WAR, ROMANCE AND MISCELLANEOUS THINGS

                                                                           FICTIONS
                                                                      by
                                                             G.E. Farrell





                                                                                       For
                                                                Edward F. and Harriet J. Farrell
                                                                                Lois M. Farrell
                                                                    Harry J. and Virginia Farrell
                                                                                Donald F. Farrell
                                                                    Edward T. and Julia Farrell

                                                               WAR

The Messengers

The Orderly Room

Dust Off

Shakespeare in the Morning

Returning Soldier


                                                               ROMANCE

The Soldier

Renna

Phone Call

The Meeting

Personal and Email

                                           MISCELLANEOUS THINGS

Mac: A Memoir

City Voices, City Noises

The Door

Samaritan

The Violinist

The Meeting



                                                                   WAR

                                                               Memorial Stone

                                        The names are there.
                                        Reading those names returns their faces 
                                        to memory's eye, those faces from so long ago,
                                        faces that will be no more remembered when we've gone.
                                        Their names may be forever there, carved into the stone.
                                        Yet, they will be but letters.

                                        Memory's ear hears their voices yet.
                                        But for how much longer?
                                        We are not immortal.
                                        When the sun has come 
                                        as many times again as since last we heard them,
                                        most of us will be no more.

                                        The time and the war that took them is
                                        remembered only because we remain yet,
                                        and because those who encouraged their killers, 
                                        still rationalize their actions to whomever listens
                                        while we, silent, turn away and remember
                                        their faces and their voices.

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                                                                 The Messengers

    Frank glanced at the baseball scores in the back of the newspaper as he came down the block from the corner candy store. Approaching his house, he looked up at the side of the two storey building and saw that the white paint was greying, just the opposite of his hair, he thought. The postage stamp lawn in front also required care.
    "When Frankie comes home, we'll do them together," he thought. "He'll be here in just a few weeks," he said aloud. He then looked around to insure that nobody heard him. 
    Starting up the walk to the front door, he heard a car stop behind him. He turned to see who was in it; if a neighbor, he would greet them. However, there were two soldiers in the car. While he watched, they got out and looked up at his house. One was an enlisted man who could not have been older than twenty. "Frankie's age," he thought. The other, an officer, was only slightly older. They closed the car doors and approached. "What could they want?" Frank thought. But, before the officer spoke, the answer to his own question occurred to him and made him tremble.
    "Mr. Francis O'Toole?" the officer asked.
    "Yes," Frank replied.
    "I'm Lieutenant William Ocam. This is Corporal Herbert Landon. May we come inside?"
    "Certainly." He led the way. When the young men were inside the door, he closed it.         They removed their hats and stood awkwardly in the foyer. "Kathleen," Frank called up the stairs. "That's my wife," he said to the soldiers. "Kathleen," he called again.
    "What?" a female voice asked from upstairs.
    "Could you come down here please?" Frank called up the stairs.
    "I'll be down in a minute."
    "Could you come down right away?"
    "I'll be there in a minute."
    "You'd better come right away, Kathleen."
    Her steps were heard above. A pair of legs in blue slacks appeared at the top of the stairs and descended. Kathleen was a slim, middle aged woman with brown hair. Half way down the stairs, she asked, "What's the...." She stopped when she saw the soldiers. After a quizzical look at them, she put her hands to her mouth to stifle a scream.
    "Would you like to sit down?" Lieutenant Ocam asked.
    "Please tell us," Frank replied.
    "Mr. And Mrs. O'Toole, I regret to inform you that your son, Specialist Four Francis A. O'Toole, Jr., was killed in action in Quang Tri Province, the Republic of Vietnam, on April 12, 1968. I'm sorry."
    "That can't be," Frank replied. ":He's due home..." He stopped.
    "There's no mistake," the lieutenant said. "I wish there were."
    Neither Frank nor Kathleen spoke. They looked at each other for a long moment, then back at the two soldiers standing before the door. The lieutenant held some papers in his hand.
    "When he's been returned to the United States, you will be notified so that you can tell us where to send the body. If you have any questions, you can call me at the number on my card." He held out the papers and a business card. Frank looked at them but could not raise his arm to take them. The lieutenant placed them on the table by the entrance, atop the day's mail. "Again, I'm sorry."
    The two soldiers left.
    Frank turned away from the door and walked into the living room where he sat on the couch. He took out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. Kathleen joined him a moment later. She held the papers and business card in her hand. 
    Frank struck a flame from his cigarette lighter but then extinguished it. He took the cigarette from his lips and turned to Kathleen. They embraced and wept convulsively as the papers fell to the floor.

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                                            The Orderly Room

    I was dog tired after a day at the stockade guarding prisoners on work detail. It sounds more dangerous than it is. I carried a shotgun should any attempt to escape. Few did though. They were mostly AWOLs (Absent Without Leave) who just took off for home or to see a lady who had jilted them by mail. They were not dangerous. I got along well with them; indeed, many requested assignment to the crew that I was guarding. I was detailed to the stockade from my unit for thirty days and my time was almost up. Whether I would request another thirty day assignment I had yet to decide. That's what I thought top, the First Sargeant, wanted to see me about.
    When I entered the orderly room door which was in the hallway between the two bays on the ground floor of the two story barracks, the First Sargeant was standing there leaning over Murray, the battery clerk, who was seated at his desk. First Sargeant Monahan, a veteran of World War II, was slightly stooped, slightly bow legged and reed thin with curly grey hair cut short. He looked up at me when I entered the room which was painted institutional green and had a window out onto the parade ground, the glass of which was so clean that it was invisible.
    "What the hell are you doing in my orderly room, Jaimeson?" he asked.
    "Sargeant Pond said you wanted to see me, top."
    "He did, did he? Do I want to see Specialist Jaimeson, Murray?"
    "Yes, First Sargeant. Lurps." The clerk handed him a single sheet of paper which he read for a moment. 
    "People like you always seem to luck out, Jaimeson," he said. "You're going to Munich. That's in Germany. The frauleins are friendly, the beer is strong and the duty's not too heavy. I spent two tours there and I can tell you that you're going to like it. Wish I was going back. You're a lucky son of a bitch, Jaimeson. Here."
He held out the paper which I took from him.
    "Now get the hell out of my orderly room," he said. As I turned to go, he added, "And get your God damned hair cut."
    "Lurps" is Army slang for 'Alert orders" which alert personnel that orders will be issued and the purpose of those orders. As the First Sargeant said, I was to be ordered to Munich, Germany, "Munchen" in the orders. He was not the first to tell me that Munich was good duty. And it was safe, half a world from the war.
    I went to my bunk in the east bay on the same floor. After reading the orders over twice, I put them in my foot locker and dropped onto my bunk for a nap before chow.
                                                            II
    I could not sleep though. I thought of Eddie, Charlie and Tom. Charlie and I had gone to a Marine recruiter together. We were going to join up on the buddy plan; that way we could stay together throughout our tours. However, the recruiter was not there, so we left our home numbers for him to call us. When he called me, I was not at home; my mother answered the phone. She and my father refused to permit me to join until I finished high school. Charlie had already done so. "If they want you, they'll call you," my father said. Charlie joined without me.
    Eddie lived down the block from me. His father and Charlie's father were friends and both bus drivers; they worked out of the same bus depot. When he finished school Eddie did not know what to do. His father suggested that he have his draft date moved up to get his service over with. Then he could plan his future without having to think about the service. He did so.
    I worked with Tom after school in the A&P supermarket. He was a football player for the local team, a very good back. 
    I also thought of my younger brother. He was just shy of a year younger than I. His draft date was fast approaching.
    I must have dozed off because I was startled to hear my battery mates coming into the bay. They were talking and laughing. Many had also received lurps, all for Germany, though not all for Munich. One who had received orders for Munich came over to tell me that we'd be serving together there. He congratulated me on my good luck.
                                                        III
    "What are you doing in my orderly room, Jaimeson?" the First Sargeant greeted me as he always did. "Do I want to see you?"
    "No, top."
    "Then why, pray tell, are you here?"
    "I want to volunteer for duty in Vietnam."
    Murray, sitting at his desk, as always, looked from me to him.
    "Are you playing with me?" Monahan asked.
    "No, top."
    "Didn't you recently get lurps for Germany?"
    "Yes."
    "And you want to go to Vietnam."
    "Yes."
    "Are you playing with me?"
    "No, top. I'm serious."
    "Let me explain something to you, Jaimeson. There is a war going on in Vietnam. People are getting killed there."
    "I read the papers."
    "Do you?" the First Sargeant asked. "Do you also read the rules of this battery that say that I don't appreciate sarcasm?"
    "Sorry."
    "All right. We don't need you. Murray will let you know when the papers are ready. If I was you I'd think this over before you do it though. Now get out of my orderly room."         As I turned to go, I heard him say to Murray, "I didn't think he had it in him."
    I returned to my bunk and opened my locker to begin preparing to move. Whether I was going to Germany or Vietnam, I was leaving Fort Sill, Oklahoma. I looked over the contents of my wall locker and foot locker and shook my head at the amount of stuff that I had accumulated in eight months. When I turned around I saw Murray standing by the bunk. I had never seen him standing before, not in all the time that I was in the battery. I was struck by how tall he was, though not the tallest in the unit. He was a good four inches taller than myself. "Are you crazy?" he asked. "You're going to be assigned to great duty in Germany."
    "I can go to Germany as a tourist."
    "Not if you come back in a body bag."
    "Soldiers take chances like that."
    "Not if they can avoid it," he said. "Why would you want to do this?"
    "I have friends who were killed there."
    "Your getting killed won't bring them back."
    "No, but I can help strike a blow against those who killed them."
    "You are crazy."
    "Maybe," I replied. "But I believe in this country. There's a war going on like top says. How could I look in the mirror if I spent it touring Europe? Besides, it's the story of a generation; I want to be a part of it."
    "I can admire all of that," Murray replied, "but I still think you're crazy. I'll have the papers for you tomorrow," he added.
                                                        IV
    "I have your orders and travel orders," Murray said when I came through the door. I took the papers from him and looked through them. I was ordered to proceed to Oakland Army Terminal for transport to the Republic of Vietnam. While I was looking through them, Monahan came into the room.
    "What are you doing here, Jaimeson?" he asked.
    "Orders," Murray answered for me.
    "Let me see them," the First Sargeant said. I handed them to him. He looked through them and frowned. "You're to report immediately," he said.
    "I know."
    "No leave," he said.
    "No."
    "Come in here." He turned on his heel and went into his office. I followed. It was a large office with a door connecting to the office of the battery commander in the wall opposite the orderly room door and two windows, with invisible glass, onto the parade ground. I was not invited to sit, so I remained standing.
    He went behind his grey metal desk, sat down and picked up the phone. He dialed three numbers. "Headquarters Battery?" he asked into the phone. "This is First Sargeant Monahan of D Battery; give me Sargeant Major Woodson....Mike?....How are you?...Listen, I got a man here who just got orders from you people to report to Oakland Army Terminal for transport to Vietnam.... I know that, but there's no provision for leave.... You want me to send this man to Vietnam without seeing his family first? You don't want him to be able to say goodbye to them before he goes to war? What the hell kind of shit is that?... This man's a volunteer. He should get thirty days plus travel time. This is nonsense... I know my language has improved. What about this man?.... What!.... You get those damn fools up there off their asses and have them do their jobs; it's not his job to correct your God damned blunders. What the hell kind of.... All right, all right. We'll expect them today." He hung up the phone. "You'll have new orders this afternoon.," he said to me.
    "Thanks, top."
    "All right." I left his office. As I walked through the orderly room, he called after me. "Good luck, son," he said.

(Published by The Inditer, http://www.inditer.com )
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                                                        Dust Off

    Night concealed the metallic sky and the emerald of the growing rice. Only the heat remained from the day, and the humidity that rotted and rusted all that did not move. From a tower over Binh Dinh Bridge, the lights of Saigon traced the northern horizon. To the south, over the Delta, a perforated line of orange connected an invisible gun ship with the ground.
    The darkness had settled some time before the harumph, harumph of walking mortar shells drove us below the tower's walls. The sound of firing machine guns and small arms erupted in the dark. Yellow tracers ricocheted into the air.
    The enemy attacked the perimeter a few score yards from the two lane bridge over the brown Saigon River. Parachute flares lit up the ground as they floated down and enabled us to pinpoint the enemy's location. We radioed the information to the Rangers who advised the Vietnamese unit guarding the bridge. Amid the firing, shouting, explosions and cursing, the troops broke and ran. The Rangers held the perimeter while officers forced the fugitives back to the chaos, some at gunpoint. 
    From the direction of Saigon, two gun ships appeared and fired their round, multi-barreled mini-guns on the enemy who retreated, leaving their dead behind. "We need a dustoff," the radio barked. "Roger that," was the response. "Dustoff en route; Echo Tango Alpha four minutes."
    Moments later, the gun ships were gone and a Medevac dropped from the darkness, exactly at its estimated time of arrival. Four wounded were put aboard and it was gone, as quickly as that. We then returned to the silent heat.

Published in Fictive Magazine, Spring, 2002

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                                        Shakespeare in the Morning

    The heat rose as the Eastern sun burnt off the night mist and morning fog while we waited by the river's run and listened to the barking dogs. When the truck arrived, a man jumped out and climbed the ladder on the tower that stood sentinel next to the Binh Dinh Bridge. During the day but a single guard was needed.
    We six climbed aboard the truck, weary, sweaty, dirty from the night, the heat, the fear. It took thirty minutes to reach Phu Lam, time enough for the tension to clear.
Phu Lam was a communications base some miles from Saigon. As the sun rose, its reflection on the pale structures inside the fence hurt our eyes. The enlisted mens club there showed a movie each morning at eight. By the time we got there, the club was filled with those who worked and fought and now sought a moment's respite from the war that was always there, always everywhere.
    The men were loud and coarse, some profane. Gentlemen and scholars were granted deferments. When the lights went off and we saw the name, a groan arose at the famous words. "Romeo & Juliet" was at Phu Lam
    The troops did not approve, a western would have been more welcome. Yet, once the filmed story began, all were deeply moved. Even the roughest, even the toughest, knows of love, a soldier not least. Indeed, he perhaps knows best how strife doth spoil love's feast.
    While the movie played, the silence was deep. Cheeks were wet, with perspiration most claimed, and not a single trooper fell asleep.
    When the lovers perished, we returned to the war.

(Published by National Review Online (Weekend Edition) as a poem, http://www.nationalreview.com)

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                                        RETURNING SOLDIER

    The calendar had left the nineteen sixties just over a month before Jaimeson stepped from the bus into the drizzly Oakland night and stood before a large building. Lights shone from two windows high above him and from the double doorway some two hundred feet across the blacktop. These were the only openings in the otherwise blank buff colored wall. His attention was drawn to the doorway. Through it he would return to the world.
    An inexpressible weariness had overtaken him while on the bus, driving all thoughts from his mind. The elation felt when the aircraft lifted off the runway at Bien Hoa and began its steep ascent to avoid hostile fire had long since passed. Like the bombs, the bullets, mines and helicopters that he left behind, the leaving itself was now a memory. A voice in the darkness called out instructions that he followed without thought.
    Inside the doorway was a long corridor between hospital green walls decorated with unit insignia and lighted by equidistant hanging lights high above the floor. At the end was a twelve foot cutout of a soldier with right arm raised in greeting beneath the words, "Welcome Home, Soldier. Your Country Is Proud of You". A live soldier stood before him directing the arrivals; those going on leave to the right, those being separated to the left.
    He went to the left where a short corridor opened on a gymnasium like room. Just inside the entrance, a sergeant stood atop a small platform. "As you can see," he said, "there are numbers on the floor. Drop your gear on one of those numbers and don't forget which one it is; write it down if you have to. Then go through that doorway on the other side to the mess hall where there's a steak dinner waiting for each of you." He dropped his duffel bag and suitcase on number fifty-eight and followed the others to chow.
    After dinner and a cigarette, he was directed to another doorway and down yet another corridor to a room where he was given a medical examination and blood was taken from his arm. Then he followed the others to a supply area where he was fitted with a new winter dress uniform after which he showered, shaved and dressed. He then waited impatiently for the results of the blood test. Hours passed as he paced and smoked and napped. Finally they came for him and about forty others. They were negative. After receiving the results, he was directed to a room where a WAC told him and the others how to print their names on a form and where to sign it. That done, he was now a civilian again for the first time in two years. He found two other former GIs who were going to the San Francisco airport and split a cab with them.
    There were twenty minutes before his flight, just enough to buy a ticket, check his bags and board the plane. He located his seat on the aisle next to a woman about his own age. She was reading and did not look at him when he sat down. He unbuttoned his jacket while watching her out of the corner of his eye. She wore a denim skirt and work shirt and sat with her bare legs crossed. Long, straight brown hair flowed from a part in the center of her head over her shoulders and right arm and hand where her head rested. He could not see the color of her eyes but her profile showed a weak chin and an overbite.
    He laid his head back and closed his eyes. The excitement of coming home, the trans Pacific flight, the long hours in Oakland had exhausted him. Though he rarely slept on airplanes--he'd only slept two or three hours of the nineteen to Oakland--he hoped to sleep through the cross country flight to New York. Indeed, he was hardly in his seat when he began to doze. He was on the verge of sleep when the woman next to him brought him back by saying, "Excuse me!".
    He opened his eyes. "Me?" he asked.
    "Are you in the right seat?"
    "I think so, but let me check." He got up and fumbled in his jacket for the ticket. Before he sat down again, she rang for the stewardess. "This is the right seat," he said, but she ignored him while looking for the attendant.
    "Stewardess," she called.
    A flight attendant came down the aisle. She was about twenty-five with short blonde hair and quite pretty though years of smiling had formed parentheses at the corners of her mouth. "May I help you?" she drawled.
    "Could I move to another seat?" the woman asked.
    The smile left the attendant's face. She looked at him and frowned. He returned the look and shrugged. "I'm sorry but we're full," she said to the woman. She looked at him again then back to the woman. "Is anything wrong?" she asked.
    "No," the woman replied. "Everything's fine. Thank you."
    "Are you sure?"
    "Yes, I'm sure. Thank you." The attendant looked at him again, then returned to whatever she was doing when called. He sat down again.
    The woman shifted in the narrow seat as though trying to get closer to the window and returned to her book. He closed his eyes again. He slept fitfully, never sure for how long if at all. The attendant woke him for dinner after which he dozed again. His next memory was of the stewardess asking if he would like a drink. He declined and dozed  again.         Turbulence woke him, or he thought he was awake. He turned his head to see if it was dark outside the cabin window. He thought that he remembered the woman next to him asking for a vodka and orange juice. He must have remembered correctly because a plastic glass of orange liquid was on the tray before her.
    The plane shook again causing the cup to move on the tray toward the woman. It moved again as he watched while she read her book. He thought that he should say something, to warn her before it fell into her lap. The drink moved again. He wanted to tell her but couldn't. His lips would not move, his throat would not make a sound. The cup moved to the edge of the tray. He tried to rouse himself. He wanted to warn her. He tried to raise his head, to shake off the drowsiness. The drink tipped into her lap. "Shit!" she said. He fell back to sleep.
    The attendant woke him to fasten his seat belt and bring the back of his seat forward for the approach to New York. He did as instructed. He then rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked past the woman next to him through the window at the lights of the city stretching to the horizon and beyond, their glow reflecting on the night sky. They vanished as the plane banked over Jamaica Bay and positioned itself to land.
    When they had taxied to a stop, the woman in the seat next to him threw off her seat belt and stepped brusquely past him into the aisle. She raised herself onto her toes to pull down a long coat from the rack. She draped the coat over her shoulders and held it closed over the stain from the drink. Then she was gone.
    He unlatched his seat belt and waited for most of the passengers to disembark. It had been more than a year since he was home, a few minutes more to savor the moment would not matter. He stretched, rose, buttoned his uniform jacket, placed his cap on his head and followed the others through the portable tunnel connecting the plane to the terminal.
    The terminal was crowded with men, women and children standing, sitting and moving in every direction. He followed the signs to the baggage area where a conveyor belt dumped the bags onto a revolving drum around which the recently disembarked passengers gathered. He lit a cigarette and waited for his suitcase and duffel bag to drop onto the drum. When they fell, he crushed the cigarette under foot, grabbed the bags and entered the main terminal area.
    There were lines at all of the ticket counters and most of the plastic chairs were occupied. A young woman in tie dyed jeans and shirt turned her attention from a coin operated television to glare at him. He looked away. A young man with shoulder length brown hair called out to him, "How many you kill, man?" He ignored the question. A balding, middle aged man, wearing a grey suit, stepped in front of him. "Aren't you ashamed?" he asked through clenched teeth.
    "Anything wrong?" a uniformed police officer asked. 
    "Birds of a feather," the balding man said. He then turned on his heel and walked away.
    "No, nothing," he replied to the police officer. Then, after a moment, he asked, "Could you tell me where the men's room is?"
    "Sure, soldier. Go past that counter there with the long line in front of it and turn left. You can't miss it."
    "Thanks."
    He struggled into one of the stalls with his bags and closed the door. He then laid the suitcase flat on the bowl and opened it. After removing his civilian clothes, he opened the duffel bag and transferred a few items including his shaving gear and medals and citations to the suitcase. He removed his uniform and dressed in civilian clothes, jeans, sport shirt, loafers. He put his field jacket on and stuffed the uniform into the duffel bag. Leaving the duffel behind, he took the suitcase and left the stall. Re-entering the terminal, he crossed unnoticed to the exit and went out into the New York winter.

(Published by The Inditer, http://www.inditer.com )

                 Now, Again

Now, again, the klaxon calls us to duty.
Now, again, the danger threatens.
Now, again, enemies seek to end our ways.
Now, again, foes mock and demand forgiveness of mortal wrong.
Now, again, we take up arms while noting that 
from history naught is learned, except that it is always so.

                        The End

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                                                           ROMANCE

                                                               Melody

                                        I turned the radio on this morning
                                        and heard the tune, our tune.
                                        The melody brought me back
                                        to that time we played it over and over.
                                        Two bodies, two souls,
                                        together, alone,
                                        the melody forming a sound track
                                        to our love.

                                        Where did it go?
                                        Like the song it faded to its end,
                                        but, unlike the song,
                                        it cannot be played again.

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                                                The Soldier

    The funeral director closed the door softly, leaving the balding, slightly stooped man behind. The children and grandchildren waited outside so that he could have a last few minutes alone with her. She lay there as though resting, as if she might rise at any moment. Her white hair was coiffed, her cheeks rouged, her eyelids colored. However, he saw her as she was when first they met decades before, chestnut haired, blue eyed, petite, slim. He loved her instantly, though she did not return his affection. Even in all the years since, even after the wedding, the children, the decades of companionship, she loved the soldier.
    As recently as a few months earlier, she called the soldier's name in her sleep. He made no mention of it; he'd heard it many times before. He knew that the soldier was her true love even though he was in his grave since she was a teenager. No one else knew, so far as he was aware, though whether she told their daughters he could not say. Women shared things with their daughters and mothers that men neither knew nor understood. However, if she had shared, the daughters never indicated it.
    It was an unspoken agreement between them. She would be his wife, his companion, his childrens' mother, but he would never be able to replace the soldier in her affections. He accepted the terms because he did not wish to live without her. 
    She kept her part of the deal. She was a good wife and mother. And he kept his, except for one time when he drank too much. "Just because I was not a soldier doesn't mean that I'm not a man," he blurted out to her. "I would have gone but they wouldn't take me," he said. 
    "You're a good man," she responded quietly. 
    He never drank again after that night.
    It was a happy life that she'd given him, he thought.  He took his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and wiped his cheek. He then went to the door, opened it and bid the family enter.

(Published by Prose Ax Magazine, Spring, 2002, http://www.proseax.com )

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                                                        RENNA
    
    I was walking on Kings Highway this afternoon when I saw a young woman who reminded me of Renna. She had the same straight posture and wavy auburn hair, though she was taller than Renna and her eyes were hazel rather than brown. Also missing was Renna's straight nose and dimpled chin. Nevertheless, the resemblance was sufficient to remind me of her as she was in the early months of 1970. I'm afraid that it was also sufficient to cause me to stare which caused the girl to respond with a look of apparent disapproval. Renna would have done the same.
    I returned from the war a few weeks before I was introduced to her by Manny Misano who was a friend of mine and classmate of hers. I was invited to spend a weekend at Hunter Mountain by Manny and other friends who had rented a house there for the ski season. Renna had her own car and, therefore, was chosen to drive. 
    Manny sat beside her in the front, I in the back for the three hour ride from Brooklyn. We were introduced by Manny, said hello and spoke no more during the trip. Indeed, except for my contributions to gas and tolls we took no further notice of each other until we arrived.
    At that point in time my readjustment to civilian life and peace was only begun. Indifference formed the largest part of my pose. Thus, I took little notice of anything or anybody. Therefore, Renna's initial indifference made little impression. It would be months before we discovered that we were in love.
    It was dark and bitter cold when we arrived at Hunter. Manny directed Renna over the dirt roads into the hills above the town where the house stood in a cul de sac surrounded by trees that were naked to the winter. An old fashioned wood building the house seemed a part of the landscape with its wrap around porch and gabled roof with white balcony connecting the two gables. Inside, it had enough bedrooms to double as a small hotel.         The kitchen was ancient but functional even to the stove that stood on legs. The living room was the jewel of the house with its high windows and fieldstone fireplace. Manny and I unloaded the car--I, being the larger of the two, carrying the heavier pieces--while Renna lit a fire with wood from the pile next to the fireplace. Within the hour we were lounging before the orange-gold flames with drinks (wine for Renna, beer for us) arguing the merits of going out opposed to remaining where we were. Renna and Manny wanted to go to a club in town but I was comfortable on the couch in the warmth of the fire and saw little reason to return to the frigid night air.
    After some minutes of argument, Renna got up from her chair. "You are a lazy, thick headed Irish bastard," she said to me--she was Jewish--and left the room.
    "If we don't like it we can come back," Manny said to me.
    Renna returned wearing her jacket and scarf. "I'm going," she announced. We merely looked at her standing in the middle of the room, ear muffs and woolen mittens in her hands. "Come on!" she whined. When we failed to respond, she sat down again with her jacket on and her face pinched with suffering.
    Manny got up from the easy chair across from me. "Do you want another beer?" he asked.
    "Not if we're going out," I replied. Renna screamed a non-English word and left the house, slamming the door after her.
    I saw little of her the rest of the weekend. Indeed, except for one dance and passing in the hall after waking Saturday, I didn't see her at all. When I got up Sunday afternoon, she had left for home.
    The next time we met was about a month later on Kings Highway. We were walking toward each other when I saw her. I knew that she had seen me from the way her eyes moved from side to side and up and down as we approached each other. I saved her any embarrassment by greeting her with a smile and a wave.
    "How are you?" she asked when we were close enough.
    "Fine. How are you doing?" I responded.
    "Good. Did you enjoy the weekend at Hunter?"
    "Very much. And you?"
    "It was fun. Are you doing your weekend shopping?" she asked.
    "Sort of."
    "Me too, sort of. I'm shopping for a dress. A friend is getting married."
    It occurred to me that I had now seen her twice, both times in jeans and blue quilted ski jacket. She seemed to wear them like a uniform, varied only by the shirt or sweater that she added to them. I tried to visualize her in a dress but could not. I did not realize that while this was going through my mind I was looking at her without speaking, as though dumbstruck she said later, until she spoke again.
    "Is it so shocking that I should be shopping for a dress? I have been known to wear them."
    "I'm sorry! No! Of course not. I never thought any such thing. You just reminded me of something," I lied.
    "I prefer jeans but I doubt that my friend would approve. It's a pain in the ass though; I hate shopping," she lied, as I was later to learn.
    "I was just going to the pizza place for a slice. Why don't you join me and rest your feet?"
    She looked at me, her brows coming together as though she did not understand. Then she smiled and said, "All right".
    My curiosity about how she would look in a dress grew throughout my time with her.         Before parting I asked where the wedding was to be so that I might see her. She invited me to be her escort. I accepted.
    When I called for her she answered the door herself and stepped out closing it behind her. I took no notice though because this time I was indeed dumbstruck.
    "Not bad, eh?" was her response to my surprise.
    "Lovely," I said. The dress, a suit actually, was red with a skirt ending above her knees (which topped shapely legs), white blouse, red shoes and gold pin on the jacket lapel. Lipstick, a touch of rouge and eye liner made her hardly recognizable as the woman with whom I had argued before the fire at Hunter Mountain. "You look beautiful," I stammered.
    "Thank you," she replied. "Are we going to the wedding or are we going to stand here?"
    "Of course not," I said. "I mean..."
    "Let's go," she laughed.
    As I turned toward the street I thought that I saw a curtain on the ground floor move, but I am not sure even now.
    We saw much of each other the next few months. We went to dinner together, movies, plays, art exhibits and baseball games. We made love and, often, just talked as lovers do.  Then it was over, just as suddenly as that.
    I called to remind her that we had a dinner date and ask what time to expect her--she always came to my place rather than have me call for her. Renna answered the phone as she always did. Before I could mention our dinner date she sobbed. When I asked what was wrong, she replied, "I can't go tonight. I can't see you at all anymore."
    I did not know what to say. We had exchanged assurances of love only the night before.
    "Did you hear me?" she asked with trembling voice when I did not respond.
    "Yes, I heard you but I don't understand."
    "It's over," she sobbed again. "That's all. Goodbye." She was gone. The line was dead. Then there was a dial tone. All the time the receiver remained at my ear.
    I went to her home and rang the bell but, though the lights were on, there was no answer. I knocked, no response. I called, silence.
    I slept little that night. Next day, I wrote a long, heart felt letter filled with love and remorse for whatever I had done. She never responded. The next weeks were filled with pain and anger and confusion. It eventually passed though.
    Months later I saw her picture in the brides section of the Sunday newspaper. She looked directly at the camera without smiling while the man in the picture smiled broadly. He was a dentist from Larchmont. Renna was described as a research assistant for a religious periodical. The wedding had already taken place earlier in the week.
    When next I heard of Renna, she was dead. The car carrying her and her husband and eight year old child skidded on an ice patch on the New York State Thruway. All three were killed. I learned about the accident from Manny in a matter of fact tone when I chanced to meet him in Manhattan one spring evening. We went for a drink during which we talked of old times and old friends we rarely saw. "Remember Renna?" he asked.             "Remember when she called you a thick headed Irish bastard?" he smiled. He then became serious while relating the details of her death after which he moved on to other acquaintances and anecdotes. That was about four years ago; I haven't seen him since.
I think of her less often as the years pass, though a popular song of the time or some other reminder nudge my memory and recall her for a moment, like the woman I saw today. When I do think of her, I wonder what might have been.

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                                                        Phone Call

"Hello, Peg?...."
"This is Artie. How are you?..."
"Good, good...."
"Listen, the reason I called was to ask if ya wanted me ta bring some Chinese when I come over..."
"No! Not a Chinaman, some chow mein and egg rolls and stuff..."
"You don't hafta have anything. I'll bring some beer too..."
"And vodka too...."
"Ya did? What did she say?..."
"I don't agree with that..."
"I know she's a doctor and I ain't, but she just looks at some chart or something and believes what it says. It's true that 235 is a bit big but ya gotta remember, Peg, you're a big boned woman...."
"That's right...."
"And one hell of a woman too...."
"Listen, will your mother be there when I come over?..."
"I like her all right. It's just that she's always talkin about how good lookin Pierce Brosnan is an all whenever I talk to her. I know I ain't no Pierce Brosnan but she don't have to keep remindin me. Besides, he ain't even American..."
"Of course I know she's just kiddin me...."
"All right..."
"Ya know, I'll bring some spare ribs too...."
"I know ya like them...."
"Ya can start your diet after I leave...."
"I love you too...."
"Here's lookin at you, kid...."
"Yeah, Bogey in Casablanca....."
"And you're my Ingrid Bergman..."
"I'll see ya Sadday night...."
"So long, babe."

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                                                The Meeting

    I knew her immediately, though it was more than thirty years. She married while I was away at the war and, though I received a Christmas card each year until recently, I'd not seen her since. Now she was walking toward me across the intersection. That she might not remember occurred to me for a moment but vanished when she smiled.
    There was no mistaking her. Crows feet now bracketed her brown eyes, her jaw line was not so tight as when last we met, her hair was dusted with grey. But it was she, and, as so many years before, when my hair was full and my own jaw line tight, I felt awkward in her gaze.
    "How are you?" she asked.
    "Fine," I replied. "You look very good," I added.
    She smiled more broadly. "You're still the charmer that you always were."
    I felt myself blush. "Only for you," I said. She laughed. It helped me relax. "What brings you back to the old neighborhood?"
    "I've come to see my daughter who's married and lives nearby. You're still here," she said.
    "Yes. Do you come here often?'
    "No, not enough I'm embarrassed to say. Not much has changed."
    "Not much," I replied. "How's Jack?" I asked.
    "I don't know. We've not been together for some years. He's remarried and lives in Florida. At least that's where he was when I last heard from him."
    "I'm sorry," I said.
    When we were teenagers, I loved her. However, she loved Jack who was my friend, so I said nothing. They married and moved away while I was in the Army.
    "Will you be here long?"
    "No. I'm leaving as soon as I go to the post office to mail some things. They've moved it."
    "Years ago," I said. "I'll show you where it is."
    "All right."
    The post office was only a block away. However, in the few minutes that it took to go that short distance, my life changed forever. Whether it was her laughter at something I said or a comment or just her presence beside me, I don't know, but I found that I was still in love with her. She left after completing her business at the post office. But she returned three days later and remains with me still.

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AllWoman:

I'm leaving for hell just as soon as I answer my email. 

Yeats

                                                  MISCELLANEOUS THINGS


                                                               Seeking Joan Blondell

                                                 Everywoman in bangles and hoop earrings,
                                                with great blue eyes neath golden hair.

                                                In a world of depression,
                                                of menacing uncertainty,
                                                she could be relied upon
                                                for a clever word, a friendly jest,
                                                a stream of wise patter to resist despair.

                                                Rarely in the lead,
                                                like so much of humanity.

                                                Yet, she brought to others 
                                                that which no politician could,
                                                a moment's pleasure
                                                at a time when hope and joy
                                                were banished from the earth.

                                                Joan, where have you gone? 
                                                We may have need of you again.

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                                                         MAC: A Memoir

    Mac and I had known each other since we were fourteen. In the ensuing thirty-three years, he had changed little either in appearance or personality. He was still short, husky, slightly rotund though the hair was grey rather than red and the beard he grew after returning from Vietnam was also grey. He had the usual smile lines and crows feet of a middle aged man made deeper by the amount of time he spent outdoors, but one who saw him after an absence of however so long would recognize him instantly. Were the same person to hear him speak, recognition would come more quickly still whether he was seen or merely heard; the rough voice and habitual profanity were like trademarks to him.
    The time we spent together was an experience that will remain with me forever. The laughter, the stories, the enjoyment of his company and pride in his friendship sustain me still.
    We lost Mac on Sunday, May 21, 1995. I say "we" because though I flatter myself that I was especially close to him, countless others considered him one of their best friends. He was that kind of man.
    He had his faults, of course. For instance, I've no doubt that he's this minute complaining in Paradise. "Do those fucking birds have to sing all God damned day and night?....Doesn't it ever rain in this fucking place?....Between the smells and the colors, those God damned flowers are going to make me blind or sick."
    Mac liked to complain. He also liked to help people. I can think of no single time that he was asked for a favor that he did not complain about it and then do it. Nor can I think of a time when he asked repayment.
    He would stop and talk to a person that he didn't know, he would give a dollar to a person who had none. He would be proud of the smallest accomplishment, such as finding a free toilet on the Thruway when pay toilets were legal, and persevere against the most difficult of obstacles. He would drive six hours to help a friend move his home and his humor would make effortless the most arduous task.
    When we were young, we liked to hang out in a playground on Flatlands Avenue after school. We played stickball and fell in love with the neighborhood girls, held bicycle races and talked the way we were not allowed to talk at home. Being a part of the "Baby Boom" generation, there were many of us all the same age. Day after day we crowded into that little playground regardless of the weather or the season.
    Mac was not much for stickball but he did manage his share of girlfriends, usually loudmouth, foul language types such as himself. Being loud and outgoing, he, and his girlfriend whoever she might be, often were the subject of comment. Doubtless, many of us envied his noisy, unconcerned style, though few of us envied him those girlfriends, or if we did we didn't admit it.
    While the others mostly remained in the playground, Mac and I went to work after school. He became the stock boy for a five and ten cent store near Avenue P; I for a similar store just one block away near Kings Highway. He spied on the store in which I worked for his employer, checking the prices of specific items in the windows. I did not do that for my employer, somebody else did it instead. We often met between school and work to have a soda or malt at the candy store on the corner of Flatlands Avenue where we would share the twenty minutes or so and wolf down whatever we managed to buy for lunch, usually something sweet enough to make a dentist's heart sing.
    When we reached the venerable age of eighteen, the legal drinking age at the time, he and I entered the bar across the street from the playground together, sat down and had our first drinks with each other. They were the first of many over the next twenty-five years. However, the war came first.
    Upon graduation from high school, Mac joined the Navy. I went to work with the postal service and waited to be drafted. A few months later, I was. We were in Vietnam at the same time, though he had arrived a few months before me and left a few months before I did. We wrote to each other while there, though we never managed to meet. He was stationed at Da Nang which was about fifty miles north of where I was in the I Corps area around Saigon. Most of my letters contained complaints that I couldn't read his writing. He made no attempt to improve it. When I mentioned those letters to him, he shrugged and replied, "I ain't no fucking scholar, and obviously you ain't either." I have always suspected that he couldn't read the damned things either. Unfortunately, the letters have been lost.
    He was one of the first people I met when I returned to the neighborhood from the war. We met at a bar on Flatbush Avenue that had replaced the playground as a hangout as people reached the legal age and went into the service and then returned.
    We learned that while we were away, many of the women that we knew, and a few of the men who ducked military service, had discovered Hunter Mountain, a ski resort about one hundred miles north of New York City. Few had yet discovered it at that time, 1970. We visited the house that our friends had rented for the season and partied the weekend away. On the way home we agreed that this was for us.
    The following summer, we joined a group that rented a house at Hunter. By then Mac was a letter carrier; he had accepted the job to have a salary until he could find something more to his liking. However, he took to the postal service immediately. He worked outside and could stop and talk to those he met while delivering the mail. It was ideal for him. He was still a letter carrier when he died. Meanwhile, I had taken the first of many jobs that I would have after the Army; by the time autumn came, I would be in my second. Those first years home were like that for me. 
    The house that we rented at Hunter that year, the first of four, was an "A-frame" on the mountain behind the village. We shared the place with about ten friends while three other groups of friends rented houses elsewhere in the area. We felt like young lords in our house, though our antics did not receive universal approbation. Among the renters were an older sister of a friend and her girlfriend. They were a few years older than the rest of us and disapproved of our seeming lack of gravitas. They complained about wishing to bring friends home for a drink before the fireplace but fearing that they would be required to climb over drunken bodies and be embarrassed by weed crazed lunatics. We sympathized, though not very much.
    The brother suggested that we limit the number coming up each weekend and notify the others of our coming so that they could decide whether to make the three hour trip. Mac and I listened to the complaints and the suggestions and went to a bar. We determined that those who like to make such decisions should be given an opportunity to do so. While we were gone a set of rules was drawn up and placed atop the fireplace. We never did know what those rules were, though we were scolded by the brother for not calling before coming up. "Fuck that," was Mac's response. Neither the sister nor her friend, nor the brother for that matter, rented with us in subsequent years.
    It was on the road to Hunter that my favorite Mac story took place. While driving north one afternoon, Mac required the use of a mens room. We pulled off the Thruway at a rest stop and went into what in those days was a Hot Shoppe in which for an exorbitant price one could purchase the most tasteless food in Christendom. We went into the mens room which was quite large with many stalls. However, the stalls required coins placed in the meters on their doors in order to use them; this was before a sitting governor had the same problem and outlawed the damned things. Neither he nor I had the proper combination of coins, so he went in search of an open door while I made use of a urinal. While I was doing so, Mac called to me. I turned my head to see him standing with his arm stretched out holding the door of a stall open and smiling broadly. I was about to congratulate him on the success of his quest when a little boy of seven or eight years ran under his arm into the stall and slammed the door. A cartoonist might record Mac's response as "#*%&#@*%". In fact it was closer to "Did you see that little fuck! Come out of there you little bastard, you son of a bitch!" while banging on the door with his fist. I was laughing so that I almost had an accident. 
    There were many such incidents through the years that passed with bewildering swiftness. We went to a Star Trek convention where he had to get an autograph from Nichol Nicholls, we went to two Vietnam veterans parades where we preferred to observe rather than march, we drove to New Hope, Pennsylvania to drink Rolling Rock beer before it was sold in New York. 
    One day I awoke and decided that life was not working out quite right; I had gone through a series of jobs and was then a bartender. Waking in the afternoon often with a hangover was getting old. I enrolled in college on the G.I. Bill. Mac tried college too, but it wasn't for him. He was the more serious student in high school; I preferred the park. Our positions reversed in college. I took it seriously while he spent some time there but was never really comfortable, though like everywhere else he made scores of friends. We remained close during my time in college. However, when I graduated I decided to go to law school out of town. While I was away, he got married to a woman he'd been dating for some years.
    I attended the wedding during which the limousine failed to appear at the church requiring Mac and his bride to walk to his home, some distance away, in tuxedo and gown and climb into his car, a jeep like vehicle of uncertain parentage. "Can you believe a kid asked us why we're dressed this way; he must think its fucking Halloween! When I get my hands on that God damned driver I'll rip out his fucking windpipe." A much chagrined driver did eventually appear and explained that he had been in an accident. Mac gave him a tip.
    When I returned after graduation, he was about to become a father and had taken a second job as a weekend bartender.
    I often visited him late at night for a drink or two and a few laughs. When he'd finished his tour, we'd go elsewhere for a nightcap. Then he would go home before he'd had more than the law allowed. Though he lived but a few blocks from the saloon, he invariably drove home, explaining that it was too late to walk. Security was something of a concern to him. When he bought his house, he had a steel reinforced door installed and put three locks on it. We lived in a relatively safe and quiet neighborhood, so such measures were the object of a deal of comment. However, those comments invariably drew a profane response including narratives of hair raising crimes that occurred within blocks of Fort Mac, though the reported atrocities were neither confirmed nor heard about again.
    On the night that his baby was due, his wife called and asked if I would come over and stay with him. Though she was close, she had made an appointment to play cards and had determined to keep it despite his protests. Mac and I spent the evening watching war movies and talking and smoking and drinking. When the bride returned, the groom was sprawled on the living room floor, a half finished Scotch bottle on the coffee table above his head.
    "I see he was concerned about me," she said.
    "He was indeed," I replied. "He was so worn out with worry that he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer."
    "You are full of shit," she said. "He's drunk."
    "That too," I replied. "But only because he needed a diversion from his concern for your welfare."
    "And the baby?" she said.
    "That too," I replied. "Now that you have returned, I think I'd best be going." I rose to leave.
    "Not yet," she said and thrust a round pocket watch into my hand. "I'm having pains and want you to time them."
    "My pleasure," I replied.
    However, the lateness of the hour and my own weariness made the watch difficult to read. Her response was to smile and say, "A God damned law school graduate and you can't even read a fucking watch!" I timed the pains until she fell asleep. Then I left quietly. Their son was born six hours later.
    When next I saw Mac, I congratulated him on his first born to which he responded, "You left the front fucking door unlocked, you asshole." 
    I saw less of Mac as my law practice began to take up my time and his family took his. The bar that we frequented went out of business so we had no place to meet. The telephone conversations became infrequent and then ended.
    Shortly before his death, I had a dispute with a mutual friend. I had tried to help him by bringing him and his wife together with a client in a business venture. The client came to dislike the friend and his wife and eventually refused to deal with them. I told them that her feelings were so strong that I had to advise her to drop the project. Apparently, the story got around that I had done something wrong and the friend was injured by it.
    Mac took the side of the friend and his wife without ever asking for my side of the controversy. Indeed, when Mac first became ill, about a year before his death, I called and offered what help I could to his wife. I am told that she cursed me. Nevertheless, I was disappointed but not angered. The friend and his wife often visited Mac and his family which I did not. His wife was fond of them. And like most working class people, Mac was suspicious of lawyers, even lawyers that he knew well. Besides, I couldn't be angry with him.
    I remember thinking that I had to call him because I hadn't spoken to him in so long; indeed, I had written as much on the Christmas card I sent him and his family. Then, I got a call from his sister-in-law telling me that he was dead. I'm still saddened by it. 
    Of course, I am not the first to lose a good friend before his time; we lost a number of friends in the war. Yet, he was special. When I went to the church and lit a candle for him, I sat back and thought about the man. In the silence of that hallowed place, I remembered him as he was all the years that I had known him. I remembered the days at the five and dimes, the nights at Hunter, the evenings over beers and the chores that I had helped him perform. I remembered him so well that I had to leave. I could no longer control the laughter that the memories aroused, and people were staring. He would have liked that.
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                                        City Voices, City Noises

    The snow fell upon the city with a silence that belied the violence of its descent and the rapidity with which it metamorphosed the artifact of metropolis. It described the architectural details of uptown's brownstone homes, decorated the skeletal trees in the parks, clung to the glass and alloy office towers, concealed the sandy beaches and vanished into the restless waters of the great harbor. It took up residence upon the generations sleeping in the ancient churchyard and upon the very apex of the sentinel belltower, making white the darkness as it waited patiently for morning to make gold with its fiery touch before it vanished beneath the awakened throng. 
                                                            *
    The light changing from red to green was like the release of pent up pressure that spilled over as a cacophony of auto horns. The high pitched "Beep" of small, foreign cars, the clear "Annnh" of domestic vehicles and the ear splitting blast of a diesel's air horn informed all that the time for movement had arrived. 
                                                            *
    The stage lights dimmed slowly, covering the silence with darkness. For a long moment it was as though the theater was abandoned until a sudden explosion of applause crashed over the stage. 
                                                            *
    "Next stop is Kings Highway," said the voice coming from the overhead speaker. "This is a Q Express to Brighton Beach. Kings Highway next stop where you can change for the D local to Coney Island." 
                                                            *
    "Just tell us in your own words," the tall grey haired man with the red face said. 
The young woman to whom he spoke looked about the bare room, its cinder block walls colored institutional green, its furniture a stained and grafitti scarred table and three chairs including the one on which she sat. The others in the room were silent: the grey haired man, the dark skinned woman with straightened hair not much older than herself, the younger man with brown hair and mustache standing close to the woman. She wondered whether they were lovers, if they would leave here for some dark room where they would share a drink and then have sex. Her mind's eye conjured a picture of the two lying naked, his pale skin contrasting with her brown coloring. 
    "Whenever you're ready," the grey haired man said. Though his voice was soft, it startled her, drew her glance to his pale blue eyes. She folded her hands on the table above the carved initials "H.G." and shrugged. 
    "I owed him money. Fifteen dollars. He lent it to me one night. It was about midnight. I rang his bell and told him that I had a cab waiting and that my father wasn't home. He gave me the fifteen dollars. I told him that I'd pay him back next day. I never did though. 
"After that I avoided him. When I saw him coming I'd go the other way. If he was on the block I'd go in my back door so he wouldn't see me. I dreaded meeting him and being asked for the money. I could've paid it back but something always seemed to come up; you know, a show or a party or my friends would be going to the movies or something. 
"It got so bad that I couldn't stand it anymore. Last Tuesday I waited for him. At the alley that leads to the lane behind the houses, I waited for him to come home from work. When I saw him pass, I ran out and stuck the knife between his shoulders. He went right down, just like that. Didn't yell or anything. I took it out and stuck him again. The I ran away leaving the knife in him. He never saw me." 
    "Is there anything else?" the grey haired man asked. 
    "No," she said. "Just that he shouldn't have lent me the money." 
                                                            *
    "Are you saying you don't want the bread now, lady? You asked for half a large rye with seeds; I sliced a large rye. Now you want something else. What do you want, lady? Do you want the half a large rye or a half a medium rye? Tell me, lady. What do you want? I got other customers waiting. You should take what you asked for. You didn't ask for medium, you asked large. I sliced large. I heard you say large. You never said medium. Tell me what you want. I got customers." 
                                                            *
    "Two police officers arrived just in time to resuscitate a ten year old Bronx girl who had stopped breathing," the news reader said. "Sabrina Loaka had no pulse or heartbeat when the two officers arrived at her apartment in response to a 911 call. The condition was apparently caused by an asthma attack." 
                                                            *
    "Reefer, ludes? Buy some smoke, man?" 
                                                            *
    "I've lived more than one hundred years. Teddy Roosevelt was in the White House when I was born. I can't tell you why I've been around so long. Haven't really been any better or worse than most. I guess the Lord must've decided that He liked having me around for one reason or another. I'm just thankful that He gave me a good life to spend all the time on. I only wish he hadn't taken Mary from me twenty years ago. I still miss the sound of her voice." 
                                                               *
    He covered his ears against the clatter and roar as the southbound D Train burst out of the tunnel into the station at Thirty-Fourth Street. It stopped at the platform with a rush from its air brakes. He moved aside to let passengers off; then he stepped into the car. An elderly woman slipped around him to get to a vacant seat facing the aisle. Though seats were available, he stood in the aisle holding onto the bar that rose from the back-to-back seats that are perpendicular to the window. The door slid closed with a cushioned thud, the air brakes exhaled and the train moved out of the station while picking up speed, the sound of its movement muffled by the enclosing car. Seeing little of interest, he opened the paperback book he carried and read. 
                                                            *
    "Code Red 421! Code Red 421!" a high pitched feminine voice said from the speaker. The fourth floor corridor echoed with the slapping of shod feet and mumbling voices of doctors and nurses converging on Room 421. 
                                                               *
    The lobby of the museum echoed with the sound of voices. Young voices, old voices, male and female bounced from the terrazo floor to the marble walls to the vaulted ceiling high above. Languages from every inhabited continent moved through the great hall, around the pillars, up the staircase to the galleries. 
                                                            *
    The tires protested to the unmoved asphalt with a screech that brought attention from all who could hear it. The shoppers, the loafers, the transients, the residents all turned toward the intersection to see the car leap across then skid almost to a stop to avoid another vehicle. It then turned down the next street out of sight. Moments later the warbling scream of an ambulance siren crossed the intersection in the same direction. 
                                                            *
    The baby's thin, reedy wail drove away the nausea caused by the blood. His wife had ceased groaning and straining. She slept quietly while a nurse mopped perspiration from her brow. He smiled behind his surgical mask. A miracle had happened before his eyes, a miracle that was his daughter, a miracle that filled his eyes with humility and with joy. 
                                                            *
    The air stood breathlessly, its moisture forming haloes around the street lights. Its warmth brought perspiration to the surface for the slightest movement. It covered the city like a bell jar, muting all sound save the whirr of air conditioners. No voice had the strength to rise against it, only time moved through it, only Autumn could dispel it. 
                                                            *
    The man remembered the groans and the screams from so long ago and so far away. He fought against the rising sobs that threatened to break out of his chest as he stared at the spray painted red swastika on the yellow brick of the synagogue wall. 
                                                            *
    The notes of "Garry Owen" in brass bounced between the buildings that formed the canyon through which the marchers passed. 
Da, da da, da da, da da, 
da da da, da da, da da, da da, 
da da da da da da da da da, 
da da da da da da da da da. 
bounded so clearly up the sheer walls that those far above the street almost expected to see Errol Flynn pass by on a prancing charger, the long curls under his broad brimmed hat and the fringe of his buckskin jacket dancing in cadence with the bass drum. On the street, the brass band was followed by the thud of boots striking the pavement to the call of "Lep, raht, lep raht, hup, toop, threep, fo". 
                                                            *
    Summer's last heat wave hung on through late September defying the cool air that pressed against it from the north until the strength built of the inevitability of the season overwhelmed it. Even so it fought bravely, dying in an extravaganza of nature that shook the earth, scorched the heavens and bent the most sturdy trees many of which broke from the force and all of which lost most of their leaves. Rain fell in curtains decorated with crystals of hail that pinged against windows and cracked against the roads and sidewalks. 
The dark streets lit up once, twice, many times like the pulsing of a kinescope accompanied by a rolling bass orchestrated in the clouds. The large maple trees that lined the streets appeared and vanished with each flash while raising their craggy arms in frenzied supplication to the sky. 
                                                            *
The woman on the television screen hiccoughed from emotion while trying to collect herself before the microphones that surrounded her like so many prods. She then raised her head and responded to the question. "I don't understand how this could have happened," she said. "We have complained time and again that the corner needs a traffic light but were ignored. Now my daughter is dead. Maybe now they'll listen." 
                                                            *
"I really have to ask you something, Karen." 
"Do you have the tickets?" 
"Yes. Would you slow down for a minute?" 
"How about the directions?" 
"Right here. Listen..." 
"The cards? The gifts?" 
"Everything. Listen, I want..." 
"Good. We shouldn't have any problems then; we can just enjoy ourselves. We'd better hurry though. I don't want to be late." 
"Will you marry me?" 
"I've never liked...What!" 
"I'm asking you to marry me." 
"Are you serious?" 
"Quite." 
"If this is a joke it's not very funny." 
"No joke." 
"When did you decide this?" 
"About a month ago." 
"Why did you wait so long?" 
"What's the answer?" 
"You're not really serious." 
"I'm really serious." 
"I'd love to." 
"Really?" 
"Really." 
                                                            *
    The bare tree branches scratched at the stained glass windows in response to a brisk north wind that cleansed the midnight air to the clarity of freshly washed glass. Inside the church the worshipers were warmed by the glow of candlelight, the hissing radiators and the holiday season. The white haired priest stood at the open communion rail with his hands clasped before him and the candles' flames reflected in his gold vestments. 
    An almost imperceptible smile curled his thin pink lips when the organist played the first notes of "Silent Night". For more than fifty years, he had asked his Christmas Eve congregation to sing the carol at the end of midnight mass. For more than fifty years those congregations had done so just as they were doing now. He had listened placidly in war and peace, in Europe and Asia and even the Antarctic. Of course, he was taller then, straighter, more vigorous. And though he was aware that he would not hear it sung any more, he was content, even happy to hear the familiar words and melody. The memories they contained, the faces they recalled, the events they described brought a solitary tear as the final "sleep in heavenly peace" echoed through the church. 
                                                            *
    "Good morning, Eleanor. What can I get for you this morning?" 
    "Have you any bran muffins today?" 
    "Fresh baked, still warm I think." 
    "Then I'll have a bran muffin with my coffee, George." 
    "I'll be right back." 
    "Thank you." 
    The two smiled at each other and George turned away. As he walked toward the kitchen, Eleanor turned her attention to the avenue outside the window. For some years now, she came each morning and sat at the same table looking out the same window at the same street. In all those years, hardly a thing had changed. Oh, the hair that hung straight to her shoulders and formed bangs over her forehead was now like snow, but it was grey beneath the dye when she began her routine. The veins of her hands were prominent now, but that had begun before she ever came here. Now she would enjoy the bran muffin and wash it down with half the cup of coffee, the remainder of the coffee would be drunk with her first cigarette of the day, the first of five. 
    Then she would go home and do whatever chores were waiting. She would then have a salad for lunch. After lunch, she would shop at the local stores to replenish the larder and, perhaps, purchase something that simply caught her fancy. Returning home, she would turn on the television and watch her favorite serial dramas until dinner time. She would shower if necessary. She would change her clothes and return to the restaurant taking the same seat, if it was available. 
    Eleanor had tried church groups but she was uncomfortable. The people in them seemed so much older and they resented her cigarettes. Men were few at their functions and the women were often widowed or embittered by divorce. She tried to fit in by being pleasant and doing what work needed doing, but she could not. 
    She also tried the newspapers. She placed an ad. "Mature woman, white, Christian, seeks gentleman for friendship and companionship. Enjoys dancing, art and cooking." That was how she met Danny. The thought of him still made her smile. 
    He was tall and cultured with salt and pepper hair and the most beautiful hands. And he loved her; he'd told her so. 
    The police said that he was a thief. He'd never paid back the money she lent him, but he would have had the police not interfered. They wanted her to testify that he'd stolen from her. As if a loan is theft. It was monstrous. And it drove Danny away. The museums and galleries that she had loved for so long now merely reminded her of him. So she went to them no more. 
    Now she came here every morning and evening. She knew the staff and the other customers and was comfortable. Here no one objected to her few cigarettes. Here people called her by her name. Here she was known. 
    This had its cost, of course, but she was willing to pay it. She knew that the young college boys who worked as waiters talked about her. She knew what they said. But nothing is free in this world, particularly security. And Eleanor wanted security. Therefore, she paid the price gladly. 
    The boys snickered at times but they liked her; she knew that. And she liked them. Otherwise she would not take them to the ladies room after closing. They all wanted the same thing, but she didn't mind. She enjoyed it if truth be known. However, she did have rules. No boys younger than seventeen were permitted. And no louts. That she would not permit. Foul mouths, the physically dirty, thugs and bullies were forbidden. This led to some embarrassment once when a loutish boy called her foul names in a loud voice while customers were there. One of the other boys came to her defense and hit him though. There was never another incident. 
    If there was a regret it was at the way the girls treated her. They disliked her; she knew that. She understood it too. The boys probably wanted the girls to do what she did for them and they did not wish to do so; she'd known since her youth that boys are that way, they don't change. The girls treated her coldly, though they were never rude. She bought them little gifts and complimented them, but it did not change their attitude. She'd come to accept that it would remain so. 
    Doubtless, Alice would disagree as would her mother and her sister. Indeed, they might be scandalized. But Alice married young and had four children. Now she lives in California and has many grandchildren. Alice! She hadn't thought of Alice in years. The best of friends when children, Eleanor had been her Maid of Honor. Yet, they grew apart as friends do. Now, she did not even know her address, or even if she was still alive. 
"Isn't it strange how the closest friends of one's youth just fade from view and leave one's life altogether over time?" she thought. "Only family remain constant." The thought made her sigh aloud. She looked about to see if anyone had heard her but there was no one near enough. She thought of her mother and her sister Ellen. "Poor Ellen," she thought. Both mother and sister had died of the same illness. Women's trouble, Eleanor called it. Mother had wasted away but Ellen had gone quickly, a matter of months after the diagnosis. Eleanor had nursed them both. Now she had the same illness. 
    She hadn't seen a doctor but she knew. The lack of energy, the pain deep down in her body, the manner in which her clothes no longer fit quite right all told her what she did not wish to know. The pain was not sharp but it was there. Her clothes, her one vanity, were now just too large. She did not think that it showed but it would before long. Then, one day she would be no more on this earth. That was why she came here so often. 
    She had read about people dying alone and not being found for days, or even weeks. Eleanor did not want that to happen to her. If making the waiters happy and being talked about was the price she had to pay, she would. She had paid it already. Now, when the day came that she did not appear, they would send someone to look for her. Frank, the manager, had promised. Thus, her future was secured. The price was worth it. 
    "Here you are," said George as he placed the muffin and coffee on the table before her. 
    "Thank you so much," said Eleanor. 
    "Any time. Enjoy it," he smiled. 
                                                            *
    The clock atop the Metropolitan Life Tower loomed over Edward's left shoulder. Behind him was the white marble beauty of the Appellate Division courthouse. Across the park between the trees could be seen the lower floors of the Flatiron Building and the Toy Center, across the avenue and the two traffic islands, where once stood the Fifth Avenue Hotel. They could be seen if he looked, but he did not. In a few weeks, when the leaves were gone, the tops of those buildings and the eternal light atop the flagpole on the Fifth Avenue side would be visible. 
    But he would not notice the tops any more than he noticed the landmarks and historic sights surrounding him. He might turn to check the time on the tower looking down on the bench where he sat alone but, for the rest, his book was more important.
    The pages of the paperback book were curled and difficult to separate but he read on, the words passing his eyes in profligate volume. He read and ate his lunch, a half bagel and partly filled can of soft drink. That would keep hunger at bay until dinner time. "A Farewell to Arms" was the name on the title page of the book. He uncurled the corner of another page and began to read when Grant approached. Without looking up from his book, Edward knew that Grant was looking at him. He knew that Grant was going from trash can to trash can in the park seeking food. There was often food after the lunch hour. Office workers would discard half eaten meals. Edward's lunch was an example; indeed, Edward was fortunate today. Not only had he found lunch, but a book to read. Grant would likely find something. 
    He would stand there for a few moments first though. He would not pass Edward on the bench for a bit. He would look at him with those staring eyes of his looking out of his bald skull that seemed to lead his body around by a scrawny neck. He would say nothing. He never spoke so far as Edward was aware. He just stared. 
    Suddenly, his entire body moved with a startling swiftness. He stood straight as a ruler. His feet came together, his left arm fell to his side and he saluted. Edward raised his hand to his brow without looking at him. In response, Grant dropped his arm and returned to his stooped posture and passed by to the next trash can. 
    That reminded Edward that he should go to the church tonight for a shower and some clean clothes. He did not wish to become ripe like Grant and the jeans and shirt he was wearing were looking dirty. Yes, he would go to the church tonight for a shower and clean clothes and he would have a hot meal while he was there. But he wanted to read the book some more before doing so. 
                                                            *
    Grant watched the dirty hand with its broken and grimy fingernails move through the trash as though it were not his own but a being independent of him. It pushed aside the papers and refuse searching like a beast for food and drink. It found none. 
He turned from the trash can, a fifty-five gallon drum with its top removed, and looked for the next receptacle. It was a wire can about ninety feet away. 
    As he walked along the path, people moved away even leaving the walk at his approach. But he did not notice them. People had turned away from him for years. There was even a time when they shouted at him and one woman even spat at him, though he did not remember why. He remembered little from that time. Or from any other time. But he remembered that; he remembered the faces filled with loathing and hatred and the young woman stepping out from them and spitting on him. He was wearing a green coat and the white spittle was stark against the green. Many of the faces laughed. The treatments had cleaned his memory. They had not cleaned that memory though. It would soon be time for another treatment. The police would come for him and place him in a van and take him to the hospital where he would be cleaned both physically and mentally and returned to the street. It had been this way ever since they closed the hospital where he lived. 
    Another of the things he remembered was that they told him that it was for his own good, that he would be better outside the hospital. 
    On a bench beside the path, Grant saw the captain. He was looking through some papers, his lunch beside him and was not looking at Grant. Grant knew that he was aware of him though. Grant snapped to attention: heels together, feet at forty-five degree angle, left thumb along the seam of his trousers, head high, shoulders back. He then saluted the captain, bringing his right arm horizontal, bending his elbow sharply and placing his right index finger just above his brow. He held the salute until the captain returned it, which he did, and then he continued toward the wire trash basket. 
    He did not know where he had learned to salute but he knew that he must salute an officer. It was required. 
                                                            *
    The courtroom was filled with lawyers but Judge Albert remained in his robing room with the telephone to his ear. He listened to the voice that came through the wire without speaking until he said: "Can you hold on a minute?" He then covered the mouthpiece and turned to his law secretary who was sitting at a small desk across the room. 
"Doris, would you go out and start the calendar call, please? I'll be out in a few minutes." 
"Certainly," Doris replied. She then left the room, closing the door behind her. 
"Go ahead," the judge said into the phone. "I wanted to send my law secretary out to call the motion calendar." He listened for a few moments longer and then said: "Got it. His name's Brady. What's the name of the case?" He wrote two names on a piece of paper before him. "I'll take care of it. You don't have to worry about it." He listened for a moment longer and then said goodbye. He hung up the phone and rose from behind his desk. He went to the closet from which he took his black robe. He put it on, stopped by the desk for the paper on which he'd written the information and went out to the courtroom where a court officer called all to order.

(Published by The Inditer, http://www.inditer.com )

                                                          The End
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                                              The Door

    "I don't know how you people sleep at night," Janet said. By "you people" she meant lawyers.
    "On my side," I responded.
    "Funny. After seventeen years of marriage, the bastard hasn't done enough to me; he and his lawyer want to leave me destitute."
    I looked about the restaurant, at its exposed brick walls and the scenes of Ireland with which they were decorated, at the other diners speaking quietly, at the waitresses clad in jeans and flannel shirts.
    I've been to a number of upper scale restaurants in New York where the food looks and tastes like it was prepared by an interior decorator and where the waitresses are dressed in uniforms designed by some well known fashion designer whose unique touch with white shirt and black slacks and vest is lost on me. In such places one is surrounded by people on cell phones including the invariable young woman who speaks so loudly that all others turn to look at her in response to which she feigns embarrassment and apologizes in mime. The menu is in a foreign language and the portions so small that I must stop for a cheese burger on the way home if I have sufficient funds.
    My distaste for such places brought Janet and myself to O'Neill's Pub for dinner. We met some weeks before at a surprise party for a mutual friend. The friend had turned forty and so mourned her youth that the party was funereal. Janet and I were past that milestone and attempted to raise her spirits. When it became apparent that the attempt was doomed, I introduced myself. After speaking together for the remainder of the evening, which was brief, we agreed to meet again. I was unaware at the time that Janet was in the midst of a divorce proceeding. We did not discuss our personal lives or even what we did at the party; it was not until I called her to arrange a dinner date that I mentioned how I earned my living.
    "This is a nice place," she said when we were seated.
    "Yes," I responded. "I come here every now and again."
    "I should think that a lawyer would go to more extravagant places," she said.
    "Not me," I smiled. "I'm more down to earth than that, unique I guess."
    "You must be," she responded. After we ordered drinks and were served, she said, "I was in court last week on my divorce." She then sipped her white wine and added the comment quoted earlier. When I finished looking about the restaurant, I again turned my eyes to her across the candle lit table.
    "You have a lawyer, don't you?" I asked.
    "She's hopeless. I think she's having an affair with his lawyer."
    "Get another if you don't like the one you have."
    "You think I'm made of money? She's taking what little he's willing to leave me. Besides, you're all alike."
    "I had a client who used to say that. He was always complaining about the law and justice and lawyers."
    "Rightly so," she said.
    "Shall we order?" I asked.
    "Change the subject why don't you?"
    "It's not that. I can't help you with your problem. You already have a lawyer and I don't do divorce law; I know almost nothing about it."
    The waitress approached and we ordered. I have never been very good at small talk but I tried while we waited to be served. Janet was unreceptive.
    "You know," she said. "It's wrong to have lawyers for judges. Judges should be people with common sense and sympathy for the people rather than for the lawyers."
    "You may be right," I said. "But judges must know the law and be trained in its complexity. That's why they're lawyers."
    "The law shouldn't be so complex. Anybody can see that my ex is a bastard and deserves nothing and that his lawyer is a sleazy little man who probably molests children."
    "If you want the law simplified, you have to contact your legislators. But simplified laws mean less lawyers which means less political contributions which means that it's unlikely."
    "That's very cynical," Janet said.
    "Not as cynical as accusing a stranger of child molestation."
    "You would stick up for him."
    "It's almost holiday season again," I said. "Every year seems shorter than the last. We'll have to start shopping and decorating soon."
    "I'm not quite over Halloween yet," she replied. "I'm still being haunted."
    The dinner and drinks over we took a cab to her apartment house. I rode up with her in the elevator and escorted her to her apartment door. She opened the door and stepped inside. "Would you like to come in?" she asked.
    "I'd love to," I replied, " but I have to get up very early to meet with a client." I can still see the door closing within inches of my nose; I can still hear it slam.

                                                  The End
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                                                  Samaritan

    I was going to work, walking on Avenue R to the train as I always do, when an older woman, in her late sixties or early seventies, stopped me and asked for help. Her husband had fallen in their kitchen and could not rise. "I have a heart condition," she said. "I can't lift him." 
    "Certainly," I answered.
    I followed her up a ramp that was constructed over the front steps and into the house. Inside, it was dark–the blinds were closed–except for the kitchen where the ceiling light was lit. The spillover light revealed a dining room furnished with old, heavy, carved wood table, chairs, breakfront and buffet that held many athletic trophies whose figures and plaques reflected the light. Above it was a photographic portrait in black and white of a thin young man in military uniform. The walls of the room were covered with floral wall paper, green with white lilies and vines.
    On the kitchen floor, a man lay on his stomach. He was about the woman's age, tall and thin and bald.
    "I got someone, Jack," the woman said.
    Jack's head was turned away from the door. Apparently, he could not turn it toward me because he spoke without doing so. "If you can just get me to a sitting position, I can help myself," he said. 
    "Could you get him into his chair?" his wife asked. The chair was of a kind that I'd never seen; it could be converted to a straight, flat diagonal. When the person was placed on it, its shape changed to that of a normal chair.
    "Just help me sit up," Jack said.
    I looked over the situation and thought that I might not be up to this. I feared that I might injure him. Yet, I couldn't refuse. 
    "First, I'm going to turn you over on your back,' I said. "Then I'll help you sit up."
    "Help him into his chair," the woman repeated.
    "I will," I said.
    "Just help me sit up," Jack said.
    I knelt next to him. "I'm going to turn you now. Make sure that you tell me if I hurt you in any way."
    "All right," he replied.
    I leaned over him, put my hands on his shoulder and his hip and turned him slowly; he was heavier than I had anticipated. When I got him on his back, he was able to turn his head to look at me. "Thank you," he said.
    "I'm going to get behind you and lift your shoulders," I said.
    "All right," he replied.
    I knelt above his head and placed my hands beneath his shoulders. Slowly, carefully, I lifted him to a sitting position. I let him lean back against me to catch his breath which was depleted by his effort.
    "I can do it now," he said.
    "Since I'm here anyway, why don't I help you into the chair?" I asked.
    He made no answer for a moment but then he said, "All right."
    I moved him to the chair by sliding him along the floor. His wife held the chair while I put my arms around his chest and lifted. It took a mighty effort but I got him into the chair. 
    "I'll let myself out," I said. However, neither paid any attention. They were making him comfortable in the chair. I left.
    That evening as I returned home I saw Jack in a wheelchair being pushed by a young man. He was wearing a cap but was otherwise dressed as he had been that morning. As I approached, he looked at me and, then, as I prepared to greet him, put his head down and looked away. I passed by in silence.

                                                           The End

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                                                The Violinist

    A trip to the Richmond County courts on Staten Island filled me with the usual dread. Because I was not from the island and did not socialize with the judges there, my clients must lose even though they had an unanswerable case, and, though aware that my protestations of the corruption must eventually result in my disbarment, I knew that I could not remain silent. The weather was appropriate to my mood. The sky was grey and a frigid mist rose from the green water of the harbor where ice was forming around the orange colored ferry boat and on its windows and doors. When the chain was raised, I, as did the other passengers, hurried over the deck to get inside the cabin and find a seat in the warm interior where I might catch a few more minutes sleep.
    The ferry left the Battery pier, the sound of the water churned by its engines inaudible from the interior. As the boat pushed toward the center of the harbor, a man stood before the doors to the deck at the front of the room. He removed his coat and scarf, his hat and ear muffs and piled them neatly on a bench. He then stooped down and opened a violin case that I had not seen him carrying because I was some rows back from the front. He removed a violin and bow, leaving the case open on the floor before him.
    I had forgotten that Christmas was only a week away, so dominated was my mind by the ordeal before me, until he began to play "Silent Night". From his violin, the man coaxed the hymn in a manner that I had never heard before. It soared about the room as though it were a dove that came to rest near me, as I'm sure all the other passengers thought too. As he neared the end, I felt a touch of anxiety. With the warmth of the cabin and the music, I had found comfort against my turbulent thoughts and the ferocious elements outside. However, he quickly followed with "White Christmas", and, then, a rendition of Shubert's "Ave Maria" that seemed to lift me from my seat on invisible wings and fill me with a warmth inside that I'd not felt since my parents hugged away my childhood fears. I can still hear it in restful moments.
    Governor's Island, the Statue of Liberty and Jersey City passed by the windows, standing tall over the water and the mist about us. But we in the boat moved across the harbor oblivious, taken by the violin through the cold and across the waves.
    When we docked, I put on my scarf and buttoned up my coat. Before I put on my gloves, I dropped a few dollars in the violin case. I wished the violinist a "Merry Christmas" and went out into the cold.
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The Meeting

I knew her immediately, though it was more than thirty years. She married while I was away at the war and, though I received a Christmas card each year until recently, I’d not seen her since. Now she was walking toward me across the intersection. That she might not remember occurred to me for a moment but vanished when she smiled.

There was no mistaking her. Crows feet now bracketed her brown eyes, her jaw line was not so tight as when last we met, her hair was dusted with grey. But it was she, and, as so many years before, when my hair was full and my own jaw line tight, I felt awkward in her gaze.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Fine," I replied. "You look very good," I added.

She smiled more broadly. "You’re still the charmer that you always were."

I felt myself blush. "Only for you," I said. She laughed. It helped me relax. "What brings you back to the old neighborhood?"

"I’ve come to see my daughter who’s married and lives nearby. You’re still here," she said.

"Yes. Do you come here often?’

"No, not enough I’m embarrassed to say. Not much has changed."

"Not much," I replied. "How’s Jack?" I asked.

"I don’t know. We’ve not been together for some years. He’s remarried and lives in Florida. At least that’s where he was when I last heard from him."

"I’m sorry," I said.

When we were teenagers, I loved her. However, she loved Jack who was my friend, so I said nothing. They married and moved away while I was in the Army.

"Will you be here long?"

"No. I’m leaving as soon as I go to the post office to mail some things. They’ve moved it."

"Years ago," I said. "I’ll show you where it is."

"All right."

The post office was only a block away. However, in the few minutes that it took to go that short distance, my life changed forever. Whether it was her laughter at something I said or a comment or just her presence beside me, I don’t know, but I found that I was still in love with her. She left after completing her business at the post office. But she returned two days later and remains with me still.

The End

Published in Fictive Magazine, Spring, 2002

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