I’m trying out “Kindle Unlimited” to read a range of novels by different authors. I don’t have a preference so don’t expect any excited reviews like, “I loved it!” Not gonna happen. I rank the books with stars on Amazon, but I don’t give them away; this isn’t kindergarten. A decent, readable book will get three stars (out of five). I’ve noticed something about the review system on Amazon: the more reviews, the higher the ranking. I think there’s a mad rush to outdo the other readers. Of course, I question how many of the reviewers finished the books they’re reviewing; you only have to buy it, not actually finish it to throw in your two-cents worth. These could be virtual ratings…

This is a story about a family of ethnic Germans fleeing from Ukraine in 1944 as the Soviet army is pushing the Wehrmacht back at the close of WW II. They are escorted by the German army to be repatriated to Poland, which was part of the new and improved Fatherland under Hitler. The story was retold to the author by one of the couple’s sons, who participated in the events recounted when he was about ten. Because a lot of details were unknown to the author, he has called this historical fiction rather than biographical. He’s very open about that, even describing which parts were made up in an appendix that was very interesting.

The boring part first. The grammar and punctuation are good, but deteriorate about half-way through (I’ve reported on this phenomenon before). Nothing egregious, however. It’s very readable but like most books nowadays, which aren’t proofread enough by the author, the text goes through phases; one part will be chock full of similes and metaphors, then another repeats common nouns and verbs (which have lots of synonyms), then a particularly emotional thought is repeated again and again and again in different chapters. I was tempted to skip these pages on the tenth go-round, but I didn’t. I read every second thought (or was it the tenth?) in slow motion, anticipating my revenge (this review).

The action scenes are well written, really getting me involved when tanks were rolling, Nazis murdering innocent people, disaster only a moment away, stuff like that. Very exciting. I swear my body temperature dropped several degrees from the visceral way the cold was described. Again, very exciting, and foreboding. Much of the book was like that; even when there was nothing threatening imminent death, I felt the sense of doom enveloping the protagonists.

There were a lot of flashbacks that turned out to be two different, converging threads from the past, recalled by the main characters. This was confusing because a flashback is usually a moment of reflection, dream, etc–a momentary event. These background threads even had dates and places in the chapter headings; later in the book the author started mixing them in with current action. It would have been confusing if the plot had been more complicated.

The characters were rather static as I would expect from a biographical story that only covers a year of two. However, the main character had a somewhat unbelievable return of his religious faith while incarcerated in a Soviet work camp. Nevertheless, I appreciated that the protagonists weren’t portrayed as clever or wise, but only incredibly fortunate.

The author obviously had to come up with a fictional narrative to get through several harrowing moments, not having the adults who lived through the ordeal available to explain. To be honest, I was flabbergasted at several such escapes that were glossed over or portrayed as miracles, another way of avoiding difficult explanations.

The main story covered less than two years. As related, this time period could have been summarized in a short story, but the author wanted to write a novel so they filled (with multiple threads disguised as flashbacks), added a summary at the end of the Martel’s life in America, and tacked on an explanatory appendix. In my opinion, they didn’t want to write a detailed fictional account of a truly harrowing story of persecution and escape because that would have been too difficult, so they copped out and wrote this historical novel instead.

I don’t buy it and I think they didn’t do justice to an experience shared by millions of people at the end of WW II, or millions today, who are going through similar ordeals. That’s a shame because the author has a gift for creating poignant scenes in the midst of danger. I guess they were in a hurry…

This book is an appetizer wrapped in plastic and plated as an unappetizing main course–filet mignon covered with ketchup.

Go ahead and read it but don’t expect too much.

It all began with my obsession for antiques, personal items held close by people I’d never met or even heard of, now random objects purchased at garage sales and antique stores. The treasured possessions of past generations, once a precious part of unknown lives, each curio had been eventually tossed into the garbage. I reveled in these leftover pieces. My apartment was filled with the cast-offs of forgotten people who had moved on, for better or worse. I made a point of touching each artifact every day, imagining their previous owners. My obsession was why my girlfriend, Shahadi hadn’t moved in with me; she found it all kind of creepy, my biggest weakness, an opinion she pointed out repeatedly. She didn’t mind my collection of antiques; rather, she objected to my obsession with them. She’s a very practical woman, who tests the water before diving in head first, the opposite of me. 

Thus, it’s somewhat ironic that it was Shahadi, my practical, long-term girlfriend, who spotted the hand mirror at a garage sale. She had accompanied me on my relic-shopping trips for the two years we’d been together. I was examining some framed photographs of a beach scene when a gilded frame, containing a pastel image of a young woman wearing a feathered hat, was thrust in front of my eyes. I was captivated, both by the lackluster expression on the model’s face and the sense of pride reflected on Shahadi’s dark complexion. I instinctively kissed her expectant lips.

“It’s perfect.”

She flipped it and showed me the mirror, not a crack or even fraying of the silver coating marring its surface. It looked as if it had just been purchased from an importer in Boston, before the Civil War from its design. The seller knew the mirror’s value so it cost me a lot. The irony of the moment was lost on me; Shahadi held the mirror up and studied its perfect surface while I drove.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall.” 

* * *

Shahadi played with the mirror a minute before breaking the awkward silence filling my one-bedroom walk-up in Greenwich Village. “I’m not that excited about giving up my freedom, that’s all, and your creepy fascination with these antiques is all the excuse I need to not live with you. You’re going to have to do better than being a collector of eclectic stuff and being in love with me to get a commitment.” She smiled alluringly and added, “Do I make myself clear?”

She did that every time she came over, and every time I begged her to either move in with me or let me move into her two-bedroom apartment in Midtown East. It wasn’t my habit of talking to my artifacts that disturbed her, which is the same as talking to myself aloud, at least from my perspective. That was an excuse. Shahadi was afraid of making a commitment. I took the mirror and turned it towards her.

“Do you see this woman? This is the woman who makes me feel as if we had just met and fallen in love, every time I see her. Even if we don’t have a family, I want to fall asleep in your arms every single night and wake up next to you in the morning and I know you feel the same.”

She smiled uncertainly, swallowed nervously, turned the mirror to face me and said, “See that man? He is the love of my life and every day I anticipate his touch, even his smile. I love him so much that I don’t want to ruin what we have by making it a common, everyday experience. I don’t want to lose this feeling of passionate love, Mr. Nelson Whitmer, not even for the ecstasy of a few months or years of daily pleasure with you. I love you too much.”

I took her hand and led her to the bedroom as I replied, “So, your reluctance to living together isn’t really about my fascination with antiques, is it?”

She looked in the bedroom, poked her head in the bathroom, glanced towards the kitchen, nodded approvingly, and began unbuttoning my shirt. “That’s my excuse because, if it weren’t for your eccentric behavior, I wouldn’t be able to resist my desire to be with you. But let’s stop talking and make love in your immaculately clean apartment.” She pulled me towards the bed, pulling my shirt off.

In our haste, I was still holding the hand mirror, so I dropped it on the nightstand.

“Be careful with that,” she chastised. “You never know when you’ll want to look at yourself closely.” 

* * *

Shahadi was naked in the kitchen making breakfast when I joined her, also undressed. We spent as much time as possible in the nude when in private because, as she put it, “That’s how God made us.” She wasn’t religious, at least not from what I’d seen or heard after a couple of years together, but she was spiritual. I don’t know what that means exactly but I think it’s equivalent to being superstitious. Her spirituality is probably why she accepted my attachment to relics of the past, but she was uncomfortable seeing her own metaphysical beliefs acted out by me; it gave her an excuse to keep up her pretense of being independent, an island of calm surrounded by a tumultuous emotional sea. 

I approached her from behind while she was busy with food prep, wrapped my arms around her waist, and kissed her waiting lips. “What are we having for breakfast?”

Rather than answering my question, she pushed me to a chair in my tiny kitchen and placed bowls of fruit and yogurt on the table. A typical weekend breakfast; but I was a bit surprised when she set the antique mirror on the table. 

“What’s that about?” I asked innocently. “I’m supposed to be the one with a creepy fascination for old stuff.”

Her eyes avoided mine, searching for a response, finally settling on a confession. “I felt something, that’s why I found the mirror to begin with, I don’t know what it is, maybe your obsession has rubbed off on me…”

I smiled confidently, took the mirror in my free hand, and gazed into it, prepared to gloat about how alike we really were. This could be my opportunity to finally convince Shahadi to let me move in. Our mutual spiritualities were aligned. 

Instead of my smug countenance smiling back, I was looking at a young girl blowing out candles on a birthday cake—ten in all. She was wearing a high-waisted green dress with ruffled sleeves, her wavy, light-brown hair capped by a silver tiara set with gems. The camera’s view panned around the room as if following the young girl’s gaze. Being familiar with eighteenth and nineteenth century customs, I recognized the luxurious furnishings of the room to be those of an upper-class English manor from the Victorian Period. I even had a wall-mounted gaslight similar to those illuminating the scene. I watched in awe as a servant removed the cake to be sliced to the pantry as the birthday girl began opening presents wrapped in colorful paper, tied with elaborate bows. I was lost in the images of a gay birthday party from a previous century.

“What’s wrong, Nelson?”

Shahadi’s voice brought me back to the present. I couldn’t peel my eyes from the scene of the little girl unwrapping presents and shrieking with joy. I held the mirror so that we could both see.

“What’s going on? I thought this was a real mirror, not a gimmicky video player…”

“It is,” I replied. “It’s some kind of magic—a sixth sense sort of phenomena, a birthday party from the early nineteenth century.”

Shahadi jumped up and got her smartphone and started videotaping the scenes displayed in the mirror. “Get your tripod,” she commanded. 

I fumbled around and finally found the small tripod I used sometimes to make experimental films, like for Tic Toc, and propped the mirror up with some pans and a roll of paper towels. We continued eating as the party unfolded, ending with the opening of the last present, from the little girl’s mother. The flat, rectangular package was wrapped in gold paper and tied with a silver bow. The birthday girl tore it open and removed an exact replica of the mirror that was replaying her birthday party, turning it to reveal the same woman dressed in lavender, the same knurling on the handle and engraving on the rim. 

The children were shepherded out to play some games while the cake and ice cream were prepared. Then the film ended. The mirror was just a mirror again.

“Talia Porter,” Shahadi whispered. 

“I’m going to do some investigating,” I responded.

“What do you mean by that? I found the mirror, I was the one who started whatever it just did, and I thought of recording it, so we’re going to look into this together.”

I stood to take the dishes to the sink, bent over to kiss her full lips, before teasing, “Are you an expert on the Victorian Period?”

She got to her feet and, taking my hand, started towards the bedroom. “That’s your assignment, Mr. Whitmer, after you’ve sated the passion that has suddenly come over me.” 

* * *

The Porter family wasn’t famous but they were wealthy during the nineteenth century and well into the twentieth. They featured in a lot of articles in English newspapers and magazines from the Victorian Period, evenly divided between the gossip columns, financial and business news, even the police blotter. Talia’s grandfather, John Porter, had invested in the East India Company and made a huge profit before expanding his portfolio to include significant shares in the Royal African Company, the slave trade. Her father, Randolph Porter, had invested in foreign corporations like the Dutch West Indies Company and several French and German colonies in West Africa. By the time Talia Porter was born in 1825, her family was fabulously wealthy and her father had a seat in the House of Lords. 

But there was a darker side to the Porter dynasty’s history. The gossip columns frequently contained references to police reports of both spousal and child abuse by Randolph Porter, but no charges were ever filed. Talia lived her life traveling between her family’s estates in England and Scotland. She died unmarried and childless in 1890. The Porter dynasty wasn’t threatened, however, thanks to a plethora of male heirs; Randolph was succeeded by Randolph II, Talia’s brother; who begat Randolph III.

It was Randolph Porter IV, born in 1874, who immigrated to America and invested in its burgeoning steel, petroleum, and manufacturing industries. However, the American gossip columns and business papers suggested that it was his sister, Dalia Porter, who was the financial genius behind their empire. There was no lack of reports of her outlandish behavior during the Roaring Twenties, consorting with titans of Hollywood and Wall Street, even a scandalous affair with a U.S. Senator, before leaping to her death under questionable circumstances after the Wall Street crash on 1929. No charges were ever filed against her brother, Randolph Porter IV, but speculation was rife in the tabloids. 

* * *

“Did you verify any of this with the mirror?”

“It was silent on the subject. In fact, it’s nothing more than a mirror when I try to use it.”

She retrieved the gilded mirror from its stand, nestled between a Fortnum and Mason’s teacup set and a handwritten diary from the Gilded Age, and propped it up on the kitchen table. 

“It only works for me, Nelson. I thought I explained that to you.” The corners of her mouth were curved upward sarcastically.

I set my smartphone on the miniature tripod and retorted, “I think it only works for the two of us. It’s some kind of resonator—or something like that—which senses our mutual love and total commitment to each other, and that’s what makes it work.”

“When did you become an expert on paranormal phenomena?” Her eyes were saying that she agreed with my theory. 

Before I could respond to her taunt, the mirror came alive, showing young Talia in bed. A figure loomed in the semi-darkness and announced that she was old enough to fulfill her purpose. Shahadi and I held hands, grimacing, wanting to look away but unable to divert our eyes from the mirror as it showed Randolph Porter having anal and vaginal intercourse with his daughter. Her cries of pain and pleas for relief went unanswered in scene after scene as she grew older in the horrendous videos. She was still a young woman when it ended, not with her publicly denouncing her aging father’s incestuous abuse, but with his funeral. Shahadi and I were silent when the horrific video ended. 

Released from the spell of the mirror, my stomach revolted and I ran to the bathroom to try and eradicate the images from my soul. I returned to the kitchen to find Shahadi reviewing the film my smartphone had recorded. She pointed to a scene I hadn’t noticed before, her countenance twisted in pain.

“She got an abortion from this doctor,” she began, pointing at the young man wearing a suit and tie. I hadn’t caught the change in the scenes, so many shadows lit by gas, intent on Talia’s genitalia. Apparently, Talia had had several abortions before her father’s death from pneumonia. 

* * *

As the weeks passed, Talia’s story unfolded, revealed through images of events in her life, as well as monologues spoken to the mirror as if it were a close friend. She had accepted her role as Randolph Porter’s concubine and kept it a secret from her family but not from the mirror; she despised her father and prayed for his death every day. Her prayers were answered when he died at the relatively young age of fifty-five, leaving her oldest brother Randolph Porter II in charge of the family’s fortune. She confessed to the mirror that he was a fool who wasted his days hunting and drinking, his nights spent in the company of women of whom Talia strongly disapproved. Despite—or perhaps because of—his wanton ways, Randolph II followed her business advice and the family fortune increased; he also found time to marry a socialite and have three sons, the eldest given the appellation Randolph Porter III. 

Talia bemoaned the stupidity of primogeniture, which handed the family’s fortune to her nephew when her brother died of a heart attack in 1869. Surrounded by men she deplored but from whom she couldn’t escape, Talia made the best of the situation by consoling her sister-in-law and influencing her nephew—Randolph Porter III—through his wife. Amelia was a rather plain young woman who became pregnant before the wedding and was thus sent to France, ostensibly to complete her education, until the pre-nuptial birth of their daughter, Dalia. Immediately after the wedding, the bride returned to Paris to care for her infant, before introducing her to the nobility of England. No one noticed that the infant, who Randolph III readily accepted as his daughter, was born a little early because appearances had to be maintained. Talia took responsibility for Dalia and raised her as if she were her own daughter. 

Shahadi watched Talia’s story with me over several weeks, usually expressing her opinion after the video camera was turned off. (I had replaced my smartphone with a professional camera borrowed from a work colleague.) 

She jumped up from the table and exclaimed, “We’ve got to make a film about this! I mean, Talia is sharing her innermost thoughts…from another century—”

I held my hand up to stop her and said, “That thought had crossed my mind, so I’ve been working on a script—nothing finished yet or anything but I have some ideas…and I’ve got some time because production has stopped on my current play due to Covid… so I’ve got some time on my hands. The truth is that I’ll probably be out of work soon and I’m ready for something new.”

Shahadi became my collaborator and, with her creative insight, my idea quickly congealed into a short film that we would submit to several film festivals. The central theme focused on the mirror as a window into the Victorian Period, showing the treatment of young women within high society. The original concept expanded substantially when the mirror revealed Talia’s bequest to her great-niece, Dalia Porter, made on her death bed. 

* * *

“I want you to have this mirror, Dalia. My mother gave it to me on my tenth birthday and it has been with me every day of my life, the one friend I could trust through thick and thin.” She thrust the gilded mirror at the young girl with straight, dark-brown hair and continued, “I know what your father is doing to you because he has the same look in his eyes that my father, Randolph Porter, had when he came to my room in the darkness of night and—well, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

The frightened child took the mirror and nodded uncertainly. 

“It’s a disease that afflicts the Porter men. Fortunately, there haven’t been very many women in the family, just you and me.” Her wrinkled hand took Dalia’s small hand in hers and she added, “We have a special bond, that’s why I took it on myself to raise you, to teach you how to accept what I knew you would one day suffer. Do you understand, Dear?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I do. Thank you for taking care of me, Mother has been very busy and Father…well, Father has already come to my bed chamber and…well, he has touched me and…and made me touch him like you talked about.” The child took a deep breath, wiped a stray lock away from her face and looked in the mirror before adding, “I am going to be strong. I will not let him overcome me the way my great-grandfather defeated your spirit, Aunt Talia, because you have prepared me for the battle. I will not be his concubine. I don’t care if he kills me, I will not allow him in my bed again, and I will make certain that everyone knows what kind of animal he is!” Her nostrils flared, eyes slitted in anger, determination hardening her voice as she held the mirror up like a weapon, slashing the air with its gilded frame.

A wrinkled hand took her wrist, ending the wild flight of the mirror, and Talia said, “Just remember, my dear, that the path you have chosen will be more difficult than the one I chose. Your father may well take your life in anger when you refuse his advances…do you understand the danger?”

The mirror was lifted, facing the determined young face, as Dalia replied in a steely tone, “I know. I will remember what you’ve taught me, about being smarter than the Porter men, which isn’t very difficult, but I don’t think I’m as smart as you.” She took the withered hand in hers and held it to her lips.

The other ancient hand waved feebly and Talia’s weak voice said, “I’ve tried to prepare you for what lies ahead and you’ve been an attentive student. You’re a very smart young woman, Dalia, and I will go to God confident that you will make me proud…” She coughed quietly and mumbled something I couldn’t make out…maybe a good bye.

Dalia fell on the old woman, kissing her shrunken and unmoving cheeks, sobbing quietly, the mirror held tightly in her small hand. 

* * *

Shahadi had the mirror in her hand as she leapt to her feet. “Oh my god, Nelson! Do you know what this means?”

“The mirror has a lot more to say. This is no longer just about Talia Porter and child sex abuse in Victorian England. We’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg.”

I stood up and took her hands, grinning. “Dalia and her brother, Randolph Porter IV, disappeared from the tabloids in England in 1912, less than a year after their father’s death. I don’t think she died or succumbed to her father’s incestuous advances. There’s a lot more to this story—”

Shahadi interjected, “They moved to America! Tired and disgusted with the English nobility and their misogynist ways, Dalia took her stupid but nevertheless primogenitor brother to the new world…”

I added, “He was her lifeline to the wealth Talia had accumulated for the family. She couldn’t afford to let go of him. They must have made a lot of money in America and probably—”

Shahadi finished my thought. “Dalia would have made a splash in the tabloids, probably in New York City. We have to look into that—”

“I’m on it.” 

* * *

“The English have invaded!” 

That was the headline in the New York Times when Randolph Porter IV and Dalia arrived in New York City, taking up residence in the most expensive penthouse in the city. Their wealth was speculated to exceed that of Andrew Carnegie or even John D. Rockefeller. Randolph Porter IV had brought his family to America, leaving their many estates in Great Britain occupied by members of the extended family, maintained by an extensive cadre of butlers, cooks, gardeners, maids, and an army of support staff. Their wealth was beyond belief, even in the Gilded Age. 

“Ms. Dalia Porter is the Queen of New York,” was pronounced on the front page of the New York Post. Photos of her with celebrities and well-known politicians, accompanied by lurid descriptions of her late-night antics, filled the papers for years. She didn’t seem to age as the Roaring Twenties passed, the Porter family’s fortune doubling then quadrupling while her antics, displayed on the pages of every newspaper in the country, became more extravagant. She was the richest woman in the world when the stock market crashed on October 29, 1929. 

She made the headlines one last time, when she leapt to her death from the balcony of the penthouse in the Woolworth Building. Both her fans and critics were shocked at her death because it was well known that she hadn’t had much faith in the stock market, railing against the foolishness of investing in an institution that was nothing more than a lottery, a tool to steal from the gullible. 

* * *

Laid off from my job as an assistant production coordinator, I had plenty of time to work on the film and it was coming together. I also had time to watch Dalia’s life in America unfold because the mirror had started working for me when I was alone. I didn’t tell Shahadi. It was my secret. 

The scenes portrayed in the mirror told a slightly different story from the newspapers, a tale of abuse by her brother Randolph Porter IV. He was not happy with the reputation she had engendered since coming to America.

“I will cut you off!” he shouted at a grinning Dalia. “And I’ll send you back to England where you might be taught some manners. That’s what I’ll do.”

Gin and vermouth erupted form her nose in an explosive display of humor. She set the glass on the bar, laughing hysterically as she went to make another.

“What’s so funny? You will do as I say, as head of the family. It’s your duty. What will you do when I cut your purse string? Get a job for Woolworths, possibly selling perfume…or liquor, which seems to be your only hobby. You are an embarrassment to the Porter name.”

Dalia regained control and shook the ice-filled shaker while her brother fumed. Finally pouring it into a glass, she responded, “Oh, I have other hobbies, dear Randolph, rather a few actually…” She paused, sipped her drink and looked around, her mouth twisted with uncertainty, before she nodded as if making a difficult decision. 

“This is as good a time to tell you as any I suppose. I was going to wait, I don’t know why because I’ve plenty of money…let’s see, where do I start?” She sipped again with a thoughtful expression on her attractive face, framed by straight brown hair.

Concern skipped across her brother’s face.

“Do you know why I wanted to come to America? The real reason?” she asked.

“To be close to the hottest financial market in the world,” was his ready response.

She nodded before replying in a casual tone, “True enough, but that was only a cover story. I can’t believe you and your lawyers didn’t figure it out… I guess it’s true, what Aunt Talia always said about men and their clubs: You are incapable of thinking outside the box. The real reason we are living in New York City is that it isn’t England, or even Europe. They don’t play those silly games about the eldest son inheriting everything here, not in the New World, Randolph. I don’t need your money any more. I’ve outsmarted the titans of Wall Street and the barristers of The Temple. I made our family even wealthier than Aunt Talia, but I also took care of myself, although I’m not as well-off as you and the sycophants who depend on you for their luxurious lifestyles. Best of all, my wealth is out of your reach because, as I said, here in America it’s every man and woman for themselves. I was planning to resign from my position with Porter House Financial next year and open my own investment firm. The documents are awaiting my signature—”

Randolph jumped from his chair, nostrils flaring. “You can’t sign a legal document, not obligating our money. That’s theft and even in America they won’t stand for it!” 

Dalia laughed out loud. “Oh you foolish boy. Did you actually think I would steal from my own family? I guess you don’t think much of me after all, just like Aunt Talia warned me. I have invested the very generous stipend you so graciously supplied, and now it’s time to cash in and go into business for myself. I’m finished with the lottery they call the stock market, which is bound to crash with all the unbridled greed controlling Wall Street. I suggest you do the same.”

Before he could respond, she held up her empty glass and said, “I hereby resign my post as the unpaid chief economic advisor for Porter House Financial, as well as my position as a dependent member of the Porter clan. I’m not going as far as disowning you and the rest of the family, and I’m sure we’ll all laugh about this one day.” She put the empty glass on the bar and walked out.

“You can’t do this!” he wailed at her back. 

* * *

“Have you been keeping secrets from me?” Shahadi asked.

I avoided eye contact, my gaze on the bottle of wine resting on the table. “I just wanted to do something on my own,” I mumbled.

The concern dissipated from her countenance and she took my hand. “I understand. And you’ve done a great job with the screenplay and the preliminary filming. I know it’s hard losing your job, especially when it wasn’t your fault, and here I am still working, but don’t let that get to you. At least one of us has a paycheck.” She paused.

I didn’t meet her gaze.

“Look at me when I’m working so hard to be a better person,” she added tenderly.

I reluctantly met her concerned eyes and stammered, “I’m sorry for not telling you. I was just caught up in the moment, as if it were happening to me, I was there, I know this woman. Sometimes, I think I know her better than I know you because the mirror shows her private life, the one the tabloids didn’t know about, the thoughts she shared with the mirror that no one else witnessed, except me. It’s a view of another person that none of was ever meant to see. I feel like a stalker…”

“She’s been dead for almost a century, Nelson, but I understand how you feel. I think it’s because you were watching Dalia’s private moments alone, like a stalker would do, without a witness, a more historical approach, which is what we’re doing. You shouldn’t do that anymore. Just look how it’s affected you. It might even be dangerous because we don’t actually know what we’re dealing with—”

I interjected, “Are you worried that I may become possessed?” I rolled my eyes and raised my hands theatrically.

Her eyes were laughing as she retorted, “Yeh, you just might, after all you’re a very sensitive guy. That’s why I love you. I’ve read that evil spirits go after the nicest people first. You’re an easy target.” 

Shahadi was only half right. After our conversation, I realized that I was being drawn into the emotional lives of the characters portrayed in the mirror. It was like a black hole pulling me inexorably towards its center and the oblivion of the past, joining people whose time had come and gone. But I wasn’t dead; that had been her point. I was a historian, not a voyeur, so I would continue my research but more carefully; nevertheless, I continued observing Dalia Porter’s life alone because there wasn’t time to wait for Shahadi to have a day off to assist. She was busy whereas I was… I was available, but I would be careful. 

* * *

The mirror presented Dalia’s last years in excruciating detail. I watched enthralled as she had sexual encounters with one man after another, always confessing to the mirror afterward that she needed the stimulation—just like her appetite for martinis—to keep from losing her mind. I shouldn’t have known anything so personal about her, but I reminded myself that I was a historian recording her thoughts as completely as possible.

I was drinking martinis myself, made with cheap gin and a dash of vermouth, and no ice. I felt Dalia’s pain and shared her sense of nobility—the Queen of New York! 

One thing worried me, besides knowing of her imminent death on Black Friday: Why had I witnessed her argument with Randolph out of chronological order? It had taken place just before the stock market crash, months if not weeks before her death. Besides this anomaly, the mirror was presenting events chronologically; in fact, I was transforming the mirror’s story into a short film with very little effort, mostly editing work. 

There had been plenty of disagreements: Randolph accusing Dalia of behaving like a tramp; her reminding him of how he ignored his wife and children after bringing them to New York, running around with women and drinking, acting as shamelessly as her but avoiding the spotlight. That comment had elicited a scowl from him. 

I knew what was coming, knowing as I did the Porter family and how women were treated, but I was still shocked when it happened. This was years before Dalia’s announcement of forming her own investment company, when she was still dependent on Randolph IV for her livelihood. 

“Didn’t father teach you your place?”

Dalia laughed as she made a martini, sampling her work before retorting, “He tried but learned that I wasn’t as pliable as Aunt Talia; he probably heard that nonsense from Randolph Senior on his dying bed. I’ve spoken at length with Aunt Talia—she was the one who raised me—about the problem with you Porter men, and I applied what I’d learned. Our dear father only tried once to subjugate me sexually.” She laughed before adding, “I almost bit his cock off…”

Randolph lunged, taking her in his hands as if she were a ragdoll and tossing her onto the leather sofa, punching her several times in the stomach to soften her up. He lowered his trousers and stripped her undergarments. His hands remained busy as he forced himself on her, punching her, tearing away the remnant of her dress, wrapping his fingers around her throat until her breaths came in gasps. Dalia succumbed to his power, barely conscious and unable to resist, she fought weakly until he’d satisfied his animal lust, leaving her damaged but not broken. 

When his hands released her throat, she gasped and spit out, “Do you feel better now?”

* * *

I didn’t tell Shahadi about Randolph raping Dalia. I was obsessed with how Dalia’s story ended, desperately needing closure on her ordeal before sharing my film with anyone. I identified with Dalia more than Talia, partly because the mirror was revealing her life in greater detail, partly because I knew she wasn’t going to die an old woman, surrounded by a loving family. Dalia’s isolation ate at me like a cancer, twisting my stomach into spaghetti; to make matters worse, Shahadi had been working late and thus stopped coming by to see how I was doing. Preoccupied, she hadn’t insisted on seeing what I was up to, instead trusting my reports to be complete and truthful.

That was a big mistake.

The mirror was silent for a few days, giving me time to edit the threads that were coalescing into a film. As if reading my mind, the mirror came to life when the film’s storyline caught up with Dalia’s unfolding tale, but the plot had gone off script. 

* * *

“I suppose you don’t think much of me after what Dalia has told you?”

My bewildered gaze was intercepted by the dark eyes of Randolph Porter IV peering from beneath a lock of brown hair, his beard neatly trimmed to a three-day stubble. I struggled to find my voice.

“Cat got your tongue? Well, let me explain events from my perspective.” The view expanded to reveal the same room where he had raped Dalia earlier. He went behind the bar and began to make a drink. 

“Let’s have a cocktail. I believe you’re fond of martinis, just like my dear sister, Dalia. I favor a gin and tonic myself…make yourself a drink and then we’ll talk, man to man.”

I did as instructed and sat down at the table. Randolph did the same in his exquisite salon. I was confused. The mirror had never shown the slightest awareness of my presence when presenting its tale. I mumbled, “How can I talk to you? You’re dead…”

“I assure you that I am not deceased in my time.” He sipped his drink thoughtfully and continued, “I’ll let the scientists figure out the physics of whatever has connected us across more than a century. I wanted to speak to you about what Dalia has been saying, get my two-cents in so to speak. Are you willing to hear the rest of the story?”

I felt obliged to say, “I’m just a historian, not a judge or even an interested observer. So, of course I want to collect as much data as I can, and you are right; your rape of Dalia put you in a very bad light…”

Randolph’s confident demeanor cracked but held. “You should know more about our relationship. We were close, very close, because of our overbearing father and indifferent mother. Aunt Talia was the center of the family but her attention was focused on Dalia, leaving me to find my way… Dalia is not a copy of Talia, but instead a young woman with her own expectations, and she has a very strong need for stimulation, which I supplied as her younger brother. Do you know what I mean, Nelson?”

His raised eyebrow said it all. I blurted, “You and Dalia had sex as teenagers—children…?”

He nodded. “Every day after I reached puberty.” He grimaced, finished his drink and stood up. “Let’s have another shall we? The story gets better.”

I made another martini in my kitchen while Randolph stepped behind the bar. He continued his monologue while pouring Bombay gin over the ice cubes. “My loving sister was brainwashing me, no doubt following the instructions of our dear Aunt Talia, addicting me to the amazing experience of an orgasm! So, what you saw in her version of the story was—I admit I misbehaved a bit, but it isn’t like I assaulted a woman I wasn’t intimate with; I mean, we had regular sex up until that moment, her way of controlling me. Do you understand, Nelson?”

“Regular sex?” I asked.

“Yes, Nelson. Dalia is a very good sexual partner, having learned from so many experts after coming to America. She has me for a light brunch most days. Despite knowing this, I crave her touch, the feel of her receptive flesh. She is in my brain, controlling me, directing my thoughts and actions. I would probably kill to have her. So, what you saw as rape was nothing more than a consensual sexual act with a twist because we were arguing about family history—always a sore subject—but I admit to getting carried away. However, she enjoyed it because dear Dalia likes rough sex. I put my hands around her neck for her benefit, if you know what I mean.”

My mind was reeling from Randolph’s revelation, but I was certain he was lying because of the look I’d seen on Dalia’s face with his hands throttling her. She had been afraid of dying. “I don’t believe you, but it’s important to hear both sides. By the way, are you implying that Dalia is somehow controlling what I see in the mirror?”

His head nodded slowly. “Now you’re catching on. It is her mirror, after all, given to her by Aunt Talia on her deathbed. I’m sure you know more about her twisted relationship with that cursed device than I. I have questioned her about it—why it is always in her purse, never far from hand.”

“Has she shown any interest in the occult, magic, anything like that?” I already knew the answer.

“You strike me as an intelligent and inquisitive man, Nelson, you must have looked in the old papers, read articles about Dalia attending seances and having her horoscope read by a quack she found among that crowd.”

Randolph’s story didn’t check out. “Then how are you contacting me? Have you ever used her mirror?”

He stepped behind the bar, as if to make another drink, and suddenly produced the mirror I was looking into, a sarcastic smile on his face. “I slipped it out of her purse to try it out. Apparently, it’s connected to you by some mysterious force scientists haven’t discovered yet. I’m sure that men like Professor Einstein will figure it out eventually. I can’t control it the way she does, but she must have left it…I don’t know…maybe turned on, like a light switch.” He made a drink and retook his seat before continuing, “Does she ever speak to you like I’m doing right now?”

I shook my head and started to answer but thought better of my response. “She has never addressed me but her face appears in the mirror while she’s talking to herself…maybe to the mirror…”

“Maybe to you? She’s working her psychological magic on you now, Nelson. You’ve fallen under her spell as certainly as I—” He was interrupted by the sound of the front door being slammed.

“I think my dear sister has noticed my crime. I doubt I’ll be able to speak to you again but I’ll try…” His image disappeared from the mirror. 

* * *

I was afraid to share Randolph’s revelation with Shahadi. Being a feminist, she would dismiss his unsubstantiated claims of Dalia’s hypersexuality as an attempt to cover-up his abusive behavior, especially with the visual evidence of his raping her. However, when I reviewed the video, I noticed that her cries weren’t that desperate, her struggle much less than a fight for her life, her expression not as frightened as I’d first thought; and her final comment didn’t make sense for a rape victim: “Do you feel better now?”

I put off Shahadi’s inquiries with a promise to reveal the first cut of the final film to her after her current project was completed, in a couple of weeks. She was skeptical but distracted by professional responsibilities.

The videos continued, now revealing a not-so-innocent picture of Dalia engaged in mystical orgies, passed out from opium use, disturbing images were verified by newspaper articles from the period. Randolph hadn’t been telling lies although I was certain he wasn’t being completely open with me. One of the most alarming scenes was a visit with an astrologer, a middle-aged woman with black hair and heavy makeup. The garish interlocutor announced that Dalia would die young and at her own hand, a prediction that evoked a scoff from Dalia.

“Tell me something I don’t already know, Madam Backus. I plan to end my miserable life as soon as I stop having fun, which could be any day. Not today because I’m still enjoying myself. You are quite good, but let’s get to the juicy part.”

So, there it was from Dalia’s own lips; she planned to commit suicide as soon as her precarious lifestyle, teetering between one outlandish activity and another, no longer kept her interest. I could understand how she would leap to her death when the stock market crashed, leaving her with one less exhilarating enterprise to keep her hormones active. She was a speed freak, waiting for the inevitable crash, planning for it.

The images kept coming with increasing frequency, revealing a pattern of thrill seeking that was unsustainable, the climax coming two weeks before the stock market crash of 1929. 

Dalia’s sad, tired eyes gazed into the mirror, reminding me of Randolph’s warning, that she was getting into my head just like she had brainwashed him. He was right. I couldn’t escape from her hazel orbs, lustrous with unshed tears. She spoke as if we were facing each other across my small dining table.

“I can’t go on like this. It isn’t fun anymore, but I’m not ready to end my life, I don’t know why, maybe I’m just like everyone else and not so special after all, maybe Randolph is right. I wish he and I were married, as strange as that sounds. I love him as my husband, not my brother, and he feels the same. We fight like cats and dogs and then he forces himself on me, much to my delight because we’ve been doing it for so long—more than twenty years—that I can’t wait to be alone with him, the argument, the insults, my mind overcome with the expectation of what is coming. Oh god! I love him so much.” She paused, sipped from her martini glass, brushed a lock of brown hair from her eye, and continued, “It isn’t as bizarre as it sounds because I can’t have children, some abnormality I was born with, so we wouldn’t have to deal with deformed children or anything. I just wish he would leave his wife and live with me. It’s so exciting when we’re together, enough to make up for the mysticism, alcohol, and opium, just fighting and making love with Randolph would be enough to keep me happy. Making money for him is one of my greatest pleasures. I don’t know why I’ve never told him. I guess I assumed he knew it because he feels the same. I may have been wrong.”

Dalia’s tormented façade was replaced in the mirror by my own deeply disturbed countenance. It all made sense now. She and Randolph were in love. They had been in love their entire lives. In Victorian England, and even America, they couldn’t voice their true feelings and thus their relationship had deteriorated to what I was witnessing through the mirror.

An ominous thought descended on my mind like an evening fog. Randolph hadn’t worked through his feelings for Dalia, and saw her as a… Unable to express his feelings for her as elegantly as she had, he trusted her counsel on financial matters, argued with her and made love to her every day, missed her when they were apart, but couldn’t say three simple words: “I love you.”

Neither could she, but her thoughts were reflected on her countenance in the mirror; she was going to speak the truth to her brother, the love of her life, the man she would do anything for. A shiver ran up my spine when I considered what his response might be. 

* * *

I rewrote the screenplay to incorporate what I’d learned from the mirror, as well as Randolph’s story, which became more plausible with every look in the mirror. Their arguments continued with the same ferocity, always ending with his assaulting her, usually with her begging for more; sometimes they argued several times about meaningless topics, as if engaged in foreplay, each event ending the same way. They had an unusual relationship, but I was convinced they were in love; however, I’d seen enough movies and read enough books to suspect that an unrequited love such as theirs would end in tragedy. Dalia’s astrologer had been right, even if she’d missed on some of the details. 

* * *

“What do you want, Dalia?” Randolph didn’t seem very happy about visiting his sister. 

The mirror’s story had caught up with the teaser I’d seen, her creating an investment firm free of her family’s fortune. Black Thursday had come and gone with no serious damage to the Porter family’s wealth. 

“I suppose that you took my advice and got out of the lottery they call the stock market here in America?” She was teasing him and he was taking the bait.

“I always follow your counsel because you’re good at more than one thing, Dalia, if you know what I mean.” He approached her, brushing against her as he stepped behind the bar to make a drink. 

I noticed her quick intake of breath at his touch, her eyes dwelling on him as he reached for the bottle of Bombay gin, her eyes softer than I’d ever seen them. “I thought we might do something different today, Randolph, if you don’t mind?” She was wearing a silk robe that revealed her slender and well-proportioned body in tantalizing detail.

“What? No fight?” he asked as he mixed his drink.

Dalia shook her head quickly, moved close to him and prepared a martini as he ran his hands gently over the silk garment covering her body. She took his hand and led him to the balcony. It was an unusually warm December day, with temperatures in the fifties. 

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked, pulling her to him, wrapping his arms protectively around her.

“Not when I’m with you,” she responded.

He stepped back. “What does that mean?”

Dalia took a long drink from her martini before responding, “I love you, Randolph. It’s that simple. I know you feel the same way, so let’s stop playing a game of being brother and sister. We need each other in the depths of our beings. We are soul mates. I love you so much that I would die for you. I wish I could have your children, but I can’t, so we don’t have to—you know what I mean.”

Instead of answering, he went inside, leaving Dalia in the cold air, before returning with two glasses. He held one out to her and said, “I would have never had the strength to say what you just said. You are my heart and soul. Let’s toast our love!” 

She accepted the glass and gulped from it, tossing the empty container aside before saying, “Oh my god, Randolph, I never wanted you as badly as I do now. You don’t have to rape me, I’m yours, take me for god’s sake, take me…”

I watched in fascination as he disrobed and removed the flimsy gown from Dalia’s lithe body. Their limbs entwined in a symphony of spiritual union as their bodies became one. She was sitting on the balustrade as he gently penetrated her repeatedly, his thrusts accompanied by cries of pleasure instead of false pain, her arms locked around his neck, lips caressing his chest and neck. 

“I love you. I love you, oh god I love you!” she exclaimed.

Nearing the pinnacle of pleasure, he retorted, “You are mine!”

“Oh, yes, always, always, I am yours forever, Randolph, forever…” Her words trailed off as they climaxed together, her arms holding him tight.

I saw what was coming and jumped from my chair. “Hold on to him! For god’s sake, don’t let go!” My warning went unheeded.

A loving smile on her face, Dalia released her hold on Randolph. The mirror showed the horror in her eyes, reflecting Randolph’s shock at events beyond their control. She fell backwards over the balcony rail, his hands helplessly reaching for hers. I watched her plummet to the earth but thankfully the mirror didn’t share her untimely demise with me. 

I fell into my chair and cried until brought out of my stupor by Randolph’s voice. 

“It would have been a lot of fun, the way Dalia imagined it, but…well, she’s gone, not my fault, she was a good fuck and a brilliant financial strategist. I guess I’ll just have to get by on my own. You do understand, don’t you, Nelson?” 

* * *

Randolph Porter IV’s response to the tragic death of his sister appalled me, but I was relieved to learn the truth: Dalia’s death was neither suicide nor murder, just the horrible result of irresponsible sex. Still, I wondered if he’d planned to kill her all along. 

The mirror was now firmly under Randolph’s control. The chronological sequence of images stopped; there were no scenes of Randolph’s life after her death. Instead the mirror projected an image of a confident Randolph who advised Nelson on the lessons they had both learned from the tragedy. 

“This was inevitable. Don’t you see? I admit I was completely caught up in the fantasy—I told you how she had gotten into my mind…as well as yours—before our lust got the better of us. You know what it’s like to have an orgasm, maybe not on the penthouse balcony, but still…”

Randolph had a point. He hadn’t murdered her, but he was glad to see her gone. “Were you planning to kill her?”

His jaw dropped in shock. “Have you lost your mind? Whatever the cause of my obsession with Dalia, I would have died for her, but the spell was broken when she tragically fell from my loving embrace. Do you know what you’re saying? My god! What has the world become in your time, that people could be so in love and then casually commit murder? My god, Nelson, I can’t imagine what it’s like to live in such a world. God help you…”

Something told me that he was lying, covering up his acts. He had let her go on purpose. He was a murderer. I knew it. “It is convenient that Dalia is out of the way, isn’t it?” I asked casually.

“No!” was his empathic response. “I loved her and she had a brilliant mind. Of course I was envious of her talent, which is why our lovemaking had taken a violent turn as you saw with your own eyes, but it was uplifting, perhaps spiritual, to know that my future, and that of my family, was in good hands; of course, I no longer have to stand in her shadow, but now I have to walk in her footsteps. I can’t do that! I’m not as smart as Dalia!” His words were partially hidden by sobs and tears running down his cheeks. 

I didn’t believe him. He killed her, the culmination of a rehearsed plan he’d been working on for years. His grief was real, but so was his envy; I recalled the sight of his hands around her throat, wanting to murder her, but afraid of the criminal repercussions. Unwilling or unable to squeeze the life from her, he had pushed her off the balcony, I was certain of it, but he wasn’t going to admit his crime. Actually, it wasn’t a criminal act because Dalia’s behavior had shown that she had wanted to die. Randolph had simply helped her reach her goal. I had a sudden thought.

“Will you be better off, overall, now that Dalia is out of the way?”

His blank stare said it all. He was unable to respond because I had spoken the truth. Despite his fascination with Dalia, Randolph’s life would be simpler, even if the family’s income was less. He was glad she was dead.

“Have you been listening to anything I’ve said, Nelson?”

“Sure, but why didn’t you explain the circumstances of Dalia’s death to the authorities?”

His head bobbed as his index finger cut a figure-eight in the air. “You are so incorrect…I saw no reason to…she was dead, and it wasn’t my fault although I certainly contributed to her death through negligence. I made a decision—maybe not a good one—I told you that I’m not as smart as Dalia…but I stand by my acts under the circumstances. I loved her more than my own life…” He was sobbing. 

I didn’t believe his words, spoken with tears running down his cheeks. He was good. But I knew the truth: Dalia had to die for Randolph to reach his full potential; she had been holding him back, brainwashing him to believe he wasn’t as intelligent as her. There was no point in continuing the conversation because he wasn’t speaking his own mind. Dalia’s influence reached beyond the grave. 

I wouldn’t make the same mistake.

* * *

Apparently, the mirror stopped working for Randolph because I never saw him again, but I read about his life in the archives. He lived until 1969 and died very wealthy although no longer living like royalty. He was never implicated in his sister’s death and spoke warmly of her in several interviews, giving her credit for the family’s success in America. He never discussed how she died until just before his own death when, in an interview in Forbes, he confessed to being present when she fell from the balcony. They had been drinking and she got carried away, leaning over the balustrade and shouting about how wealthy they were. She lost her balance and fell before he could reach her. He hadn’t admitted his presence to avoid a scandal that would have served no purpose other than casting suspicion on him for her tragic death. He claimed that he’d lived with the horror of that moment every day of his life and would be glad to finally stop dreaming of the sister he’d loved so much. His carefully crafted speech convinced the interviewer, but I knew better.

I understood the humiliation he must have felt, overshadowed, dominated and brainwashed by Dalia, because Shahadi was doing the same thing to me. Her unvoiced control kept me from focusing on the story of the mirror, which at that point consisted of a string of unconnected threads, most of them only one or two images taken from the mirror. The screenplay was a jumble of incoherent thoughts, mental trash with no depth or meaning. I had to get free of Shahadi. She was still working late and on weekends so I hadn’t seen her in a week, but we talked every night. I lied about the film. She lied about missing me. I was certain she was sleeping with another man, probably the production manager on the project that was supposedly keeping her so busy. 

Notes for the screenplay littered my usually orderly apartment because I wasn’t going to take orders from Shahadi anymore. Her neat and structured life, imposed on me as if I were a trained monkey that had to earn the privilege of living with her—that was over and finished because I wasn’t going to let her get into my head the way Dalia had overpowered Randolph. I was inspired by his acceptance of her death, free of her influence, able to be his own man; and he’d done fine without her. 

 Out of desperation I picked up the mirror and gazed into its gleaming depths, hoping to speak to Randolph about my problem; but he didn’t respond because he was in denial of what he’d done—accomplished. No help at all. Without warning, the mirror woke up. I started the video camera, planning to review Randolph’s advice later if it proved to be useful. But it wasn’t Randolph’s countenance that confronted me. 

Shahadi and I were on a balcony high above the streets of Manhattan, drinking wine and eating hors d’oeuvres, laughing about nothing, enjoying each other’s company. Just like old times, but this wasn’t a scene from the past. This was the future.

“Let’s make love on the balcony,” I suggested confidently.

Her mouth opened in surprise, eyes wide open, as she retorted, “We can’t do that—can we?”

It was a warm summer day, just like the weather New Yorkers were currently experiencing, so I removed my shirt and kissed her passionately. Her lips responded, tongue probing, hands desperately removing her t-shirt and bra, as we stood and dropped our shorts. Standing naked together a thousand feet above the streets, I understood what Randolph had meant about sharing a sexual experience at such an altitude. Our hands were all over each other as I backed her to the railing. Desperate, she didn’t make the same choice as Dalia; instead, she turned around with her hands on the balustrade. 

“Do it, Nelson! This is a moment to die for!” she exclaimed between sharp breaths.

I obliged her, smiling at the irony of her words. A moment to die for. I couldn’t have put it better myself. She laughed and cried, begging me not to stop. I imagined being with Dalia on the balcony. Her last minutes on earth. Shahadi was Dalia, that was the message of the mirror all along, to break the chains these women had used to imprison Randolph and me. I took my time, relishing the moment, sharing the termination of our relationship. Her legs were weakening, collapsing, when I finished, suddenly pumping hard. The emotional rush of the best orgasm of my life, with Shahadi leaning over the balustrade in ecstasy, culminated when I lifted her thighs and pushed her over the rail. 

* * *

“This is a great idea, Nelson,” Shahadi said, leaning against the balustrade, a glass of champagne in her hand.

She was distracted, vulnerable, and I should have skipped the lovemaking and done the deed right then, but I didn’t. There’s something about murder that makes one stop and think, “Is this a good idea? Did I forget something?” I was having doubts, remembering Randolph’s ambiguous responses to my questions about Dalia’s death. Maybe he had been speaking the truth all along; we were brothers, loving but hating the women who controlled us, stealing our masculinity, leaving us to wither on the vine. 

“I’m glad you like my choice of venue, Shahadi,” I began. I couldn’t stop the flow of words that poured from my lips, unloosed by her trusting behavior. “I’ve been lying to you about the film. It’s nothing more than a draft, I botched it horribly, and I’m sorry because you trusted me, and now the mirror is silent…” I stopped because the mirror hadn’t been silent recently.

Shahadi set her drink on the table and threw her arms around me, holding me close while showering me with kisses. “Don’t worry about any of that, Baby. We’re together, that’s all that counts.”

Between sobs I told her about my conversations with Randolph, his explanation of Dalia’s death given to me through the mirror; and how it differed from his account in the Forbes interview. My tirade ended with my confession to having suggested an extravagant reunion after so many weeks apart, with the intent of throwing her off the balcony during sexual intercourse.

She looked at the balcony, gazed into my eyes mischievously, and began undressing. “Do you still plan to rid the world of my evil influence?”

I shook my head. “Still, let’s use this luxurious chaise lounge and stay away from the edge of the balcony.” 

* * *

Lying in Shahadi’s arms in the king-size bed, the sun creeping around the corners of the shades, I couldn’t help wondering why I deserved someone like her. “Why are you lying in bed with me? I might have been overcome with some kind of delusion during the night—I am certifiably crazy—and murdered you in your sleep.”

She gazed at me lazily, her hands caressing my arms, as she responded. “You are the perfect spouse, Nelson, because you speak what’s on your mind, even your delusional plan to murder me. What woman wouldn’t want a husband like that? Of course, I have to keep your close, to monitor your delusional behavior but, based on everything I’ve seen, I’ll marry you. Before we discuss the post-nuptial arrangements, make love to me, and then we’ll work on editing the wonderful film you’ve created from Talia’s mirror.”

This is another book by a member of the writing group I joined a year ago. I think it was self-published, although the author uses an official-sounding publisher, Archway Publishing. I wonder if it’s trademarked? Anyway, I didn’t expect much after reading a number of self-published ebooks, and I wasn’t disappointed.

This was a first draft at best. The grammar and punctuation, not to mention cut-and-paste errors, increased exponentially from the first to last page. I felt like my eyes were bleeding by the last sentence. The beginning of the book introduces a first-person narrator who is also a central character, Jack Riordan, but somewhere, about a third of the way through the book, the entire writing style changed…for the worse. I have used multiple first-person narrators, and even third-person POV (point of view) mixed with first-person, not to mention two first-person narrators speaking in the past and present, so I’m not hung up on narrator style. But what the author does here distracts from the story; namely, he begins a chapter in the third person past, then drifts into first-person past, then periodically becomes omniscient, often in the present tense. It’s called head hopping among writers and it is a confusing style of writing. I don’t know if it is intentional or not, a choice to leave the reader in the same confused state as the characters.

The plot is simple, the last few weeks of an elderly man’s life. The source of his imminent demise is kept from the reader and a surprise is introduced before the climax. This was pretty good and I was interested, albeit confused.

I spent a couple of years in the company of elderly people, in RV parks around the south (BTW, the story takes place in Florida), and I’ve seen a lot of different couples, even groups of elderly couples. But I never saw four such couples who were as similar as the characters in this story; I couldn’t tell them apart, even though they were described as being different from the (constantly changing) narrator’s perspective. They were all totally fixated on sex. I understood that elderly people can have an active sex life within the first ten pages, but it was emphasized in every SINGLE chapter, as if this were the purpose of the story; this is ironic because the focus on elderly sexuality wasn’t required and contributed nothing to the plot. Even in a romance novel, sex is an important event marker, indicating a change in a protagonist’s view of their situation. That wasn’t the case here. It was gratuitous, but at least it wasn’t explicit.

The author should have been a poet. I was impressed by their use of words I had to look up, many of them used incorrectly (according to my understanding of Merriam’s on-line dictionary). And I was envious of their talent for turning a mundane event like sunrise into a metaphor that captured the moment perfectly in my imagination. However, they went way over the top in using metaphors (especially cliches), sometimes using similes (introduced by “like” or “as”) three times in a single sentence. Give me a break! An author has to sometimes forgo the cheap shot, but not King; no opportunity to interject a truism wrapped in a metaphor into a scene was skipped, often to the detriment of the plot.

This could have been a good story (it is rather short and redundant), or expanded into a real novel by exploring some of the characters who were suddenly introduced to fulfill their purpose. Instead the author chose not to look at their first draft and fix it, leaving an unsuspecting reader in the lurch.

This is an example of why there needs to be some quality control on self-publishing. I don’t have a solution in mind, but maybe Amazon could develop a grammar checker (at least) to prevent half-finished manuscripts (lacking periods for god’s sake!) from slipping into the literary world.

Don’t read this…

The drive from the Serena Hotel to Jinnah Convention Centre was taking longer than walking the 500 m because their path was intercepted by the E-75 highway, a modern superhighway that separated the Blue Area, the steel and concrete heart of Pakistan, from their destination in Zone III, the green heart of Islamabad. The convention center was located on the banks of Rawal Lake, surrounded by forests and grassland. Traffic was always heavy at this intersection. 

Imam Muhammad Uddin Masood had to arrive at the conference on religious affairs with the proper amount of pomp and circumstance, including a limousine. The imam was lost in thought, preparing his speech for the first day of the conference, in which he would describe the persecution of Shia and Ahmadi Moslem minorities in a nation comprising mostly Sunnis. His concentration was no-doubt improved by having gone to the bed of Urwa Sayed, his supposed aide, the previous night and releasing any tension he may have felt. She had welcomed him because he was a virile man of forty-six with an appreciation of foreplay, prolonging his sexual pleasure as long as possible. He had been coming to her bed regularly since she’d accepted her mission, resigned to the meaninglessness of life. She no longer cared who sought sexual gratification in her company, hadn’t for many years. 

Her gaze turned to the green spaces waiting across the highway; fig, tamarind, and oak trees hid the convention center, where she would get her revenge and end her suffering. The Mercedes finally crossed the highway and pulled into the line of luxury German sedans waiting to disgorge their occupants. When their turn came to join the throng, she covered her brown hair, pulled into a tight bun, with an aquamarine hijab and waited for the imam to exit before climbing out of the car without assistance—not even a glance—from the imam.

The Jinnah convention center was beautiful. Constructed in the shape of an octagon, full-height windows piercing brilliant white stucco walls to allow the sun to illuminate the discussions occurring within, a low dome capping the austere structure; it was the epitome of a place where open conversations could take place. There were no back doors or side rooms. Everyone who entered had to speak openly, possibly from their hearts, their words analyzed by the other attendees.

 Imam Masood took her arm and led her to a corner of the open-air atrium fronting the convention center, out of hearing of the other attendees. “Do you understand your purpose? Do you have any doubts?”

Urwa shook her head. “None, Imam Masood, I will do exactly as I have been instructed and follow Allah’s will. I will not fail you or our people—the Shia and the Ahmadi. I cannot wait to look into the eyes of Bukhari Khan and send him to join his ancestors.”

Imam Masood took Urwa’s arm, the grip of his fingers reminding her that she had submitted to him and his cause. “We must not fail in this Urwa or the infidels will gain an unassailable position. There are still doubts among the Sunni, that they may be mistaken in the path they are following; but if we fail in our purpose, if Bukhari Khan remains the minister of religious affairs, we will have lost a major battle to gain equality. Do you understand this?”

“I will not let you down, Imam Masood…” Her voice trailed off, then she added what was uppermost on her mind. “I want to leave this world and join my family. Nothing would make me prouder than ending the reign of terror created by Bukhari Khan and his enforcers.”

They rejoined the other attendees and entered the conference center, where Urwa took a seat next to Imam Masood. She listened carefully to the welcome speech given by Bukhari Khan because she would have to get close to him when the time was right. He spoke authoritatively of the need for religious tolerance and held his arms wide, welcoming the Shia and Ahmadi into the fold, but she understood the sentiment his gesture conveyed. The Sunni wished to bring the true believers close so they could be eradicated. Keeping her hatred for Bukhari Khan in check, her eyes scanned the faces filling the convention center for reactions, noting that there were no protests, other than a few boos and catcalls from the Shia delegation. This would be another masquerade. There was no religious tolerance in Pakistan. So be it. Urwa’s resolve hardened like cement as Bukhari Khan described a Pakistan without religious minorities. They would be assimilated into the national culture. Sunni or death. Genocide.

*

Hard gray eyes observed Urwa and Imam Masood’s arrival at the Jinnah Convention Center from a distance, viewing them from behind a hedge and small trees. The eyes of a ghost. Sinister eyes that had no interest in the conference and even less in the appearance of a radical Shia delegate and his aide, nevertheless drawn to the slim female figure whose sad eyes mirrored his own. The ghost strained to read the dark eyes of the young woman as the older man questioned her. His intense contemplation saw in those hopeless, black orbs his own forlorn world view, and those two pairs of eyes made contact. Urwa had seen the ghost and acknowledged his presence by briefly returning his gaze before deflecting her eyes downward. The owner of those gray eyes recognized a kindred spirit in her, a lost soul wandering the earth seeking peace from the torment of a fragmented and incomplete existence. The ghost was intrigued.

*

Urwa couldn’t get the image of the young man she’d seen behind the shrubbery out of her mind. The expression on the narrow face dominated by large gray eyes, topped by a shock of black hair, reflected her own feelings of helplessness, counting the minutes until the unrelenting misery would end. She wondered what thoughts were flickering behind those intelligent eyes. Was gray-eyes thinking about making love to her? If so, he would have to wait for Imam Masood, whose enthusiastic lovemaking hadn’t lessened after months of helping himself to her body. 

The thought would not die, even while she translated the lies spoken by the other delegates for the imam, pretending to take notes, even meeting Bukhari Khan during a tense and brief interchange between him and Masood. Familiarity would gain her the critical seconds to get close enough to assure success when the time finally came to avenge her family. Having no interest in the proceedings, her presence necessary only when the imam required her as a translator, she found herself wandering paths in the woods surrounding the convention center. It was difficult to remember why she was in such a beautiful place, surrounded by so much life, flowers hiding under the forest canopy, birds singing above her, the woodland unaware of the terrible crimes committed against her people by Bukhari Khan. She bent over to smell a large jasmine flower and, senses heightened by the breathtaking aroma, she became aware of a ghost watching her. Was it possible? Could it be the gray eyes?

She straightened and turned to face the interloper in the quiet forest. 

“Do you speak English?” 

She nodded dumbly, afraid to say anything, not wanting to break the spell cast by the jasmine.

The gray eyes met her sad gaze and the young man said, “Excuse me for interrupting you but I…” His eyes searched the forest for inspiration, finally settling on the flower Urwa had been enjoying before he continued, “I was taking my break and stumbled across you. I will leave you to enjoy your solitude…”

“Please don’t.” The words slipped out of her mouth. Unnerved by her forwardness, she smiled timidly and added, “I mean, the forest is large enough for us to share, what I mean is that I don’t mind company. I was just taking a break from the conference…”

“I also am on a break, from electrical work in the conference center.”

“What is your name?” Urwa asked.

He shrugged. “Does it matter? We are only sharing the woods for a few moments, two strangers treading the same path.”

“I saw you earlier, watching Imam Masood and me, in the atrium. Were you on a break then?”

He smiled casually and said, “Yes, the work is complicated and I must frequently wait for others to complete their tasks, thus many short breaks. I couldn’t help but notice the arrival of a beautiful woman at a place filled with old men. You must be an assistant—no, I think you are an interpreter from your excellent English, better than mine.”

Urwa had been selected for this mission because of her linguistic skill, her natural talent having been encouraged by her parents. She could pass without suspicion among the delegates because no one, not even Bukhari Khan, would believe that someone with her skills would be willing to die to avenge genocide. The thought occurred to her that this tradesman, who didn’t want to give his name, could move around as easily as she but in a different realm—behind the scenes, never meeting Khan face to face. She giggled.

He had been waiting for a response and humor probably wasn’t what he’d expected, so she lied. “I would hope that a translator would speak a foreign language better than a tradesman. You are not a native English speaker. I think you are Italian, maybe Spanish, definitely not Pakistani.”

“Of course,” he replied sheepishly. 

They wandered along the path, skirting the edge of the forest, talking about the spring weather, avoiding any mention of the purpose of the conference that had brought them both to Islamabad. He described the electrical work he was doing, which didn’t surprise Urwa. Men who worked with their hands didn’t have free time to plan genocide or destroy the world, like Bukhari Khan or even Imam Masood. Those were two men with the same character who happened to find themselves on opposite sides of a divisive issue. This gray-eyed ghost was above that; he was not only a worker but not even Muslim. She wondered what it would be like to not be Muslim. She giggled again.

He was walking next to her now, sometimes brushing her arm innocently. “Do you find electrical systems humorous?” he asked playfully.

She risked a personal question. “Are you Catholic? You didn’t correct me when I guessed that you were Italian.”

His answer came without hesitation. “I am atheist, but that is only my opinion, nothing more. I am not a zealot. I assume that you are Muslim, like everyone else attending the conference, or workshop…whatever it is.”

Without Imam Masood standing close by, listening to her every word, looking for any sign of doubt or weakness, Urwa felt emboldened to say, “It must be nice, coming from a country with a long history of religious intolerance, and now being free to not believe in God. Atheism is punishable by death in Pakistan. You would be on the most-wanted list if Bukhari Khan knew your name. It’s a good thing you didn’t tell me. I would be obliged as a Muslim to inform him of your disbelief immediately.” She grinned at the grey eyes and the ghost wiped his brow comically.

He looked down at his watch and said, “It’s time for me to work my magic. I will go ahead so that you are not seen with an unbeliever, but I hope to see you again.” He ran ahead of Urwa before she could respond. 

*

Urwa felt the ghost’s grey eyes on her all day, spotting him occasionally in the background, bent over working on the electrical system, crawling around under the seats and central dais. Now that she’d met one of the workers, she recognized them everywhere, carrying tool bags and stopping to converse briefly, consulting clip boards. 

When they were back in the hotel, she asked Imam Masood about all the activity and he told her that this was a major upgrade to the Jinnah Convention Center that couldn’t be postponed. When he asked if she was concerned about the male workers, she quickly responded that she’d had no interaction with them, only noting their presence. And she did feel their presence because of the ghost whose attention she was growing accustomed to. She badly wanted to talk to him again and was willing to risk a mildly inappropriate gesture to see him, hoping he was thinking the same as her. She crossed her fingers and made her request while the imam was doing some research for the next day’s meetings.

“Imam Masood,” she began, hoping to interrupt his train of thought. “Would it be appropriate for me to go for a walk around the hotel grounds? I’d like some fresh air.” 

*

The ghost had taken a calculated risk in going to the Serena Hotel, where most of the delegates to the convention were staying, but he had to see the young woman again. His gamble paid off when she appeared from one of the rooms, a radiant figure draped in a flowing, black dress and matching hijab, her face reflecting the calm of Mona Lisa. He had dressed, hopefully, in a dark-gray suit, his head covered in a matching kufi cap. 

He approached her from behind, his step quickening, watching the sway of her hips beneath the loose skirt, wanting to see the look in her eyes when he surprised her. But something was bothering him, about her presence at the conference—where she would be during Bukhari Kahn’s closing statement. As much as he wanted to talk about nothing with her, there was an important matter to be addressed, a topic that could not wait but nevertheless could not be discussed openly. His thoughts were in turmoil as he stepped up, ready to announce his presence, when she turned suddenly and faced him. Her face lit up in a smile that made the ghost almost believe in miracles.

“When did you become a Muslim?” she asked mischievously. 

His hand went to the skullcap instinctively as he stammered, “This is a disguise. I hoped you would be having dinner or something with your imam friend and I might join you, innocently of course, and we could talk, with a man you trusted present. Did I startle you?” 

*

Urwa was overwhelmed by the ghost’s statement and especially the pale eyes that looked at her so desperately. She pretended to think before saying, “I was hoping you would somehow appear, just as you did when I first met you in the forest, and throughout the day. I’m taking a walk for some fresh air. Would you care to share this beautiful evening with me?”

He stepped up to her side and they strolled along the brick path, touching slightly now and then as they avoided overgrown shrubs, sometimes just for fun. 

Urwa’s heart was pounding as she ventured, “It only seems appropriate to introduce ourselves after meeting accidentally on purpose…again. My name is Urwa Sayed. I am thirty years old and the only survivor of my family. My father was imprisoned and murdered by the secret police, my brothers were arrested, tortured, and later shot down in cold blood, and my mother was murdered when a mosque where she was attending prayers was destroyed by a bomb.” She was near tears but felt empowered at having spoken the truth to someone besides Imam Masood. She scoffed at the idea that she was confessing her pain to an ex-Catholic.

His response was a surprise. 

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to have your father killed by the secret police, but I did lose several cousins and an uncle to anarchist bombings when I was a child. I know it isn’t the same but it made quite an impression on me. I will never forget those years, bombs every few months, funerals…”

Urwa faced him and he wiped the tears from her eyes, causing her to sob at what she’d missed. She couldn’t stop the tears that flowed down her cheeks, caught by his handkerchief. His arms gently encircled her waist and she leaned into him, knowing this was exactly what the imam and her trainers had wanted her to avoid. Emotional release. With a stranger no less, an atheist. But she didn’t care, their admonitions forgotten in his embrace. He didn’t try to kiss her, a move she would have welcomed; instead, he waited until her tears had subsided and gently pulled away.

“I guess you and the imam aren’t close,” he quipped.

Urwa laughed before saying, “He comes to my bed every night, but I guess you’re right, we’re not close. I’m only an employee…” She suddenly realized that she was nothing more than a worker like the ghost, which reminded her that they hadn’t completed the introductions.

“I’ve been thinking of you as a ghost, because of your gray eyes and sudden appearance, as if from thin air. What’s your name, Mr. Ghost?” She tried to imagine what it was like to be kissed, the one thing she wanted more than anything else at that moment, her lips pursed, eyes half closed.

He kissed her lips, not passionately but enough for her to sense his desire. Their lips were still touching when he whispered, “Andrea Colombo. I am your servant, Urwa Sayed.”

Her emotional pain forgotten, she became aware of her throbbing pulse and befuddled mind, incapable of rational thought. Realizing her arms had wrapped themselves around his neck, she kissed him but with more feeling, the way her mother had described kissing her father the first time. Tongues were unleashed, exploring, caressing one another in a frenzy of desire. Andrea pulled back, leaving Urwa wanting more.

“I’m feeling a little dizzy, Urwa, so I think you should get back to the imam and your duties, and I must prepare for another day of electrical work.”

She didn’t want to let go of Andrea Colombo, afraid of what would happen to her, knowing her destiny and now having doubts about it, just as Imam Masood had feared. 

*

Andrea couldn’t get Urwa Sayed out of his mind, knowing he had only two days to make a decision, one that would threaten his career and possibly end his life. Desperate to confirm his feelings, he sought her out the second day of the conference and found her waiting on the forest path, anticipating his touch and his lips. Her caresses were as urgent as his own, their destinies converging on an outcome he was no longer willing to accept. He expressed his fears when they met at the Serena Hotel the last night of the conference.

“Pretend to be ill, not such a big thing, because the serious meetings requiring your services have ended. You can stay at the hotel and let Bukhari Khan make his meaningless speech, which will not change the predicament your people are in. Your absence won’t change anything.”

“Why are you so intent on preventing me from attending the final meeting and doing my job?” Her eyes demanded an answer he could not supply.

“Why are you so difficult?” he retorted.

“I am not being difficult, Andrea. I have a job to do just like you, but you suddenly don’t want me to fulfill my commitment. I can’t just abandon Imam Masood and our work, which has been planned for a long time. Maybe Italians, or atheists, don’t live up to their obligations, but Muslims do what we have promised.”

Frustrated, Andrea kissed Urwa’s lips passionately and held her close. Her enthusiastic response verified what he’d known when he’d first seen her. 

“I am not going to lose you,” he announced.

“I love you, Andrea,” was all he needed to hear. 

*

The weapons technician attaching the explosive vest to Urwa’s chest spoke calmly as he armed the device. “This is a shaped charge which must be pointed at the target to be effective. Think of it as a really big pistol—”

“I know how it works,” Urwa interjected. “I have been trained on its operation and use. But I would add that it’s a really big gun that blows up in its user’s face. Right?”

The young man, who reminded Urwa of Andrea, nodded quickly and continued his work without further comment.

“Are you ready?” Imam Masood asked.

Urwa wasn’t sure how to answer his query. She was prepared to die, to end the reign of terror of Bukhari Khan and avenge the death of her family, but now she had a reason to live because she was in love with Andrea Colombo. Still, after a sleepless night, she had decided that her love for Andrea didn’t outweigh her duty to avenge the death of her family. She would go through with the plan despite her doubts.

“Let’s make certain it will work properly. I don’t like the idea of standing in the conference center, looking like a fool with a toy bomb attached to my chest, and then being tortured by the Pakistani secret police, the same men who murdered my father.”

The imam made certain that the technician did his job well. When he was done, Urwa stood quietly as Imam Masood dressed her in a loose-fitting gray dress that flowed formlessly and reached the floor. He touched her as only a lover would do, assuring her of the sanctity of her decision, finally kissing her lips. She wanted to spit in his face. She longed for Andrea’s caresses, the feel of his body next to hers, his essence in her womb; she wanted to have a baby with Andrea; a chance for a new life, renewal, but she had given that opportunity away when she’d agreed to die in the name of revenge. A decision she now regretted. 

*

Andrea’s work was finished, the new digital internet-sound system installed and tested, by the time Urwa and Imam Masood arrived at the Jinnah Conference Center for the last day of the conference on Religious Affairs. His appearance had changed as well, no longer the electrician, now a member of the Sunni delegation, the aid to a conservative ally of Bukhari Khan. He had used this disguise several times during the three-day conference and had even fooled Urwa, who’d never known the ghost was always watching her. He had vowed to watch over her for the rest of his life, so the original plan had necessarily been altered. 

Recalling Urwa’s fascination with his eyes, Andrea avoided making eye contact with her, despite wearing dark contact lenses. But he was never far away, shifting between delegates, pretending to recognize them and share their superstitious beliefs. He missed meeting her during her break, smelling her, touching her soft flesh, kissing her eager lips. He watched her during the morning break, sipping tea forlornly in the open atrium. The tension within his chest was unbearable by the time Bukhari Khan was introduced by a delegate from the Punjab. Just when Andrea’s head was about to explode, forcing him to act precipitously, Urwa got up to go to the restroom. 

Andrea was waiting when she arrived but she didn’t recognize him. 

“What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

“It’s me, Andrea. I’m wearing another disguise, as a delegate. I even met Bukhari Khan.” He approached her slowly.

She backed against the door and held her hand up in protest. “I don’t know who you are, even if you are Andrea Colombo. What’s going on? I should call security immediately…” Her voice trailed off uncertainly, her hand recoiling to cover her chest.

Something was wrong. Andrea moved quickly and encircled her waist to pull her to him but was surprised to find a familiar shape under her dress. He froze and looked into her eyes, silently asking her to explain why she was wearing an explosive vest.

“I must return to the meeting before Bukhari Khan completes his closing speech.” She tried to step away from the door but Andrea blocked her path.

All the pieces fell into place: her presence at the conference, accompanying a radical Shia imam with suspected ties to several terrorist organizations, her family imprisoned and killed by sectarian violence. She had come to kill her sworn enemy and herself. Andrea would not allow that to happen, so he took her hands in his, preventing her from doing something stupid like detonating the device. He gazed into her frightened eyes and spoke calmly.

“I am not going to allow you to end your life just to get revenge on Bukhari Khan for what he did to your family. I plan to spend quite a long time with you. I am not satisfied with the the few hours we’ve had. Do you understand?”

She struggled but he pinned her against the door. Her clinched lips finally formed words. “It is none of your business what I do.”

He smiled at her and retorted, “Oh yes, it is. You admitted that you love me, and I feel the same, so there will be no suicide bombing today Urwa, not by you anyway.”

Her mouth twisted into a grimace of pain and doubt before she shot back, “Why haven’t you called security? What are you hiding, with your disguises and sneaking around, pretending to be a devout Muslim, an electrician, a delegate? Tell me that if you can?”

He pressed her arms against the wall and leaned close enough to smell her breath before answering. “Of course, no couple should have secrets and, since you’ve shared yours, I am obliged to be as forthcoming. I am an assassin. A bomber, but not like you. I don’t plan to die or be captured by anyone, especially not the Pakistani secret police. I came to Islamabad to kill Bukhari Khan the same as you…”

“What?”

Andrea kissed her lips, which thankfully didn’t try to bite him, and explained. “We don’t have much time, so you’ll have to trust me. I was hired by someone with more authority than your Imam Masood to kill your sworn enemy and as many of the delegates as I could, given the security situation. The center stage is wired with sufficient explosives to accomplish that objective, killing possibly ten delegates and severely wounding another thirty, including Imam Masood. Are you okay with that?”  

*

Urwa relaxed as Andrea explained his reason for being at the Jinnah Convention Center. She chuckled when he asked if she objected to the imam being injured. “I was so naïve when I met Masood and so full of hate, that he easily recruited me into his network of desperate women with nothing to live for, and his personal harem. What you’re doing is his just deserves. Live by the sword, die by the sword.” She didn’t mention that, despite the imam’s sensual lovemaking, she had never liked the idea of his getting such benefits from her and the other women she’d met at the training facility. She was a little sorry he wouldn’t be among the fatalities of Andrea’s work.

“We should go now,” Andrea said, releasing her hands and kissing her quickly.

“What about my vest? Isn’t it dangerous? I have a button on my chest to push to detonate it…”

“Excuse me,” he said before lifting her dress, caressing her thighs, as his hand felt its way up her body, searching for something. “Ahh, there it is,” he added. She felt his fingers tickling her ribs and then he lowered her dress and faced her.

“Shall we go?”

“Is it safe now?”

“We’ll remove it when we are clear of the area, but we have only a few minutes. The device I planted will detonate when Bukhari Khan finishes speaking. Very sophisticated digital equipment. Nothing so crude as a beautiful woman pushing a button between her breasts.”

 They slipped out of the conference center, past security guards who weren’t concerned about early departures, and climbed into a nondescript sedan, before Urwa breathed a sigh of relief. “What happens now?”

Andrea started the engine and slowly started towards the main road, carefully entering the heavy traffic before saying, “We get you free of that homemade device and into a private room at my hotel until we get your identification sorted out. You may be able to travel as yourself…” He shrugged.

Urwa shook her head defiantly. “I don’t want to be Urwa Sayed any more. She is dead. Can you get me a new identity? I mean, are you willing to—”

Andrea cut her off. “I love you and, with my contacts, I foresee no difficulties in creating a new life for you, hopefully with me, for a long time. Will you marry me?”

Urwa laughed joyfully at his proposal. “I thought you’d never ask! But what about your occupation? I’ve had enough stress in my life and I don’t know if I can be happy with a husband who’s constantly in danger of being arrested…or killed.” 

“I’m turning over a new leaf, no more field work, only consultations from now on, unless—”

His sentence was interrupted by the muted rumble of an explosion at the Jinnah Convention Center. Urwa didn’t bother turning to look because her attention was focused on the future from now on.  

I wrote a detailed review of this book and then WordPress deleted it, so this is going to be short and (not) so sweet.

The author isn’t a native English speaker and it shows. She didn’t copyedit very well and there are a lot of punctuation/grammatical/cut-and-paste errors, especially after the midpoint.

I thought it would be a thoughtful examination of how “beautiful” people think and why they do what they do. Instead, it was a cop-out: girl meets boy of her dreams, again and again and again…you get it. Some drama is thrown in as if following a Creative Writing 101 outline, but it didn’t stick.

It’s cheesy, incomplete, repetitive, cliche, and just not very interesting.

I won’t be reading the second and third books in the series, to discover what the beautiful and gorgeous couple will do next.

Ugh!

I joined a writers group last year and I’ve been trying to read something written by my fellow aspiring authors. Most of them haven’t figured out how to self-publish, or don’t have anything ready, but several have managed to jump that hurdle. I reviewed one several months ago and found it interesting and well written (The Tollkeeper), even though it wasn’t a genre I read regularly. That was a paperback.

Todays’ review is by another fellow Inkling, but it I read it on my new Kindle because getting paperbacks has suddenly become challenging (I heard that the printers are running out of paper). I wrote a review for Amazon but that was brief, so I’ll elaborate here.

There isn’t much to say about cop/organized-crime thrillers. There are only so many combinations of bad guys/good guys (including girls), so this story couldn’t help but feel formulaic. Authors in this genre have to use words to get their readers’ attention and, unfortunately, this story doesn’t use language well. It comes close several times, but it was inconsistent, as if the author wasn’t really in the minds of his narrator’s subjects (the story is told from multiple points of view). It reminded me of the TV show, Dragnet. But it wasn’t told in the first person, and it couldn’t have been. Several threads are woven together, but then the pattern is broken and new cloth is woven; this was one of the strengths of the story. Very clever, but the storyline slipped a little, and the tension on the plot line increased to the breaking point. By the end, I was counting pages.

Part of my criticism of this book is due to the lack of proofreading. Hoda wrote an imaginative story that fits well within the crime genre (as I understand it) but he fumbled the ball at the five-yard line. As an author, I am familiar with the problem of deteriorating editing as a manuscript progresses because the later chapters simply aren’t viewed as often during the writing process. I combat this natural phenomenon by reading all of my books at least five times (often ten) after the first draft has been completed. That said…this book wasn’t ready for publication.

This isn’t the first self-published novel I’ve read that disappointed me in its lack of quality control. Maybe some readers don’t notice but, as an author, I catch every grammatical error, missing comma, clumsy construction, and it seriously detracts from my enjoyment. I don’t mind wordy writing, sentence fragments, lots of unnecessary punctuation (I love ellipses and 2m dashes), but I get confused by missing articles, conjunctions, repeated words and even scenes.

And when I get confused, I don’t write good reviews…

It was a dark, rainy night. I was driving along a winding country road on my way home from a late meeting at Imagination, the company where I work as an electrical engineer. I was thinking about the challenging new project we were beginning, rebuilding the electric-power grid to integrate renewable energy and mobile storage. My mind was going through the list of requirements when I entered a sharp turn. Distracted, I didn’t slow down enough and the car’s tires lost traction. I hit the guardrail on the wrong side of the road. I breathed a sigh of relief and started the engine, glad to have survived but not looking forward to explaining the damage to my husband. My effort was thwarted when a pair of headlights appeared suddenly in the gloom, rounding the turn, heading straight at me. I pressed the horn futilely. The semi-truck hit my car and pushed it over the rail, my seatbelt pressing painfully against my shoulder as I was catapulted into space…

I woke up in a cold sweat and sat up in bed, mouth dry, shivering with the realization of imminent death. 

“What’s wrong?” Jake asked.

The clock said it was five-thirty a.m., only a half-hour until the alarm would go off. I swung my feet onto the carpeted floor and stood up before saying, “That was the worst nightmare of my life. I died in a traffic accident. It was so real.”

“What time is it?”

I didn’t answer, instead going to the bathroom to wash off the sensation of death. I smelled coffee brewing by the time I finished my shower. I still ached as if I’d somehow survived the accident when I entered the kitchen, my head throbbing. 

“Feel better?” Jake asked, handing me a cup of coffee. We both drank our coffee black.

“Sure, I guess, but that was unreal. I mean, I was there, as if it really happened. My clothes were still damp from running to the car in the rain. I had been at a meeting on a project we’re planning to put in a bid for. Do you think I’m just anxious about getting such a big job?”

We sat down as the toaster browned the bagel we would share, my half to be covered with avocado, his with peach marmalade. 

“What else could it be? You aren’t about to be fired, are you?”

I shook my head and we kissed briefly, before our mouths would be contaminated with bits of bagel and fruit. Jake and I had been married six years, after living together for two years, after dating for a year. Neither one of us was quick to make personal commitments. But he was growing impatient with my reluctance to have a child, an idea that didn’t frighten me; I simply needed more time to solidify my career. That’s why we gave each other quick pecks instead of passionate kisses. We finished our breakfast, brushed our teeth, got dressed, and went to the parking garage to get in our cars and head to our separate jobs. Before climbing into my Honda, I smiled at him and waved.

“Drive carefully,” was his response.

*

I was lying in a bed, tubes running from my arms, aching from head to toe, my mind dulled, scared and confused. A stranger, an old man, stood next to me with an old woman. 

“How do you feel, Mom?”

I was too frightened to speak. Who were these old people? My left hand raised, shaking uncontrollably as I muttered, “Give me a mirror.”

An oval hand mirror appeared, held in front of my face, revealing a shrunken countenance that couldn’t have been me. My hand fell. I gasped, “This can’t be real…”

Awakened from my nightmare, I jumped from the bed and staggered blindly to the bathroom, swiping at the light switch. Afraid of what would be revealed by the light reflected from the mirror’s surface, I dared to look. I gasped for breath, relieved to see that it had only been another nightmare of my death, then I was overcome with retching. But nothing came out. I was staring into the mirror when I heard Jake’s voice.

“Close the door, Kacey, I’m trying to sleep.”

I slammed the bathroom door and slumped to the floor, struggling to breath. My stomach hurt as if I’d been punched. I could barely move, so I sat a while, glad to be alive despite the pain. 

*

“What the hell is going on?!”

I looked at Jake but didn’t recognize him. After two months of dying in my dreams, I didn’t know myself. I was a stranger in my own mind, whatever had been my life obliterated by my nightly encounters with death. 

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing my mind. The pain dissipates within a couple of hours and I feel fine all day, until the next morning. Maybe I should go to the doctor?”

He shook his head. “You aren’t suffering from a brain tumor. I read about it. Your symptoms are all wrong. I think you should talk to Pastor Genoa. You’re probably having a psychosomatic response to the dichotomy of reconciling your career and—”

I held my hand up to stop him. “You have a point, Jake. I do want to have a family. Believe me, I’ve been struggling for years with that. I like Mark Genoa, he’s a good pastor. I’ll talk to him next week.”

*

“Dreams figure prominently in the Bible, as one method God uses to communicate to his people, such as the dreams of Abraham, Joseph, and Daniel; even the adversaries of God’s chosen people were contacted through dreams, the Egyptian Pharaoh and Nebuchadnezzar for example. Despite the importance of dreams as a means of communicating with God, it’s easy to misinterpret an experience we all have nightly as a message from God. From what you’ve said, these are persistent dreams with a clear message of your death, not calling for action that would advance His work on earth. Do you know what I mean?”

“Sure, Pastor Genoa, I’m not dreaming about the end of the world or even a catastrophe, unless my death is seen as a disaster. I guess I’m the only one with that perspective.”

He smiled knowingly. “Your death would be a great loss to all of us, but probably not the sort of thing God would warn the world of. Also, your dreams are not the same. If you dreamed of the same death every night, you could take precautions to avoid it, and thus live a full life doing God’s work. But there is no central theme to your dreams other than your death in innumerable ways.”

“So, you don’t think God is sending me a message?”

His head shook slightly and he changed the subject. “Do you mind if I ask whether you and Jake are having any marital issues? I’m here to help in any way I can, to help you identify family strife before it becomes a problem.”

There it was again, this time from my pastor. “We want to have a family but I’ve been putting it off, wanting to establish my career. There’s nothing wrong with waiting, is there; after all, I’m only thirty-four.” 

He thought a moment before answering. “In one dream, you died alone on a bleak and dreadful night but in another you died an old woman with grown children at your bedside. Do you think you are conflicted about having a family? Young women in your situation have successful careers as mothers…might you be hiding something even from yourself?”

Just like that, he’d put his finger on it. I had to confess what was the likely source of our marital strife. “Three years ago, I became pregnant but insisted on a medical abortion, which made Jake very unhappy. He saw it as God’s will but I… I wasn’t ready. I think he may resent my decision, made over his strenuous objections. Do you think I’m having nightmares of dying because of guilt?”

He thought a moment before replying. “Your situation is not unique, but your family is, so let’s not be too quick to leap to judgement. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Do you think Jake would agree to a counseling session, an opportunity to talk freely about whatever’s on his mind?”

Pastor Genoa had shifted the topic from my dreams to my marriage in a heartbeat. He was right of course. About Jake’s resentment of my decision, but we hadn’t delved into why I was having those dreams. Maybe his experience told him that I was imagining many different scenarios, like having a family or being an old maid, but I was married. I wouldn’t die alone. Still, it struck me as curious that Jake didn’t appear in any of my dreams. 

*

I convinced Jake to join me for a counseling session with Pastor Genoa, a licensed counselor and therapist. We aired our grievances and the blame landed squarely on my shoulders; I didn’t want to have children, for whatever reason. So, I had to deal with that, one way or the other, before Jake and I could straighten out our marriage, and I could hopefully stop having dreams about dying, whether alone or with others present.

*

Dr. Shera Knight wasn’t as easy to talk to as Pastor Genoa, not because she was a black psychologist, mostly because I didn’t know her and wasn’t as comfortable speaking to her openly as with a spiritual leader. I didn’t even know if she was a Christian. 

“I’m not sure why I’m here, Dr. Knight,” I began.

“Dr. Genoa—you do know that he had a Ph.D. in theology, don’t you?”

“He never talked about that. He isn’t much for boasting.”

“Well, Dr. Genoa suggested that you may be suffering from a mild form of a personality disorder. He didn’t elaborate, leaving that for us to determine, but his summary of your sessions suggests that you are obsessive-compulsive. Mind you, he never said that and it’s only my preliminary diagnosis and—”

I interjected, “He’s—your right about that, but why would my being too organized and controlling make me not want to have children? Wouldn’t I just want to control them too? I mean, isn’t that what a soccer mom does? Why would that make me dream about dying?”

“You have a lot of questions and I don’t have the answers. Let’s start by getting acquainted. First, are you comfortable speaking to me, an African-American woman, about private matters, your thoughts and feelings, baring your soul so to speak?”

I nodded. “Not so much as with Pastor Genoa, but I don’t have a problem with your ethnicity. After all, Pastor—I mean Dr. Genoa—recommended you, so I have no problem with trust. I’m more concerned about being treated as a test subject, if that makes any sense…” I stopped talking, feeling that Dr. Knight wouldn’t understand where I was coming from. 

She smiled knowingly. “You are not a test subject. I admit that every psychologist has an agenda, something we are interested in, but that never takes precedence over helping the patient. Helping you get through this is my highest priority.” She paused and looked at me, her brown eyes peering into my soul, before she added, “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you are here.”

I had been doing some internet research on dreams, neuroscience, quantum biology, and a host of related topics. I shared my conclusions with a skeptical Dr. Knight, ending with a supposition that I was experiencing a quantum leap in consciousness. 

I got a CT Scan at her insistence, which showed no abnormalities. 

Our sessions continued until I grew tired of talking about myself because whatever was driving my dreams wasn’t due to an abnormality in my brain or my upbringing. My personal research had continued and our conversations became more divergent as I obsessed more on quantum biology and its ramifications for my mental state. I didn’t need to speak to a psychologist, a fact she finally admitted.

“You aren’t suffering from any known personality disorders, Kacey. Your brain is functioning normally.” She paused, shook her head as if confused, and added, “I think Dr. Genoa referred you to me because of my interest in paranormal psychology. However, I don’t think you have presented clear signs of paranormal neurological activity; in other words, your case doesn’t fit into existing models of psychology, neither abnormal or paranormal. What I mean is that—”

I leapt from my chair and exclaimed, “You never told me about your interest in parapsychology! You’ve been leading me on, pretending that I had a normal disorder, maybe something from my childhood. I can’t believe you did that. I never should have trusted you!”

She explained the difference between her clinical commitment to her patient and her research interests to my satisfaction. I retook my seat as she elaborated. 

“I think you should speak to a physicist who—”

I was on my feet again. “What is going on? All of a sudden, you think there’s a physical basis for my dreams?!”

She waved me back into my chair. “I have worked with a reputable researcher, who is very interested in a hypothesized phenomenon called quantum noise. The field of quantum biology is progressing very fast and conjectures are flying fast and furious, but Dr. Chris McGuire isn’t a dilettante. He may be able to help you either understand of what may be causing your unremitting dreams of death, or suggest a no-doubt controversial hypothesis of its cause. Either way, I encourage you to contact him. We should also continue our sessions, to help you digest what he may propose. He is not a psychologist and he’s a very difficult person to deal with, but…this is a controversial and unproven treatment for your condition. Let’s not get our hopes up but keep our fingers crossed.”

“How do I contact him?”

*

I checked Dr. Chris McGuire out and found his credentials to be in order so, rather than emailing or calling him, I flew to Miami to attend a conference on quantum biology at which he was presenting a paper about reducing reality to a point. Jake didn’t accompany me because it was a spur of the moment idea; in fact, I was planning to return the next day. I read several of Dr. McGuire’s papers and, although the math wasn’t particularly difficult, I didn’t see why Dr. Knight had suggested I speak to him. A holographic universe seemed light years from what I had decided was a simple case of extrasensory perception of alternate realities. Realizing that I was grabbing at straws—clever ideas I’d found on the internet in this case or seen in movies—I decided to follow my therapist’s advice.

His talk was interesting, delivered in an animated fashion, with the usual typos and oversimplified bullets littering too many slides for his fifteen-minute presentation. There were lots of questions, mostly critical of his mathematical theory, which I found to be the most consistent part of his talk. I was too confused to ask any questions but, fortunately, he would be presenting a poster on a related topic. That’s when I would introduce myself. I remained in the same room for the entire session and noticed that he had plenty of difficult questions for the other presenters. He gave as well as he got. 

They were serving beer and wine during the poster session, so I got a glass of cheap white wine and wandered towards his poster. He was arguing with an older man about the parameters required to encode multi-dimensional information onto fewer dimensions. His poster suggested that the cosmic microwave background recorded the generation of the universe as a hologram. His older adversary was arguing that the cosmological constants had the values they did because that led to the existence of humans; the Anthropic Principle wasn’t an oversimplification of reality but a nod to the fact that we existed, an there were fundamental quantities determining the character of the universe. Dr. McGuire’s position was that they were imaginary parameters, created to fit our observations into our limited mathematical models. The debate ended in an impasse, the old man wandering off muttering to himself.

Before I could introduce myself, Dr. McGuire said, “I’m going to get another beer. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll join you,” I blurted. I finished my wine and added, “I think I’ll need a fresh drink to understand your poster, even if you explain it yourself.”

I introduced myself while we waited in line at the bar. I skipped the reason for my presence at the conference, which could wait until a better opportunity. 

“So, you’re an electrical engineer. What brings you to a conference filled with loonies?”

We made our way back to his poster as I explained that I worked on the power grid, designing control systems, but that I had a personal interest in his work. I wasn’t ready to admit that I was the biggest looney in attendance.

He explained his ideas to me, with frequent interruptions by others, as I sipped my wine. His basic thesis was that the existence of parameters in all of our equations was irrefutable proof that we were on the wrong track. There was no way to describe physical reality with the constraints imposed by such crude models without them. He became very animated when I mentioned all the parameters required to create an electric current, much less a functioning microchip.

“Just what the hell is permittivity?”

I grimaced and replied, “A parameter.”

“Just because our complicated models produce useful devices doesn’t mean they’re correct,” he retorted. 

I saw an opportunity to steer the conversation to a topic of personal interest. “I see your point. Let me ask you this, if we are living in a holographic universe with no parameters, where does the individual fit in? Are we real or nothing more than an image, projected from the mind of God?”

“That’s one way of putting it, assuming that you’re referring to God as the enervating force behind the universe and not the deity of superstitious religions. We share a perceived reality because we—our essence—is contained within the same…the same bundle of information which determined from the beginning of time how we would develop, I mean how…” He jabbed his finger at an image of the CMB and continued, “For all we know, that speck in the CMB contains everything that has happened within the Milky Way in the last thirteen-billion years, including you and me standing here talking.”

I surprised myself by smiling shyly and saying, “And no parameters.”

A middle-aged woman interrupted us and, while she was talking to Dr. McGuire, I thought about his proposition. It wasn’t inconsistent with how Pastor Genoa presented the Bible. It made more sense to me than the idea of a Big Bang sending all those elementary particles spinning into space, obeying the laws of physics to become matter and energy. But that didn’t help me. I needed to tell him the reason for my attendance at the conference.

“Do you think dreams are real?”

He studied my face for several moments before answering. “Everything is real, including what we imagine. However, we haven’t evolved the neurological ability to grasp reality in its entirety, so we have glimpses, snapshots, bits and pieces of the picture, totally lacking in clarity and consistency. We call these fragments thoughts when we’re awake and dreams when we’re sleeping.”

I felt like a teenager, a groupie, suddenly enthralled by Dr. McGuire’s intellect and energy. I was more sexually aroused than I’d never been in my life and I wasn’t self-conscious about it. I started to respond but we were interrupted by the middle-aged woman, who had been listening to his explanation.

“Why don’t you join us for dinner Kacey and we can discuss Chris’ speculation further.”

I nodded emphatically, wanting nothing more than to be near Dr. McGuire. 

I joined a party that grew until there were more than ten people. I was worried about where we might eat with such a large group. My fears were alleviated when the woman who’d invited me to dinner announced that she’d made a reservation at a restaurant that served an eclectic blend of styles. My relief turned into excitement when Dr. McGuire introduced me to everyone as if I were his date. I forgot about Jake and my marriage, overwhelmed by the atmosphere of camaraderie I felt, always finding Dr. McGuire at my side. He even made a point of seating me next to himself at the stylish restaurant.

*

“Tell us about your dreams,” the woman who was apparently the matron of the group said, facing me as if I were a student. Her name was Sam.

The topic hadn’t been forgotten in the fifteen-minute walk to the restaurant. At first timid to speak about something so personal, I opened up when Chris—it was an informal group—encouraged me to share my data as he called my dreams. My usually reticent personality dulled by wine, I described a few of the deaths I had dreamt, to the angst and awe of my audience, expanding on details when prompted, Chris at my side, touching me gently now and then. No one had heard of anything like my experience although Sam mentioned several studies that reported similar phenomena experienced by shamans in many cultures. 

The analysis of my case proceeded as dinner was served, plates shared between us, and everyone expressed their opinions. Chris and I focused on the shakshuka and chicken pitas. When everyone had had an opportunity to express their opinion, he shared his.

“Kacey is the first datum to support the holographic principle that doesn’t come from an anecdotal story collected in the scientific hinterland. She is an engineer and, despite her Christian beliefs, she has shared her data with us, without disguising the facts within her personal faith. After listening to everyone’s comments, I am convinced that we are entering a new era of human evolution, a time when we will become aware of reality, although we won’t be able to prove this hypothesis for years. Furthermore, her case suggests that holographic noise is more than a conjecture. I propose right now—mark the date and time—that all of reality is contained within each one of our brains, possibly within our DNA, and we have only to find the key to unlock the mysteries of the universe. Her experiences are the result of holographic noise, expressed to her consciousness in dreams. I challenge everyone at this table to find a way to measure this noise and discover who we really are.” 

He had stood up during his monologue, but now he retook his seat, and took my hand, holding it up like a prize. I was overwhelmed. Apparently, Chris was often inspired during roundtable discussions, so his pronouncement was followed by a vigorous conversation. I had come across the idea of holographic noise during my casual research, but he explained the idea while we finished our meal. I had another glass of wine.

When the discussion had settled down, Sam challenged his conjecture. “That is unsupportable speculation Chris, and you know it. You are grandstanding, like you always do.”

He held his hand up in defense. “No, I’m not using hyperbole, Sam. Kacey’s experience is consistent with the anecdotal stories told by spiritual people from around the world and throughout the centuries. We all heard her detailed accounts of death; they were just the tip of the iceberg. Imagine it, she dies every single night! This is bigger than quantum physics. I’ve been inspired to find a way to investigate this phenomenon.”

We had dessert and Chris convinced me to have some warm brandy, before the group broke up for the night. I was standing outside the restaurant, confused, uncertain where I was, planning to call Uber, when his voice brought me back to reality.

“Would you like to spend the night with me?”

Relieved, I nodded emphatically. “Thank god.”

*

I woke in a strange bed in a strange place, lying next to a stranger, but Chris wasn’t a stranger. He was my lifeline to reality, so how could he be strange? I remembered every detail of the previous evening, especially when we’d made our way to his hotel room and…and made love, because that was how I’d felt at the time. It was a necessary act, to finalize my understanding of my place in the cosmos. It had been an unworldly experience.

“Tell me about your dream.”

His blue eyes were hovering expectantly inches above my face.

“Since I’m already an adulteress, can’t we make love again before doing all that science stuff?” 

“You’re married?”

I nodded shyly. “I forgot to tell you, with all the excitement, and hoping to find a solution to my dilemma, I got carried away. Please forgive me and make love to me again. I’m not over you yet.”

He shook his head. “First you tell me how you died last night.”

I sighed with frustration. “It was my twenty-first birthday. I went skiing with friends from a college I never attended—in fact, I never skied in my life—and someone, a guy I was dating named Lenny, convinced me to try a black diamond slope because I’d caught on pretty fast. I was really good after a couple of lessons. Anyway, I did well so we did another slope, the whole gang of strangers, who I knew well in the dream, doing this several times, really hard slopes. I guess we did one too many, maybe I was tired or my luck ran out, but I went over the side and fell…I felt my bones snapping before I died. I lived long enough to feel a lot of pain.” 

I gave him a sarcastic smile and added, “Now, can we get back to what’s foremost on my mind at this moment…in this reality? I have a splitting headache and I hurt everywhere, but I think you can distract me from the aftereffects of another traumatic death.”

*

I didn’t tell Jake about my encounter with Chris, partly because I was unsure what to expect from the dinner I’d shared with a group of people he had described as loonies. I checked my email constantly, hoping for some kind of follow-up, a contact, something. 

My prayers were answered when I received an email from someone called dreamer57, inviting me to a palm reading at their studio in Nashville. This person had been given my name by Dr. Samantha Adams and, after reviewing my case, was willing to meet me in person. I couldn’t believe the news. A contact, someone who didn’t speak in scientific theories, but actually read palms, obviously legitimate if Sam had arranged a meeting. I was elated. I shared my anticipation with Jake.

“So, you’re going to Nashville for a palm reading, is that about it?”

“I certainly am. I’m having regular counseling from Pastor Genoa and Dr. Knight, and they haven’t offered a better course of therapy for whatever is wrong with me. They’ve both expressed support for what I’m doing, and it would be nice if you did the same.”

“This isn’t like you, Kacey, to go galivanting around the country in search of a miracle cure for bad dreams. Next thing I know you could be using opioids and we all know—”

“Narcotics aren’t going to help me, Jake. No one has mentioned them, except you, just now. Desperate times call for desperate measures, not narcotics and addiction. I am going to exhaust every possible treatment to either end my nightly death or learn to deal with it. It would help if I knew I had your support…”

He finally looked at me. “Fine. Go to Nashville to talk to a psychic if that’s what you want to do, but you’d be better off spending more time praying, or maybe having a family…”

*

I parked my rental car on the damp street, and stumbled up the broken sidewalk, slipping on wet leaves, finally climbing a narrow wood staircase that led to a bright blue door. I raised my hand to knock but my act was interrupted when a disembodied voice said, “Come in, Mrs. Aston. I’ve been expecting you.”

I knocked anyway before opening the door to find myself in a small salon, furnished with two armchairs, a coffee table, and end tables adorned with decorative lamps. A map of the world hung on one wall, punctured with thumb tacks. A worn rug partly covered the freshly painted wood floor. I closed the door and stood motionless, feeling as if I were in a holy place, in the presence of God. A short, stout woman who looked Native American appeared in a doorway.

“Good morning, Mrs. Aston, I’m Halona Descheene. I am full-blooded Cherokee, the daughter of a shaman, my lineage goes back too many generations to count, all spiritual leaders of my people.” She stepped into the room and beckoned me to take a seat in one of the chairs.

I sat down and said, “Then, I guess you’re the right person for me to talk to or do whatever it is that you do…in the spiritual realm I mean. This affliction is driving me crazy, destroying my health, my marriage, upending everything I’ve worked so hard for.”

Instead of sitting down, Halona started boiling water on a hotplate I hadn’t noticed before. “Let’s have some tea,” she said, depositing leaves into a glass decanter. I wanted to ask if those were coca leaves but didn’t, afraid of insulting my host.

Still standing, waiting for the pot to boil, she asked, “Do you have something personal that I could examine?”

I started to remove my wedding ring but was stopped by her firm voice. “Something that predates your marriage, maybe a photo?”

I dug in my bag and retrieved my wallet, producing a photograph of me with my parents when I was a baby. I held it out and she took it from my grasp, before examining it closely for several minutes while I waited impatiently. Halona wasn’t in a hurry. When the teapot began to scream, she dropped my precious memorabilia on the table and poured water into the decanter. I scooped up the photo while she was distracted and slipped it back in its proper place. She placed the tea decanter on the table and produced two small teacups without handles, before sitting down.

“I don’t think I can help you, Mrs. Aston. Your spirit is too strong, greater than mine, the most powerful I have ever encountered. I should be asking you for guidance. I’m sorry…”

I hadn’t come to Tennessee to be told how powerful I was. “Let’s have some tea and break down your concerns, point by point, before we make any hasty decisions.” I took it upon myself to fill our cups, before adding, “I may be spiritually powerful, Halona, but I am a ship without a rudder. I need your guidance to keep from running aground in the tempest.” I held my cup up and she reluctantly did the same.

“I will try to give you guidance, but I don’t know…”

We sipped together, then I set my cup down and explained what I’d learned from Chris and his fellow metaphysicists. Halona was familiar with the Holographic Universe hypotheses so she nodded knowingly, occasionally asking for clarification on minor issues. I finished my monologue with, “So, do you think I am somehow manifesting the cosmos in my dreams, through my DNA as Chris—Dr. McGuire—imagines?”

She took my trembling hands in her meaty palms. Fear and anticipation were juxtaposed on her chubby countenance for several minutes, during which I felt nothing, not even a sense of my psyche being invaded. Finally, Halona released my hands and fell back in her chair exhausted. 

I refilled our cups with the strong, aromatic brew.

She sipped from hers before saying, “My earlier sense was correct. You are Nunnehi, one of the Great Fathers of the world. I never dreamed that immortals were still among us…you have forgotten your own origins, probably because of spending so many millennia in a mortal body, witnessing the tragic downfall of the Cherokee despite your efforts to save us. It is difficult to speak of such things in English, Mrs. Aston, but you…you are not bound by space and time.”

This was a big leap for me to grasp. “What does that mean?!”

She refilled our cups and emptied hers before responding, “The Nunnehi—beings like you—were nothing more than myths and legends passed down orally for many millennia by the shamans of the Cherokee. This is the twenty-first century. I know that your race was never meant to save only my people. You are here to save humanity in its direst moment. I just never imagined it would occur during my life…”

After my conversations with Chris and his collaborators, I accepted Halona’s story and my place within it, but I didn’t see myself as a messiah; that was probably her interpretation of something she’d sensed, something scientific instruments couldn’t measure. Maybe she was right and I was simply an immortal imagining a death I would never suffer; or maybe Chris was correct, and I was seeing multiple, divergent realities; maybe I had chosen one and that was the one I was living, bringing him and Halona along for the ride. I wasn’t satisfied with that dichotomy. There was no reason, under either of these scenarios, that I would be aware of my status as one of the Lords of the Universe. The entire situation was ludicrous, and to think I’d let myself be drawn into such a fantasy world, where I was deciding between alternate fantasies; but the dreams were real and both a spiritual leader I trusted, and a psychiatrist who spoke openly, approved of the path I was following. Nevertheless, I doubted they would be so supportive after Halona’s revelation. It was obvious to me that centuries of scientific progress hadn’t improved on an oral tradition of ghosts and goblins.

I had several questions for Chris McGuire, besides asking him to help me forget my dreams for a few hours. For one thing, if I was living in a holographic universe in which my dreams had become a window to other worlds, why hadn’t I found a way to get off the treadmill? Another burning question was: Why was I experiencing these alternate realities now? I hadn’t suffered any brain trauma; nothing unusual preceded the onset of this phenomenon, which didn’t even have a point; no messages and no clues to the meaning of life, nothing. 

I insisted on taking Halona out to dinner, to get to know each other better because, as I explained to her, I would be visiting her regularly in the future unless that would make her uncomfortable. By the time I dropped her off at her studio/apartment, we were friends and she was no longer calling me Mrs. Aston or one of the Great Fathers. I had also learned more about the oral tradition surrounding the Nunnehi, about her culture and how their spiritual beliefs weren’t so different from my own. 

*

I opened my eyes to find Chris’ blue orbs gazing into my soul. Before he could ask about my dream, I volunteered a summary. “It was rather benign, as dying goes. I slipped on some ice at an apartment I didn’t recognize, although I was about seventy, maybe older. It didn’t look like a retirement community, no handrails or anything. I cracked my head on a step and died instantly. Can you make me feel better now?” I pushed the sheets down, baring my body as openly as I’d shared my soul.

Chris and I had become lovers after our encounter at the conference in Miami. I naturally turned to him after my disconcerting visit with Halona in Nashville, skipping returning to work, making excuses about a sudden death in the family; what counted was that I was with Chris, my rock-star science hero. I shared my feelings with him as he did his best to distract me from my rapidly escalating problems.

“Oh god…oh god, I love you Chris, even if you don’t feel the same…oh god, that feels so good, even if you don’t feel it like I do, I don’t care because you are the key, oh god, do that again!”

“Shut up and let me think,” he retorted as he fulfilled my request. 

I was still shivering when his face reappeared between my thighs. He pulled himself up to face me and blurted, “I love you too Kacey, even though you’re a married woman. Goddamnit! I swore I would never have an affair with a married woman, but then you showed up. I don’t know about you, but I’m not a—you tricked me when we first slept together and now, I’m lost, confused…”

I breathed a deep sigh of relief, holding him close, clinging to my lifeline. Emboldened by his ambiguous support, I made a wild conjecture that felt right at that moment. “I think we’re a lot more alike than either you or Halona thinks. I feel something lying here with you that I’ve never felt before. I have a superpower…don’t get me wrong, my talent is loving you, not flying or any of—”

His finger against my lips stopped my foolish rant. “We’re going to talk to Jake and sort this out. I won’t live like this, sneaking around at night, meeting clandestinely. I have to make it right by him, at least not backstab him…”

It was my turn. “We’ll come clean but I’m not letting you go, Chris. You’re the only person who can help me determine if I’m crazy or immortal.” My grin must have given me away.

“You’re immortal all right, but I don’t want to risk your life to prove it because I could be wrong. No experiments with immortality, except maybe as I get older and you remain young and healthy. Deal?”

One thing no longer bothered me. “I wonder what our children will think about that?” 

*

I accompanied Jake to a retirement party for one of his coworkers the day before Chris was going to fly down to settle things. Our affair wasn’t really his fault; after all, I’d forgotten about Jake during that incredible evening in Orlando and subconsciously tricked Chris into falling in love with me. And now, he was so invested in whatever was happening that I felt like a lab rat, devoted to the scientist experimenting on me. Chris and I had had several other meetings with his colleagues for official interviews and even experiments in a sleep center; and now he was coming to Alexandria to announce his feelings for me to my current husband, as if asking my father for my hand in marriage. It was overwhelming. I was sure that Jake suspected our marriage was about to end because I started sleeping in the guest room after my trip to Orlando. I didn’t think Jake and Chris would get in a fist fight or anything, but I was definitely nervous about their meeting. I was going to make this Jake’s and my farewell celebration, a good time we would remember for years to come.

Jake didn’t drink much at the party because he would be driving home later. He always drove because he didn’t trust my driving. He also wasn’t much of a drinker; a glass of wine with dinner and a couple of beers on the weekend sufficing; thus unburdened, I let myself go. I was nervous to say the least. 

People tend to be more judgmental when they’re sober. Jake was like that when the conversation turned to everyone’s plans for retirement. Alvin, the guest of honor, was planning to stay right where he was, but start taking long walks to become familiar with the town he’d lived in for thirty years. The next-oldest person, a thin woman named Maggie, shared her vision of moving to Florida to escape the cold and the endless chores associated with owning a home. Her husband had recently died, so I understood her better position better than Alvin’s. The participants in the game were apparently rank-ordered by age, so it took a while for Jake’s turn to come. I was pretty tipsy, having forgotten how many glasses of wine I’d consumed, not to mention a couple of gin and tonics shared with Maggie and some other women. I was playing my role, our last party together, smiling and holding his arm to keep myself steady as much as to give him spousal support. I was glad I’d drunk too much when Jake started with the past-perfect conditional and imperfect subjunctive tenses in the same sentence. He had some complex issues to resolve.

“If you had asked me how I would spend my retirement six months ago, I would have said we’d be living in the Caribbean, maybe Barbados or Belize, but that was before my wife began having nightmares. Now, I don’t know what to expect, maybe one of her dreams of death will come true and I’ll be spending my retirement alone…always thinking about a trip to the Caribbean with Kacey.”

Determined to have a good time and go with the flow, I smiled nervously, welcoming the interest of the other retirement plan contestants, reminding myself that this wasn’t the time to announce our imminent divorce. The mention of death had aroused a great interest in me personally, so I shared everything that had happened, regaling my audience with stories of horrible deaths as well as quietly passing into oblivion. 

“Did you get some help?” Alvin asked.

“Oh yes,” I replied conversationally, a fresh glass of wine in my hand. “I am currently following a rigorous treatment regimen, including therapy sessions with my pastor, a psychiatrist, a genuine Cherokee Shaman with an impeccable pedigree, and a neuroscientist specializing in paranormal phenomena.”

The room exploded in a hubbub of disparate conversations centered on me. It was a nice feeling, to be the center of attention. That thought made me laugh and then the hiccups appeared. I knew they would pass so I sipped wine. When everyone was assured that my hiccups weren’t a sign of my imminent death, a possibility I hadn’t dreamed of yet, Maggie dared to query me.

“What is the consensus of all these experts?”

I scoffed and waved my hand, spilling a little wine on the carpet. “I’m either losing my mind or—” I laughed, blowing wine out my nose, sneezed a few times to a captivated audience, and finally finished my thought. “I may be immortal.”

The room was silent.

Finally, Jake said, “That would at least explain why you don’t want to have a family.” 

That was uncalled for, but I didn’t lash out, too drunk to care about his fantasy retirement. I nodded and shrugged at the same time, trying to indicate my awareness of a potential problem with having a family, remembering my jest to Chris. I replied in a noncommittal voice, “Probably, because if Halona Descheene—my Cherokee Shaman therapist—is right, I don’t remember my previous lives in detail. I could forget who my children are!” My laughter was joined by others. I was on a roll, enjoying my fifteen minutes of being the life of the party for the first time in my life.

Another guest, a young woman who hadn’t had her turn to fantasize about retirement, spoke up with a concerned expression. “I can see that you’ve done everything possible to diagnose whatever’s happening to you but…well, do you think it’s a supernatural power, like…like God or maybe Satan, who’s trying to tell you something?”

I dismissed her naïve question with the flip of my free hand. “Been there, done that. My pastor, who is a licensed therapist, has assured me that my dreams aren’t a message from God. And they aren’t an enticement to do evil, delivered by Satan. My psychiatrist assures me that my dreams are not symptoms of a behavioral or psychiatric disorder.” I took a drink from my wine glass and threw my free hand in the air as I added, “I’m off the charts!” A little wine spilled and I grimaced, apologizing for my clumsiness.

“Don’t worry about it, Kacey,” I was assured by my hostess. “It’s obvious that you’re a very intelligent young woman, tormented by something neither faith nor science cab explain…this must be terrifying for you.”

My wine glass was taken from my hand by someone and I hugged Willena, catching her off guard in my sudden, emotional embrace. I held her and felt her arms wrap around my shoulders. I cried. My tears turned into a torrent, a flood of fear, pain, anticipation flowing down my cheeks as I clung to this older woman for dear life. She shared my emotional release, squeezing me, her hand caressing my head, telling me it would be okay, as long as I remained true to myself. She was right about that. I finally lifted my head from her shoulder, smiled tearfully, and reluctantly stepped back from her comforting presence. 

“I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry for spoiling Alvin’s retirement. I just felt so comfortable with all of you, I guess I got carried away…”

I was assaulted by everyone, except Jake. They shared their recurring nightmares, their fears of failure, dissolution, even death, with me as they hugged me, holding me as tightly as I had held Willena. I felt their fear in a way I hadn’t empathized with anyone before in my life. Having admitted my anxieties, I was capable of sharing theirs. I didn’t understand why Jake was staring at me as if I’d shared his deepest secrets to these strangers because I hadn’t mentioned him once during my monologue. I smiled, still trying to make this a great last date, took his hand and kissed his cheek, a kiss goodbye. I wouldn’t be comfortable pretending to be his wife when Chris arrived the next day, but I liked Jake; maybe I had loved him once upon a time, but that time was gone. 

Jake and I were the last to leave. I was drunk but he was as sober as a church mouse. 

I relaxed, knowing I wouldn’t be trying to follow those winding, poorly marked roads back to Reston. I was about to take a nap when Jake’s voice, dripping with sarcasm, jolted me awake. 

“You should get an Oscar for that performance. My coworkers were standing in line to kiss your hand, as if you were Jesus, and I can’t imagine how your crazy story will impact my position within the company. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” 

Fully aroused by his strong words, I sat up and faced him, blinking to reduce the double vision, which was a waste of time because I was really intoxicated. “Why don’t you explain?” I asked, hoping to nap while he ranted about everything I had just shared at the party. I had revealed my innermost fears to complete strangers, but apparently my action had only been a ruse in Jake’s mind. 

“You have continually undermined me in our dealings with my coworkers. Do you remember last year, at the Christmas party? You maligned my greatest accomplishment of the year, calling it a hack job to cover a technical error that had grown into a marketing problem. Do you know how that felt to me?”

I was drifting in and out of consciousness by this time, unable to formulate a coherent response, so I remembered my vow to myself. “I’m sorry about that, Jake. I guess I got carried away. I’m really sorry…”

I dozed for a few minutes as Jake’s voice rambled through time and space. I was awakened when my seat belt cut painfully into my shoulder. Time slowed to a crawl. Fully conscious, I screamed when the car tumbled off the road as if we were in a dryer. My head was bouncing around, hitting the roof, colliding with Jake’s skull. His eyes were open and dull, his brain unconscious from the beating it was receiving. Probably dead. As if following a script, my hand found the seatback lever and I reclined fully, escaping the collapsing roof as it crushed Jakes head against the steering wheel, spewing a fountain of blood on me. I hung on to my seat but it didn’t help. I was tossed around as much as Jake, sharp metal tearing at my flesh, turning him into sushi, swords plunging into our bodies as if wielded by the devil. I was in hell.

Our tumultuous careening down the steep slope was stopped suddenly by a large tree. It was dark and raining, just as I’d dreamed months before, but reality had continued beyond my death. I hadn’t died. I was alive, trapped in a twisted car with my husband’s lifeless arm draped across my chest, covered in his blood. I was hanging from my seatbelt, the crushed roof inches from my face, the passenger window a slit beckoning to me. I could move my legs, the front of the car having suffered minor damage, a significant deviation from the head-on collision of my dream. 

I smelled gasoline. Motivated, I released my seat belt and winced as I fell onto a sharp piece of the roof, before struggling through the jagged aperture that had once been the passenger window. I felt my flesh tear as I crawled towards freedom, away from the time bomb that ensnared me. I was struggling to get my hips through the window frame when I was plunged into the depths of hell.

My waist was twisted painfully against the door frame by the blast, flames engulfing me, burning my clothes and searing my flesh. I ignored the agony and pulled myself out of the pyre, running then falling, sliding down the slope, cold rain extinguishing the flames behind me as I came to a stop at the edge of a cliff. Pain motivated me to get to my hands and knees in the rain, lean against a tree, struggle to my feet, before I realized that I’d held onto my phone during the entire ordeal. I glanced down and, lit by the dying flames of our car, saw that my pants and shirt—even my underwear—had been burnt by the inferno. A thin ribbon all that remained of my bra, jeans reduced to a few wet and blackened shreds clinging to an elastic strap around my waist. I felt like Eve in the Garden of Eden, covered by a fig leaf, only I was in Hell.

I collapsed on the wet ground, shivering in the cold rain, and called 911. After explaining my situation, I made a point of asking them to bring something for me to wear. That request confused them; I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it, but I was more than a little freaked out and not thinking clearly. 

My second call was to Chris. 

I watched the hands on the clock slowly mark the passage of time. Seconds sweeping by, their expiration represented by the thinnest needle on the clock’s face. Normally, I wouldn’t have noticed the imperceptible movement of the minute hand either, but these weren’t normal times. We didn’t have a lot of customers in the restaurant where I worked as a short-order cook because of the COVID-19 restrictions. Take-out only. Masks. All that jive. The servers were the first to disappear, quietly fading into the humid, shaded streets of the French Quarter. I didn’t feel too bad for them because they would be getting fat unemployment checks.

The hours were an interminable series of eternities in purgatory, the hour hand standing over me like a prison guard, watching, noting everything I did. Aware of its scrutiny, I worked harder than usual, getting the few take-out orders that came in perfect, cleaning and wiping the entire grill area afterward. I would have kept cleaning that kitchen until hell froze over if I’d had any control over time. But I was only a cook.

The day ended and I removed my apron, washed my hands for the umpteenth time, and went to collect my paycheck from the manager.

“Look, I’m sorry to have to let you go Devon but…well, it looks like we’re all going to be unemployed. I feel like I’m standing on the deck of a sinking ship, going down with it. For what it’s worth, you’ve been an outstanding worker and I’d be happy to give you a letter of recommendation, talk to a prospective employer…”

“Thanks, Tom. We both know there’s not much chance of that. I guess I’ll just ride out the pandemic like everyone else.” I was struggling to keep the darkness from closing in, standing there in Tom’s office, the clock watching me, counting the seconds, waiting for me to implode.

But I didn’t, at least not right away. You see, I suffer from severe, episodic schizophrenia, which is like losing my mind every now and then, like when something really stressful happens, like breaking up with a girl or losing my job. There’s no cure and drugs like Thorazine, Prolixin, Haldol, and all the others don’t work for me. The problem is that the cure is worse than the disease for people like me; my episodes don’t last as long as it takes for the drugs to kick in. But I got to tell you, I wished I had a bottle of Navane in my pocket when I left the restaurant, out of work, my last paycheck in my pocket, facing the prospect of dealing with the unemployment office to get my COVID unemployment checks coming in. I was stressed. At least I didn’t have a girlfriend.

Whenever I feel an episode coming on, I head towards Jackson Square. That’s where the homeless hang out, many of them suffering from severe schizophrenia, unable to keep a job or even have a relationship, not even with themselves. They don’t scare me because I’m like them—now and then. 

It’s pretty weird, knowing you’re about to have a psychotic trip, like doing LSD. I don’t need that shit because my trips are way stranger than what hipsters get from diluted acid. Mine are real, and I mean real. 

I knew something was wrong when my path along Royal Street took me into the Quarter, crossing Orleans Street, passing windows filled with artwork, antiques, shit like that. Everyone was looking at me as if I was running through the street naked. I was in my work clothes—jeans, long-sleeve green shirt, boots for working in the kitchen—but everyone was watching me, trying to get into my head. They were trying to assimilate my consciousness into a group think through my phone. Unwilling to throw my expensive mobile device in the gutter, I winced but kept moving. I turned the phone off, knowing that wouldn’t stop them. I had an objective, the Café du Monde for a cup of coffee, if I could only make it without being overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught of the people around me. They were all unwitting accomplices of the Deep State.

I sipped my coffee, accompanied by a beignet, and avoided making eye contact with anyone, but there was one guy who kept watching me. He wasn’t much older than me, with short-cropped blonde hair and mean eyes. He looked familiar but I couldn’t place his face. 

Fuck your feelings, I feel like I play for the Saints,
I just want to hurt you, aim for the skanks.

That guy was in my head. He wanted to kill me. An evil look transformed his face into a caricature, a demon with horns, grinning at me. Then I recognized him as the evil twin of Eminem, the rap star. His words gave him away. I had to escape, so I jumped up, knocking my table over, and confronted my tormentor.

“Stay away from me! Get out of my head, motherfucker!”

I left him with a surprised expression at my recognition of his identity, and ran out of the restaurant without paying. I fled from his retort.

This darkness comes in me
And comes again
That ain’t me
He’s just a friend who pops up now and again
So don’t blame me, blame him

My hands flew up to cover my ears, running; out of breath, I stopped in front of an art store, not far from Jackson Square. The evil countenance stared back at me from the glass, taunting me, its smug look reminding me that there was no escape.

“I am not you, asshole!” I shouted, turning away from the reflection, fearing the truth, I was the evil twin, destined to commit some evil act to appease the monster that had gotten inside my head.

Stumbling, driven like cattle, my footsteps carried me to my destination.

Welcome back to the land of the living, my friend
You have slept for quite some time

“I don’t want to hear your foul words,” I said, falling onto the steps of St. Peter’s, oblivious to the people walking past. I looked up at the ornate doors, closed to me, not letting me enter and seek asylum in a house of God. I got to my feet and fled, seeking sanctuary elsewhere, stumbling into Washington Artillery Park, collapsing on a bench under a live oak. 

Bed-written and destined to never leave the
Bedroom ever again like the legend of Heather Ledger
My suicide notes, barely legible read the
Bottom, it’s signed by The Joker

I had to fight Eminem’s evil twin, who was not my own, with the only weapon that would work against such unspeakable evil. I joined battle.

“I hear you talking you sonofabitch,

Kiss my ass and go to hell, like the stench that I smell,

Every time your filthy mouth rings a bell.”

And I got an evil twin, so who do you think that’s 3rd and that 4th spot’s for?
And as crazy as I am I’m much tamer than him
And I’m nuts, then again who the fuck wants to plain Eminem?

“Is that all you got?

Fuck you must have been shot

In the balls to talk like such a big fool,

Cause only a fool wouldn’t know what I got,

I’ll rip off your head and throw it in the gutter 

Just to show I don’t stutter”

My last verse was met by silence.

I’d won the rap battle with my evil twin, silence was golden as they say, so I leaned back on the bench, enjoying the sweet smell of victory, but my triumph was short lived.

“Are you okay?”

I looked up to be confronted with my evil twin, no wait, not mine, Eminem’s evil twin, standing there with the same smug smile, taunting me, pretending to ask about my condition, his sarcastic smirk revealing his true purpose. I had won the battle but not the war. Evil never surrenders and it never sleeps.

“Hey fool you talking to me?

Like get outta my face before I feed your gizzard to a lizard

Just to see how it feels.”

Despite getting the upper hand, I knew that he was devious, acting like my friend. Sure enough, he rapped his true intent, the words I heard with my inner ear not matching his lips.

Reversed evolving, turning people into beasts
They’re feasting on each other, strong consume the weak
Flaming ruins, society is lost
Shattered city streets filled with blind, nameless creatures
The sky cracks open, dust is descending
Breath the black air, feel darkness in your lungs.

His vision of hopelessness was drowning me, filling my mind with doubt and a torrent of incoherent thoughts with one purpose: my evil twin wanted me to jump in the Mississippi River. 

“You’re so full of shit your breath stinks,

Suck my dick like eating sausage links,

Get outta my face and crawl back in your asshole,

Punk whore you got no game, just a big mouth and a mind game.”

My words made him reveal his true purpose. His leering expression molded into hate and destruction as he advanced, planning to use his super-strength to throw me in the river himself. I fought him physically, pushing his grasping claws back. He stumbled and fell to the sidewalk, a look of defeat and revenge on his face. No more mister nice guy game.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? You can’t talk to me that way and knock me down. You should be in jail, asshole!”

I laughed in my—no, not me but Eminem—evil twin’s face and flipped him off. 

“Stay in the gutter you skank whore,

Get in my face again and I’ll show you more,

Who’s gonna throw who in the river shore?”

“You’re fucking crazy,” he said as he got up to face me, his eyes admitting that I’d won.

“Fucking right, motherfucker, and don’t forget,

I’m the bro who knocked you on your ass,

Yeh I can take your best and give back trash.”

I felt better about not being deceived by my evil twin, another victory. Our battle was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“What’s going on her, Devon?” It was my friend, Dwayne Peltier, wearing his uniform and a gun to protect me from Eminem’s evil twin.

“It’s the man in black in black in black, 

Got my back my back my back,

Not gonna let evil suck me dry not today not this shack.”

The evil twin faced Dwayne and said, “This guy assaulted me. Arrest him. He oughta be locked up. He’s crazy.”

Dwayne looked at me and at Eminem’s twin, nodded, and said, “I saw the whole thing. You were approaching him menacingly and he overreacted. But he didn’t hit you or threaten you, did he?”

“He was going to throw me in the river!”

Dwayne looked at me again. “Did you threaten…” He turned to the evil twin and asked, “Do you mind if I ask your name, sir?”

“Robert Johnson, from Milwaukee. Down here on vacation. I just asked if he needed some help. He was ranting and crazy—”

Dwayne interrupted, “Yes, sir, Devon does that sometimes, when he’s having a really bad day, not that often most of the time.” He turned to me and said, “Why did you threaten to throw Mr. Johnson in the river?”

I’m not so sure anymore. Another trick of the evil twin. He had possessed this guy, who no longer looked like Eminem. 

“The evil one possesses who he wishes,

It’s just like doing the dishes,

He just steps in and fulfills his wishes,

Swish swish swish until the man in black claims his riches.”

Dwayne nodded and turned to Robert Johnson, who was no longer possessed by the evil twin. “Devon didn’t mean you any harm, Mr. Johnson, but he mistook you for someone else and your threatening behavior made him defensive. He thought you were going to throw him in the river. In his state of mind it was an act of self-defense. If you insist, you can press charges against him but, I can tell you from experience that it won’t go anywhere because he has no history of violence. He works and has a home, he’s not a vagrant, but only suffering from episodic schizophrenia.” He turned to me and asked, “Isn’t that right, Devon?”

“I don’t hurt no one,

It’s the evil twin who does that shit,

Invading the brain, deluding the wit,

I got none of that, not a bit.”

Eminem’s victim shook his head in bewilderment. “No, I’m not hurt, so I guess it’s okay,” before turning to me and adding, “Did something happen today? What made you think I wanted to kill you?”

“The clock goes ticktock ticktock ticktock,

A big fat check and a foot in the ass,

Turned my world into grass,

Mowed down by the boss’s cock.”

Dwayne added, “Do you understand what he’s saying, Mr. Johnson?”

“Yeh, I get it. He got laid off today, and it sent him over the edge. I’m sorry for scaring you like that, Devon. Please accept my apology.” He offered a hand, no longer a claw, and I grimaced as I accepted his proof of being freed of the evil twin’s control.”

“Cool cool cool cool cool,

But you gotta watch your six

Or you’ll become his bitch,

Ain’t no other way to not be a stitch.”

Robert Johnson left and Dwayne looked me in the eyes, his gaze assuring me that I had defeated the evil twin again. “Are you okay, Devon? Can you get home on your own?”

I was tired. I looked up at the sky, bright clouds dotting an azure background, then at the deep green of the live oaks, then at his dark face, my ally in the fight against evil. 

“You got my back,

I got yours,

We scratch each other to get the cures,

Hell yeh I’m straight thanks to my man,

Never let me down don’t think we can.”

He nodded and slapped my shoulder. “Good man. See you later.”

Imagine a timer, the seconds ticking away, turning into minutes, hours, days, the arrow of time streaming toward an unknown destination somewhere in space-time—the future. To make the metaphor more realistic, envision several such timelines coursing towards an unknowable collision, the end of one’s flight and the radical alteration of the others’. That is where Delia Johnson was when she met her new neighbor, not that she was aware of the unstoppable flow of time. She could have perceived events as they unfolded and what was to come, if she’d been warned. Unfortunately, life doesn’t afford such luxuries.

Delia saw the tall black man, his jaw and cheeks covered with a revolting stubble of curly hair, as she was returning from Gordon Park. A trip to the park was a rare opportunity for some fresh air but also an omen for a reduced paycheck. Not having any house cleaning jobs on the weekend meant she’d have to dip into her savings to buy food. The minimum wage she earned at the Seven-Eleven, supplemented by teaching yoga classes, covered the rent but not much else. 

“Who are those people?” her twelve-year-old son, Logan, asked.

Delia avoided making eye contact with the intruders, focusing on her boys. “Those goddamn niggers are everywhere, like cockroaches, they crawl out of the sewer and infest every neighborhood as fast as they can. I can’t believe they’ve reached us here in the city. They must be on some kind of government relief program. Probably getting food stamps and a free education. God! I hate them.”

Logan explained her tirade to his younger brother, Dillon, who was only nine and not fully indoctrinated into his mother’s culture of fear and hatred. He used simpler words. Niggers were bad and should be stomped on like cockroaches. Dillon stomped his feet as if eradicating the infestation.

*

Oblivious of his neighbor’s derogatory words, Michael Jefferson led his daughters into their new home, a middle-class apartment on the second floor, in a neighborhood with a low crime rate. Shyla, only eight, was practically bouncing off the beige-colored walls in the hallway. “I love it, Daddy, oh my god, this is so cool.” 

They hadn’t entered the apartment yet. Nia, who thought she was an adult at twelve, chastised her younger sister. “Calm down for once, Shyla. You haven’t even seen our bedroom—I can’t believe I have to sleep in the same room with a child.”

Michael paused at the door, distracted by a young white woman with red hair and two boys about the same age as Nia and Shyla. Uncertain what to do, feeling like an interloper, moving into a neighborhood with few black families, he nodded agreeably at the woman and opened the door. He was pushed aside by his daughters, Nia once again forgetting that she was a grown up. The movers would arrive with their sparse furnishings within an hour, so he brought in the food and a few cleaning supplies while his daughters inspected the apartment. By the time he’d unloaded the car, they’d decided that they needed the larger bedroom with a private bath. After a brief debate, he acceded to their request, with the stipulation that they would be responsible for keeping it as clean as the hall bath he would be using. The sleeping arrangements determined, their furniture arrived and was distributed through the three rooms. With no internet for several days, the girls entertained themselves unpacking while Michael made dinner—mac-and-cheese, fish sticks, and mixed vegetables. 

Their first night in the new apartment was disrupted by indistinct shouting from next door, accompanied by intermittent pounding on the wall and a TV blaring. Michael had the bedroom next to the neighbor, with two apparently rambunctious boys. Despite his interrupted sleep, he was glad that Nia and Shyla wouldn’t be subjected to what he was certain would be a recurring event. He would have to speak to her about the noise, a task he found onerous. The last thing he wanted to do was complain to a neighbor—a young, white woman no less—on the first day of the new life he was making with his daughters. 

*

It took a week for Michael to finally speak to the neighbor, by which time the immediacy of his complaint had lessened substantially. The nocturnal disturbances had abated for a few days. Nevertheless, he felt obliged to say something when he faced her in the hallway after work. It was almost midnight. 

“I guess you work late too,” he said, hoping the haggard young woman wouldn’t misunderstand. “My name is Michael Jefferson. I’m a security guard at the Wacom building, working the swing shift.” He chuckled and added, “I hope my girls haven’t tried to microwave spaghetti again.”

“Delia Johnson.” She was frantically digging in her bag. 

“You have two boys, don’t you? I saw them with you when we moved in. Good looking young men. I’ll bet they’re a handful.”

The search ended and Delia’s hands were thrown up defensively. “Please leave us alone. We don’t have anything worth stealing. Just don’t…please leave us alone.”

Michael realized he had unconsciously stepped towards his neighbor, hand outstretched, but her words reminded him that his presence was threatening to some white people. Too tired to argue, he retreated to his door and unlocked it, stepping through the portal as he mumbled, “Now I’ve got one more thing to worry about—a crazy, racist, white woman living next door.” He wanted to take the words back but it was too late.

*

Relieved to have survived an encounter with the black man who’d moved in next door, Delia found her keys and entered her apartment. Dillon and Logan were asleep in their beds so she went to work, beginning her daily ritual of cleaning up the mess they’d made. Food spilled on the floor, hardened into an impenetrable barrier intertwined with the carpet threads, lodged in the corners of the kitchen molding. She didn’t bother with the toys or the computer lying on the floor illuminated by a blue screen, their homework probably undone. It took an hour to get the worst of the mayhem eradicated. Too tired to shower, she collapsed on the bed in her work clothes, knowing she would be awakened in four hours to finish the job, before facing another grueling day. 

*

Michael and Delia crossed paths regularly, sometimes in the morning, often after midnight. He spoke to her about the disturbance her boys were creating, waking Shyla and Nia while he was at work. His complaints were met by threats to call the police and accuse him of assault, a threat he took seriously considering his newcomer status in a white neighborhood. His daughters became accustomed to the intermittent screaming and banging from next door, a commotion they had lived with in their old neighborhood. But Michael hadn’t moved to Odawa Village to put up with the same rowdy environment he’d escaped. Despite serious misgivings, he complained to the apartment complex manager about the nocturnal disturbances from next door, even playing an audio clip Nia had recorded. He didn’t expect any action but events proved him wrong.

It seemed curious, almost humorous, to Michael that his interactions with Delia Johnson always occurred in the hallway after work. He had learned to approach her warily. It seemed to him that she was suffering from a mental illness, maybe several—a good example of borderline personality disorder, a psychological problem he’d read about. His suspicions were confirmed when their paths crossed a week after his formal complaint.

Delia’s gray-green eyes flashed as she passed him silently, her lips twitching with unspoken words, rage distorting her features. He guessed that this wasn’t a good time to greet her so he unlocked his door, but was interrupted when she rushed to him; her outstretched finger inches from his chest verified that his complaint had been taken seriously.

“Listen to me, you…I won’t sit by and let you people ruin everything I’ve worked so hard for.” The finger jabbed, making contact, as if it were a stiletto, and the tirade continued. “You don’t belong here so why don’t you go back to wherever you came from! You people move into a neighborhood and the crime rate explodes, next thing you know I’ll be burglarized and have to move, but I can’t afford a better apartment, god knows I just want to get away from your kind. If you file another complaint against me, I swear I’ll…just stay out of my way!” Her eyes narrowed to slits and she added, “I’ve got a gun.” 

“What are you talking about?” he began, but she was already at her door, unlocking it with precision, not searching for her key as she usually did. 

*

“We gotta run the niggers off, right Mom?” Logan asked.

“Not by making a public disturbance. You and Dillon have been bothering our other neighbors as well and several of them complained. Nothing would have come of it except that the Jeffersons are probably on a welfare program, got a government agent backing them up, so we can’t get rid of them by being a nuisance. Do you understand?”

Logan nodded reluctantly and Dillon stomped his foot, crushing the neighbors under his sneaker. “How do we get rid of them then?” Logan asked.

“We just have to be patient, be on our guard, you never know when they’ll do something, we’ll get them evicted because I know they’re living like animals next door, the thought of you boys being so close to them scares me. Just don’t go near them and write down everything they do…whatever it is.”

“Like when they flush the toilet?” Dillon asked. “I can hear them through the wall. It’s so disgusting!”

Delia smiled at him, tousling his blond hair. “No, Dillon, only when they do something unusual, like playing music loud or…or if you see any cockroaches. If we suddenly start seeing vermin, it’ll be from them because I keep our apartment spic and span. Don’t worry, they’ll reveal who they really are and we’ll get rid of them, but we have to be patient.”

Logan ran to his bedroom followed by Dillon. He returned with a notepad, ready to record everything the neighbors did. Dillon had his toy binoculars to watch them.

*

At Nia’s insistence Michael got some premade hamburger patties and hotdogs to grill on the Fourth of July, a community event held on the patio at Odawa Village. They were going to the waterfront afterward to watch the fireworks display. While waiting for his turn at the grill, he met several of the neighbors he’d only seen in the halls; they didn’t seem to resent his presence as much as Delia. Just as he stepped up to the grill to cook his meat, Nia appeared.

“Would you mind cooking some hamburgers for Logan and Dillon? Their mom isn’t very good at grilling. The last time she burnt them black. Please?”

“Sure, sweetie, but where’s their mother?”

Nia’s eyes rolled comically in the direction of Delia, sitting in the sun at the last unoccupied picnic table on the patio, her gaze focused on a grocery bag sitting on the table in front of her. Nia waved to Logan, sitting next to his mother expectantly and he jumped up, the bag held tightly in his fist. 

Michael was too surprised to comment when the stout twelve-year-old held the bag out for Nia, who dug through it and produced a package of meat patties from the same store where Michael had shopped. “Her you go, Dad. They like them medium, not burnt. Okay?”

He nodded and she added, “We can use the extra buns from the pack we bought, can’t we? They don’t have any buns.”

He nodded again and, finally finding his voice, asked, “Anything else?”

Shyla and Dillon spoke at the same time; the overall impression was that he would be eating with his neighbor, using the trimmings and condiments Nia had carefully packed. He wanted to scold his precocious daughters for their presumptuous action but, unable to conceal a proud smile, he nodded again. With Nia and Logan watching anxiously and commenting, he grilled the burgers and hot dogs and toasted the buns. The kids took a loaded tray to the table to join his mercuric neighbor. 

*

“Thank you for preparing the hamburgers…and sharing your condiments,” Delia said as she passed the potato salad to Michael.

“It was my pleasure. I’m glad to have this opportunity to get together.” He grinned and added, “I think that Logan and Nia cooked this up on their own.”

Delia tasted her hamburger, dressed with lettuce and tomato, topped with mustard and ketchup, before saying, “I know we got off to a bad start. Let’s put that behind us. I’m really paranoid after my marriage, my husband was abusive, an alcoholic, and lazy, never holding a job for more than a couple of months. I became a refugee in my home town, if that makes any sense…”

“I know what you mean. I moved to Odawa Village to get as far away from that kind of life as I could. We were living in a ghetto when my wife overdosed on opioids last year, and I had to get out, find a new place. You can’t imagine the nightmares I had, the thought of raising two girls in a place like that, so I worked hard…just like you, and here we are, celebrating the Fourth of July…”

Delia was caught off guard when Dillon asked, “Are you guys niggers?”

Before she could correct his impertinent words, Shyla interjected, “That’s an ugly word. You shouldn’t talk that way Dillon, not if you want to be my friend.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that mom says it all the time.”

Michael didn’t seem offended, casually waving his hand before saying, “I don’t think so, but I’ve met plenty of niggers, black people who don’t work, and steal, mostly guys that don’t have any respect for women or even themselves. I have to admit that I’ve used the terms honkey and white trash a few times myself. We always label people we’re not used to with familiar names, mostly derogatory.”

Delia focused on her hamburger as the conversation slid past, kept alive by the children. She hadn’t known that Nia and Logan were in the same class at school and had become friends, that Dillon wanted to be friends with Shyla. She certainly had no interest in Michael as a friend, even if he was turning out to be a good neighbor; Logan and Dillon had collected no evidence of misbehavior and had started keeping their own rowdy play under control, even reproving each other for excessive noise. But she knew it wasn’t that Michael and his daughters were evil—it was simply that their innate character would reveal itself eventually, a social malady she’d read about on the internet. It was easy to imagine Nia seducing Logan and getting pregnant, an outcome all too familiar to Delia; both Logan and Dillon had been born out of wedlock, Logan’s father unwilling to commit to a relationship, Dillon’s unwilling to work. Occupied by her thoughts, she spoke little during dinner and was thus surprised when Logan and Nia announced their plans for the evening.

“That was great, Mr. Jefferson, thanks for cooking our hamburgers, but I hope you guys can go to the water front to watch the fireworks with us. That would be so cool.” Delia was appalled by Logan’s anticipation of spending the evening with Michael and his daughters.

“Of course, we’re going to watch the fireworks together Logan, what else would we do?” Nia added. Delia noticed that she hadn’t bothered checking with Michael.

“Let’s clean up and get this show on the road,” he announced, prompting the children to go into action as a team, disposing of the paper plates, putting the condiments, extra tomatoes and lettuce, in shopping bags, even Logan and Dillon helping as if they were part of Michael’s family. 

*

Michael couldn’t believe how his daughters and Delia’s sons had bonded, and now they were best friends, holding hands, screaming with delight at every brilliant burst over the quiet waters of Lake Erie.  Delia was acting as if she’d taken some kind of medication, talking about her life and her hopes for Dillon and Logan, nothing like the woman who’d threatened him in the hallway. As the fireworks display reached a crescendo, she expressed misgivings about her own mental state.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind. I know I’m not a good mother but it’s not for lack of trying, but I just can’t seem to get through to Logan and Dillon, like about cleaning up or studying hard, to make something of themselves. God knows I’m one to talk, just look at the mess I made of my life, but I don’t know how to get them to be better than me, to be something…”

Michael didn’t want to sound patronizing, but he felt that she had reached out in desperation, so he expressed his own feelings about raising two children on his own. “I share your concerns about raising two boys as a woman, because I’m responsible for two girls. I have no idea what’s going through their minds most of the time. Nia took her mother’s death pretty bad and she’s trying to be a grown up, to fill a void I can’t fill, trying to raise Shyla as if she were her mother or maybe an aunt. Too often I feel as if I’m not being a good parent because I can’t be a mother, that’s a special bond that has been denied my girls.”

“Was your wife a good mother?”

Michael shook his head. “She got addicted to crystal meth after Shyla was born. There were a lot of smooth-talking niggers where we used to live. She didn’t like being a mother, negligent and bored, an easy target. I couldn’t get her to seek help after I found out about her habit. The temptations were too great and it’s so easy to get that shit…I had to get my girls out of that place, no matter what.”

“From what I see, your daughters took after you. Sometimes I think that Logan is just like my ex—lazy, stupid, weak and completely lacking in any ethical or moral purpose. Maybe it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have spoken to them the way I did about you…I’m sorry for all that…”

“I accept your apology. But I don’t think you did too badly. Just look how they’ve overcome whatever racist ideas they picked up.” 

The kids were lost in the moment, slapping each other in excitement, holding hands in anticipation of the grand finale. Delia looked at them and smiled sadly.

“No thanks to me.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Delia. I heard on the radio that no one’s a perfect parent or a complete failure, kids are resilient. It’s us adults who have the most trouble dealing with new situations. Too many memories of past hardship and mistreatment. But we can learn too. Could you have imagined having this conversation with a black man, six months ago?”

“I can’t believe I threatened you with the gun my husband left behind. He had me buy it because he couldn’t own a handgun because of a previous felony arrest, he even did time. He’s on parole. I’m sorry about that…I seem to be apologizing a lot to someone I thought was a…you get my point?”

Michael nodded. “That’s all water under the bridge.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the grand finale. The children screamed, Shyla and Dillon covered their ears. When the last ember had fallen to earth, they headed back to Odawa Village, the children holding hands and Delia smiling.

*

Delia had been doing less late-night cleaning after the Fourth of July. Logan and Dillon were starting to help out more, making her life less miserable. She no longer felt threatened when she met Michael in the hallway, greeting him and often sharing a quick recap of their days. She was beginning to feel less like a failure as a mother. Overdue cleaning finished, she collapsed on the sofa to watch some TV.

Several loud knocks on the door woke her from a nap.

She opened the door, expecting it to be Logan and Dillon. A glance at the clock informed her that it was about time for them to arrive home from school. Instead of being greeted by her sons, her recently divorced husband filled the doorway. 

“Why are you here?” she asked.

 “I came by to see how the boys are doing. I can do that, can’t I?”

“Not without prior permission. You know that Howey. You can’t just drop by whenever you feel like it. You need to go—”

He pushed the door open and, from the smell on his breath, he’d been drinking. Briefly, she wondered who was paying for his booze. 

“I won’t stay long. I know when I’m not welcome. You made that pretty clear when you had me arrested and took Dillon away from me. I want to see how he’s doing, if you’re taking care of him right.” He pushed past her, his eyes examining the clean apartment. “Looks like you’re as anal-retentive as ever, at least about the house, but I seriously doubt that you’ve been as attentive to the boys. Right?” His brown eyes bored into her brain, threatening to regain control as they had for years.

“They’ll be home soon. You can say hello and then you’ve gotta leave. They shouldn’t see you when you’ve been drinking. That’s in the court order and you know it. You shouldn’t be here, Howey.”

He scoffed. “You don’t have to worry about me, Delia. I don’t know what I ever saw in a skinny redhead like you. So goddamn manipulative. You know what you are? You’re a fucking sociopath. I learned that word after the divorce. I probably could have gotten custody of the boys if I’d had a better lawyer. A cunt like you can’t be trusted with taking care of kids. You should be in the looney bin.”

The memory of Howey’s abusive language and domineering behavior overwhelmed Delia, rendering her unable to respond. She was doing better since meeting her neighbor, watching Logan and Dillon making friends with Michael’s daughters. She didn’t want to fall back into the abyss she’d escaped. Tears appeared in her eyes, revealing a weakness she hadn’t allowed anyone to see in her life. He noticed.

“What’s this? More games? Keeping up the act of the loving mother and devoted wife? Gimme a break, bitch, better yet, where’s my pistol? I want it now.”

She found words but they weren’t the right ones. “It’s not your gun. It’s registered in my name and you can’t have it,” she mumbled.

“Where’s my fucking gun?!” He approached her menacingly, his right hand balled into a fist.

Fear overcame her sense of foreboding, turning over a loaded weapon to Howey. Nothing good could come of this. Still, she knew that if she resisted, he would beat her, possibly rape her, and take it anyway, so she reluctantly went to her bedroom and removed the nine-millimeter pistol from the closet shelf, where it had rested in a shoe box since the divorce. Holding it as if it were a viper, she returned to the living room. There was no telling what Howey had used it for during their marriage, but she was certain he was up to no good now, not in his condition.

He took it from her and inspected it closely, removing the magazine to make sure it was loaded, before saying, “Still afraid of guns, Delia?”

She nodded. “I’m going to tell the police that you came and took it. I won’t take responsibility for whatever you do.”

He cocked it, putting a round in the chamber, before responding, “It never bothered you before.”

“Things have changed.”

Howey scoffed and pointed the pistol at her head. “No they haven’t. You’ve just found someone new to manipulate, Delia. Who’s your new boyfriend? A neighbor? Maybe that nigger next door?”

“How do you know about him?” she blurted.

Howey laughed and lowered the weapon. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you, watching out for Dillon and…and Logan. Don’t worry, I don’t care who you shack up with, so long as you keep him away from my boys.”

“It’s not like that. He’s just a neighbor. That’s all.”

He looked around and said, “Why aren’t the boys here? They always get home by now.” His eyes lit up and he looked around suspiciously. “Do you think they might be next door?”

Logan and Dillon often spent some time after school in Michael’s apartment, studying with Nia and Shyla, sometimes when he’d already gone to work. It was a good afterschool routine that had worked out well. Nia was very mature and kept Logan’s primal instincts in check, reporting his activities to Delia in private. She wished she’d had daughters, and envied Michael sometimes.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Howey took a drink from a pint of whiskey that appeared from his hip pocket. “Let’s pay a visit on the neighbor, whaddya say?”

Aware of the gun he’d placed in his belt, behind his back, certain that Michael wouldn’t be home, Delia nodded, praying that Howey wouldn’t threaten the innocent young girls living next door.

*

Michael had been reluctant at first to have Dillon and Logan spend a couple of hours in his apartment after school several times a week, because of the disturbances they’d caused when he’d first moved in, but Shyla had convinced him that she could handle Delia’s rambunctious older son, going so far as making videos of their activities. They usually studied but sometimes played games or watched TV. Delia had warmed to the idea after watching the videos, which Shyla made without Logan’s knowledge. Now that Michael had a new work schedule, Friday and Saturday off, he could go to a movie with Shyla and Nia and not worry about keeping them up late on a school night; they didn’t seem to mind his presence, interfering with their Friday activities. The kids were in the kitchen, reviewing their homework for the weekend, laughing and kidding one another, never getting out of hand. Whenever Logan showed signs of impatience, Nia would pose a challenge, a puzzle, a riddle or a geography question, her ideas were limitless.  

Basking in the sense of family emanating from the kitchen, expecting Delia any minute, he wasn’t surprised when a knock sounded at the front door. 

*

Delia felt as if Howey were holding her captive, pushing her ahead of him, his foul breath and hand against her lower back forcing her to knock on Michael’s door. Her awareness of the arrow of time heightened, attaining a state approaching fear, not for herself but for Michael.

“What are you doing here?” she stammered when he answered the door.

“New schedule. The kids are doing their homework, probably because I’m here, cramping their normal play routine.” Then he noticed Howey standing behind Delia, pressing against her. His tone was less familiar but not defensive when he continued, “Hi there, I don’t think we’ve met. Are you a friend of Delia?” His extended hand, the same one that had freaked her out on their first encounter, had a different effect on Howey. 

He accepted Michael’s handshake and, smiling in a too-familiar way, said, “Delia’s my wife, no matter what the court says, so I dropped by to see my boys. Would they happen to be here?”

Showing no sign that he understood the threat underlying Howey’s words, Michael nodded and turned to the kitchen. “Hey, kids, Logan, Dillon, your mom’s here, and guess what? Your dad’s here too!”

  Instead of the boys appearing to greet Howey, quiet murmuring emanated from the kitchen, hushed young voices that conveyed uncertainty and even fear. Logan, Howey’s step-son, had no desire to see the man who’d abused him even more than Delia. There was no love lost between them. Even Dillon, who was Howey’s son, didn’t like his father even though he had been spared most of the violence.

Delia suspected that Michael had surmised the truth of the situation because he invited Delia and Howey in before going to the kitchen, making sure his voice was heard in the living room. “Study time is over. You guys didn’t fool me, with your pretense of working hard, but now you can drop the show…” 

Several seconds passed, filled with scraping chairs on the simulated wood floor, before Logan entered the living room, his disapproving brown eyes on Howey. “Why are you here?”

Howey stepped into the apartment and closed the door, a dangerous smirk twisting his mouth. “I wanted to check up on my boys, are you guys doing okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing, “Since I’m not around to take care of you and keep you away from socially undesirable people, I have to check in now and then…” He looked around until his eyes came to rest on Michael. 

Dillon appeared with Shyla following. “I didn’t know this was visitation day.” He didn’t look very happy about the unannounced visit by his biological father.

Delia interjected, “Howey was worried about you guys, but now that he’s seen that you’re all fine, working hard, he has to get back to work…right?” She hoped that Michael caught the hidden warning in her tone. She risked a quick glance at Howey, eyes pointing towards the pistol, a slight frown conveying her message.

Michael got her message. “I can assure you Mr. Johnson, that Dillon and Logan have been working hard. They’re good kids, you should be proud of them, real gentlemen. In fact, Shyla told me that Logan earned a Good Citizenship award last week. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

Howey laughed, glanced at Delia, grinned at Logan, before saying, “Did you now?”

Logan nodded, eyes glaring, but said nothing.

Dillon added, “I’m going to do the same thing. I almost made it last week but that kiss-ass Jimmy beat me out, he’s such a teacher’s pet.”

Instead of congratulating Dillon and Logan on their achievements, Howey turned to Delia, a mocking smile on his face. “What the fuck is this about? Have you turned over a new leaf too, maybe trying to earn an award as most-reformed crazy bitch mother of the year? I don’t recognize my boys, and I can’t imagine how you could have accomplished such a transformation.” He turned to Michael and added, “She had help, didn’t she?”

Delia was fighting the voices telling her what to do, to assault Howey and shut his filthy mouth, kill him if necessary; just stop the avalanche of words and emotions she was trying to forget. Caught in a dilemma of choices, she was unable to respond, leaving Michael on his own against a man she knew was capable of assault and even murder.

Michael tried to walk an impossibly fine line. “Don’t underestimate Delia, Mr. Johnson, she’s a good mother who didn’t have the advantages offered in some suburban schools. She has laid the foundation of learning in the minds of your sons, and now they are harvesting her efforts. It was mutual good fortune that we became neighbors because we’ve been able to pool our resources. The kids study together after school, which keeps them out of trouble, and that’s been the extra help they’ve gotten. Dillon and Logan are part of a study group.” 

Delia finally found her voice. “Michael’s right. I understand how you feel, Howey. You have every reason to question my performance as a mother. But I have help now, when I’m…when I’m at work or…or having problems. Nia has been like a—she’s a better mother than me. She isn’t sick like I am, she thinks clearly, like an adult, and the boys have responded to her as if she was their mother. They love her, and so do I, she’s an angel sent to save us from ourselves…”

Delia waited for Howey’s response to her desperate plea.

Michael filled the silence. “Nia is very mature for her age but we shouldn’t mistake that for being an adult. She’s the same age as Logan. She’s a young girl who’s been forced to act like a woman ever since my wife died. Your boys are not—they don’t have bad blood, a fact proven by their response to a stable, studious, after-school environment. You should be as proud of Logan and Dillon as I am of Nia and Shyla. They’ve formed a community of sorts.”

Delia’s demons had returned, brought on by Howey’s presence, the gun in his belt; they were urging her to take matters into her own hands. He was a bad man, who’d beat her and the boys he called his sons, made her life a living hell, even after the divorce, a man who couldn’t be trusted. He would act as if he accepted Michael’s words but he would be back, demanding money, threatening violence, extortion, anything to get money. Her worst fears were proven when Nia stepped confidently into the small living room.

“I know that you’re a bad father Mr. Johnson, just like I know that Delia is a bad mother. That doesn’t make Dillon and Logan bad kids. I hope you two can sort things out, but please leave us alone to be friends. I like your sons, and they aren’t a threat to society, not like you and Delia. Please, just leave us alone and we’ll be okay.”

Delia recognized the desperate plea conveyed by Nia’s words, a hopelessness born of experience, of her mother’s lifeless head held in her arms. She saw the same look in Logan’s eyes, mirrored by Dillon’s hazel orbs, and made a fateful decision.

Delia moved towards Howey but not close enough to make him suspicious and said, “What do you think? Maybe she has a point.”

His response would determine how the arrows of time would merge, unless there were other shafts yet unseen. She held her breath, waiting for the first word out of his mouth, even a syllable.

“That’s a really good sentiment, Nia, but it’s not that simple—”

Delia reached under Howey’s jacket and removed the pistol. It was heavy and bulky and the act was nothing like in the moves she’d watched. He swatted her hand as if it were a fly, but not before she’d grasped the weapon. The nine-millimeter flew across the living room, landing at Logan’s feet. 

He stared at the deadly weapon as Howey punched Delia in the face, knocking her to the floor. Not thinking, Logan picked it up and pointed it at Howey.

Delia threw her hand up and screamed, “Don’t do it, Logan!” He detested his step-father, who had beaten him and her repeatedly for years. She hated Howey too but didn’t want Logan to have blood on his hands, not in front of Nia and Shyla. All of the times she’d talked about killing Howey streamed through her mind; wishing he’d die alone in a ditch or a dark alley, all those words spoken repeatedly for Logan and Dillon’s benefit. Now, her words had come back to haunt her.

Howey inched toward Logan with his hands held apart. “Put the gun down, boy, you don’t have no business with that. Just put it down and I promise I won’t punish you. You just picked it up after it fell to the floor. You didn’t do nothing wrong…”

Nia appeared from the kitchen and placed her hand on Logan’s arm. “Don’t put it down, Logan, but don’t pull the trigger either. Just relax and let me handle this.” She turned to Howey and continued, “I want you out of my house right now, Mr. Johnson. I already called the police and they’re on their way because this isn’t the neighborhood where we used to live. You can’t force your way in here with a loaded gun and threaten us. We’ll be filing charges against you as well, so run away and hide until the cops find you.”

Unwilling to leave without resistance, Howey retorted, “Not without my property—”

Delia cut him off as she got up from the floor, rubbing her aching jaw. “That’s my gun, registered in my name, and he came to take it from me. He isn’t allowed to own a gun because he’s on parole. Isn’t that right, Howey?” She glared at him. He didn’t look so dangerous with a large pistol pointed at his chest. 

Michael moved towards Howey as he said, “I’ll take the gun now, Howey. It looks pretty heavy.”

Logan nodded and turned towards Michael, forgetting about Howey, who hadn’t moved towards the door as Nia had ordered. Howey lunged as Michael was taking the weapon from Logan, catching him off balance and knocking him into the wall. But Michael didn’t let go of the gun, instead he used it as a club to hit Howey in the head, stunning him. That was the moment when the police arrived and, probably having heard the sounds of a fight in the apartment, burst in with their weapons drawn, pointed at Michael. Delia couldn’t believe the irony of what was occurring.

 Not thinking, she threw herself in front of Michael. 

She never heard the shots that dropped her in a lifeless heap, Howey’s gun hitting the floor, the screams of the children, the orders barked at Michael and Howey by the police, Nia trying to explain what had happened, Logan saying it was all his fault.

Or maybe she did.

Brian Cameron was riding high, having just successfully negotiated a deal with a competitor to share the prostitution business in a lucrative market. The opposing representative had accepted Brian’s offer without complaint, no hard feelings, simply an acknowledgement of his no-nonsense negotiating style, encouraged no-doubt by Manny standing behind him. The same commitment to efficiency had made him the most successful manager in the organization, with a minimum of violence. The boss didn’t like headlines. Brian was doing okay at forty-five, in a position to move up within the organization, maybe even become the boss one day. He glanced in the mirror and adjusted it to look at his face, covered by a three-days growth of graying beard, before turning to Manny. “Do I look old enough to be the boss?”

Manny was Brian’s muscle, his six-foot-five frame built like a wrestler, but he wasn’t very good at disguising his feelings. “Sure, maybe, there’s some gray in your beard and a few streaks in your hair, but you don’t got no worry wrinkles around your eyes. You’ve got young eyes, not mean but…well, you don’t look like a killer and that’s what fools some of the guys, but they learn better soon enough, but don’t get me wrong, I know you and I’d never cross you, but you don’t look like an old man who’s seen it all and knows what has to be done no matter what.”

Nonplussed, Brian turned the mirror back and grumbled, “Well, Manny, that was quite a speech from a guy who usually gives monosyllabic responses, but I’m going to be the boss before I’m sixty. Mark my words.”

Manny shrugged and said, “Not if you keep driving this piece of shit, it reminds me of my dad’s old Chrysler, he loved that car but the rest of us hated it.” They were at a traffic light and the engine sounded as if it were about to stop running.

Frustrated, Brian noticed a repair shop announced by a weathered signboard over two garage bays. “Black Forest Enterprises.” Without thinking, he did a U-turn and pulled into the drive fronting one of the two stalls. The name had gotten his attention, and the Audi R8 Spyder Quattro waiting to be stolen. He’d keep that in mind. Any shop that worked on such a fine piece of German engineering would be able to fix whatever was ailing his car. He tapped the horn before checking the street for threats and opening the door slowly. By the time he was standing next to his steel-blue sedan, he was met by a man wearing green overalls who looked eerily familiar.

“You didn’t need to hit the horn. I heard you drive up. You need spark plugs. These older models burn them out in a hundred-thousand miles. Your 2016 Audi S6 is one of the worst offenders.”

Brian closed the door gently and examined the speaker, a man his age with a clean-shaven face, a contemptuous smile tickling the corners of his mouth. Brian turned to Manny and said, “See what I’ve been telling you? You gotta keep your eyes open, like when I spotted this shop and knew this was the place to get my car repaired.” He faced the mechanic and continued, “So, I know you can get my car running sweet, but what’s it gonna cost me, and can you do it right now? Drop everything and I’ll make it worth your while. We can negotiate the price later.”

The mechanic lit a cigarette and replied, “I can fit you in because I was about to start a big job on that R8, but it can wait until morning. My labor rate is a hundred-dollars per hour. I have the parts in stock and, if nothing’s been fucked with and required maintenance has been followed, I can get you fixed up in an hour-and-a-half.” He shrugged and added, “The parts are about two-hundred-fifty dollars…but again, I won’t know until I open the hood, which costs a minimum of a hundred dollars.”

Brian whistled and pretended to be shocked. “You’re gonna charge me four-hundred bucks to change my spark plugs?”

“Probably more, because I don’t think this vehicle has been properly maintained.”

Brian didn’t answer immediately because he finally placed the face of the mechanic. It was his own countenance, without the beard. Intrigued, he introduced himself and learned that the mechanic owned Black Forest Enterprises and had no employees. He agreed to the basic fee and the hood was opened by Stanley Lewis, who explained that he’d been trained by Audi in Germany and spoke German, besides spending a couple of years working the Formula One circuit with Audi. The under-hood inspection was quick, timed by a single cigarette, before the verdict was declared.

“You need a new ignition chip. Someone tried to make this a street racer and totally screwed up the ignition system. That’s why the plugs failed. I can get you set up and on the road in two-and-a-half hours, but the cost will be close to a thousand dollars, only an estimate, but I have the parts in stock.”

 It was time to negotiate, so Brian acted as if he were thinking before making a counter offer. “Maybe you’d take something in trade, like a new TV or some furniture…maybe something more personal, if you know what I mean…”

“I accept major credit cards, PayPal, and Google Pay. No cash. And no deals of any kind. Do you want me to fix your car?”

Brian felt like one of his clients. He was being squeezed, but he wasn’t in a position to threaten a legitimate businessman who could repair his car. “Sure.”

Stanley nodded. “I’ll need a deposit of one-hundred-dollars, using a major credit card, PayPal or Google Pay.” He smiled and added, “I opened your hood.”

That was a problem because Brian avoided using any payment method that could be traced by the IRS or the FBI or whoever else would be interested in his financial transactions. Everything he did was in cash. He had a checking account but seldom used it. He started to protest but Stanley shook his head and said, “Payment terms aren’t negotiable. I’m not trying to give you a hard time, but with electronic payment or a credit card, state law guarantees I get paid. It’s a mechanic’s lien sort of. And I don’t have any cash around to attract unwelcome attention. I’ve been stiffed and robbed before so, like I said, I only accept a credit card or electronic payments. No bitcoin.”

Brian figured that it probably wouldn’t attract any attention if he were to deposit enough cash in his account to pay for the repair. There was nothing suspicious about spending a grand on a car repair, so he accepted Stanley’s terms—for the moment. “Sure, I’ll transfer some money to my PayPal account while you get started.”

Stanley thought about that a minute before answering. “Don’t take too long because I won’t put anything back together until I have the deposit. Got it?”

Brian understood that he was being squeezed and that bothered him. Manny knew it too. He was grinning as if he’d heard a good joke. Brian swallowed his annoyance and tossed the keys to Stanley before heading down the street to a nearby bank branch to make a cash deposit, so he could open a PayPal account and pay this prick. Part of his mind wanted to beat the shit out of Stanley but another, calmer, voice reminded him of what his mother had often said. “Don’t piss in your water bowl, Brian, or you may find yourself thirsty one day.” 

“Shit, Brian, I can’t believe you let that fuck-head talk to you that way, laying down the law and all. Want me to go back and straighten him out?”

Brian stopped walking and faced Manny before explaining. “It doesn’t work that way with legit businesses, man, you gotta play by the rules. What would the boss think if he heard about me leaning on a mechanic in Queens? Not to mention, we got no treaties with the local boys. They’d freak out and, next thing you know, we got big trouble. Just let me do the thinking.”

“Whatever…boss.”

Brian ignored the sarcasm and entered the bank first, waiting in line to see a teller, before depositing a couple grand in his account.  He couldn’t help nervously looking at the security cameras, watching the armed guard, worrying about Manny’s sarcasm and what that meant. Dealing with banks made him thirsty, so he led Manny to a bar for a beer. They settled in a quiet corner and Brian focused on creating a PayPal account and transferring the deposit to Black Forest Enterprises. Manny kept making sarcastic comments about Brian becoming a regular citizen, following the rules, offering to break Stanley’s legs. 

On a trip to the toilet, Brian looked in the mirror, imagining himself without the beard, and realized he was looking at Stanley Lewis, maybe a couple of years older. Same hazel eyes and hair, same light skin tone, build, nose, chin. He returned to the table slightly shaken. 

Manny kept up the pressure, suggesting they take the car and give the grease monkey a lesson in how the real world operated. On the importance of cash in any age. Fuck the politicians and their laws. Brian agreed with Manny’s analysis after a couple of pitchers. He wasn’t going to take any more shit from a grease monkey. 

“Throw the cash down and take your car,” Manny proclaimed on the walk back to the garage. 

Brian was surprised at such a declaration from his backup man, as if he were giving the orders. There was a lot of give-and-take in their relationship, but Manny had never, even in jest, given Brian advice. They both knew who was in charge. 

“I’ll let you know when I need your advice, Manny. Be cool and don’t do anything stupid.”

Manny scoffed, a knowing smile on his face. 

They arrived at the red-brick façade of Black Forest Enterprises just as Stanley was closing the hood of Brian’s car. It was running smoother than ever and Brian was impressed, but his resolve not to be squeezed was undiminished after the ten-minute walk from the bar. Manny hung back as he approached Stanley.

“What’s the damages? I’ll bet you found a way to jack up the cost, right? Maybe a couple grand?”

Stanley shook his head. “Your engine CPU wasn’t damaged by the half-assed work done in the name of performance, so the only extra work was a new ignition chip and replacing some loose connectors. The total is $620.93. And you saved yourself a major engine job down the road.” He pointed at the high-performance sports car parked in front of the other stall and added, “I have to replace the rings in this car because the owner thought he was smarter than the engineers at Audi. He’s going to pay the price for his arrogance, on the order of thirty-grand. But you’re good for another hundred-thousand miles.”

Manny interrupted before Brian could respond, laughing loudly and saying, “Goddamn, Brian, now that I think about it, this grease monkey looks like your identical twin. But he owns a razor!”

Momentarily distracted, Brian grinned at Stanley. “You notice the resemblance, Stan? Cause I sure as hell did. What’s your birthday? Maybe we’re twins separated at birth…”

“I don’t think so, Brian. I’m forty-three and I’m sure you’ve got a couple of years on me, more gray hair and all.” He wasn’t smiling, which made Brian nervous. Stanley was so uptight.

Brian’s head rolled around for dramatic effect as he responded. “Yeah, you got me there. I’m forty-five, so I guess the twin theory is out, but maybe we’re brothers. Were you adopted?” 

Stanley’s head shook emphatically. “My parents live in Brooklyn. I have a brother who looks a lot like me, and my dad. I guess some physical characteristics are strong, even in different families.”

A thought crossed Brian’s mind, something so humorous he laughed and shared it. “I don’t have a clue who my father is…maybe we have the same dad.” He winked at Stanley and added, “You know, a wolf in sheep’s clothing…”

Stanley finally smiled a little. “Given what I know of my dad’s younger days, that’s possible. What year were you born?”

“Nineteen seventy-five.”

Stanley’s head wagged thoughtfully. “Dad was in Germany in seventy-five, but—what did your mother do for a living, where’d she work?”

Brian laughed. “She was in the personal entertainment business, know what I mean?”

“A prostitute?”

“You got it. Doing tricks here in Queens, by the docks, downtown, all over. She was a looker back then, before getting hooked on heroin, I’ve seen pictures, not one of those ten-dollar hookers, classy. You think she might have met good old dad?”

Before Stanley could respond, Manny interjected, “You guys should get a DNA test, not that it matters, not to you anyway, Boss.” 

His tone was more sarcastic than before, which irritated Brian and made him think it might be time to get a new assistant. He retorted, “Maybe we will Manny, not that it’s any of your business.” He faced Stanley, snapped his fingers in disappointment, and produced a roll of twenties from his pocket, counting them as he said, “I was hoping to get the family discount, but I’ll settle for paying you with cash which, according to the writing on this twenty-dollar bill, is ‘legal tender for all debts public and private,’ so here you go.” He held out the roll of bills in anticipation of having won the legal and fiscal argument.

Stanley’s head shook emphatically. “New York doesn’t require me to accept cash, even though it is legal tender for all debts. I’ve had this conversation before, Brian. I’ve even had lawsuits brought against me, and they were all dismissed because the state of New York has chosen not to tell me what form of payment I have to accept. I know you can just transfer the money through PayPal and you’re trying to make a point, about having the right to pay me in cash. I get it, but I don’t have to risk my life or my business by accepting cash. I can’t make any exceptions. Criminals like cash, so I don’t. It’s that simple.”

The subtle message lurking within Stanley’s statement wasn’t lost on Brian. He hadn’t known about the law just quoted and that bothered him, but he was committed to not being put down in front of Manny. 

Manny offered a solution. “Just put the money on that greasy desk and let’s get out of here. If the grease monkey is worried about getting robbed, he can go to the bank on his way home. I’m sure he isn’t going to tear that motor apart tonight.” He pointed towards the black sports car lurking in the afternoon shadow.

Annoyed more by Manny’s tone than Stanley’s intransigence, Brian strode to the steel desk set in a corner of the brightly lit garage and spread out the twenties before turning to Stanley, his hand outstretched. “I’d like the keys now. You’ve been paid in full including a tip for your prompt attention.”

“I don’t get why you’re making a big deal about my payment policy, which you accepted when you paid the deposit.” He threw his hands up defensively and added, “I’m not challenging you, just running my shop, fixing cars and trying to get paid without being robbed, that’s all.”

Feeling pretty loose after several pitchers of beer, Brian didn’t see it that way. In fact, Stanley’s intractable position was exactly what he was paid to deal with, and he wasn’t going to lose face in front of Manny, not to a grease monkey with a sense of empowerment because he had his own business. No way. Apparently, Stanley didn’t know who he was dealing with, so Brian straightened him out.

He left the money on the desk and strolled over to Stanley, smiling self-assuredly, before saying, “What’s to keep me from taking my car?”

Stanley’s frown revealed that he knew who he was dealing with as he replied through tight lips, “You’re a gangster and a criminal, collecting ‘protection’ money from businessmen like me to leave them alone. Guys like you have sucked the life out of the neighborhood and ruined what was once a decent place to live. Now it’s like living in a post-apocalypse nightmare.” 

“This guy’s got a big mouth, Brian, why don’t I shut it for him?” Manny offered, taking a step towards Stanley, fists clenched in anticipation.

Brian held his arm up to stop Manny and said, “We don’t have to resort to violence with Stanley, he might be my brother, so take it easy Manny. I’ll deal with this misunderstanding.” 

Manny didn’t back up but his fists unclenched, his jaw relaxing. “Sure, Boss.”

Before Brian could respond to Manny’s insubordination, Stanley continued, “You’ve lost it, man. You’ve become addicted to the adrenaline rush that comes from pushing people around. You’ve turned something as simple as getting your car repaired into a threat to your position in the fantasy world you live in.”

Brian swooned as if stricken by Stanley’s words. “Wow! I should run to a church and seek forgiveness, what do you think, Manny?”

Manny laughed. “Sure. Get confession or maybe last rites—something like that.”

Brian focused his attention on Stanley. He shook his head as if dealing with a delinquent debtor and said, “Well, Stan…that was quite a speech, but this isn’t the PTA, a fact you apparently failed to notice, so I suggest that you take the cash and avoid any unpleasantness…” He let his words trail off, hoping his message had been understood, not knowing why he was pushing Stanley so hard, unaware that Stanley wasn’t listening. Something was wrong but, before he could put it together, Manny interrupted his train of thought.

“I’m ready to get the hell out of this shithole.”

The pieces fell into place, but not fast enough. Manny’s insubordination had been beyond anything he’d ever expressed, which could only mean that he wasn’t concerned about professional repercussions because he was acting on orders by a higher authority—the Boss. Brian reached for the nine-millimeter pistol in his shoulder harness, but his actions were futile because Stanley’s body suddenly slammed into him, just as two gunshots rang out. He was knocked to the hard cement floor by the force of the impact but didn’t lose his gun, firing a volley in return, aiming as well as he could around Stanley. 

His gun at the ready, Brian pushed Stanley to the side and prepared to continue shooting, but Manny lay lifeless on the concrete. Staggering to his feet, he scanned the area for another shooter, a backup, before turning his attention to Stanley. 

“What the hell’s going on,” Stanley mumbled, lying on his back in a pool of blood. 

Brian called 911 for the first time in his life, knowing this would place him on the FBI’s radar, but he couldn’t sit by and let Stanley die. And he couldn’t take his car without paying for the repairs. He shook Stanley to keep him conscious and said, “Hey, Stan, I accept your terms and I’m paying you right now.” He made a point of showing his phone’s screen to a semi-conscious Stanley as he sent his payment via PayPal. 

Stanley scoffed painfully and replied, “You are a stubborn man, Brian. Is this how you conduct all of your business, with a gunfight?”

Brian looked at Manny’s body, lying in front of the garage, then at Stanley, and realized that he was in over his head. He’d never suspected that Manny, his backup, had been sent to kill him. Maybe by the boss of maybe he’d cut a deal with the Mosconi’s. Now, Stanley, a total stranger who was connected to him through their shared appearance, maybe blood, was bleeding at his feet. An innocent bystander. He kept shaking Stanley gently, keeping him awake, until the ambulance arrived. When the paramedics had left with Stanley, Brian had to deal with the police. He wasn’t arrested because he had a concealed-carry permit and his story fit with the evidence, Stanley being carried off in a stretcher, the receipt for the repair work, Manny not being licensed to carry a weapon in the city. When the police were distracted, Brian surreptitiously collected some of Stanley’s blood from the cement floor with his handkerchief, certain that a DNA test would reveal that his half-brother had saved his life. Not that it mattered.