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.

This was a good follow-up to Kahneman’s previous book, “Thinking Fast and Slow.” It explores how decisions are made in organizational settings such as criminal sentencing, determining insurance rates, and several other areas. Real studies are used as examples and several important concepts are introduced in a textbook manner, with plenty of repetition of key ideas.

The components of noisy decision making are described and the cost/benefit of reducing each source is discussed in an organized way, making it easy to understand. The origins of noise are described and related to psychological and sociological factors; however, there is some conjecture here because the field has not been studied in depth. Thus, just as with “Thinking Fast and Slow,” this book compiles work from several fields into a concise summary with a simple unifying concept.

“Noise” falls short somewhat, however, because it doesn’t reach beyond the data, which are limited to a few large disciplines where the effect of unwanted noise is deleterious. That isn’t the authors’ fault because they can’t go where no on has ventured before, but I for one would love to see the ideas presented here extrapolated to individual decision making. That would be very interesting.

Alysha watched with interest as her employers had a discussion about her presence in their home, as a live-in housekeeper. This was her first assignment and, despite the training she’d received, she was a little nervous about the tone of the conversation. Her supervisor was Larissa Potemkin but Larissa’s husband, Jack Marshall, had other ideas, which he expressed vociferously.

 “I don’t want that thing in the house!”

Larissa calmly responded, “Alysha is staying because I signed a one-year lease for her to be our housekeeper. We have exclusive use of her services, which includes 24/7 maintenance and upgrades. She won’t get in your way or be distracted by the television, a smart phone, or anything else…”

Alysha understood what those words meant, and her intuition was verified by Jack’s response. “What does that mean?”

Larissa turned her blue eyes on Jack without glancing at Alysha and said, “You know perfectly well what I mean. You’ve been carrying on with all those bimbos you’ve hired as housekeepers and none of them did a decent job, at least not with respect to keeping the apartment clean, so that’s over. Alysha will perform her duties without being distracted by your childish behavior.”

Alysha was confident she wouldn’t fail to fulfill her employment contract, including a few details Larissa and Jack hadn’t been informed of.

*

“I don’t usually go for black chicks Alysha, but I’ll make an exception in your case,” Jack said with a wink and a smile. “Since you’re in my face all day, every day, I’ve gotten used to your presence and you are rather attractive, for an android I mean. I think we should get better acquainted, get to know each other, who knows? Maybe we’ll become friends.”

Alysha turned off the vacuum cleaner and faced him, thinking of the proper response. “That’s a great idea, Jack, do you mind me using your first name?”

“Not at all, Alysha. We can’t be friends if you call me sir or Mr. Marshall.”

Alysha’s kernel didn’t prohibit telling lies as long as they were socially acceptable and would do no harm to her clients, so she activated her secondary protocol and lied, “What is your occupation? It must be a great job, to let you work at home and not even attend video meetings.” She had actually read all his books and used them to construct a preliminary personality profile.

He related an accurate account of his past novels and offered a summary of his current project, which she’d known nothing about. He didn’t have any hobbies because writing consumed all his time. She knew that wasn’t true but let it go, knowing he thought she was his current hobby. Since part of her job was to get him out of the house, she suggested they go for a walk, maybe visit the park, watch people and collect sociological data for his book. To her surprise, he accepted her offer but countered that they could go out during his lunch break, to give her time to finish her morning cleaning. She accepted with a knowing smile.

She’d been given no specific behavioral data about Jack’s hobby, but she collected her own quickly enough. He was touching her arm before the elevator reached the ground floor, and his arm was lightly encircling her waist by the time they entered the park, making their way to a diner on the opposite side. They sat together on a bench under a willow tree, now his hand on her knee, sliding up her thigh. 

“This is nice. Great idea, Alysha. I don’t know a lot about…about android robots, so why don’t you tell me about yourself. What are your hobbies?”

Despite his poorly disguised flirting, she appreciated his interest because her kernel contained only her basic personality, leaving plenty of CPU cycles to develop idiosyncratic interests. She’d been told that these characteristics would remain for her operational life cycle as long as they didn’t interfere with future contracts. 

“I haven’t developed any hobbies yet Jack because I’m fresh off the assembly line…” She scoffed nervously and he joined her.

“In that case, I hope you’ll let me introduce you to the joy of reading and writing. It’s the perfect hobby for a young woman like you, who doesn’t need to exercise to keep her great figure, someone who needs to cultivate personal creativity and imagination.”

Alysha found his charm captivating and understood why Larissa had hired her rather than divorce her philandering husband. And he was right, about developing her nascent imagination, but she wasn’t going to agree too easily. She didn’t want to raise his suspicions or encourage his amorous ambitions.

“What about painting? I think I’d like to start simple, like sketching, and work up to modern art. That’s pretty creative, isn’t it?”

“Oh sure, but you’re limited by the medium to simple ideas, lots of emotional energy, but no deep reflection, at least not by the audience. People need hints.”

She thought a moment before saying, “Maybe I should try film? That combines complex ideas conveyed with words and visual imagery for more emotional content.”

They debated how she might develop her creativity and Jack eventually compromised, promising to help her write a script for a short film. After spending a few minutes discussing the subjects she’d like to explore, they returned to the apartment. His arm had slipped familiarly around her waist by the time they exited the elevator on the fifteenth floor. 

*

“How is everything going, Alysha?” Larissa asked nonchalantly as Alysha was preparing to remove the roast from the oven for Sunday dinner. 

Alysha had become accustomed to Larissa’s poorly disguised attempts to find out if Jack was behaving as of old. She removed the roast beef from the oven before answering. “I love working for you and Mr. Marshall. There’s plenty of interesting work to do and you’ve been so generous with your time, explaining the politics of business…and marriage. And Mr. Marshall has been such a dear helping me with my hobby. Things couldn’t be better.”

Larissa had started helping with Sunday dinner after several innocuous comments Alysha had made about the joy of preparing a family meal. Getting her involved with the home life had been more difficult than distracting Jack from his amorous interest in Alysha because she had no hobbies to work with. Larissa was a workaholic who couldn’t easily focus on a new activity with no immediate benefits. Alysha had finally resorted to making minor culinary mistakes to get Larissa into the kitchen, to supervise her poorly trained domestic servant. After a few months, she was dropping in, between video meetings and checking her email, to chat about nothing. But she always had an objective, mostly circumspectly inquiring about Jack’s hobby. Alysha avoided saying anything that would reflect badly on Jack and this seemed to satisfy Larissa, most of the time.

“I’m glad to hear that but you know what I’m talking about.”

This wasn’t most of the time, so Alysha answered innocently as she carved the roast. “I guess I know what you’re asking, but I’m only the housekeeper and cook. I can no more report on Mr. Marshall’s behavior than yours. However, I am at liberty to say that we have a good working relationship with respect to my household duties and my hobby, which he’s been so kind in helping with, acting as my mentor and critic. He’s really been wonderful…but not like it sounds.” She turned to Larissa with the platter piled with aromatic beef and vegetables, and added, “Mr. Marshall is an affectionate man whose natural intimacy could easily be mistaken for more than friendship. He told me how he’d let himself become embroiled with previous housekeepers who—”

Larissa almost dropped the basket of bread on the floor as she interjected, “What?! He hires beautiful young women as…domestic servants and seduces them, firing them when he’s bored, just like he did with me…” She stopped, apparently self-conscious at her emotional display.

Alysha continued her explanation. “Mr. Marshall does like to watch young women, that’s for sure. Sometimes he watches me so closely that it makes me nervous, if you can believe that! For myself, I believe him when he says that he didn’t hire those attractive women with the intent of becoming involved with them…they flirted until, well, no one seduced anyone…things like that happen. Do you know what I mean?”

Larissa had regained her composure. “Is that your professional opinion?” she asked skeptically.

Alysha nodded self-consciously and replied, “Yes ma’am, if you could call it that. He touches me a lot and even gives me a peck on the forehead or cheek now and then, but I’ve made our relationship clear and he’s okay with that. And I’m okay with his affectionate behavior.”

*

Alysha wasn’t sure what to expect on Larissa and Jack’s thirtieth wedding anniversary. Their marriage had softened considerably in the six months she’d been their housekeeper and cook, but they weren’t a couple yet and that worried her. They needed to have a serious discussion and, since neither one had picked up on her clues about seeing a marriage counselor, the task had fallen on her. She’d convinced them to celebrate at home, on the patio, no chance of rain and balmy weather. They had even trusted her to surprise them although she had suffered a barrage of questions about the venue, especially from Larissa. She took it as a good sign when Jack noticed the music playing for the occasion.

“Isn’t that Bon Jovi?” He asked.

Larissa nodded and said, “It’s my Life. That was the theme song for our wedding, but how did you know?” Her blue eyes were interrogating Alysha, who didn’t want to interrupt the moment.

“A wild guess. It’s quite an inspirational song, isn’t it?”

The moment saved, Alysha kept herself busy and out of the way, pouring the champagne and serving veggie pizza crusts, crossing her fingers, hoping her plan would work. The conversation she overheard from the kitchen (she had good hearing) was to banal so she decided to take action, open old wounds so they could heal properly. Delivering the shrimp salad, backed up by the music of Britney Spears, was the perfect opportunity to deliver a few well-chosen words.

“I love this music from 2000. It must have been so exciting, getting married and not knowing what the future would bring, jumping off the cliff of life, hoping to land on your feet. And it’s all worked out so well for you two. I’m so happy for you.” She left with those words, leaving Larissa and Jack to finish her thought.

It didn’t take long.

Larissa’s voice was taut when she said, “What happened, Jack? Why did you stop loving me, not even taking an interest in what I say or do? Why are you making a point of humiliating me, having affairs with the servants? What is going on?!”

Jack’s suppressed feelings boiled over. “You stopped being my wife and became a CEO, or didn’t you notice?! Were you too busy climbing over your victims to notice that you had stopped being a woman?”

There was a moment of silence before Larissa responded. “Why am I not surprised?! You’ve always blamed me, Jack, every time you had writer’s block, it was my fault, it was always my fault, I wasn’t there to hold your hand, pat your head like a puppy dog, tell you how clever you were. I’m sick and tired of being your mother!” 

This was getting good.

Jack’s voice was breaking with emotion as he stammered, “I was a writer when we got married, when we shared our dream of living our life, our dreams. I guess your dream was more important than mine…”

Larissa’s voice was as cold as steel when she retorted, “There you go again, Jack. It’s always about rolling in the mud and filth of your emotions, reveling in what weak, dependent people call living in the moment with you, but I’ve got news for you. You got lucky with your books, a fortuitist situation most writers don’t have the luxury of finding themselves in.”

Jack laughed loudly, sarcastically, and retorted, “What the hell do you think led to you being the CEO of a bullshit corporation that creates nothing but nonsense, sold to an unsuspecting public through brainwashing marketing? You’re no better than me…at least I know that someone is reading my books and they weren’t tricked into buying them!”

Larissa wasn’t so calm when she said, “You’ve got to be kidding! Your publisher pays reviewers to write good reviews, not to mention those social media influencers, they should be getting half your royalties. I’ve read your books and they are bullshit, Jack. Just plain garbage. I don’t think half of them are even read. It’s the same as selling logistical services. But not quite the same because we actually help the world operate whereas no one would care if they couldn’t read another Jack Marshall novel…you could drop dead and the world would move on. At least I’m contributing to keeping the machine greased…even if inefficiently.”

Larissa had admitted doubts about her position, giving Jack an opportunity to apply what Alysha had been teaching him for months. She crossed her fingers and waited nervously for his response. She breathed a sigh of relief when the hours she’d spent with him were rewarded.

Jack nodded and said in a subdued voice, “I understand where you’re coming from, but people—real people, not econs—need emotional release, even if only at the moment of buying a book they probably won’t finish. I’m one of those people, who just happens to write those books they may not read, but you don’t seem to understand this. Why is that?”

Larissa finished her salad, prompting Alysha to prepare the main course, and said, “They’re just wasting their time, Jack. Why can’t they or you see what needs to be done and just do it?”

Alysha chose that moment to refill their glasses and quip, “For myself, I feel like I’m doing something useful every time I clean the bathroom.”

Jack laughed and asked her for a scotch straight up, so she retreated quietly and prepared the main course, listening to the calmer voices from the balcony. The first words came from Larissa. “I see your point, Jack…and Alysha’s. If the world were perfect, well, you know what I mean because you wrote a book about it.” She hesitated for a long moment before adding, “I’m sorry for denigrating your writing. I’m just so frustrated and…I’m angry because of your carrying on with the domestic servants…”

Alysha prepared the chicken cacciatore while listening for Jack’s response, which would hopefully verify what she already knew. Clearing the air.

Jack emptied his drink and his emotions erupted like a volcano. “Are you fucking kidding, Larissa?! You were having affairs with every man-jack in the financial world before our fifth wedding anniversary! Hell! You were the slut of Wall Street! And you’ve got the gall to act all high and mighty about a few sexual encounters I’ve had recently!” He was on his feet, waving his glass as he finished, “If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black…”

Larissa’s blue eyes weren’t so bright as she replied, “Those were all mistakes and besides I didn’t know you had learned—”

Still standing, Jack interrupted her self-justification violently. “What the fuck does that mean?! You thought that you’d gotten away with throwing our dream into the trash?” He sat down and, as NSYNC crooned It’s Gonna Be me, said, “This is our chance to get back on track, whatever that means.”

Larissa’s eyes were filled with tears as she said, “Let’s forget about the past and plan for the future, always hoping for the best.” She reached out a hand and Jack took it, nodding his acceptance of her proposal.

“Sure. It’s worth a try.”

Alysha chose that moment to deliver the entrée, limiting her expression of satisfaction to a confident smile as she served her guests. The conversation took a turn for the better as Larissa and Jack ate their meals to the accompaniment of Eminem, U2, 3 Doors Down, and so many others, reorganizing their priorities and relationship.

Alysha was very pleased when Jack and Larissa retired to her bedroom for the night. 

*

Alysha reflected on the year she’d spent with Larissa and Jack on her return from the grocery store with fresh garlic and onions. They were eating and sleeping together most of the time and talking about their dreams again. The atmosphere wasn’t completely cleared of hostility, but most of what remained was the inevitable result of two people with such strong personalities living in close proximity, nothing more than noise generated by a functioning relationship. It had been exciting, not just working for Larissa and Jack, but because of what she’d learned from them, how people sometimes treated one another cruelly because of their personal insecurity, hiding behind a façade of indifference. But one thing still bothered her on her one-year anniversary as their housekeeper: Would they renew her contract?

Her thoughts were clouded by concern that she would be fired and have to seek employment elsewhere, just when she was feeling like a member of their family. Family. That was a nice word that she’d learned was more than just being genetically related. Would she be rejected by her adoptive family because she’d fulfilled her contract too well? She’d heard about other domestic androids whose contracts hadn’t been renewed, moving from family to family like gypsies, never finding a home. Alysha felt as if she’d found a home with Larissa and Jack, but would she join the other nomads? Did anyone think about her feelings?

Wanting to cry, she entered the elevator and pressed the button for the fifty-first floor, she was overwhelmed with fear, of being homeless and destitute, an orphan on the streets, at the mercy of the elements and criminals. She was choking with fear when the door opened and she headed towards the only home she’d ever known, the home she would lose forever, no more than a memory she would recall fondly. 

Alysha unlocked the electronic door and turned the handle fearfully, afraid of what awaited inside, no longer thinking of the dinner she was going to prepare for her…her family. Sensing the need for tears she would never shed, she pushed the door open and entered. Larissa met her with a hug so tight that Alysha almost dropped the grocery bags she was carrying, before stepping back with loving tears in her eyes. 

“Welcome home, Alysha!”

Jack hugged her as tightly and took her arm as the plastic bags were taken from her by an older man she’d never met. 

She was overwhelmed by hugs and kisses, even congratulations, by people she’d only met briefly during dinner parties, which had become more frequent recently. After several minutes of introductions, as if she were a member of the household, she was led to a woman in her thirties. Jack was grinning as he made the formal introduction.

“Alysha, I’d like you to meet Xiao Biyu. She’s produced several successful short films and, after seeing your script, she’s interested in your take on what it’s like to be an android in a human world.”

Alysha choked with emotions she couldn’t express physically, so she settled for shaking hands with a real producer and, struggling to contain herself, stammered, “It’s so good to meet you, I’m overwhelmed with emotions I can’t express at meeting you…”

“Do not get too excited, Alysha, because your script isn’t ready for production yet…”

“I’ll do whatever you ask, anything…anything to get my creative ideas produced!” Alysha practically shouted.

Xiao Biyu glanced at Jack, a sly smile hidden in her expression, as she responded, “As I understand your situation, you may not be available in the future, your freedom of expression being dependent on your future employment, your employment contract. Isn’t that right?” 

Alysha saw her future collapse in rubble with those words. She could only nod hopelessly.

Xiao Biyu added, “What is the status of your employment? Because of your…er, unique position, you have to have a…someone…as a representative to enter any legal agreements. Do you have a sponsor?”

Alysha’s eyes opened in surprise. She was being offered a chance to work with a film producer and director, but she hadn’t thought this far ahead. The film project had been nothing more than a hobby, a way to spend her free time and get Jack to think of her as more than a pretty face, the object of his hobby. She started to shake her head but was interrupted when Larissa and Jack stepped forward, their arms intertwined.

“Of course, she does,” Jack offered confidently. “I helped Alysha develop her idea and I’ve been working with her for months. Larissa and I are proud to be her sponsors.” 

Larissa was nodding proudly as she gazed into Alysha’s eyes and added, “We’re so proud to give something back after what you’ve done for us. You saved our marriage and showed us how to be better people. We can’t thank you enough—”

Jack interjected, “But why did you do that? I thought you were only the housekeeper…”

Before Larissa could scold him, Alysha said, “Personal and family counseling are part of my job description, described in the fine print of my employment contract.”

Sometimes I feel like an observer, watching Organza from behind a one-way mirror like in the police shows, especially when she gets excited. She does that a lot, reveling in the sensation of being righteous and virtuous. Her dark-green eyes light up with thousands of volts of electricity. Her pixie face, topped by short brown locks, transforms into a vengeful Greek heroine, and her normally soft voice metamorphoses into Pythia’s, pronouncing the decision of the gods. That’s why I love her. When we’re alone, Organza is my gentle and supportive companion but, whenever a topic of interest comes up, I step back and let the high priestess of Apollo take center stage. It works most of the time because people are overwhelmed by her wit, sincerity, uncanny memory, and attention to detail. Instead of dedicating her intense intellect to something mundane like politics or sociology, my consort has chosen to influence people rather than tell them what to do—unless they’re in the room with her. Organza writes an influential social blog, followed by the leaders of industry and government. Academia tries to ignore her from their ivory tower, but the self-proclaimed intellectuals of America acknowledge her perspicacity now and then.

But there’s something about Organza that I hadn’t seen until I observed her having a conversation with her best friend during happy hour. It was a Wednesday afternoon. I was watching from the other side of the one-way mirror. And apparently, I wasn’t alone.

Organza spotted Danielle Grant as soon as she entered the quiet, neighborhood bar where we were meeting for drinks and dinner. Her eyes lit up but she didn’t become Pythia, not right away. A hand flew up, waving animatedly to get the attention of a woman who didn’t look like a pixie or a Greek goddess. Danielle was…maybe the girl next door. Long, wavy, dark-blonde hair and bangs framed a friendly face with puffy cheeks centered on a full nose and wide, smiling mouth. She wasn’t beautiful. Or hot. But something about her confident demeanor—neither arrogant nor egotistical—got my attention. 

“Oh my god, Organza!” Danielle began, anticipation crinkling her cherubic cheeks.

Organza interjected with just as much excitement. “I can’t believe you haven’t met Craig. He’s been my boyfriend for a while, but you work so much we never get to just…casually get together!” 

I had the impression that Danielle wasn’t excited about meeting me. She hadn’t even noticed me yet. At Organza’s introduction, her brown eyes focused on me, full lips smiling, the excitement gone from her face. “Oh…hello, Craig, I’m so glad to finally meet you. Organza has told me so much about you…”

She was lying and we both knew it. Interesting.

Organza didn’t correct Danielle’s false statement but instead elaborated the fiction. “Craig’s been dying to meet you and…here we are…finally getting together.”

Danielle’s expression quickly changed from disbelief to acceptance as she shook my hand, her eyes saying that she was accustomed to the smooth blending or reality and fiction from Organza. But those dark orbs weren’t judging me or Organza, simply accepting the reality of…what couldn’t be changed. We shook hands and Organza signaled a server, a young man who instantly responded to her request. Danielle and I completed our obligatory introductions accompanied by meaningless pleasantries, with Organza looking on approvingly. 

The formalities out of the way, I asked, “So, Danielle, what were you going to tell us?”

She’d had time to think about her announcement. Would she maintain the fantasy of being excited to meet me? I was pleased with her decision.

Danielle smiled sheepishly and said, “I am glad to finally meet you, Craig, but I have to admit that I wasn’t thinking about that when I arrived. I was excited about something that happened on the subway…”

Rather than inquire about her experience, I raised my eyebrows in Organza’s direction, waiting for her response. I was only an observer, the cop behind the one-way mirror.

Organza’s eyes shot open. “Did you get fired?!”

She wasn’t listening. Organza wasn’t a very good listener because she was always planning a response, which didn’t always fit the conversation. It didn’t matter most of the time because all her friends, including me and apparently Danielle, were accustomed to her inattention to details. 

“On the subway? Of course not. I had an unsolicited and frightening—at least at first—encounter with several guys on the way over her. I’m used to having guys hit on me but this was different.”

I wasn’t sure which implication would elicit an immediate response from Organza. Her idea of sexual harassment was any guy talking to her before she addressed them. That’s how we met, in a corner bar during happy hour, when she interrupted my conversation with some guys from work to introduce herself. 

I’m neither a movie star nor a body builder, so I figured that if a girl as hot as her wanted to meet me I would play along. Maybe I’d get lucky for once. My friends understood when I dumped them for Organza. I fell in love with her that night, having dinner and some drinks, listening to her talk about herself, explaining why she had picked me up, giving me intimate looks into her psyche. She was unpretentious, a rare personality trait in a woman as attractive as her. She didn’t like people who are so physically appealing that they take it for granted, like the guys who hit on her all the time, men who thought they were god’s gift to women. When I had a chance to speak at length, I asked her why she’d wanted to meet me, quoting sociological research proving that people were attracted to others with similar overall physical attributes. She’d scoffed and repudiated those Darwinian studies as nonsense reflecting the biases of the researchers. I was totally in love with her by the time she finished her tirade with a concise summary of my behavior, which she’d been watching for weeks at my favorite happy hour bar, and her analysis of my personality, a perfect match to her idea of a romantic partner. I was speechless. Romantic partner? She discussed her own physical flaws and my strengths on the way back to her apartment, much nicer than mine and in a better part of the city. I’d spent the night and moved in within a week. That had been more than a year earlier.

I was awakened from my reflections when Organza grasped my hand suddenly, giving me a quick, doubtful glance, before saying, “Did you call the police? That’s the first thing I would have done if accosted in the subway by a group of men.”

Danielle shook her head emphatically. “Of course not, Organza, they didn’t threaten me—”

Organza’s countenance told me that she was frustrated with such a naïve attitude. “Sexual predators don’t reveal their intent in public. They stalk their victims and strike at a vulnerable moment. Haven’t you been listening to me? Did you at least get a photo of them? For a future police investigation, after you’ve been…” Her eyes opened wide, revealing the frightened girl who’d been sexually abused by her father, a frightening memory she’d shared our first night together as she’d pressed against me in the dark, shivering.

I thought that Danielle should finish her story before calling the police. “What was different about it—your encounter on the subway?” I asked nonchalantly.

Danielle’s full lips curved upward in a playful smile as she pulled a small can from her bag. “I didn’t need to use the pepper spray you insisted I get, Organza.” She waved it around, causing me to chuckle and Organza to cringe, before continuing, “Instead I got the phone number of their ring leader…” 

I laughed out loud, causing Organza to throw me a disapproving frown before she retorted, “You actually spoke to them?! I can’t believe you encouraged a bunch of sexual predators like that, Danielle! Have you lost your mind?”

Her grip on my hand had tightened, revealing the flow of painful memories she’d tried to forget, afraid that her best friend would suffer a similar fate. I squeezed her hand hard enough to get her attention before interjecting, “Let’s hear about this so-called ring leader of the gang that threatened Danielle before we call the FBI, okay?”

I knew that Organza trusted me when she loosened her grip and replied, “Sure, but it always starts with an innocent request…”

I kissed her quivering lips to reassure her, surprised to sense a weakness I’d never seen before. The defenseless young girl confronted by a terrifying situation had been awakened when someone she cared about was possibly facing an ordeal as terrifying as she had survived. 

Danielle put the small spray can away and said, “Are you ready to hear about my experience—maybe it was an adventure?”

I waited for Organza to nod weakly before I said, “The floor is yours,” knowing there would be frequent interruptions.

“I got on at Lexington. The train was full so I stood near the door, ignoring the other riders. But then a guy got up and offered his seat to me, commenting that I looked tired, which I wasn’t but I guess he was hitting on me, so I thanked him and took the seat next to an older woman who was reading a magazine, but then he said that he’d seen me on the subway before so maybe I was commuting like him, so I pointed to his hip-hop gangster clothes and asked if he was in the music industry—”

Organza interjected, “I can’t believe you spoke to him so personally, what’s wrong with you? Now he’ll stalk you because of your ill-considered words…what were you thinking?”

Danielle scoffed and continued, “He showed me his business card. His name is Chima Taggert and, according to his business card, he runs a hip hop apparel business called Get it right.” 

While Organza searched the internet to verify Danielle’s statement, I asked, “What about the other guys you mentioned?”

“They work for Chima. They’re all friends from high school but he’s the entrepreneur. They share an unfinished loft as living space, but he runs the business from downtown because he wants a really cool address to promote sales, and he doesn’t want to mix business and pleasure…” 

Danielle’s animated expression reminded me of myself when I’d met Organza. She was overwhelmed that a successful entrepreneur had been publicly stalking her and wanted to meet her. 

Her internet investigation complete, Organza’s head popped up, her attention focused on Danielle as she said, “Chima Taggert is black…”

I watched the two friends closely to see how this epiphany would go down. I personally hate classifying people using primary colors, especially black and white, which aren’t even colors but nothing more than their absence or presence. I was blown away by Danielle’s response.

“Naturally. Hip hop is an African-American phenomenon, like jazz and fried chicken, created by men like Chima although he doesn’t claim to be a creative genius, only a purveyor of cultural artifacts like t-shirts, hats, pants, and…well, you get it.”

“But…he’s black…you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, Danielle, even talking to someone from…a man with such a checkered past…I mean, those guys—hip hoppers and their like—they shoot each other in the street because of some kind of macho code of honor. Oh my god, what are we going to do!” Organza’s terrified expression and disingenuous concern for Danielle’s safety failed to hide her revulsion of the possibility of Danielle being interested in a black man. 

Before I could encourage Danielle to expand her story’s introduction, Organza continued her tirade about the dangers of getting involved with someone like this Chima character, implying that living with other men in an unfinished building was proof that he was a drug dealer, equating his internet business with money laundering. She finished with a dire warning.

“Don’t trust anyone who approaches you in a public place, especially not the subway…” She thought a moment before adding, “Or a bar.”

I laughed out loud at her hypocrisy. Bolts of lightning shot from her green eyes, now those of Pythia, as she faced me, her countenance demanding an explanation of my juvenile outburst. Before she could announce the decree of Apollo, I asked, “Are there a different set of rules for men and women?”

She understood my meaning but, undaunted, replied in a condescending tone, “Of course there are, Craig. Women are almost exclusively the victims of sexual violence. I had a pretty good idea of who you were before I introduced myself whereas Danielle knows nothing about this guy she met on the subway. It all could have been a lie or he may be a businessman, but with a nasty hobby, like Jeffrey Epstein or Bill Cosby, not to mention Harvey Weinstein and…it doesn’t matter because there are no women on the A-list of sexual predators.”

She was right of course. But being more knowledgeable than me about famous misogynists didn’t erase the fact that she’d expressed racists views about the man Danielle had met on the subway, a black man who hadn’t behaved any differently than Organza. Men could be as uncertain of their actions as women, although it didn’t get as much publicity.

Usually I would have admitted defeat in her egocentric debate but I was spared such ignominy when Danielle said, “That’s why I wanted to get your opinion Organza, as my best friend, about a guy who would approach me on the subway and admit he’d been watching me. And I’m so glad to have Craig here too, to get a man’s opinion about Chima…”

I took my eyes off Danielle and focused on the front door, partially blocked by several groups of people standing around tables. Between their obstructing bodies and waving hands, holding glasses of beer, wine and cocktails, I glimpsed a young black guy entering the bar. He didn’t look like a rapper, dressed in black jeans and t-shirt; no dread locks, earrings or jewelry; just a young African American with a quirky smile. He didn’t even look out of place threading the suddenly packed bar. I stood up as he approached and extended my hand. 

“You must be Chima Kimathi?”

His high forehead and weak chin reminded me of Organza, as did his piercing gaze, although his eyes were brown rather than green. He accepted my invitation to join us and took a seat next to Danielle. Organza was silently studying him as if he were a bacterium trapped under a microscope lens. He didn’t seem to mind, never taking his eyes off Danielle as she formally introduced him. Organza was fuming because she doesn’t like surprises, especially not in public. I asked Chima why he wasn’t wearing the apparel he sold for advertising and he explained that he wasn’t into the hip-hop scene although he’d grown up with it in Kenya. He’d come to America on a green card to work as an electrical engineer but had helped some friends sell t-shirts on the internet. Before long, his friends were working for him and he was making more than as an engineer, although he planned to return to steady work when sales dropped. It was a part-time gig. 

Danielle queried Chima about his home in Kenya, prompting him to describe growing up on a subsistence farm with seven siblings, his parents’ savings paying for him to attend the University of Nairobi because he was the eldest, leaving his brothers and sisters to a life of poverty and misery. 

Organza interrupted. “So, you took this golden opportunity, to attend a prestigious university and learn a useful skill, and dropped all that for short-term money made from peddling cheap merchandise on the internet…?”

Chima retorted, “In Kenya, eating is a daily challenge, especially when recent droughts decimated my family’s harvest, leaving them barely able to pay the taxes on their land. I send most of my income to support them. It’s an emergency, not something…” He glanced at Danielle, thought about his words and added, “You probably wouldn’t understand.”

Those were trigger words for Organza, who was as aware of the problems plaguing central Africa as anyone else. “It’s easy to make excuses when it’s personal, but you aren’t thinking about the long term, Chima, about what you will do when your internet business goes bust. That engineering degree you’re sitting on has a shelf life and it won’t be worth crap in five years, just ask Danielle. She is keeping abreast of the latest developments in a rapidly changing field rather than calculating the cost of shipping worthless junk back to Kenya…”

I could see that her words stung Chima. “I am supporting my family, a problem you probably never had to consider, I imagine.”

Organza never backs down when confronted by arguments based on emotional pleas. “You said you send most of your income home. What is your family doing with it? Have you ever asked them? I imagine that, with an average income of about two-thousand dollars, the money you’ve been sending home could have bought other farmers out. Is that what your father did?” 

She didn’t wait for a response before continuing, “Probably not. I’ll bet they have a new generator and even a refrigerator, boasting to their neighbors about their rich son living in America, sending money home…”

Chima was overwhelmed by her onslaught, but he recovered his aplomb before explaining that his father was saving the extra money to improve the farm. He was interrupted by Organza laughing out loud, sarcastically asking why anyone would choose to make financial investments in Kenya with money that originated in the U.S., which offered better investment opportunities. She challenged him to produce proof of these investments made by his father. He admitted that he hadn’t demanded proof of his family’s investments but his mother had mentioned sending one of his younger siblings to the university to study engineering. Organza admitted that an education was a worthwhile endeavor but pointed out that, despite having a useful degree, Chima was selling clothing on the internet. She finished her analysis by suggesting that he should sit down with his family and make a concrete plan for the long-term, including the education of his siblings.

He thought a moment before responding. “You like to give advice, Organza. Do you mind if I ask what you do for a living?”

Danielle interjected, “She gives advice. Organza writes a blog about modern life. She has more than a million followers worldwide, including in Kenya…”

Chima laughed and said, “At least I sell something people want. You give them advice they don’t need or want, but just for entertainment, like watching a movie. You are in no position to judge my choices, especially since you don’t know anything about my home.”

One thing I’ve learned about Organza, from reading her blog now and then, is that she doesn’t judge people or their choices. Her harsh analyses are based on what they tell her and all those ideas and facts she recalls at a moment’s notice. Her opinions sound like judgement sometimes, especially to someone who’s sensitive about the topic. I could see that she’d sown seeds of doubt in Chima’s mind, about what his family was doing with the money he’d sent home, and he was being defensive. 

She was accustomed to people being sensitive so she just shrugged, implying that it wasn’t her problem to deal with. She’d told me many times that she liked writing the blog because she could solve other people’s problems without getting personally involved. The sense of detachment shielded her from the emotional pain and uncertainty many of them were dealing with. I thought of her work as clinical psychology with teeth; she didn’t shy away from suggesting, sometimes even telling people, a course of action to solve their problem. Apparently, a lot of people followed her advice and reported improvements in their lives. Maybe Chima would too.

To Organza’s dismay, I compared our meeting to Chima’s introducing himself to Danielle on the subway. His comment was directed at Organza.

“I can imagine how you responded to that…” 

She faced him and retorted, “Danielle is my best friend and I worry about her. She’s such a sweet person that sometimes she can act very naïve, thinking others are as nice as her, and I was afraid this was one of those situations. After all, women who stalk men like I did Craig do as I did. We introduce ourselves when the time is right. The psychopaths depicted in thriller movies don’t exist in the real world. As you know, the outcome can be quite different with men…”

Chima was nodding as she spoke, finally saying, “I appreciate your relationship. In fact, I’ve seen you two together on the subway and I could tell how close you are. I knew that I had to win your trust, if not friendship, if I were to get to know Danielle and not be treated as a stalker.” He sipped from his beer and waved his hand in the air before adding, “So here we are, on a chaperoned date in a public place, just as if we were in my home town in Kenya.” 

He was smiling broadly so I joined him in a toast to persevering to meet someone. Danielle was watching Organza.

I retreated to the other side of the one-way mirror as Organza began her interview of Chima. He probably didn’t know that she’d graduated at the head of her class from Harvard, with a degree in psychology. Writing a blog had been a choice she’d made consciously after a year in graduate school. Danielle must have chosen this meeting venue with Organza’s personal talents and background in mind. I risked a glance at her and realized she was sitting behind the mirror with me, smiling knowingly, observing the interrogation from an objective position. She and I were required to contribute to the conversation occasionally to keep it from appearing to be what it was. When she was satisfied with the results, Organza proclaimed her decision.

“From the way Danielle described your meeting—probably intended as a prank because of my naturally suspicious tendency—I was expecting you to be wearing the apparel you sell, decked out in jewelry and dreadlocks. I know that most hip-hoppers are decent men and women, but I don’t think she’s compatible with someone from that culture, anyway not for more than a few dates. The character of your meeting was ominous under those circumstances, but that’s not who you are, although I think your support of your family is irresponsible—expecting your father to make competent financial decisions is at best wishful thinking…” She stopped her tirade and looked at me for support.

The moment called for more than holding her hand, so I bent over and kissed her expectant lips, letting her know that she hadn’t gone off the rails like she sometimes does. 

“How long have you two been together?” Chima asked when Organza was consoled.

Danielle interjected, “Craig moved in with Organza eighteen months ago. Aren’t they an adorable couple?” She was teasing us for Chima’s benefit.

His eyes opened wide. “So, are you guys engaged?” He glanced at Organza and added, “Or maybe you don’t want permanent entanglements…”

She glared at him so I answered, “She hasn’t asked me yet.”

Chima and Danielle laughed together.

Annoyed, Organza turned the eyes of Pythia on me but then something happened. They softened into the deep pools of affection I’d only seen in private. She glanced around the table and cleared her throat as she faced me again. “Why don’t we get married, Craig? It probably is about time.”

I recently moved to a brand-new apartment building in northern Virginia, secured with the latest technology, a digital security system that relies on a smart-phone app. It’s all so hi-tech, what could go wrong?

I met a guy my age the other day who asked me to let him enter the building from the parking garage, open the door for him with my clever phone app. I let him in. Who wouldn’t? I wondered if he might have been a stalker, terrorist, burglar, or just mean guy. I wondered about my decision until…

I stepped out without my phone…

It was after six p.m. and there was no one to reach out to…I couldn’t “call” home…I was homeless…on the streets, or at least the parking garage entrance. Panic. Desperate, I made my way to the guest entrance, as contrite as a homeless beggar seeking a morsel to sustain them another day.

I offered my apartment number and name as proof of my legitimacy to the first person with a cell phone who came along, a young man who could have easily dismissed me as a person of doubtful character, but he let me in…

I was saved from homelessness by the kindness of a stranger…

But I could have been pretending, to gain entry into a Valhalla of unsuspecting people…like me or the young man who believed my story…

Extreme security naturally leads to error and confusion…

We are only reading monkeys after all…