a solid little creature. Her fine, dark hair might have been penciled in. He ran his hand over her downy head, letting his palm rest on the pulsating soft spot. She made strange, gurgling noises in her throat, neither crying nor demanding, as her head wobbled right and left. Suddenly, he thought of LinChing. He had always tried to do the right thing for Mary Elizabeth, just hoping his best was good enough. Rodger looked down at Jonelle. “That’s about all anyone can do, just his best.” Someone rustled behind him.

“Would you like a cold drink?” Adele poised the glass over his head.

“You wouldn’t dare do anything of the kind,” Rodger looked up, “because I am holding your daughter in ransom.”

Adele leaned down and kissed him on the lips. “I’ll pay, just name your price.”

Rodger reached for the glass. “You can’t afford it.”

Adele stepped down next to him. “Fred Hewling called this morning. Has a job offer, if you’re interested.”

“Nope.” Rodger chewed an ice cube. “I don’t figure on settling down here.”

Adele shrugged. “That’s okay by me. And baby.” She twisted a loose thread along the hem of her shirt sleeve. “Wherever you go, I’ll follow. It’s been like that since the dawn of time.”

“It’ll be best for you both to stay here for now, though.” Rodger slipped the glass down Adele’s bare leg. She jumped back. “Don’t know where I’ll end up.”

“You’ll stay stateside, won’t you?” Adele’s eyebrows pinched together. “You’ll be satisfied instructing?”

Rodger stared in front of him. Jonelle lay quiet in the crook of his arm. “Depends.”

“You’ve got a lot more to lose than just your life.” Adele’s voice hardened.

“And who doesn’t? Damn it, Adele, has it been so long ago that you’ve forgotten? Practically all the guys are married and have one or two kids. I’m nothing special.”

Adele massaged his arm. “You are to me.”

Rodger lifted his arm with her hand still on it and kissed her five fingers. “You make me that way.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll work around here until four and then go to the gym.”

Adele sat down next to him, gripping his arm.

“Must you go through with the fight?”

Rodger cringed. “Of course. It’s not a big thing, Adele. Just a game to see who wins.”

She patted him. “I know. It’s just we haven’t been together much, even though we’re in the same place at the same time.”

“I’ll be back for dinner. Do you want me to swing by here and walk home with you?”

Adele plopped her chin in her hands. “You always slide the subject right on by me. Like fast pitch.” She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “No, I promised your mother we’d have dinner with her. I got her to change it to six‑thirty.”

Rodger rolled his eyes. “Wonderful.”

Adele wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “Rodger, she has good intentions.”

Rodger drank deep of lemonade. “This takes me back to when I was a kid.” He smacked his lips and Jonelle flinched. Rodger looked down. “Ada’d bring me something iced as soon as I got done with the chores.”

Adele reached over and took the baby from him. “Well, you got the reward before the labor today. Get busy.”

Rodger sprang up, dramatically pointing to Jonelle. “Who’ll protect this poor child from such a taskmaster?”

Adele slapped at his knee. “Holler if you need any help and I’ll make a note of ignoring you.”

They walked side by side into the house where Ada sat at her sewing machine, rubbing her arthritic hands together. She pushed her glasses against her nose and peered at the material in front of her.

Rodger stopped and pointed. “Whose?”

“Kathy Weatherling’s christening her baby boy this Saturday. I have to get it done.”

“Must be her second? Geez. We can come back tomorrow.” Rodger rinsed his ice cubes into the sink. “That way you won’t be disturbed.”

Ada pinned him with her unblinking eyes. “You won’t be interrupting me.”

Rodger threw off his shirt. He worked out by the garden, well into the afternoon, until Adele called to him to come and eat lunch. He wolfed down his sandwich then returned to the backyard.

As Adele tidied the kitchen, Ada returned to the sewing machine. Adele fed and rocked the baby asleep, then laid her down. She came out to where Rodger was sawing a two‑by‑four.

“I’m going to pull out a weed or two,” she dipped to one knee and tugged at a plant.

Rodger mopped his forehead. “I’m going to be working inside.”

Adele blocked his retreat. Rodger stared back into her probing eyes. If there were no words for it, there couldn’t be any conflict.

Adele started to speak to him, then turned back to the garden. “My timing seems to be off.”

In the kitchen, Rodger hammered steadily, enjoying the rhythm of the swing and smack and listened with one ear for the old grandfather clock. He had lowered one set of cabinets when the clock chimed three o’clock.

Outside, he could see Adele and Ada sitting beneath the awning talking. Rodger took a step back to the opened window and listened to snatches of their conversation.

Ada gestured at the garden. “... time and so much dying. He’s still reacting to all that.”

Adele shook her head vigorously. “No, it’s something else. He’s closed down. Away.”

He ran his hand along the underside of the cabinet, then turned and looked out the kitchen window at his mother’s house. Choices. He had to choose.

He had known long ago, when he had left for Chicago to fight in the Golden Gloves, that he’d made up his mind not to come back. That night before leaving, he’d gone into his sisters’ room and stood there for a while as they lay sleeping, whispering baby snores, and the moonlight streamed in from an uncurtained window across the beds. He had known that by leaving he would step across that threshold into another reality, the real world where he would be on his own. And maybe never come back home again.

He ran the cold water and washed his hands, fixing his stare on the upstairs bedroom window. His father had snagged him on the way out the door, asking if he could do anything for him. All Rodger had wanted was for him to be there, for the fight, for his big victory. But his Dad had commitments to the bank, and he was sorry he couldn’t make it to Chicago to see him fight. Rodger understood. Only too well.

He dried his hands on a rag flecked with varnish. He wanted to grab Adele, shout out loud and clear that he loved her. He loved their baby. But damn it, he was not the summation of their lives in this small town where he’d always be known as John’s boy, The Kid or a war hero.

Ada’s voice drifted through the still afternoon air. “And the military is his only opportunity for flying.”

“Goddamn planes!” Adele sniped. “He’ll never be unfaithful as long he has a flying mistress.” She twisted aside. “I loved to fly, but I guess it wasn’t my whole life.”

Rodger went to the window and watched the two women.

Ada leaned forward, clasping Adele’s hand. “He’s a man with direction and purpose. And I’ve a deep down feeling we won’t ever stop him from going where he wants.”

Rodger grabbed his shirt and buttoned it as he left through the front door to go to the gym. He shook free of strain as he walked along the sidewalk. Maybe Ada was right. Maybe this town would change. The unlit gaslights reflected the glaring sunlight. Rodger shielded his eyes as he searched the cloudless blue sky. Maybe it was the quiet that got to him.

He didn’t mind the curious stares of the youthful men in the gym training beside him. Like during a preflight check, the adrenalin began flowing, and his mind focused sharply on the mission ahead of him. Every day, the two younger men were there sparring in the ring or working the bags. Rodger skipped rope, eyeing Reb and his friend as they jigged in the ring.

He offered to spar with a thin Negro boy who never spoke. Rodger liked this dark‑skinned, morose kid, who took it all too seriously. Rodger was huskier, but moved lightly on the balls of his feet. The long arms of his opponent stung with well‑placed punches.

Rodger held back. Whoops and hollers for the Negro echoed around the gym. It was always like that, people not really knowing what’s behind the obvious. Big Red had warned him early on never to show his style in the prelims. Like a good poker game, leave ’em guessing. He fended off an onslaught of fists but took a jab in his middle. At the end of the third round, their time up, he slipped off the gloves and extended a hand.

“Good show, kid.” The young man returned the handshake. Rodger waited for him to say something, but he didn’t speak. As they separated to go to the showers, Rodger noted with satisfaction that the men clustered in two groups placing bets on tomorrow’s fight.

He left amidst snide remarks and jeers of his hometown crowd, satisfied that he had them right where he wanted them.