Imagine Me and You, and You and Me, So Together

1) If you could tell me something, anything, what would you say? Whisper it right now please, into the pale pink folds of my ear. Afterward I will press imaginary snaps on my upper and lower lips and conceal your secret forever. Or if you prefer, write it on parchment with a fountain pen and hand-deliver or mail it to me. I’ll read the words and burn them immediately, inhaling the smoke till I cough.

2) If you were to show me something, what might it be? I’m holding out my hand because I want you to take me there. Or, draw a picture of it. Maybe record it on film. I want to see. Really.

3) If you could give me something to taste, one of the most wonderful things ever or your right-now-favorite-food, what item would you choose? Record the recipe for me, or better yet, deliver the item or culinary creation to my porch in a gift bag, snuggled in shimmery aqua tissue paper. Ring the bell and run, or not. I could make coffee . . . 

4) Is there something you want me to touch—an item sleek and smooth, cool even, or softer than soft, maybe prickly and dangerous? Bring it here please. We should examine it together, side by side.

5) What is the most interesting fragrance you know? Is it sacred to you? Live and yellow as lemons? Smoky and warm like radiant coals sequestered in greyed ash? Perhaps it's cloying but pristine lilies-of-the-valley? Warm and yeasty rolls in a basket under a checked cloth? Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, across from and very close to me.

(Okay now, friends . . . don’t be shy. What are your five things?)

Keyed Up

The next morning, Mark was fiddling with the coffee when we arrived.

            “What’s up, boss?” Adam said.

            Mark glanced over his shoulder, then returned to his task. “Just changing out the coffee,” he said as he replaced the lid on the Maxwell House can. “I’m putting decaf in the canister. Maybe it’ll keep Mom O. from getting so jacked up. Her blood pressure was through the roof last night.”

            Right then we heard her van door slam outside. Mark rushed to drop into his chair. Put his pointer finger to his mouth and shook his head.

            “Don’t say anything,” he mouthed.

            As soon as the screen door swung open, we were confronted with the aroma of roses. That in itself was startling but then there was the issue of Mom O.’s mouth. She was sporting lipstick. A bright pink hue. On a different day we would discuss whether or not she’d applied blush as well.

            After she set her and Mark’s lunches down and hung her jacket up, she faced us. Punched her hips with her fists and proceeded to throw words at us with her fuschia mouth.

            “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you all,” she said, “about my lips or my perfume. The sheriff will be arriving shortly to launch an investigation and I want to look my professional best.”

            She ignored our mouths hanging open. Sashayed, indeed it was that kind of movement, over to the coffee shelves and started doling grounds into a filter. We would wonder later if cosmetics did that to a woman, made her more feminine on the inside as well as the exterior. Or perhaps it was the thought of Sheriff Kevin Dooley. During our discussion, Adam announced with great fervor he wanted to be just like Mr. Dooley when he got older. “Powerful in stature and calling,” Adam said. “Even at his age. What is he? Sixty-five? Seventy?”

            “My van got keyed last night,” Mom O. said. “Of course this is the United States of America and all, and everyone is presumed innocent until proven guilty, but I’m pretty sure I know who is not innocent in this particular situation.”

            Jason’s hand surreptitiously headed for the treat bowl, but Mom O.’s glare stopped him.

            “Can you not wait until ten in the cotton-picking morning to assuage your craving for sweets, Jason? For crying out loud!”

            While Jason winced like he’d been slapped, Adam stood and went over to the window. Slid the right half of the drape to the side and peered out.

            “Is it bad, Mom?”

            Mom snorted. “I’d say it’s bad,” she said. “Even has words.” She held up a finger for each one she recited. “Fat. Old. And then it would seem she was starting in on another deragatory term that starts with a B before she decided to flee the crime scene.”

            Adam let the curtain fall and returned to his chair.

            No one said or did anything while Mom O. held the trash can under the coffee shelf and brushed stray grounds into it. Flipped the toggle on the coffee machine and returned to her desk. She glowered at us before she sat.

            “Go on now,” she said. “Start your day.”

~~~~~~~

After lunch, Mark eyed Mom O. as she took her blood pressure. “What is it?”

            “One forty five,” she said, as she tugged the Velcro cuff off her arm.

            “Not horrible, I suppose,” Mark said. “Considering.”

            Mom O. stood. Made her way to the warehouse door and stepped into the darkness. Threw the light switch. We heard her footsteps fade then return.

She paused in the doorway. “Where’s Charlie?”

“He went back out already,” Mark said. “Why?”

Mom O. didn’t answer. She packed up the remains of her lunch and set it on the floor against the wall behind her chair. Hauled her sizeable purse up onto her lap and rooted around inside. After a minute, she extended her arm in our direction and opened her fist to reveal a TracPhone.

“I bought this at the dollar store this morning,” she said. “How do you do that thing where they can’t trace your number?”

            Adam leaned forward and nudged the phone back to her. “Just punch star sixty seven, Mom.”

            She studied the cell for a moment then slid it over the desk to Adam again.

            “How do you turn it on?” she said. “And dial it?”

            Adam picked the phone up. “Give me the number, Mom.” He hit the power button and keyed in the phone number she handed him on a phone message slip. He joined her on her side of the desk and showed her the phone in his palm.

            “Just press the button with the little green phone on it when you’re ready,” he told her.

            We busied ourselves with paperwork to keep from cracking up as Mom O. struggled to hold the phone to her ear and cover her mouth with a hanky at the same time.

            "Hello?"

             We snickered behind our hands at the way she pitched her voice way down low. She shot mad eyes at us and twirled her chair to face the wall instead of us.

“Yes, indeed, you can help me,” she said. “It has come to my attention that suspicious, very suspicious mind you, activity is occurring on a regular basis at the end of Jake's Run Road. Children and animals may be at risk. I highly suggest investigators be dispatched immediately.”

            We heard the voice on the other line murmur, but we couldn’t make out the words. We all jumped when Mom O. shook her head so hard her glasses flew to the floor.

            “Absolutely not,” she said in her fake voice. “I feel I would endanger myself and perhaps my entire family if I revealed my identity. I am simply doing my civic duty to protect children and animals that can’t protect themselves.”

            Mom retrieved her glasses and spun her chair back around. Reached for her message pad and a pen. “And what’s that number?”

            She scrawled the information down as it was given. Listened for another moment before her eyes bugged out.

            “What part of no do you not understand?” she barked. “I told you once. I’ll tell you twice, missy. I'm not giving my name!”

            With that, she dropped the phone and the handkerchief on the desk. Stabbed at the off button with her pointer finger. Placed a hand over her heart as if to slow its tempo. She used the hanky to blot at her forehead and throat. 

            “You don’t think they can figure out who I am, do you?”

            Mark walked around Mom’s desk, the blood pressure cuff in his hand. “Arm,” he said.

(If you'd like to know what the heck is going on, click here: 

"Vandalia and Charlie." That's where this short story begins.) 

*Prelude to the Best Christmas Ever*

It was a Christmas Eve in the 80s, my first one after college.  My roommate had headed home for the holidays at noon—his home being Moundsville, West Virginia.  My boyfriend would celebrate the Feast of the Seven Fishes with his family that night, then he'd get up early the next morning and drive three hours, probably way too fast, so we could be together before noon on Christmas Day.  

            Around six that evening, I wiggled into my winter coat.  Slipped my feet into duck boots which were knockoffs of the real ones you can order from Lands’ End. I tied the long laces in double bows, tucked a scarf around my throat, and ventured outside to inspect the silent night. 

            Out in the cold, I shuffled through the snow. Tried to make a solid line with my feet instead of a dotted one.  As I balanced on the curb at the edge of Route 50 in Fairfax, Virginia, my breath seemed like a diaphanous megaphone.  Go team, I breathed. I mean, go me. Nowhere. I lifted my chin. The street lights each had halos.  Rainbowy. Shimmery.

            I faced left toward Fairfax Circle then right toward Washington D.C..  I began to count cars. One. Two. Three.  Big gap. That one turned before it passed me. I waved at the fourth one.  Five minutes later I abandoned the car count.
            I squinted across the way. Tried to see inside the slightly fogged windows of the Dart Drug.  Only the manager was there.  He looked lonely too. Even with a Santa hat on.
            I tilted my head back.  Sighed.  No stars.  City lights and puffy snow clouds concealed any and all heavenly bodies. 
            I glanced over at Dart Drug again.  The lights on the Christmas tree in the window winked at me.  Seemed to flash the rhythm of Jingle Bells--Blink, blink, bliiiink.  Blink, blink, bliiink. 
            The star on top of the drugstore tree was big.  Too big really.  It looked like it was fashioned out of gold foil, studded with yellow mini lights.  As I stared at its five points, it seemed to shoot out light beams.  I had a thought.  Star light.  Star bright.  First star I see tonight.  I wish I may.  I wish I might.  Have the wish, I wish tonight.

            I narrowed my eyes and focused intently on the star.  "I wish . . . I wish I wasn't alone on Christmas Eve."  I said it out loud, so whoever was in charge would hear me.  I waited.  I expected.  Zilch.

I plodded back to my building.  Outside my door I stomped snow and ice clods onto the coir doormat that proclaimed, "'Tis the season!"  Inside the apartment I left a trail of hat, boots, mittens, muffler, coat. Who cares?
            In the kitchen, I watched my reflection in the window as it filled a mug with half water, half skim milk.  The Times Journal cup disappeared inside the microwave.  A finger pushed Beverage then Start.  The image girl leaned against the cabinet.  Drummed her fingers on the counter.  Startled when the microwave dinged.  Three scoops of International Coffee powder, hazelnut flavor, went into the mug.  The reflection paused its stirring. Tasted. Added another spoonful of mix.  Hummed a song from Mary Poppins.
            I tilted my head at image girl. She seemed tired. Or sad. Before she turned away.
            I opened the fridge and grinned.  "You’re still here," I said to the can of whipped cream.  I shook it then sculpted an ascending spiral on top of the steaming foam.  I took a step toward the fridge, whipped topping in hand. I paused. Glanced left and right. As if. I giggled and opened wide. Aimed the whipped cream nozzle at my uvula and sprayed until it sputtered. 
            In the dining area, I sank into one of the two folding chairs beside the card table.  Hummed "I'll Be Home for Christmas" in between sips of fake coffee.  When it was gone, I swirled my finger around the inside of the mug to collect the hazelnut dregs.  Slurped my finger as I relocated to the sofa.

            I plopped my feet on the Ikea coffee table and stared at our tiny flashing Christmas tree in the corner.  It wore only two things—multi-colored lights and white snowflakes.  I'd snipped the snowflakes out of a couple sheets of Xerox paper I brought home from work. 

            "Note to self, " I said to the empty room. "Get Christmas decorations for next year. Real ones."  Maybe boyfriend and I'd order Poinsettias or Mimosas at Sunday brunch before we shopped.  Cocktails always seemed to help us locate better bargains.
            I stirred my bangs with a puff of air.  If I went to bed now, night would go faster and  morning would come sooner.  I glanced at the VCR under the TV.  Not even nine o’clock.  Pa-thetic.  I rocked myself up and off the sofa and headed back to my bedroom.

            I was stepping out of my jeans when the phone rang. I straightened, one leg in, one leg out of my pants. The clanging ricocheted around the room.  Sounded sort of like a Salvation Army bell being rung really fast, pause, really fast.  I considered not answering it.  Maybe I want to be alone on Christmas Eve, just to know what it feels like, just this once. 
            "Hello?"

Crushed--Part VI

The dream was so real. We were in a forest. Actually, it felt like the ribcage of a forest. I felt its respiration—in, out. Or rather, expand, deflate. It was damp there. Inside the woody bubble. Smelled like the ocean. Or clean sweat. Was that the air or him?

            He, Jake, was around me. Behind me. I sat in the circle of him. Felt his breath stir my hair. He kissed the indentation at the base of my neck.  Right there. I put my fingers up to touch the spot and he kissed them too. There was pressure and softness, all at the same time.

            Wake up. I remember hearing the silent command. Inside my head. My eyes opened. Focused. I was alone. My heartrate slowed. Eventually.

           

I’ve got this. There’s a sentence I know. All I have to do is chant it. Over and over. Better yet, I’ll write it on my hand. Both of them if necessary. With a Sharpie marker. Look at it on the hour.  And then some.

            “But when you are tempted, He will provide a way out so you can stand up under it.”

            Promise me, God, that I’ll see the way out. When it comes.  

Millie and I waited for Silas on the front porch.  While he ran back in for her joint supplement.  

            “Can’t forget that,” Silas said.

            “You’re such a good doggy daddy,” I told him.

            He pulled the front door shut.  I stretched to hand him the house key.  He paused inside the screen door. 

            “What?” I said.

            “The phone’s ringing.  Should I get it?”

            “Look at the caller i.d..” Is this the way out, Lord? Right now? 

            “It’s Grandma,” he said from the foyer.

            “Don’t answer it.  I’ll call her when we get back.”

            We headed down the steps.  I surveyed the flowers by the curb. Orange daylillies waned. Black-eyed Susans were coming on.  You all are gorgeous. Keep up the good work. Millie did her business.  A block down. Right beside Mrs. Hinkle's recycling bin.

            I looked up from scooping. “Daddy forgot to put recycling out.  Should we . . ." 'Cause God could use trash. As a way out.

            Silas shook his head.  “Not now. He’s waiting.”

            Millie led the way.  She sniffed. Peed.  Munched strands of grass. Whenever she spied a cat or rabbit, she’d freeze. Crouch slightly. Her eyes would narrow.  I considered letting the leash fall.  To see if she’d give chase. But what if—What if she ran so hard, so fast, something broke, like it did with— I wrapped the leash around my wrist.

            “Come on, girl. Not today.”  Not ever.

            Silas bumped me with his shoulder. On purpose.

            “Yes?”

            “Did you remember your notebook? With your stories?”

            I nodded.  Patted the tote bag at my side. 

            “Cool,” he said. “And if he asks about why he's blind, what're you gonna say?”

             “I think I’ll just tell him my theory.”

            Silas's eyes crinkled. “What theory?”

            “That when faced with a crisis or tragedy, I haven’t decided which word to use there, people either turn to God or away. And then I'll expound upon that.”

            Silas's face went funny.

            I stuck my bottom lip out.  “No good?” I tugged the lead. “Millie.  Come on.  We’re not going that way. Or Job.  I could go with Job.  Remember how God didn’t do all that sucky stuff to Job? He just allowed the devil to?”

            “But then maybe Jake’d be mad at God for allowing him to go blind.”

            I puffed at my bangs.  “Guess I’ll have to use my go-to prayer.”

            “What’s that?”

            I put my palms together and looked at the sky. “God, do something. Please.”

            “Or you could just tell him ‘God works all things for the good of those who love him.’”

            My mouth dropped open. “Wow! How did I get such a smart son?” I handed him the leash. “Your turn.”

            We walked another block or so.  Silas broke into a trot. Glanced back to see if Millie’d do the same. She didn’t. He slowed.

            “Hey, look,” I said. I pointed up the street. “There’s Miss Wise. Out in her yard. We used to go to church with her. Back when you were a baby.”

            A thin woman with a blue-grey bob took tiny steps toward the sidewalk. Once there, she awaited our approach. Her hands made a shelf over her brow, shaded her eyes. 
           “Why, is that who I think it is?” she said.

            I smiled. “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Dana and Silas Martinelli. And our dog, Millie.”

            She reached out to Silas. Her hand trembled. A lot.

“This young man was swaddled last time I saw him,” she said. “Pastor Agnew sprinkled that little round head with baptismal water. But it was bald back then. Just look at it now.”

            I leaned against the telephone pole beside me. Felt a sudden and tender warmth for this woman I hadn’t seen in almost twelve years. 
           She gripped Silas’s hand and looked him in the eye. “I just made cookies. Do you like peanut butter cookies, Silas?" she said. She let go of him so she could talk with her hands. "The ones with the crisscross fork marks? Fresh from the oven? If you pick one up, it’ll probably fold or break in half.  They’re that warm.”

Silas looked over his shoulder at me. His teeth were clenched. His eyes wide. He’s embarrassed. ‘Cause she’s making a fuss over him. My mama’s heart knew.  I nodded. It’s okay.

He faced her again. “That’s warm, all right.”

“And ice cold milk,” she said. “I shake the carton real good so it gets froth on top when you pour it.”

"Yum."

Miss Wise moved her right hand to his forearm. Gripped it. When she headed for the house, he carefully matched his steps with hers. I closed my eyes. Felt a sting of tears.  My boy’s a good boy. I made him that way. Joel and I did.

Miss Wise glanced back. “I have coffee too, Dana. Folgers, not Starbucks, but I make it good and strong.”

I caught up with them. Took Millie’s leash from Si. “All the same to me,” I said. I looked up. Pinched the thumb and pointer finger of my left hand together. Sorry, Lord. It was just a little lie.

A half hour later, Silas and I inched toward her front door.

            "Oh, don't go," Miss Wise said. "You just got  here. Sit a spell."

            "We'll come back," I said. "We promise. Right, Silas?" Or, are we supposed to stay here with her all day? Is this the way out, Lord?              
            "Yeah," he said. "It's just, we have some place to be right now."

            I gave her a hug. "Take care, Miss Wise." I said. "We'll try to stop by next week."

             “You called her Miss Wise. Was she ever married?” Silas said when we got to the street.

            “Nope.”

            His brow furrowed. “Wonder why? She’s so nice.”

            “You sure you don’t want to take some cookies with you?” she called from her porch.

            Silas turned. Shook his head and patted his tummy. 
           “No, thanks," he yelled. "I’m stuffed. But thanks."

            “I have no idea,” I said.  “I think she’s beautiful.”

            Once we turned the corner, we couldn’t see her wave anymore. Silas picked up the pace.

            “I hope Jake’s not freaking out.”

            I took bigger strides to keep up. Squinted up the hill at Jake’s yard. He wasn’t out. There were no camp chairs either.

            Silas stopped. Faced me. “Do you think he forgot?”

            I shrugged. “Not sure,” I said. Or did something happen at the doctor? I felt my heart skip over the place where it usually beat. We stepped up on the curb and into the yard. The high grass tickled my ankles.
            Silas cupped his hands around his mouth. “Jake!”

            I pushed his hands down. Held his wrists. “He might be resting,” I said.

            Silas pulled loose. Handed me Millie’s leash.

“Hold her,” he said. “Something’s on the door.” He ran to see. That’s when I knew. This, that thing on the door, whatever it is, is the way out.

            I watched Silas cross the yard. Go up the steps. Stand in front of the door. Blood pulsed in my ears--ba-bum, ba-bum.  What is it? A note? A sign? What does it say? He yanked the paper off the door and ran back. Handed it to me.

            “What’s wrong?” I said as I took it. To make you look like that?

            “Read it.” 

            I smoothed the crumples on my thigh. Held it at arm's length. Waited for my eyes to focus.

            Dear Intruders:

            My dad doesn’t need your company or your sympathy. He has me!

            And we do just fine without you! Lady, I can see the way you look

            at him, but you’re not my mom. You never will be!! So both of you

            just stay away from him!

            Don’t come back,

            His real son

            I gulped. Noticed the instant slickness of my palms. And my underarms. I folded the paper in half. Did it again. And once more. Used my fingers to sharpen the creases. Tucked the note in the knee pocket of my cargo capris. Millie tugged toward the house. Whined.

            “Sorry, girl,” I said. “Not today." Not ever again.

            Silas didn’t move.  He kept looking back at the house.

            “Come one, Si. Let’s go.”

            He huffed. “But why? We don’t even know who wrote it.”

            “Oh, Silas,” I said. “Kevin did. Obviously he doesn’t want us here.”

            “But he’s at soccer.”

            I reached for his elbow. “No, he’s not, hon. I’m guessing he didn’t make the team.”
            I made sure not to look at the house. At the windows. I knew he was in there. Probably watching us. Maybe holding up his middle finger. I felt his anger throb. And burn. It was like a lighthouse beam. Come closer and you’re in big trouble, people.

            Silas’s eyes shone. Almost spilled over. “I don’t get it. Why doesn’t he want us to hang out with Jake? It’s not like he does. And what did he mean about the way you--”

           I rested my palm in the small of his back. Steered him and Millie toward home.

“I’m not sure.” I winced. Peeked up at the clouds. Another one. Not so little. Sorry.

Halfway home I put Millie's lead in my right hand and opened my left. Saw my sentence smeared. Maybe I should get a tatoo. Just in case.

Crushed--Part V

Prayer helps.  More than once I’ve said, “Lord, please do something.  To make me not like _____ (insert man’s name).”  Bad breath.  That’s a good one.  Sloth. That worked once.  With the cute guy I served with at church years ago.  He had longish black hair going gray and an awesome radio voice.  I think that might’ve been the first time I ever said, “Lord, do something.” 

            We both showed up for a work day at church.  Him with his family.  Me and mine.  I overheard him talking to the pastor out in the parking lot.

“I don’t want to break a sweat.  Know what I mean?  Why don’t you buy and I’ll fly?  To Lowe’s.” 

Voila!  Spell broken.  Sloth makes my top lip twitch.  Thanks, God.

Jake straightened and dusted the Millie hairs off his hands. Searched for and found his coffee.  He stayed there, with his elbows on his thighs, sipping from time to time. I clanked my cup in its saucer.  In case he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure where I was.

He turned his shoulders a bit. “I know what I want you to read today,” he said.

            I pressed my palm to my forehead.  “Dang it!  I forgot my notebook.”

            Silas came back out.  Tapped Jake’s arm with a balled up, grey t-shirt. 

            “Here.”

            “Thanks,” Jake said.  He pulled it on. Much better.

            “You really forgot your notebook?” Silas said.  “Bummer.  Hey, wait a minute. I know what we can do instead.” He turned to Jake. “Do you ever feel people’s faces like the blind people do on t.v. ?”

            Jake’s forehead furrowed. “You know, I’ve never done that, but we can if you want.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and massaged my temples.  This isn’t happening. 

Silas stood and pushed chairs around.  “This’ll be cool.  Okay, so the person who’s getting their face felt sits here.  The other two people sit across from him.  Or her.”

Jake stood. “You guys go first,” he said.  “Where’s my chair?”

Silas positioned him in the solo seat.

“You touch one side of his face. I’ll take the other,” I told Silas.  ‘Cause I’m afraid to do both, all by myself. 

Jake sat up taller.  Pushed his chin out a bit.  “Close your eyes,” he said.  "Pretend you’re blind, like me.”

I cheated.  I didn’t touch Jake.  Didn’t shut my eyes either. Instead, I watched Silas.  He ran his fingernails from Jake’s jaw to just under his eye.  I listened to the dry, papery sound.  Scruffy.

“Did you shave today?” Silas said. “It doesn’t feel like it.” 

“Naw.  I usually let it go until the weekend.  Jenny’s around more then.”

Silas rubbed his pointer finger back and forth under Jake’s nose.  “I can’t wait to have whiskers.  It’s gonna be so cool.”

Jake chuckled. “Don’t say that.  It's a pain in the butt, having to shave every day.”

“I don’t care,” Silas said.  “I want a moustache.”

Jake turned away from Silas.  “What do you think, Dana?” he said.  “About my face? Aren’t you supposed to be touching it too?”

            I swallowed.  Reached out. Cupped his jaw in my palm.  Felt a muscle tense. Held it a second more.  Let go.

            “It’s a nice face, Jake. Your coloring’s great. Very golden.”

            “What about my eyes?” he said. “In high school, I was voted—“

            I smiled.  “Prettiest eyes,” I said.  “I remember you telling me.  What did I get?  Do you remember?”

            He nodded.  “Class clown.”

            I smiled.  “Good memory.”

            Jake rubbed his hands on his shorts. “What about my eyes now?”

            “What do you mean?” But I knew.

            “Do they look like poached egg whites?  I remember the blind people I used to see.  That’s what their eyes seemed like.” He made his eyes big.

            What is that color? What does it remind me of? “Ever been to Asheville?  Or Gatlinburg?”

            He nodded.

            “So you know what the Smoky Mountains look like?”

            He squinted.  Seemed to be remembering.  “Kind of.  Dark blue, with a little green?  Is that what you mean?”

            I focused on his wide open gaze.  “Yeah, like that.  Now picture them in the morning with the mist rising.  Or fog. That’s what they're like—misted mountains.  Not poached eggs.”

            He covered his eyes for a minute then slid his hands down until they met—fingers lined up, palm to palm.  For a minute, he looked like he was praying. 

            “Cool.”

            No one said anything for a bit.  Silas pecked me on the leg.  Mouthed now-what?  I pointed to Jake’s head.  To the silver-gold stubble.  Silas rubbed it with his hand—back, forth, back.

            “You’ve got great hair, Jake,” he said. “Like a recruiter for the military.” He made his voice deep. “‘The few. The proud. The Marines.’”

            Jake and I laughed.  “Good one, Si,” I said.

            “Is my mouth still pretty?” Jake said.  “Jenny used to say it was her favorite part of me.”  Did she?

            I traced it with my purple-black pinky nail.  “She’s right, Jake.  You could totally model Chapstick.”

            I glanced down at his arm. Noticed the rash of goosebumps.  My chair made a squawnky noise as I scooted back

“All done.”

            I watched a shadow of disappointment flit across his face.  You don’t remember how to mask your emotions, do you?

            “Feel Silas’s face,” I said, injecting brightness into my tone. “Tell him how handsome he is.”

            Jake swept his hand from side to side, searching. His wrist caught Silas’s ear.  He floated his hand higher.  Found the top of Silas’s head.  Patted.

            “Man, Silas.  That’s a ton of hair. You should give me some.”

            Looks like dandelion fluff, but curly.

            Silas shook his head.  “No way.  Yours is better.”

            “Aren’t his cheeks soft?” I said.

            “And he wants whiskers,” Jake said.  “Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, Silas.  Don’t ever do that.”

            Jake ran a finger down Silas’s nose.

            “He’s got my nose and Joel’s mouth,” I said.  “All three of you could be Chapstick models.”

            Silas fidgeted.  “Your turn, Mom.  Trade me seats.”

            Oh, no.  I wondered if they noticed my sharp intake of breath.  Silas stood.  Then me.  I lowered onto the chair.  I felt Jake's hand above my head somewhere.  When it dropped,  my hairclip bit into my scalp.

            “What’s that?” he said.

            “My hair’s up.”

            Jake’s nose wrinkled.  “You have long hair now? But it was always short.”

            “I know,” I said. “A few years back Joel told me, ‘You’ve had every short hair style there is.  Why don’t you grow it long?’ So I did.”

            “How long is it now?” Jake said.  “Let it down.”

            You’ve got to be kidding.  I pinched the clip and my hair tumbled free.

            “It’s halfway down her back,” Silas said.  “And it’s the color of coffee.”

            I chuckled.  “Nice description, Si.”

            Jake’s hand came at me.  My lungs felt empty but I didn’t do anything about it.  He found a hank of hair and followed it until his wrist collided with my shoulder.

            “Wow,” he said softly. “That is long.”

            I almost ducked when both his hands approached, on either side of my face.  I locked eyes with Silas.  Did you feel that?  The air just thickened.  Jake’s fingers combed through my hair.  Went out the back.

            “Nice,” he said.  My cheeks felt suddenly sunburned.

            “Face time,” Silas said. I glared at him. 

            What will my face feel like? I tried to remember what I looked like that morning.  No little red bumps today.  Good.  And crow’s feet? I don’t think you can feel those.

            Jake ran his fingers from my forehead to my chin.  Kept going.  Under my jaw. Stopped at my necklace.

            “What’s this?” he said, rolling the chain back and forth.

            “My cross necklace.”

            “There’s other stuff on there too,” Silas said.

            Jake’s finger explored each item.

            “There’s a rock that says ‘faith,’” I said. “And a cross, of course. That’s a little pearl, like in the pearl of great price parable, if you know it.  And the silver rectangle says, ‘GRACE.’”

            Jake dropped his hands to the sides of his chair. Sat back.  “So you believe?”

            I saw Silas’s head tilt, but I knew what Jake was asking.

            “Yes,” I said. 

            Jake scratched his arm a couple times before he spoke. 

“And you think your God’s a good god?”

“Uh huh.”  I know what you’re going to say, but please don’t.

“So exactly how do you explain what happened to me?”

I winced and put up my pointer finger. “Can you give me some time, Jake?” I said. “To gather my thoughts on that?"

Jake shifted. “I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.  Then my mom’s coming for a few days.  How ‘bout Friday?”

I counted on my fingers.  One, two, three, four days. Whoo!

 “Friday’s good,” I said.

I stood.  Took Silas’s hand.  Pulled him to standing.  Scooped up Millie’s leash. Tugged. Gives me plenty of time to ponder the mysteries of pain and suffering and all that.

“And don’t forget your notebook,” Jake said. “'Cause I know what I want to hear next.”

His tone made me turn. “And what would that be?”

“Love stories.  You do have love stories, don’t you?