Passing By

“Yep.  It was a spaceship.  no doubt.  A spaceship from space,” the old man rocked back in his chair.  “A flying saucer.  Looked just like one of them pictures in one of them Amazing Stories books I seen when I was a kid.”

“Henry, you are one crazy son of a bitch and you know it,” Lloyd said from his rocking chair.  “Ain’t no spaceman gonna come around here.  He’s got all of space to poke around in, why would he come here.  Might go to Knoxville or some other big city, I guess, but not here.”

“I can’t say.  I can’t get into the head of a Martian.  Ain’t never met one.  Just saw his spaceship that one time.”

The two old men rocked silently for a while after that.  The porch along the front of Alice’s store was their favorite place to spend a hot day, and they had plenty of time.  Younger people - mostly women with young children - walk past them into and out of the store.  One little boy, Todd Williams, the three and a half year old son of Ryan and Amy Williams, gripped his mother’s leg especially tightly when they passed the two old men.  Their gray, stubley beards, battered blue jeans, old flannel shirts and hairy arms with wrinkled hands gripping the arms of the rocking chairs were just too much for the boy.  When he grabbed his mother’s leg she stumbled and nearly fell down the steps onto the dirt and gravel parking lot.  “Toddy, you let go now,” she said.

“Lloyd?” Henry said.

“Yeah?”

“I wonder what them space women are like?  You think they got some long legs?”

Lloyd chuckled.  “Oh, yeah.  I bet they do.  Probably two or three sets of ‘em too.  Once they got a grip on ya, they wouldn’t let you go ‘til they was done.”

“That’d be alright with me,” Henry said.

“Shit.  You’d wake up dead after that.”

“But what a way to go.”  They both began laughing at that.

A police cruiser pulled into the lot.  An office jumped out and ran up the stairs.  He drew his gun as he rushed into the store.

“Looks like Dave’s run outta donuts again,” Lloyd said.

“That boy needs to eat a apple once in awhile,”  said Henry.

The loud bang of a gunshot roared from within the store behind them.  Then came several short shrieks in rapid succession.  That was followed by a female voice.  “Damnit, Dave, what the hell are you doing?”

“Did I tell you,” Lloyd said, “I went with Dave’s grandmother a few times?  Long time ago.”

“Helen or Flora?” Henry asked.

“Helen.”

“Good looker in her day, wasn’t she?”

“Hell, yes, she was.  More’n a little wild too, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”  Henry said.  “I remember.”

“What the hell you mean, ‘you remember’?” Lloyd said turning toward Henry.

Henry stared back at him smiling.  “Yeah, I remember pretty darn well.”

“Damn,” Lloyd said leaning back in his rocking chair.  “And here I thought-”

The door slammed open and Dave walked out trailed closely by a large, middle-aged woman, Alice Mason, who had him by the arm.  “Dave, I know they give you that gun, but that don’t mean you can come into my store shooting.  What the hell were you thinking?”

“We got a call-” Dave stammered.

“You got a call?  You got a call?  Was it from me?  No.”  Alice, loosened her grip and looked across the parking lot and past the empty field across the street to the rear of a dirty white house.  “Probably that damned Marty Jenkins.  Why don’t you go over and arrest that boy.  He don’t ever go to school.  Sits around smoking dope all day.”

“Alice, I’m sorry.  I’ll pay-”

“Oh, I know you will,” Alice said.  “But not now.  You go on before I lose my temper and take you out behind the shed.”

“Okay.  Okay.  I’ll go,” Dave said stepping down to the parking lot.  “But, Alice, do you think the sheriff has to-”

“Boy if you think you can keep a thing like this a secret from old Will in this town, you need more help than I thought.”  Alice said, staring down at him with her hands on her hips.

“Yeah, I guess you’re-” Dave started.

“Go, boy, make sure he hears it from you first.  That’s my advice if you got sense enough to listen to it.”  Alice said, turning back toward the store.  She stepped through the door and began speaking more softly trying to calm the shoppers still inside.  Dave returned to his cruiser and drove away.

“You really go with Helen too?” Lloyd asked?

“Ha,” Henry laughed.  “Lloyd, now I never said we actually went anyplace, did I?”  He began laughing harder.  “Well, maybe to the barn.”  With that he burst out and Lloyd looked away with an angry glare.

Once again the men rocked in silence.  This time for several minutes.

Finally Lloyd spoke.  He stopped rocking as he leaned forward in his chair.  His eyes suddenly focused on the field across the road from the store.  Henry sat back in his chair, eyes closed, slowly rocking.  “Henry, you say them flying saucers were gray-like, did’n’cha?”

“Yeah.”

“And it had lights all around it?”

“Yeah,” Henry repeated.  His eyes remained closed.

“And you say the grass and the trees just kinda...move away from it?  Like they was pushed by the wind?”  Lloyd’s voice had taken a curious tone.  He continued leaning forward in his chair and staring.   “Did it have some long, skinny legs that popped out of it when it landed?”

“Hell, Lloyd, I don’t know.  I didn’t see the damn thing land.”  Henry said.

Lloyd ignored him.  “Did it have a sorta door that slid open with a long ramp comin’ out of it?”

“What the hell you talking about, Lloyd.  The damn thing was flying around in the sky.  I didn’t see no door or nothin’.”

“You might wanna open your eyes, then.”  Lloyd said.

The ship completely blocked the old men’s view of the Jenkin’s house.  It’s polished silver hull reflected the cloud-free brightness of the summer sky.  It’s door was open and a long black ramp ran out from it, coming to rest at the far edge of the road.  As Henry opened his eyes, the first creature stepped out onto the ramp.  It was followed quickly by another and one more after that.  The three aliens paused briefly at the base of the ramp before moving across the street and toward the two old men.

On Being Broken

(With apologies to Douglas Adams for stealing a bit of imagery)

Broken is a relation to the world.
Unfit. Worthless for purposes intended.

The value of the broken is that of the nonexistent.
Or, more correctly, is less than.
For the nonexistent occupies no useful space nor useful time nor useful thought.

This chair is broken if it cannot support my body.
This heater is broken if my house is not kept warm.
This video recorder is broken if it does not watch television for me.

This leaves me standing, shivering before the tv wondering what went wrong.
A non-productive state, no doubt.


The solutions?
Repair. Replace. Repurpose.

Repair. If you're lucky.
Replace. If you have the means.
Repurpose... Well, so many things can prop open a door.


Broken is a relation to the world.
So what then of the broken amongst us?

For we seek fitness. And worth. And purpose.
Do we not?

Surgery, nutrition and exercise for the repair of body
Religion, therapy and narcotics for the replacement of thought.
Schools, job fairs and prisons for the repurposing of ability.

A pretty tidy system.


But broken is a relation to the world.
And the solutions before us, it seems to me, focus somewhat unevenly on that relation.
There is us, or it as the case may be, and there is the world.

What is it then that needs repair?
What is it then that needs replacement?
What is it then that needs repurposing?

I ask that you consider the world.
The world of the relation.
The world in which you are broken.
Is it so solid?  So immutable?  So real?


Broken is a relation to the world.
And, simply put, sometimes it's the world that needs to change.

Of Smokes and Flowers

So I stopped in for a pack of cigarettes.  It’d been a long time since I’d smoked.  Too long, I’m tempted to say, but probably it had been just the right amount of time.  The season had come around again and everything happens in due course...just as it will.  The check-out girl was hot as hell, but too young for me - plus I doubt Sam would approve - still I gave her a bit of charm.  Not much - don’t have all that much to spare - but a bit and she smiled.  I doubt lung cancer is worth it, but at least I got something.

I’d been working late.  Very late - I bought the smokes at midnight - and I knew Sam was gonna be pretty pissed at me, so I didn’t want to go home.  She doesn’t get it with me sometimes - the way work gets into me and I get into it and we just roll around together until at least one of us is finished.  It’s not something she’s familiar with and I love her for that.  I love that I can’t talk to her about it, that we’ve gotta come up with other things to say to each other.  I love that she’s got no similar obsessions too.  Maybe that makes me selfish, but really, when you think about it, if we were both as obsessed as this, we’d never see each other.  And I like seeing her.  Love it actually.  I don’t much give a shit if that’s selfish.  What the hell good is love if it ain’t selfish?

So I’m walking down the street trying to think of what to say or do to calm the Sam-storm I know is coming.  I’m lost in thought and I don’t even see this guy coming up at me.  So it’s like one minute I’m working out where to buy some flowers in downtown at midnight on a Thursday and the next this guy is talking to me.  He’s a bum, I guess, but I don’t much care for that word.   Bum.  Too British and maybe too mean.  Still, I guess that’s what he was doing - bumming - or trying to anyway.  I guess you could say, begging.  Yeah, I like that better.  He was begging, which, makes him a beggar.  Beggar.  Good word.  Old.  Biblical.

Anyway, so this beggar comes up to me telling me he's got a wife and kids left alone in his car.  Out of gas.  It’s ridiculous.  This guy hasn’t bathed in at least two weeks and probably longer, and he’s trying to tell me he’s got a car and a family and a home, and he just needs a bit of cash to get some gas.

‘Where’s your can?’ I ask him.  Just for fun.  I guess it’s mean, but you never know when you might get something good from having a bit of fun.

‘What-cha-mean?’ the beggar says.

‘I mean, how you gonna carry the gas back to your car without a can?  You gonna get a palm-full at at time?’

‘Naw, man, they’ll give me one at the gas station.  Can you help me?  I need seven dollars and seventy-five cents.  Can you help me?’

That exact dollar amount took me a second to figure.  I realized he’d switched stories.  Don’t think he realized it though.

‘So, what if I gave you six dollars?’ I say.

‘Come on, man,' was all he’d say.

The fun of this whole thing had worn off, so I pulled a couple of bucks from my pocket and handed it over.  Here’s a tip: always keep a few bills in your pocket when walking around a city.  I mean, maybe you’ll never use them - or maybe you’re the type who’d never give to anybody - but you never know.  And it’s probably not a great idea to pull out a wallet.

So the bum - I mean, beggar - went away and I went back to thinking.  There’s no flower shop open this late in downtown and I’m stuck taking the bus.  I don’t even want to get into why that is, so don’t even ask.  I can’t for the life of me figure a bus route that’ll take me near a flower shop either - much less an open flower shop.  Maybe a grocery store?  Sometimes they’ve got flowers.  Shit, I’ll have to take three buses to get to the store and back home and it’ll be 3am by the time I get there.  Flowers might work if I’m getting home at 12:30, but 3am is bordering on jewelery territory.

Oh well.  I was stuck.  I decided to go home and take my lumps.  Maybe I’d get away with this time.  I knew I wouldn’t, but, you know, might as well think positively.

I head to the bus station.  It’s a pretty damn giant building - takes up about a city block.  It’s got two stories, but it’s built on a hill so bottom floor is half buried and buses can enter either floor from the street.  The drive is a horseshoe shape.  A bus’ll enter from the street, loop around, stop at whatever numbered slot it’s assigned to and then pop out again on the same street.  Pretty nice when you compare it to the way it used to be - a bunch of piss-stinking, steel and Plexiglas ‘shelters’ lining a dark street.  At least this place had lights and kept most of the weather out.

I found my slot, number 18, dug out a dollar and half for fare and sat down on the bench to wait.  Thinking.  Seems I’m always thinking, you might say.  Well, don’t let me fool ya.  If that were true I wouldn’t’ve gotten myself into this mess to begin with.  It’s messes that always get me to thinking.  Not the other way’round.  I sure hope one day I learn to think my way outta even getting into a mess instead of always having to think of ways to get out.

So I’m waiting on the bus - thinking - and I noticed the chick a the other end of the bus bench.  Unlike the beggar from before, even my focus on clearing things with Sam wasn’t enough to keep me from noticing this one.  She had long legs and not too much covering ‘em.  A short skirt - tight - and a pair of calf-high boots.  CFM-boots, I believe they’re often called.  By the more vulgar amongst us, I mean.  I wouldn’t call ‘em that.  Anyway, this chick had a leather jacket on, zipped up to her neck so I couldn’t make out too much above her waist, but her face was pretty enough.  Not model pretty, mind you, but nicer than you’d expect to find waiting on a bus on a Thursday night.  Fire-truck red hair too.  I didn’t much care for that.  “Course I had her legs to distract me from it.

This chick saw me watching her, but didn’t seem to think too much of it.  I guess you gotta expect these things when you’re her kinda girl.  And I guess I didn’t seem too dangerous or anything.  I’m sure I looked just about like what I was - a guy trying to get home to his girl and worrying if tonight would be the night the my key didn’t work.

When she pulled out a cigarette, I took it as my cue to do the same.  We both knew it was against the rules - hell, we were sitting beneath a giant poster of a cigarette with big red line through it - but it was late and I guess we decided nobody would care too much what we did.  Plus, I’d just spent good money on the damned things and I knew Sam wasn’t gonna allow them in the house.  By god I was gonna have one.  Only problem was I’d forgotten to buy a lighter.  So I asked her for one.

‘You gotta lighter I could use,’ I said.

She looked over at me and laughed at that.  She had a kinda light laugh.  It danced.  Out of her throat, along her tongue and right out into the diesel exhaust particles floating all around us into my ears.  For just a second there I thought I must’a made a joke and felt a little bit a pride at being able to make the owner of that pair of legs giggle, but then I realized what was so funny.

‘I was about to ask you the same thing,’ she said and started laughing again.

‘Well, shit,’ I says to her.  At this point I’d decided to give another go at making her laugh.  At earning it this time.  Didn’t think of too much though, I’m sorry to say.  All I had was ‘Ain’t we something?  You know what they say?  Where they’re ain’t no fire, there ain’t no smoke.’

Sad I know.  I feel dumb even repeating it.  But it worked.  She started going at that.  Laughing hard and even slapping her knee.  She must’a slapped it pretty hard too, cause it left a red mark. I just about memorized that mark - had a palm and two fingers. I could draw a picture of it.  If I could draw, that is.

That was when I decided she must be on drugs.  But, shit, who’s not, you know?  Let folks do as they’ll do, is what I say.  I’m nobody to judge.

So we were sitting there not smoking and she was still laughing and I was not judging her when I noticed a guy standing just outside the bus entryway.  He was a short guy, and fat, and he was smoking.  I said to myself that it’s my lucky day - which was not at all true - and I got up and said to Giggles that I’d be back.

I walked over to the guy and asked him if I could bum his lighter.  He said yeah in a pretty friendly sorta way and I said thanks and he handed me the lighter.  I tell you that first drag was something.  Incredible.  It was like coming home only to find out everyone you love is there and they’ve forgotten every bad thing you ever did.  Like the way I’ve heard religious people talk about heaven.  

The second drag was just okay.

I was on the third and handing back the dude’s lighter when I heard a yell from the direction of the chick.  It was, in fact, the chick.  Some guy in a leather jacket was over there now holding a bunch of roses in one hand and her arm in the other.  I turned just in time to see him yank her up off the bench and pull her to him.  Then she yelled again and slapped him hard across the face - I heard it clear across the building.  

So I’m kinda in shock for a minute but then I turn back toward the guy who’d loaned me his lighter only to see him headed off down the street, and he didn’t look like he was searching out a cop.  I can’t blame him.

It was one of those situations where I found myself without a clue as to what to do, so I did what I usually do - something stupid.  I yelled ‘Hey!’ and started toward them.  I started off at kinda a half jog - about as fast as I’d ever go - but I soon found myself slowing down a bit.  I could see her wrestling with the guy and I could see how big he was and how he was winning even though he only had the one hand because the other was still holding the roses.  When I got closer I could hear him.  He was begging.  ‘Come on, June, baby.  Come on, home.’  Neither of them were paying a bit of attention to me, and I was beginning to wonder what I was doing but still I kept walking closer.  

Then a very surprising thing happened.  Suddenly the beggar from earlier was there.  I saw him run down the steps at the other end of the building and head straight for the big guy in the jacket.  I mean, this dude went right for him and slammed himself into the guy.  When they hit, the big guy let go of the chick, the roses went sliding across the pavement and everybody hit the ground.  Everybody except me.  I had a decision to make.  Before me a scrawny beggar and a giant were rolling around punching, clawing and screaming at each other, a stoned chick with spectacular legs was pushing herself up staring at the guys fighting, a perfectly good bunch of roses were just going to waste on the pavement and out of the corner of my eye I saw my bus approaching.  I had to think fast.

So, I picked up the roses.  Don’t judge.  I picked them up and then went over to the girl and helped her up - and had to drop my smoke in the process.  She seemed in relatively good shape.  I mean, she had a welt on the side of her face and was pretty much staring blankly at the fight and completely ignoring me, but given the circumstances she was doing okay.  That’s when my bus pulled up.

‘Listen.  June, is it?’ I said, trying to be all calm about it.  ‘Listen, maybe you ought to just get on the bus, okay?’  

‘I think that’s Stanley,’ she said.  ‘I haven’t seen him in years.’  It took me a minute, but I realized she was talking about the bu- beggar.  I figured then - and it seems likely still - that this was some sort of family thing.  And, say what you want, but I’ve always thought people should stay outta other people’s family business.  So that’s what I did.  The bus door opened.  I got on.  The driver was already on the radio reporting the fight, so I didn’t even bother talking to him.  I just paid the fare and took my seat.  

As we pulled away, I looked out the window to see that the fight had ended and both guys where sitting on the pavement with their backs against the wall - panting pretty hard - and June was standing over them with her hands on her hips.  She was giggling again, and then I saw her bend down and wrap her arms around the beggar in a hug.  The big guy sat there watching them and I swear he had a smile on his face.  Then right before we turned outta sight, I saw him start scanning the pavement around them looking for something.  I’m pretty sure I know what it was, but, you know, when it comes to love they say it’s every man for himself and I believe they’re right.

And Sam sure did love those roses.

The Construction of Meaning

From mystery, wake,
And to mystery, drift again.
Long day spent in fear of sight and sound
In warmth of love and comfort
In peace and rage in proportion to nature,
In open possibility.
Morning’s hope is midday’s challenge.
Evening’s reflection, twilight’s regret.
And ultimately midnight’s acceptance -
The inevitable turning.

Contribution

“Did you see his shoes?” she asked, standing before the dresser mirror taking off her earrings.  The left was caught in her straight blond hair, and she cursed as she pulled it free. "The one who spoke to you?  I swear I could see his toes."

“Mmm-hmm,” he said from behind her.

“It was disgusting,” she said. “I don't know how those people can stand it.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he repeated.

“And was that paper they were all selling?” she said. “Isn't it illegal to sell on the street?”

“Hmm?” he said. He appeared behind her in the mirror pulling off his tie.

“Stewart, I'm talking to you! I said, isn't it illegal for them to sell that paper on the street?”

Stewart stepped to the bed, sat and leaned down to remove a shoe. He said, “I'm sure they have a license, dear.”

“A license! For that trash? What's the world coming to? They should at least be required to have some news in their newspaper? And where are they going to get news?” Still in front of the mirror, she reached beneath her hair to unfasten her necklace. “What was it called? The 'Contributor'? Contributor! Playing journalist is more like it. Contributor! What are they 'contributing' exactly?” she said.

“They're trying to earn money instead of begging for it,” Stewart said.  He removed his silver watch and laid it on his bed-side table.

“Earn? Earn? Seems like begging to me,” she said. “And how much does that paper cost to print anyway? Probably have to beg for twice as much now.”

“Let it go, Gwen,” he said. “Let's go to bed. I'm up too late for a Sunday night as it is, and I have an early meeting.”

“I'm sure you think that's awfully important. I should just shut up and let you get some sleep? All you care about is work, work, work,” she said. She stepped out of her dress and went into the bathroom to remove her makeup. “I'm trying to have a conversation,” she called through the open door.

"I know," he said.  "It's just not a conversation I wish to have right now."  He stepped into the bathroom, around his wife, to his sink and began squeezing toothpaste on his brush.

"Well when will we have it?  Honestly, Stewart, I just don't know when we ever talk any more."

"M-m-ha-min-mt," he mumbled past the toothbrush in his mouth.

"Shit, Stewart," she said.  She went to the bedroom closet to find her nightgown. "Alright, let's go to bed. I have to be up early too.  Your mother signed me up to assist with the that religious ed week at church. If I must spend all day with those spoiled children, I suppose I'll need some sleep."

"Good. I'm beat," said Stewart. He slipped on a clean t-shirt and his pajama pants. The paused before climbing into bed.  "Look, Gwen, let's not go to sleep angry. Can't we be friends?"

Gwen climbed into bed, and propped her arm on her pillow to look at him.  "Sure, Stewart," she said. "Fine.  We're still friends. Good night."

Stewart leaned across the bed to lightly kiss her lips.  Then they each turned off their bed-side lamps and rolled over to go to sleep.

+++

That night Gwen dreamed of a fire.  She stood alone in the front room of a small, dark apartment.  A tenement house.  The apartment's door was open to the dim hallway beyond it.  She sensed the stink of urine and decay embedded in the oily walls around her.  The boarded window allowed only thin blades of light into the room.  She walked to it and grabbed one of the boards.  It was moist with mossy growth, but it was well secured to the window and took a great deal of strength to yank free.  She tossed the board to the floor and wiped her hands on her blouse before poking her face into the hole.  No glass.  It had been long ago shattered and what shards remained clung to the window's edge offering no barrier against the world outside.  For a moment she enjoyed the feel of sweet, cool air on her face before looking out the window.  When she did, she jumped back from the view.  She was very high.  The apartment must be hundreds of stories off the ground.  Shaken but determined, she slowly walked back to the window.  The earth was covered with a bright green forest.  The forest looked fresh and clean and inviting, but at the same time tiny and impossibly far.

She turned around to face the room.  The light from the window showed the its filth much more clearly and Gwen began to regret removing the board.  For the most part the sub-floor was exposed, but small tufts of bright green, shag carpet popped up here and there.  The walls were papered in a dark green.  It was a color chosen to not show dirt, but the illusion carried only so far.  In several places the wallpaper had bubbled and ripped.

The room was bare of furniture except for a stained and reeking mattress that lay, unsupported, on the floor in the corner farthest from the window.  The mattress was obviously still in use.  There was no fitted sheet, but there was a thin, spotted yellow blanket and a case-less pillow resting atop it.  It was here the fire started.

It seemed to start spontaneously, but she knew someone had been smoking.  It might have been her.  Had she stared again?  She wondered as the fire grew.  It started from beneath the blanket but quickly spread to the mattress and then to the wall.  Soon the entire corner was engulfed in flame.  The wall paper cracked and melted as the room filled with smoke.  Gwen coughed.  She knew she must be choking and covered her mouth.  

The fire was for her.  It burned for her.

She looked back toward the window, but she couldn't go that way.  So she kept an eye on the creeping flames and moved out the door into the hallway.  And once in the hall, she ran.

The doors along the hall were closed and the only light came from the flicker of flames behind her.  She ran along the hall with it chasing her until she was at the end, banging on the last door.  The fire was approaching.  She could feel its heat.  She banged harder and harder.  She heard a voice behind the door.  "Stewart!" she screamed.  "Stewart! Help me!"  She began to claw at the door, screaming.  She could see the brightness of the fire reflected in the door.  "Please!"

"Gwen?"  It was Stewart's voice coming from behind her.  She turned and could see him through the flame.  "What's wrong, honey?" he said, calmly.  "Did they get you too?  I knew they would."

"Wha-?", she asked.  "Who?"

"They'll get us all, Gwen."  Stewart's sleeve caught fire.  He lifted his arm and stared at the flame, confused.  "“Mmm-hmm,” he said and began to bat the flame with his other hand.  "Mmmmmm-hmmmmmm."  His hand caught fire.  He began to swing his arms wildly.  "Mmmmmmm-Hmmmmmmmm!  MMMMMMMMMMMM-HMMMMMMMMMMMMM!  MMMMMMMMM-!"

"Stewart!" Gwen screamed.

"What's wrong, dear?  Why are -"

+++

"- you yelling?"  Stewart was shaking her awake.  Gwen's eyes opened and she quickly set up in the bed.  She reached her hand to her face.  There were tears on her cheek.

"Are you okay?" he asked.  "Were you dreaming?"

"Yes," she said still rubbing her eyes.   "Yes.  You were on fire."

"Hmmm.  That's not a pleasant thought," he said. "Did you put me out?"

"No.  No, I couldn't get to you."

"Well, next time dream up a bucket of water, okay?" he said smiling.  "Hey, look you're fine now.  There's no fire.  We're safe and sound."

"Yeah.  Yes, I know," she said.  "I think I'll go get a drink of water."  She pushed the blanket off of her and stood up.

"Okay, dear," Stewart said sinking back into the bed.  "Don't worry about having a bad dream once in a while.  They get us all eventually."

+++

Stewart worked late the next night, so Gwen spent the evening alone.  After her meal she sat on the sofa with a bottle of wine.  The house seemed so empty.  They'd bought it with the idea of children.  The rooms used for Stewart's office and her fitness equipment were supposed to be bedrooms.   Things hadn't worked out that way though.  It was rare that Gwen thought about those days.  All those trips to the gynecologist and then the fertility doctor.  She knew Stewart revisited that time much more often than she did.  The truth was, when they learned she couldn't carry a child, it had been a relief.  She didn't hate children - other people's children - but she didn't especially like them either, and the thought of having one - the thought of giving up her time, her life, for one - well that never felt pleasant.  In those days she was certain she could come up with better things to do.   

As she sat listening to the silence, she thought about her day.  She knew her mother-in-law had never forgiven her for not having a child.  But Gwen wasn't sure if the way Stewart's mother's yearly insistence that she assist with their church's religious education week was a form of punishment or some kind of lesson about the blessings children brought into the world.  It usually felt like the former, but she admitted the old woman still might not have given up on a surrogate or adoption - ideas Gwen had managed to mostly quell in Stewart.  Truth be told, though, today hadn't been so bad.  She'd helped setup two of the classrooms and made cookies for an afternoon snack.  She spent little time with the children.

Gwen poured herself another glass of wine.  Her own mother, were she still alive, would likely be pushing her even harder than Stewart’s.  Gwen’s parents had been killed in a car accident only two years into her marriage.  A month or two before the accident, Gwen began to notice little hints from each of them.  They wanted grandchildren.  Wanted them even more badly than Gwen had realized.  After they died their lawyer showed her the paperwork they’d asked him to begin drawing up.  A trust fund for college.  All it needed was a name.  It was three weeks after their funeral that she and Stewart began trying.  She’d wanted to do something for them.  Something to repay them for all they’d given her.  

Gwen drained her glass, and poured another.

She needed to clear her head.  She considered turning on the television, then decided against it.  There was nothing worth watching.  Only more trouble she didn’t feel like dealing with.  She'd tried earlier and caught part of the nightly news.  Some story about the mayor's efforts to end the homeless problem.  The reporter spoke of the plans to build new public housing apartments over the image of a small, blond girl eating soup at a table of ratty, homeless women.  

My god, Gwen thought remembering the story, more clearly.  Can't these people just clean themselves up and get jobs?   She took another sip of wine.  The whole thing made her so angry.  And what was that paper yesterday?  That rag they sold.  The Contributor.   That was it.  Seeing those poor, dirty men selling it had really upset her.  She supposed she'd taken it out on Stewart too.  Probably owe him an apology, she thought.  It was just so damn odd.  Them selling that newspaper on the street.  Some bleeding-heart's notion of helping, she supposed.  Just like this public housing.  Put them to work, that's what would help.  All they were doing was standing around chatting with each other and begging for someone to buy a paper.  That's not work.  

Where was Stewart?  He should have been home by now.  Working late.  Always late these days.  And she was certain it was work that kept him away.  Or, at least, she knew it wasn't another woman.  More than once she'd leaned into him searching for, and not finding, a faint scent of perfume or the smudge of lipstick.  More than once she'd called his office only to have him answer and tell her he'd be home after a while.  He was working.  Working hard enough to have gained the recognition of the partners.  Probably be a promotion before long.  Maybe they'd get a pool.

She really owed him an apology for the other night.  She should do something nice for him.  What could she do?

A pool would be so-.  Cool water.  She liked the sound of that.  Nice cool water to keep her safe.  Safe and-.  Clean.  It's so good to be clean.  And safe.  Not like those filthy-.

She shouldn't be so hard on Stewart.  He worked hard.  And he did it for her.  For them.

She laid her head back against the back of the sofa.  Soft.  She closed her eyes.  Stewart's a good man, she though.  He's-.

A loud boom roused her.  The speakers from a car passing on the street outside.  Don't they know how late it is, she thought.  She straightened up on the sofa, rubbed her eyes and looked at the room around her.  She'd picked out everything in there.  She loved the soft red of the sofa and love seat and the dark mahogany of the coffee and end tables.  Her eyes scanned the art on the walls until they rested on the painting above the fireplace.  It was of a group of children playing at a swimming pool.  The downtown of a city rose above them in the background.  She remembered Stewart had been surprised when she'd picked it out, but it had called to her.   There was something about it.  She seemed to almost remember somethi-

The wine was getting to her, she realized.  What time was it anyway?  Thoughts were beginning to roll into one anther.  Time for bed.  

+++

The dream.  The hallway this time.  Gwen stood at the open door and looked inside.  The apartment was the same as before.  The board she'd removed from the window lay on a patch of carpet.  The greasy, green wallpaper pealed from the walls.  She watched dust dance in the light from the window and could see the green forest outside.  Then she saw smoke.  And she ran.

In a flash she was pounding at the last door.  She turned to look down the hall just in time to see flames explode from the apartment's open doorway onto the wall opposite and begin running up the wall and onto the ceiling.

She turned back to the door, squinting to drive back the tears, and resumed banging on it.  She could hear something on the other side.  A voice.  She was sure it was a voice.  She screamed.

"Help!  Help me!  I'm out here!  Please open the door!"

This time when Stewart called her name, she did not turn.

"Please!" she called.  The fire reflected in the door.  Its flicker made the black of her shadow dance before her.  Again Stewart called her name.  She griped the trim and held tight to keep from turning.  Tears were running freely now.  "Please!  Help me!" she screamed.

"Gwen?  Gw- Mmmmm-hmmmmm."  Stewart said behind her.  "MMMMMMM-HMMMMMM!" 

"HELP ME!" Gwen screamed.

"MMMMMMM" Stewart began again.  "-HMMMMMM!"   "MMMMMMM-HMMMMMMM!"  

The light and heat of an explosion flashed around her.  She heard Stewart's sharp scream then felt warm, wet debris slap onto her neck and arms.  It clung to her hair and ran down her back beneath her blouse.  

Then suddenly there was no sound.  No sensation.  No sense of place or of space.  She reached for the door but did not find it.  She was in the void.  She floated there and continued to cry.

+++

The next morning Gwen made breakfast - eggs, toast and strawberries.  She wanted to fry some bacon, but remembered how Stewart's doctor had advised against it.  They sat together in their small breakfast nook eating and drinking coffee and orange juice.  

"What time did you get home last night?" Gwen asked.

"Pretty late," Stewart replied.  "And I still didn't get everything finished.  I'm in good shape though, I think.  Haskins won't be back from the conference until Monday, so I've still got the rest of the week, and the weekend if I need it."

Gwen back stiffened at his mention of working over the weekend, but then she caught herself and softened.  This was her way of apologizing.  She didn't want to start a fight.  "Glad things are on track," she said.

"Yeah," Stewart said.  "Me too.  Hey what happened to you yesterday?  Did mom drive you nuts?  When I got home the covers were all over the bed.  I hope she's not ruining your sleep now."

Gwen stared at him, briefly, then replied, "Oh.  No, your mother was fine.  Yesterday was fine.  How do you like your breakfast?"

Stewart said, "Honey, this is without a doubt the best breakfast I've had in a long time."  He shoveled a fork-full of eggs into his mouth.  "'ut...eri-ously," -- he swallowed -- "Seriously, how did you sleep last night?  Did you have another bad dream?  Was I on fire again?"

"Thank you for the compliment on the food, dear," Gwen said.  "And, yes, I think I did have an odd dream or two last night."  She took his mug and went to refill it.  "It's nothing to worry about though.  Bad dreams get us all, right?"  

"Yes, I suppose so," he said.  "You know once I had a one where you were pregnant with an ostrich.  Of course that was back when..."   

She sat his coffee on the table and reached down to pat his hand.  "It's been too long since I've cooked for you.  I'm sorry about that."  

Stewart looked up at her.  "Gwen-" he started, then paused to finish chewing.  "Well, Gwen, this meal was worth the wait."

Gwen picked up her plate and piled her fork and knife on top.  She reached down to kiss her husband on the forehead before taking the dishes around to the sink.  She felt Stewart's eyes follow her.  It gave her a thrill and she wished he would take the morning off, but knew he what he would say if she asked and she didn't want to ruin the moment.  Still she enjoyed the attention and made a game of slowing her movements and of lingering over the dishwasher as she placed her dishes on the rack. 

"Honey, you are so-" Stewart began, but then saw the clock.  "Oh, damn, it's late.  I've gotta run."  He jumped from his chair and came around to Gwen.  He kissed her on her mouth.  "Thank you again, honey.  Love you."  Then he ran out of the kitchen.  Gwen stood unmoving until she heard the front door slam shut, then, smiling, continued cleaning up.

+++

The room is bright and papered yellow.  The window's trim is white and beyond it sits a bright blue cloudless sky atop a distant, lush, green forest.  She realizes she's very high up.  Hundreds of feet in the air.

She wonders where she might be, but she doesn't want to question her good fortune at having ended up in such a place.  A clean place.  Safe.

In the corner near a white-painted wooden door she sees bundles of newspaper.  Dozens of them.  Looking about her she becomes aware of even more.  She's surrounded by them.  Bundles stacked in floor to ceiling columns seem to give structural support to the room.  Out the window she notices a clear patch in the forest and when she looks closer she sees work crews along the edge of the clearing cutting down trees.

"For the papers," she says.  "They must have wood to make paper.  They must have paper to print.  They must have people to do the writ-"

There's a harsh banging at the door.  Gwen stops speaking.  She stands silently in the center of the room.  The banging continues.  

Fear grips her.  Who is that?  Who would come here?  How would they know where to find her?   

Then, suddenly, the banging stops.  All is quiet for a moment, then what sounds like an explosion on  the other side of the door.  Gwen yelps.  The room shakes and several stacks of newspaper bundles fall to the floor.

Then the banging begins again.

Along with the banging she hears screams.  Someone in trouble.  Someone just outside that door.  She should help.  She should open the door and let them in.  She takes a step.  Then another.  Then she stops.  Who could it be?  Who would want her to help?  She--  She can't help anyone.  Who would come to her for help?  Maybe they'll go away.  They'll go to the next door.  

She looks down at her hands.  She's holding a small plastic doll.  It's old and dirty and looks to be partly charred from a fire, but it is familiar somehow.  It seems that it may have belonged to someone she knew.  Someone she knew a long time ago.  She holds it to her chest.  It's a very pretty doll.  Maybe she can keep it.

“Oh Wendy.” a woman’s voice, low and gravelly, calls.  Gwen looks up and sees a woman sitting on a pile of newspapers in the corner, smoking a cigarette.  A slim, Gwen remembers suddenly.  Menthol.

“Wendy.  Look at you, Precious.”  The woman calls and Gwen walks toward her.  “Here, Wendy, sit down here.”  And Gwen sits by the woman in a tiny rocking chair.  She barely fits.  It’s child-sized - its low height forces her knees into her breasts - but somehow the chair is comfortable.  She begins to gently rock.

The woman’s hand reaches out to touch her face.  For a moment her arm is unbelievably long as if she’s reaching out over a great distance, but then it re-sizes itself and she’s right there.  “Wendy, you know it wasn’t your fault.  You know that,” she says kindly.  “It was these damned things,” she says more sharply showing Gwen her cigarette.  “It was my fault.”

Gwen feels tears welling.  She doesn’t speak, but pulls the woman’s hand from her face and holds it in both of hers.  Its skin is soft and warm, but the nails are black and dark soot stains run along the fingers.  She feels the woman watching her, smiling, as she raises the hand back to her face and kisses its palm.

“Sweet, Wendy,” the woman says.  “They came for you, didn’t they?  I knew they would.  One day.  I was unfit.  I knew I was unfit.  Did they treat you well, dear Wendy?”

“Yes, momma, yes,” Gwen says, tears rolling down her cheeks.  Her tears fall on the woman’s hand and washes away some of the soot.  Gwen smiles and begins rubbing the hand clearing away more.

“I’m so happy.  I love you, Wendy.”

“I love you too, momma.”

The banging at the door begins again.  “Is someone there?” Gwen’s mother asks.  “Go see who it is, Wendy.”

Gwen turns toward the door.  The banging grows louder.  “No, momma, no,” she says, frightened.  “They’ll go away.  Let me just stay here with-”  When she turns back her mother is gone, replaced by a heap of charred clothing.  The stench of burnt hair fills the room.  The banging continues, growing louder and faster.  Gwen rises from the rocking chair and takes a step toward the door.  BANG!  BANG!  She takes another step and a half step more.  BANG!

Suddenly the banging turns to booming and she hears the door frame begin to crack.  With each boom the door bows toward her just a little more.  BOOM!  BOOM!  BOOM!  The door flies open and-

+++

Gwen woke up screaming.

+++

 ”There was a fire,” Gwen said, seated on the edge of the bed. Stewart stood over her offering a glass of water.  She took it from him, held it in both hands and stared into it.  She could see her feet through the glass, magnified and distorted by the water.  She moved her left foot to the right and in the glass it moved left.

“In your dream?” Stewart said.

“Oh,” she looked back up at him.  “No.  Well, yes, but-”  Water slipped from the glass as she took a sip.  “I remember now.  I remember the fire...  My mother...  I remember.”

“What?” Stewart asked, sitting beside her on the bed.  He placed his right hand on her shoulder and took the glass from her with his left.  “What are you saying, honey?”

“I was a girl.  Oh, Stewart, how could I have forgotten all this?  I was a girl.  No more than three.  We lived - my mother and I - we lived in this place.  It was dirty and there were rats.  I remember mother put the bread in the refrigerator to keep the rats from it.  I remember there was this great green shag carpet.  And the walls.  Dark green paper.  I used to pretend.  I would pretend that the carpet was grass and the paper pealing from the walls were tree limbs.  It was a park.  Like the one...  Like the one outside the window.  I could never go there.  Mother said it was dangerous for a little girl.  I would stare at it out the window.  I remember standing on...a box, or a table - I’m not sure, but something - and looking down at the park.  It seemed so far.  So far below.  I would see kids playing and people with dogs.  Then I would act it out there on the shag carpet.  Pushing baby carriages and playing fetch and tag.”

As Stewart listened, his hand begin to grip Gwen’s shoulder.  Now he relaxed it.  “What are you saying, Gwen?  How could you have been in a place like that?  Your father.  You mother.  You were never poor, Gwen.”

“I... I know,” she said.  “But I remember.  I... I never told you this, Stewart.  I haven’t even thought about it in so long.  But when I was young, I had...doubts.  Doubts about me.  About my parents.  Stewart, I remember now.”  Gwen began to shiver and leaned into Stewart pressing her head into his chest.  “I remember now,” she said.

“Okay.  Okay, Gwen.  Okay,” he lifted her from him and looked into her eyes.  “Tell me.”

“One day my mother.  Not the woman I knew as my mother - the woman you knew - but my...my mother.  She smoked.  She was in the bedroom.  I was in the other room.  Playing, I guess.  I... I smelled smoke.  I don’t think I thought much of it at first.  I guess I just didn’t know what it meant.  But I kept smelling it and finally I went to the door of the bedroom.  It was warm.  I can see it all so clearly now.  It was warm, but I could touch it.  I opened the door and...  And I saw...  I saw the fire.  There was so much.  And I guess...  I mean, I think now that opening the door just fueled it more.  You know?  Gave it more oxygen.  ...Is that right?  I don’t know...  But it moved so, so quickly.  I screamed.  I think my mother was still asleep.  The fire was on the floor and the edge of the mattress, but it was climbing.  Climbing up the wall and up the mattress.  Toward her.  I screamed again.  I didn’t know what to do.  I tried to get closer to her, but... But I couldn’t do it.  I ran out of the room and out of the apartment.  I was crying and yelling for Momma.  I got to the end of the hall...and...  Oh, Stewart!  I got to the end and I heard her screaming.  I remember.  By then some of the neighbors had come out and there was smoke filing the hall.  I don’t know if anyone went to try to get her.  I just remember someone picking me up and carrying me through the door at the end of the hall and down the stairs.  I remember the firetrucks came and...  And that’s all.  I don’t remember more.  I think.  I guess.  Stewart.  My parents.  I always knew.  They were good people and I loved them, but I... I always knew.”

“Oh, my god, Gwen.”  Stewart said.  “Oh, my god.”  

“I...I’ve been so, so selfish.” Gwen stuttered.  “I’m so sorry.  Stewart, I’m so sorry.”  Then he grabbed her and she burst into tears.

+++

For Gwen the next several weeks were filled with visits to a therapist, fits of crying and long evenings with Stewart.  He wasn’t able to take off from work completely, but the late nights had come to an end and Gwen and he were able to spend quite a lot of time together, snuggled together on the sofa or up all night talking in the kitchen.  On weekends they began spending time at one of several city parks.  They enjoyed watching the children run and play.

Three months after her dreams and unlocked memories, Gwen began volunteering at a homeless shelter for women and children.  At first she cooked, sorted clothing donations, and made fundraising calls, but slowly she worked up her nerve to spend time with the people she was serving.  She began serving meals and handing out tooth brushes, soap and other toiletries.  She started a program to keep children while their mothers’ went on job interviews.  She worked with her church to provide temporary housing to help a number of families get back on their feet.  Eventually she even took a part time position as editor of the homeless paper, The Contributor.

A little over a year later Gwen came to Stewart and proposed they adopt a child.  There were so many, she said, that needed a home and they could provide it.  Stewart said yes, and soon after they adopted a two year old girl, Jackie.  They loved Jackie and raised her as their own, but Gwen would not allow her to be lied to about how she had come into their lives.  When Jackie was old enough Gwen took her to the shelter.  They worked together, mother and daughter, doing what they could to help.