Kevin sat at his desk, grading the essays that his students had written that day. While he loved teaching, there were days and times when he hated his students. Maybe not hated. But greatly disliked. Today was one of them.

Paper after paper was filled with grammatical errors that an elementary student should have mastered. These were college prep seniors. They all should be able to construct a basic sentence that made sense. Take a position on a topic that was logically presented and defended. But not this year’s bunch. It was as if they had all skipped language instruction as little kids and jumped straight into his version of hell. How were they going to succeed in college next year? Kevin imagined all of them dropping out and slinging burgers at the local fast food shops.

He couldn’t give them all failing grades. He wanted to. But Kevin knew that not only would his students protest, but so would the parents. He sat back and imagined the angry hordes storming the principal’s office, demanding his termination. Or, in absence of that, regraded papers. The principal would most likely call Kevin in for a talk. Then demand changed grades.

That’s when he heard the popping sounds that reminded him of the interminable explosions of fireworks that rocked his normally quiet neighborhood in the weeks preceding the Fourth of July. Kevin cocked his ear to one side and looked toward his classroom door. The noise seemed to be Just outside in the hallway.

What was the protocol that he was supposed to follow? Kevin knew he shouldn’t open the door to look into the hallway. He was supposed to lock it. Turn off the lights. Go to the furthest spot away from the door. So what did he do? Kevin picked up his key and tiptoed to the door. Listened. Nothing out there, or so he thought. Just as he started to insert the key, the door was jerked out of his hand. Two students tumbled in. A boy and a girl.

“There’s a shooter out there,” the boy said. “I saw him. He’s coming this way. We’ve got to hide.” He grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled her to the front of the classroom. They ducked behind Kevin’s desk and scrambled underneath.

Kevin watched them, eyes open wide. He just violated one of the most basic precepts of an intruder drill. He was not to let anyone in the room. Not even random students seeking refuge. After all, the way things were going, these two kids might be the shooters themselves. Can’t change that now. The damage was done, as the saying goes. So Kevin put his key in the lock. Started to turn it.

Once again, the door was pulled out of his grasp. Thinking it was another random student seeking refuge, Kevin automatically stepped aside. Almost in a welcoming way.

He saw the gun first. Knowing nothing about guns, Kevin couldn’t say whether it was a hunting rifle or an automatic weapon of some kind. It had a long, shiny grey barrel that pointed right at his chest. “Stand back, old man,” the holder of the gun said.

Kevin took several steps back, his hand still extended as if to lock the door. He felt his body go rigid as panic set in. He couldn’t think of what to say or do other than comply, so he moved back another few steps. “Please don’t shoot,” he said in a shaky voice.

“Shut up,” the man said as he closed the door behind him. The man leaned against the opaque window in the door as if he could see through it. He couldn’t. It was that cloudy. But it didn’t stop the man from trying.

Kevin moved to his desk and was about to sit in his chair when he saw the feet of the two kids sticking out from underneath. He leaned against the white board, hands holding the tray that at one time, before everything was modernized, held chalk. As if that was what he had planned all along. Kevin thought he heard shouting out in the hall, but he was too far away from the door to know for sure. He hoped it was the police.

Kevin, for the first time, really looked at the man. He had a bandanna tied around the lower part of his face, concealing his mouth and chin. His hair was gone. Just a shadow of what must have been brown hair remained. His ears stuck out like wings. Large ears. Elephant ears. Narrow head. The incongruity tickled Kevin and he had to stifle a chuckle. The man was like a comic-book creature. All he needed was a clown’s outfit.

There was nothing special about the man’s clothing that screamed terrorist. Gray hoodie that could be zippered, but wasn’t. Jeans, slightly faded around the knees, but not baggy. White ankle-high tennis shoes. He looked like the hundreds of students who roamed the halls. In fact, if it weren’t for the mask and the gun, he would have blended in perfectly.

The man turned and pointed the gun at Kevin. “Get down on the floor,” he said as he moved into the room. His eyes scanned from one side to the other. “Are you alone?”

“Yes,” Kevin said as he sank to the floor.

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.” The girl let out a moan that Kevin hoped the man did not hear.

The man strode toward the desk. “Who’s that? Who made that noise?”

The girl tried tucking her legs further under the desk, but was only able to move them a fraction of an inch.

When the man came even with Kevin, he growled. “Get out from under there,” he shouted, “or I’ll shoot.”

Kevin nodded toward the boy and girl, encouraging them to come out. That might not have been the right thing for him to do, but what other options were there?

The girl emerged first. Tears streaked her cheeks and her long hair was disheveled. Her white t-shirt was damp under her chin, like she had been crying for some time. She scooted as close to Kevin as she could.

“Is there someone else under there?” The man stared at the girl. Her eyes flicked momentarily at the boy, then up to the man’s face. It was just enough of a tell that the man knew. He fired a shot at the underside of the desk. Not really aiming at anything. More of a warning. Or an instruction.

The boy slid out and sat next to the girl. He grabbed her hand and held it tightly in his.

Kevin knew then why the kids had been in the hall. Making out. Getting in a few last minutes kisses and gropes before being too late for class.

“Keep quiet,” the man said, “or I kill you all.”

Kevin was glad that the kids didn’t say anything. He didn’t doubt that the man would shoot. After all, he had heard shots when he was sitting at his desk. Even so, he glanced in the direction of the kids, willing them to be silent.

The boy was clean cut. Neatly combed blond hair. Shirt with a collar and khaki slacks. He reminded Kevin of one of his former students, a kid named Jonathan who had earned a scholarship to Princeton. Jonathan had been a bit of a geek. Into computers. But this kid looked like more of an athlete. Cross country maybe. Long and lanky. Muscular thighs. Narrow shoulders.

“Where’s your tape?” the man said.

“What?” Kevin asked.

“Your tape. Get it out and wrap it around their hands and ankles.” The man rolled Kevin’s chair over a few feet and sat down heavily. As if exhausted from running.

“It’s in the cabinet, over there,” Kevin said as he looked at the opposite wall. “Can I go get it?”

The man nodded. The nozzle of the gun pointed at Kevin. “No funny stuff. Just get the tape and come back.”

Kevin got to his feet and slowly went to the cabinet. He quickly found the masking tape and turned around.

“Not that kind of tape,” the man said. “That’s useless. Duct tape. Find that.”

“I don’t have any,” Kevin said. “This is it. The only tape I’ve got.”

“It will have to do,” the man said. “Hurry up. I don’t have a lot of time left.”

Kevin did as instructed. He bound the two kids up. Hands behind the back and ankles pointing forward. Then the man put down his gun and wrapped the tape around Kevin as well. When finished, he picked up his gun and sat back on the chair. He sighed.

“What’s your name?” Kevin asked the girl.

“Marissa.”

“Jose,” said the boy.

“Shut up,” the man yelled. He squirmed nervously on the chair. Almost like he had to use the restroom.

Kevin smiled at the two kids. He felt sorry for them. It wasn’t fair that this guy had barged into their lives. Stolen their childhoods in an ill-thought act.

But what could Kevin do about it? He was not a strong man himself. Never worked out. Probably couldn’t bench press much of anything, let alone take on a hefty guy brandishing a gun. Kevin looked out at his classroom. Orderly rows of desks, that earlier had been occupied by students who thought they were brilliant. God’s gift to education. Now there was only random pieces of paper on the floor and dust motes floating in the air.

“What’s your plan?” Kevin asked the man. “You can’t hide in here forever.”

The man rubbed his hand over his scalp. “I don’t know, man. I don’t know.”

“You could let us go. We haven’t done anything to you. We’re nothing to you but baggage.”

The man rocked back and forth, back and forth. His hands shook and perspiration broke out on his forehead.

“Eventually the cops will come in here,” Kevin said. “When they see your gun, they’ll shoot. Is that what you want?”

The man shook his head. “Naw, man. I don’t want to die.”

“Did you hurt anyone?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then the cops will go easy on you. Think about it. Just put down your gun and walk out of here.”

The man looked at Kevin as if seeing him for the first time. “Do I know you?”

“Maybe,” Kevin said. “Did you go here?”

“Yeah. A few years ago. I graduated and everything, but can’t get a job.”

“So why are you here?”

“I got mad. It’s all Mr. Granderson’s fault.”

“Why?” Kevin asked.

“He was supposed to teach me welding so I could work in my uncle’s shop. I tried, but never got it.”

Kevin thought about this. He had heard that Granderson was a lazy, incompetent teacher. That he didn’t each anything. Put on movies every day. His students never did well when they went on to ROP classes. Admin had tried firing him, but Granderson had been around too many years. Now all they could hope for was that Granderson would retire.

“How would shooting him make things better?” Kevin asked.

The man shrugged. “I guess it wouldn’t, but now I’m stuck. The cops will come in here, see the gun, and kill me.”

“Not if I take the gun. Not if I open the door and walk you out.”

The man’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling. “You’d do that for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? You don’t know me.”

“Maybe not, but I’ve known kids like you. Never got a fair shot at life. Single parent, probably your mom. She came home late. Usually you were in bed by the time she got there, so you raised yourself.”

The man nodded. “Yeah. She’s a good mom.”

“Think about her, then. How she would feel if she saw you right now.”

“Oh, man, she’d be mad.”

Kevin sat quietly, letting the man think about things for a bit. When the man stood up, Kevin leaned away and ducked his head without thinking about the kids next to him. “What are you doing?”

The man placed the gun on Kevin’s desk, then leaned over and unwrapped the tape from Kevin’s ankles and wrists. “You’re going to walk me out, like you said.”

Kevin smiled encouragingly. He stood and shook out his arms. “Okay. Let’s take it easy. I’ll go first. Open the door slowly and look out in the hall. You stay back.” When the man nodded in agreement, Kevin walked to the door. He opened it a crack and saw SWAT police in the hall. “Don’t shoot me,” Kevin said. “The guy’s in here. He’s put his gun down and is coming out.”

The police held their guns high and nodded in agreement.

Kevin opened the door wider and stepped into the hall. The man followed, hands held high. Within seconds the police had him restrained. One of them came into the classroom and picked up the gun. He quickly checked the teenagers and then left.

Kevin gently closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief. He removed the tape form the kids and helped them stand. “You’re okay,” he said. “It’s safe to leave now.”

“You’re brave,” Jose said. “Thanks for saving us.”

“Yeah,” Marissa said. “I thought he was going to kill us.”

“Go on, now,” Kevin said. He watched as they walked hand-in-hand out the door. He sat down at his deck and thought about the papers he still had to grade. “No way. I’m going home.” Kevin packed up his briefcase, picked up his lunch bag and walked out the door. He felt proud of himself. Just like he told his students to do, he had used his words. And it had worked.

“Look. Let’s get real here.” Jackson stepped out from the baby grand piano. “Do you really want to do well in the competition, or not?”

Twenty pairs of feet shuffled nervously. Someone giggled softly. Several people cleared their throats as if getting ready to cough.

Paul, a lanky young man, swept his right hand in the direction of the choir. “You just gave us this music last week. We never even went over it once. What do you expect? If it’s perfection, you’re not going to get it.”

Jackson looked down at his hands which were hanging loosely by his side. He shook his head slightly. “I expected you to practice on your own. To have gone through the piece several times. To be familiar with the music.” Jackson raised his eyes and looked at each member thoughtfully. “Did any of you do that?”

Samantha, a pretty redhead, and Marcos, a stocky baritone raised their hands tentatively.

“Is that it?” Jackson planted his hands on his hips and stared aggressively at the rest of the choir members. “Only two of you? What’s wrong with you people?”

“Calm down,” Paul said. “The competition is weeks away. Be patient with us. Work with us. Teach us.”

Jackson turned and walked down the main aisle of the church, his shoulders slumped. He smoothed back his already neatly combed hair and sighed. He looked up toward the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention.

Paul stepped before the choir with a pleading look on his face. “Listen. We’re good. The best. We want this, right?” His eyes made contact with each of the members standing before him. “We can do it. Not just be good, but good enough to win.” He leaned forward slightly and smiled. “We’ve got to want this and put in the effort. Each of us.”

Marcos nodded. “You know Paul’s right. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve dreamed about this. Being on a big stage. Singing before a panel of judges. Going up against other choirs. Winning the whole thing.”

“Me, too,” Samantha said. “I realize that not all of you can sing a piece without hearing it first. That’s okay. We’ll work together, help each other. What do you say?”

Everyone smiled and nodded.

Samantha turned toward Jackson. “Please come back. Give us another chance. We’ll get it right the next time. And if not, then the time after that.”

Jackson walked back down the aisle. His eyes glittered as if filled with tears. He nodded. Spread his arms out as it enfolding the members into his body. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s what I wanted to hear. This has to be something you’ve wanted so badly your teeth hurt just thinking about it. A dream you’ve held tight.” He paced back and forth, his arms waving passionately as he spoke. “I believe you can win this thing, but only if you stop dreaming and start performing. You’ve got the talent to win the recording contract. Be stars.”

Jackson sat on the piano bench and placed his fingers over the keys. “Shall we give it one more try?”

Twenty heads nodded and twenty faces smiled. When they sang, they were perfectly in tune. Their voices filled the church with angelic harmony.

Mindlessly, I pulled the pillows off the bed
Thinking about what my husband had just said
About feeling adrift in a world gone mad
Fighting over things that folks once had had

Pillowcases not so gently tossed aside,
My mind roamed to all those soldiers who had died
Fighting against the wind in lands far away
Laundry on a line, too tightly bound to stray

The plaid coverlet dumped carelessly on the floor
Landed, with aplomb, blocking the bedroom door
So many paved paths deadlocked by tragedy
Murdered teens drowning in the filth of the city

Layer by layer I stripped my place of rest
As if preparing for a traveling guest
Who’d put alterations in my troubled brain
Inspiring change, much like a runaway train

It came to me, then, the trouble we are in
Referred back to when the world began to spin
Dirt drifted down, quickly tarnishing the soil
Sturdy stains from which all men would recoil

Yet, like drawn to the fire of a brand new day
Cleansing ideas floated in with the sway
Influencing hearts to always seek the truth
Strive to avoid the repulsively uncouth

Gathering the detritus of my hard work
I realized that there is one mammoth perk
When assembled together, my bed will please
Only then did I relax: my mind at ease

“You must be watchful,” Jimere said. His long, gray hair fell over his shoulders as he stood. “The Spirits love to surprise. Especially that one, Elodia.” With a trembling right hand, he pointed to a small potted plant near the doorway. “Elodia sends her scent to entice the unwary, and then paralyzes the body and the mind with the slightest taste.”

“Elodia’ll also give you a nasty rash if you don’t handle it carefully, but it’s the best thing for healing deep cuts when made into a poultice,” said fourteen-year-old Bitina. “Tell me something that I don’t already know. Maybe about that herb over there,” she said as she pointed to a tidy bundle of brown hanging from the rafters. “I want to know everything about healing, just like you do.” She crossed her arms over her budding breasts and glowered at her teacher.

“Time may be running out for your studies because your trial day is coming up, and if you don’t pass the test…”

“I’ll not get to be a healer. I know all this, Jimere,” Bitina said. She walked over to the working area and picked up a pestle. “Show me how to grind Kashere. I want to brew a tea to ease my grandma’s pain.”

“Yes, yes. In all good time.” Jimere lovingly ran his fingers along a row of clay pots on a shelf just above his head. He picked one up and looked inside. “Ah, Dulio. What is this good for?”

“I know,” shouted Renji as he rushed to his teacher’s side. “It takes the fight out of one who is possessed.”

“Right, my apt pupil.” Jimere ruffled the boy’s curly brown hair. “You’re the smartest eight-year old in the class.”

“I’m the only eight year old.” Renji’s shoulders squared with pride. He beamed at his sister, feeding the one-upmanship that marked their relationship.

“You said I was the smartest,” snarled Bitina. “Besides, I asked about Kashere. Please, Jimere, show me how to make the tea! Grandma’s fingers and toes ache so bad she can’t sleep.”

“Patience, dear one.” Jimere limped over to his work stool, leaning heavily on his cane. “Since you are also the smartest, tell me, Bitina, what Rodden looks like, and what it’s good for.”

“If I show you, will you answer my question?”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

Bitina strode passed Jimere, her eyes scanning the shelved herbs. She pulled down a tied-together bunch with small, curly leaves. “This is Rodden. When someone is weak with fever, you take one leaf, crush it with a pestle, and then sprinkle it into a cup of boiling water. The sick one is to drink slowly, one sip at a time. If the fever does not go down in an hour, strengthen the dose and repeat.”

“So, you do listen and remember. That is good. That is very good. Now, go get the Kashere jar.” Jimere’s body suddenly began trembling and his face turned the color of old ashes. His eyes rolled back, he fell off the stool, and collapsed to the floor.

“Renji, watch his head,” Bitina said. “Make sure it doesn’t bang against anything.”

“I know what to do. Quit treating me like I’m stupid,” the boy said as he knelt by his teacher’s head. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he intoned as he stroked Jimere’s arms.

Bitina knelt by the old man’s side, and counted the seconds as the tremors continued. “Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one. This is bad, Renji.”

Instead of easing in intensity, as they usually did with time, the seizures seemed to get stronger and stronger.

“It’s never been this bad before,” Bitina said as tears poured down her pallid cheeks.

“Should I go get Lynnaia? She might be able to help,” Renji said.

Bitina nodded. Despite her years of training with the learned one, she felt incompetent in this situation. Jimere’s seizures usually went away quickly and then he was walking and talking normally, as if nothing had happened. She did not know what to do to help him, and so she simply sat and held his hand.

While Bitina kept watch, Renji ran down to the lake. Everyone in the village knew Lynnaia as the spiritual advisor, but she had also studied under Jimere when a young child. Going for her was a logical choice.

As time passed, and Renji did not return, and Jimere’s condition did not improve, Bitina knew that she had to do something. Her eyes flew about the room. What magic can I blend to make the seizures stop? She scanned the various plants growing in pots all along Jimere’s walls. Talluse. No, that’s to cure shyness. Denoy. Maybe. It can cure depression. I know! Altair. It’s good for all sorts of illnesses.

Bitina ran over to a cactus-like plant growing in the darkest corner of the room. She broke off a one-inch piece of leaf and carried it over to Jimere’s worktable. The defender. Yes, that will do. And I’ll add in a tad of Dulio, to ward off the darkness.

The girl put a pot of water over the warm fire. In the mortar, she crushed together the two herbs, working with the swiftness of a practiced healer. When the water boiled heartily, Bitina poured some into Jimere’s favorite mug. After carefully scraping the herbal mixture into the mug, she stirred.

What’s taking Renji so long? Lynnaia’s house isn’t that far away. Even if they crawled all the way back, they should have been here by now. Anger at her brother’s slowness would not help, and so Bitina tested the medicine to see if it was ready.

Jimere’s seizures had eased in intensity, but had not stopped completely. His mouth hung open as if to scream, and his back arched like a cat’s.

Bitina slowly knelt, being careful not to spill even one drop of the remedy. “Jimere,” she said. “I’m going to put some liquid in your mouth. When I do, swallow. It’ll help.” Bitina tipped the mug until a few drops fell into her teacher’s opened mouth. She didn’t see him swallow, but the medicine didn’t come back out, either. So she dripped in some more, and then still more.

The seizures slowly lost more and more power, making Bitina feel confident that her concoction was the right mixture. After she had managed to get the entire cupful into Jimere, his body noticeably relaxed.

She sat back on her knees and smiled. He’ll sleep the rest of the day now. She walked over to Jimere’s sleeping corner and got down two of his fluffiest furs. She carried them to where he slept. She spread one out next to Jimere, and then rolled his limp body over and over. When he was more or less in the middle, she stopped pushing. Then she covered him with the other fur.

After watching to make sure that he was out of danger, Bitina stood. Smiling with pride, she cleaned up the cooking area, humming a tune of thanksgiving. Renji should have been here ages ago. He probably found a frog and forgot all about Jimere. Wait until I see him!
Bitina wiped her hands on a clean towel, and then strode to the door. She looked toward the lake, hoping to see Renji and Lynnaia. There was no one near Garnock’s stall, one of the busiest shops in the village. No cluster of old women around the cooperative cooking pots. In fact, she could see no one milling about no matter in which direction she looked. This disturbed her, but she couldn’t just leave Jimere unless he was out of danger.

After checking on her teacher one last time, Bitina stepped into the street and headed toward home. As Bitina passed one house after another, she noticed no smoke coming out of chimneys, no noisy boys throwing rocks into the lake, and no men crafting weapons in the work area. A prickling sensation arose along the back of her neck. I’m being watched, she thought as she spun around. No, no one’s there.

She headed toward Lynnaia’s house, thinking she’d find Renji inside, eating peppermint candy. When she stepped on the old woman’s porch, Bitina noticed that there were no candles lit. Where’d she go?

Bitina took off, running past Jeca’s unkempt house, expecting to find her messing about in the dirt along the road. She wasn’t there, and she never goes anywhere.

Not knowing what else to do, Bitina headed toward the meetinghouse. There was almost always someone there, most likely another healer.

She ran as fast as she could up a small hill, leaping over rocks and fallen logs that were in the path. Bitina took a leap across a small stream, landing securely on the opposite side.
She ran and ran, and even though her side ached, Bitina ran some more. When she entered the meadow of the meetinghouse, she stopped to wipe the streams of sweat from her eyes. There was no smoke rising from the chimney, which was weird as that fire was always lit. If no one is here, then where could everyone be?

Terrified that some unimaginable evil had happened while she was tending to Jimere, she sped to the entrance door, hastily bowed the requisite number of times, and then lifted the latch. The door didn’t move. Bitina tugged again, leaning back on her heels and using all her weight as leverage. The door slowly opened, revealing total darkness inside.

A comforting breeze washed over Bitina as she stepped inside. She slipped off her shoes according to custom, and then pulled back the heavy curtain that lead to the worship room.

There was no glow in the fire pit, something that Bitina had never seen her entire life.
She shivered. First Jimere’s sickness, then Renji’s disappearance, the whole town empty and now the missing fire. It frightened her so much, that she stood frozen.
When something tickled the back of her arms, Bitina turned, terrified of what she’d see. But there was nothing that she could make out in the darkness.

Suddenly, from a corner of the room, beads rattled.

“Who’s there?” Bitina took a step forward, even though only silence greeted her shaking knees. “Is someone there? Please, speak to me,” She called out. Despite her best efforts to be brave, tears streamed down her face.

“The Spirits have chosen you,” a nearby voice called out. “Step into the heart of the darkness.”

“Who are you?” Bitina stayed close to the door, prepared to run away.

“Do not be afraid, for you are among fellow travelers,” a high-pitched voice intoned. “Step into the heart of the darkness.”

Bitina reached forward with both hands, and while waving them about, took ten tiny steps. “I’m in the center, I think.”

“Close your eyes and pray the prayer of hope,” the high-pitched voice commanded.

“Spirits of night and day, come to me today,” Bitina said. “Lead me far away to where my center lay. Bless me, bless me I pray.”

Sparkling lights suddenly erupted, filling the room with blinding color. Blinking rapidly, Bitina watched the display as awareness slowly came to her. She knew that this was how the crossing over ceremony began and so was no longer afraid.

With a loud swoosh, the fireplace burst into flame and strong arms wrapped around her chest, holding her firm.

“My child, do not fear,” the tender voice of Jimere whispered in her right ear. “You are to be named shaman. No longer are you apprentice.”

“But you were asleep when I left,” Bitina said.

“I know, I know. Thank goodness I taught you well. I was afraid that you would accidentally poison me. If I had not healed, you would have failed the test.”

“The test? That was my test?” A smile of pride lit Bitina’s face. “If I hadn’t thought of the right medicines, you might have died!”

“No, no. Lynnaia was right outside looking in through a window. If anything had gone wrong, she would have come in and taken over.”

“But, Jimere, how did she know to be there?” Bitina’s eyes got huge when she realized what had happened. Jimere had taken one of his own medicines, simply to trigger the seizures. “Why did you do that?”

“You had to pass the healing test. It’s the way that it’s always done. Now, look around. We are here to celebrate your special day.”

Bitina did as told. She recognized the people gathered around the fire. Renji stood with her parents. Lynnaia was next to Kitchell, and Alywin and Mercel stood together, holding hands. More and more faces became visible as Bitina’s eyes adjusted to the light.

Jimere chanted the crossing over song with pride in her voice. Soon everyone joined in, including Bitina. As expected, she fell to her knees and placed her hands on the soft dirt floor. Bowed, she gave thanks for all the time spent with the learned one, for her parents who had allowed her to study, to her brother Renji for helping her practice, and especially to the spirits, who guided her constantly. This was a truly special day.

Jonathan and Susan held hands across the smeared tabletop in Good Brews, their coffee cups pushed to the side. Oblivious to the bustle of the crowd around them, they stared, glittery-eyed into each others faces.

“Do you really love me?” Jonathan asked, leaning within inches of Susan’s forehead.

Susan squeezed his hands and smiled. “Yes, I do.”

“You do what?”

“Well, you mean a lot to me,” she said. She disengaged her right hand, picked up her cup and took a sip of the lukewarm coffee.

Jonathan seemed to shrink as he lost his luster. “That’s it? I mean a lot to you?”

Susan picked up her fork and cut into the piece of tiramisu before her. She closed her eyes as the bite entered her mouth. She nodded as she chewed. “Yes, you are everything to me. I don’t know how I existed before we met.”

“But do you love me?” Jonathan sat back in his chair and ran his hands through his one-inch black hair. “Because you never say the words.”

“I do,” Susan said. “Maybe you just aren’t listening.”

“Oh, I’d hear that,” he said, “if you actually said it.”

The waitress stopped by their table. “Is everything okay?” she said.

“We’re fine,” Jonathan said. “Could you bring the check, please?”

“Sure.” The waitress pulled it out of her pocket and placed it next to Jonathan’s empty cup.

“Have a great day,” she said as she  walked away.

Susan rooted through her purse, took out a twenty and handed it to Jonathan.

“What’s this for?”

“My half,” she said.

“But this is my treat.”

Susan sighed. “We’ve been over this before. I always pay my half. You pay yours.” She stood up and pulled her t-shirt down over her ample hips. “I’m going to use the restroom. I’ll meet you outside.”

Jonathan watched her walk away. Although he felt like crying, no tears fell. He stood and stumbled past all the occupied tables, picking up snippets of boisterous conversations along the way.

Outside, the early morning air still held the crispness of a foggy San Francisco morning. Noisy trolley cars ran up and down the street, blocking out the sounds of countless panhandlers begging for money.

When Susan emerged, they headed east on Market Street, toward the business district.

Jonathan wanted to hold her hand, but held back. “Are you busy this weekend?”

“Not sure,” she said. “My sister mentioned something about shopping on Saturday and some friends want to see a movie on Sunday afternoon, Why? What did you have in mind?”

They split temporarily to dodge a shopping-cart lady blocking the sidewalk.

“I was thinking,” Jonathan said. “Well, never mind. It’s not that important.”

Susan pulled ahead when they crossed at an intersection, giving Jonathan a good look at her swaying hips. He shuttled forward to catch up, lightly touching her on the shoulder to get her attention.

“Can we talk a minute?” he said.

Susan looked at her watch. “I guess so.”

“Are we a couple, or not?”

A man in a topcoat brushed past, knocking into Jonathan.

“We care about each other,” Susan said. “Isn’t that good enough?” She tapped Jonathan’s arm on his bicep.

“No.”

“Why not? We’re doing fine as is,” she said.

Jonathan put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her near. He kissed her on the forehead. “I need you to need me. To love me as much as I love you.”

Susan pulled away. “I’ve got to go to work. Can we save this for later?”

Jonathan’s shoulders fell and a dejected look crossed his face. “So you’re turning me down.”

“Not really. I just need time to think.”

“Time away from me.”

“I guess,” she said. “Yeah. I’m not ready to commit.” Susan opened the door of her office building. “You’re a great guy. I like you a lot. But I can’t handle the pressure.” She turned and walked through the door.

Jonathan watched her go until she entered the elevators. He checked his watch, then turned and walked back to Good Brews. Standing inside was a lanky redhead. “Hi, Estelle.”He planted a kiss on her cheek, placed a hand in the middle of her back and guided her to a booth.

There is no quicker way to end a pleasant conversation than by bringing up the topic of death. Beyond the saying of requisite condolences, we don’t really know how else to respond. Death touches us all eventually, but interestingly enough, we have never mastered the art of talking about it, despite the fact that we all will eventually die.

There are many terms to describe the process of dying; passed away, late, no longer with us, moved on. For some reason we find all of these terms more palatable than the simple word, dead. We try to sweeten it up, either for the benefit of the sorrowing ones, or to mask our own discomfort.

Some of us are lucky enough to go peacefully and quickly. We are alive one moment and gone the next. No lingering, no suffering, just blessed peace. Is it part of our genetic makeup? Are some of us destined to die with our dignity still intact while others of us disappear slowly, particle by particle? Is that also part of the design?  Science might not have the answers, but maybe it will someday.

It is interesting how far we will go to avoid the topic of death, yet our media is inundated with gory images of death. Every day the news is filled with stories about children caught in the crossfire, families killed in horrendous car accidents, fatal home invasions and violence deliberately enacted on the targets of unsuppressed rage. We watch and listen, but seldom discuss.

Movies and television programs thrive on the study of death, almost to the glorification of the act of killing. Almost every night, on every channel, there are police scenarios, crime scene investigations, mentalists who look into eyes and can determine guilt, and gang-style organizations that wreak havoc in our cities. Video games allow players to reenact, over and over, the countless deaths of perceived enemies, not just in the act of war, but of those who simply have the audacity to cross our paths.

Has all this made us immune to the reality of death? The permanence of death? There is that possibility. How often do we cry over the news? Probably not all that often. We might shake our heads and bemoan the loss of life, but do we truly mourn, deep inside, for those unknowns who have left us. Until death becomes personal.

An elderly woman, full of life, yet living in a residential care facility, dresses every morning as if she is going out for the evening. Neatly pressed dress, hat, white gloves. She goes to the art room to participate in a class. Sits down. Keels over. Just like that. Quiet, peaceful, with dignity intact. Dressed as if she knew it was her final act in a one=person play.

A man in a skilled nursing facility who can still walk and talk, gets up one morning and slips. As he falls, his head strikes the metal bed. He dies immediately, with his family wondering what happened. Yet they are spared of watching his mind vanish and his body crumble.

There are those who linger, caught in a never-never-land of oblivion. Their hearts continue to beat, lungs to breathe, organs to process, yet there is no one home. They are force-fed in order to keep them alive. But is it living? Does quality of life count for anything?

As we age, death becomes more of a reality. We develop conditions. We are hospitalized. We have surgery. We learn again to walk, talk, eat, be human. But we know and understand that we are dying incrementally every day. No matter how much we exercise, eat the right foods, abstain from the vices of drugs and alcohol, our bodies fail us by degrees. We hope that our end is not near, that by taking care of ourselves we are postponing what is to come.

But what happens when we are touched by death? Do we cry? Wail? Pound our heads against the wall? Climb into bed and bury ourselves in our covers? Or do we realize that others need us to be strong, to support them as they accompany us through the grieving process?

We walk through this life with others standing by our sides. Holding our hands. As good citizens we must be there to listen, to hold, to comfort, even when we are hurting inside.

After all, isn’t that what we hope for when our time comes?

The woman’s right arm thrust forward, her finger pointing at the huddled mass on the kitchen floor. “What’s that thing doing in here?”

“I got me a dog,” the man said as a self-deprecating smile crossed his face. He walked to the refrigerator, got out a can of beer, popped the top and took a huge sip. “Norm and me are going rabbit hunting tomorrow.” He gulped down the rest of the can, scrunched it up and set it on the counter.

The woman leaned against the sink, reached for her lit cigarette, brought it to her lips and inhaled in one fluid motion. “It ain’t gonna live in this house.”

The man shrugged. “I knew you’d say that.” He got another beer, threw back his head and swallowed. “So I’m gonna build her a house out back.”

The woman took another puff. “Then you’d better get busy.”

“C’mon, girl,” the man said as he led the dog outside.

The woman laid her cigarette in the ashtray and then walked into the front room, her skirt making a swishing sound with every step. She turned on the television, switched channels until she was satisfied, sat on the couch and then lit a new cigarette.

She twisted a chunk of her hair into a tight curl, bobby-pinned it tight against her scalp, then picked up another swatch of hair and did it again. Again and again until her head glowed from the sheen of the pins. She stopped only long enough to smoke, each time the end of the cigarette glowing like the sun. When finished, the woman wrapped toilet paper around and around her head until she looked like a surgery patient.

All the while, from outside came sounds of sawing, swearing and pounding, accompanied by the occasional whine of the dog.

“Come outside,” the man said just as the sky was turning gray.

The woman followed him to the end of the yard, where now stood a finished doghouse with a rectangular doorway and a sharply pitched roof. The dog sported a chain attached to its collar, the other end looped onto a large stake.

The man smiled. “The dog will live out here.” He stood tall, with shoulders squared, proud of his work.

The woman turned and went into the house, sat on the couch and puffed on her cigarette.

The man followed, stopping long enough to chug down a beer. “I’m gonna take a shower and go to bed.”

That’s when the noise began. At first it was a high-pitched whine, but it quickly escalated into an ear-piercing howl that spoke of loneliness and despair.

The woman opened the back door, stuck out her head and yelled, “Shut up.”

The dog quieted down immediately.

The woman went into the bedroom, put on her nightgown and got into bed. As soon as her head hit the pillow, the howling began again, this time louder and longer in intensity. “Go shut that dog up,” the woman said when her husband came out of the bathroom.

The man went outside and cussed at the dog. It whined and whined and so the man cussed some more. When the dog was finally quiet, he got in bed. Pulled the covers up to his shoulders. Closed his eyes. The racket began.

The woman punched the man on the arm and said, “You’d better keep that dog quiet or the neighbors will complain.”

The man got up and slipped on his shoes and a shirt. Cussing all the while, he walked down the hall and outside. The door slammed.

In the morning the woman unwrapped her head and took out the bobby pins. She carefully fluffed her hair so that the curls kept their shape. She dressed and went to the kitchen where she found her old cigarette in the ashtray. She lit it and inhaled, closing her eyes as the wave of nicotine hit her.

She looked out back and saw that the dog was gone. So was the car. “By God, he did go hunting.”
In the late afternoon, the man returned. He staked the dog to its chain and came in for a beer. “That dog is worthless. She wouldn’t follow the pack and jumped every time someone fired a gun.”

The woman smirked.

“I’ll take her back tomorrow. I’m gonna go take a shower.” The man headed down the hall.

The howling started up as soon as the water began to pour, so the woman stepped outside and yelled, “Be quiet.”

The dog obeyed. The woman slowly walked toward it. “What kind of beast are you? You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you.”

The dog turned its sad brown eyes at the woman, laid down its head and rested its chin on its front paws.

“Look at those eyes,” the woman said. “You’d melt butter.” She bent over and rubbed the dog’s head. “My, your fur is soft.”

The dog inched closer until she was able to rest against the woman’s leg. The woman patted the dog on the shoulders and back. “You’re a sweety, but I’ve got work to do.” The woman walked away.

Immediately the dog began to whine, its tail flopping from side to side and its eyes wide and sorrowful. The woman returned, bent over and picked up the dog. She cradled it in her arms and rocked it like a baby. “I bet you’re hungry, poor thing.” She unhooked the dog and carried it inside. She gave it a bowl of water and some of the canned food her husband had brought home. The woman smiled as the dog wolfed down its breakfast.

When finished, the dog collapsed to the floor with a sigh and promptly fell asleep.

The woman moved her ashtray to the kitchen table, sat on a chair, and smoked with a satisfied smile on her face.

“What have you done?” The man hit himself on the forehead. “What’s wrong with you, woman? I thought you didn’t want that dog in the house?”

“She was lonely. And hungry. I couldn’t leave her out there, all alone, another minute.”

The man opened the back door. “You’ve ruined her. You’ve made a pet out of her. Now I can’t bring her back.” The door slammed shut behind him.

The woman smiled, inhaled, blew smoke in the air and said, “Now, what shall I call you?”

One September morning as my mom and I sat on our back porch steps, a group of children walked by, happily swinging colorful metal boxes. They laughed and giggled with huge smiles on their faces. I thought they were the luckiest kids on earth.

“Where are they going?” I asked.

“To school,” my mom said as she lit a cigarette.

“What’s school?”

“You’ll find out in a few years.” She inhaled and then blew out the smoke. It drifted across my face, making me cough.

Two more happy kids walked by, also carrying those strange boxes.

“What’s in those boxes?” I asked.

“Their lunches.” She inhaled again, this time turning her head away from me before blowing out the smoke.

“Can I have one?”

“It’s too early for lunch,” my mother said.

“I mean, a box like that.”

“Not until you are old enough to go to school.” She ground the cigarette into the weeds next to the porch and sat with her arms wrapped around her knees.

“How old do I have to be?” I asked.

“Five.”

I thought about that for a bit as I counted on my fingers. “So in two more years.”

“Yes. Bill will go to school first, next year. Then you the year after that.” My mother put a new cigarette in her mouth and lit it. She inhaled and then blew a cloud of smoke that drifted my way.

“What do you do at school?”

“Learn things.” She inhaled again, this time blowing the smoke high over my head. She stood up, brushed off her skirt and opened the door. “It’s time to go inside.”

I followed her into the kitchen. “Why can’t I have a lunchbox now?”

“There’s no money, for one thing. Another is that you don’t need one.” My mother got down some pans and pulled things out of the cabinets and refrigerator.

“I don’t care,” I said. “I want a lunchbox anyway.”

“Go away,” my mother said. “You’re bothering me.”

I went into the bedroom that I shared with my brother. I climbed up on my bed and looked out the window. A few more kids went by, each of them swinging a lunchbox and smiling. I placed my hand on the glass, reaching out to those kids, wishing I could be walking with them. I watched for a while, but saw no more kids, so I sat on my bed and cried.

When my dad came home from work, I asked him for a lunchbox. I thought he’d understand since he carried an old black one. It wasn’t shaped like the ones the kids had and wasn’t new and shiny. But at least he had a box. “Can I have a lunchbox?” I asked my dad.

He did not answer. He looked at my mom. “What’s she want now?”

“She saw school kids carrying boxes this morning and that’s all she can think about.” My mother carried dishes to the table. “Dinner’s ready,” she said.

My brother was already in his chair. I slid into mine. “I want a lunchbox like the ones those kids had.”

“Let it go,” my mom said. She glowered at me. That was the signal to shut up and be still, but I was a stubborn child.

“Daddy,” I said, “Mother says I have to wait until I go to school. That’s too long. Can’t I have a box now?”

“Shut up and eat,” he said.

I did the best that I could with tears in my eyes. After dinner we went into the front room and watched TV. I sat on the floor with my legs crossed, looking at the set, but my mind was elsewhere. All I saw was me following those kids, carrying a pretty lunchbox.

When it was time for bed, I asked again. “Please, can I have a lunchbox?”

“Go to bed,” my dad said.

I did, but I didn’t fall asleep for a long time.

The next morning I sat on the kitchen steps again, watching the kids go by. “Mother, why can’t I have a lunchbox? I’ll take really good care of it.”

“Shut up about it,” she said. Her face looked angry, so I sat quietly until my mother finished her cigarette and went inside.

I drew pictures of lunchboxes and kids and me, all walking together, smiles on our faces.

When my dad came home I asked him again for a lunchbox. He did not tell me no, but he didn’t say yes, either. He walked into the kitchen. I heard my mom and dad talking, but I couldn’t hear their words. We ate dinner, watched TV, and then went to bed.

In the morning when I went into the kitchen there was a blue metal box sitting on the table. My eyes grew huge. “What’s that?”

“It’s a lunchbox that your father brought home,” my mother said. There was a funny look on her face that I didn’t understand. She didn’t seem to be angry, but she wasn’t smiling, either.

“Why didn’t he take it to work?” I asked. My fingers carefully touched the sides of the box. It was bumpy in places and smooth in others.

“Open it up.”

I did. Inside I found a sandwich wrapped in paper and an apple. “Is this Bill’s?”

“No. It’s for you.”

“For me?” My eyes grew huge with surprise.

“Yes, for you.”

I closed the lid and picked it up by the handle. I swung it by my side, just like those kids had done. “Do I get to go to school?”
“No, you’re too young.”

“Did Bill get a lunchbox too?” I asked as I held it tightly to my chest.

“No. He didn’t want one.”

“Oh.” I rocked back and forth, thinking. My brother didn’t get a box and he had to go to school before I could. “I get to keep this?”

“Yes. Your father got it from someone at work who didn’t want it anymore. It’s for you.”

I carried my lunchbox into the front room and sat on the couch. I opened the lid. The sandwich and apple were still there. I picked each one up, turned them from side to side and them put them back inside. I closed the lid and flipped the latch. “When will it be lunchtime?”

“Not for a long time,” my mother called from the kitchen. “Find something to do to keep busy.”

I went into my room and got out a coloring book and crayons. I put everything on my bed, with my lunchbox tucked neatly by my side. I colored several pictures, taking my time to stay in the lines like my mother wanted.

“Lunch time,” my mother called.

I put my things away and carried my lunchbox into the kitchen. I carefully placed it on the table and sat in my chair. I opened the lid and took out my sandwich. “Is this what kids do at school?”

“Yes. They sit at tables, just like you.” My mother lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew smoke out into the room.

I took a bite of the sandwich. “Why did you give this to me if I can’t go to school?”

“Your father wanted you to have it.” She inhaled again. “Just be grateful that someone gave it to him.”

I was grateful. That blue metal box was my most precious possession for many years.

Needing spending money as a young teenager, I decided to take up babysitting as a profession. I had no experience with little children, had never changed a diaper, and was terrified of the dark. Big deal! I could do this.

I didn’t know how to drum up business either. I was incredibly bashful. Put me in a room with someone and I became invisible. I could hide in the middle of my own birthday celebration, simply by blending in with the upholstery on the couch. So how was I going to approach neighbors and ask for work?

Because my brother was a superb salesman, he did the legwork, and then I followed through with the delivery. This worked for the diverse things that we took on, such as a small Midwest newspaper that came out once a month. My brother knocked on doors to get clients; I left the merchandise on the porch.

We sold fruits picked from our neighbor’s backyard, vegetables from our own, seeds from catalogues and various kinds of magazines. All in all, we did well.

I loved the feel of independence that salesmanship gave me. With my bicycle tires humming along the pavement, I felt strong and brave. I envisioned myself as all-powerful: capable of doing anything, anytime, anywhere.

That all changed after I deposited the paper on the welcome mat on the Wilson’s front porch. Normally no one answered, so imagine my surprise when the door opened.

Mrs. Wilson smiled warmly. “Hello! Aren’t you the newspaper girl?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever babysit?”

I wanted to yell, Oh, yes, but I was a horrible liar. “No, but I am interested.”

“Are you free Friday night?”

Of course, I’m free. I’m always free. We never go anywhere. “Yes.”

“Can you come around seven? My husband and I are going into Dayton for a company party. We should be back by ten.”

I should ask my parents first. If I agree without their permission, I could get into big trouble. “Sure.”

“Can you come in and meet the kids?”

You mean the ones screaming in the background? The ones pushing each other off the couch? “Sure.”

Mrs. Wilson, with a fake smile plastered on her face, held open the screen door while I stepped inside. The living room floor was covered with bits and pieces of toys. The couch cushions floated between the detritus, like icebergs in an artic sea. On each cushion, stood a little boy.

“What’s your name?”

“Terry.”

“Terry, I’d like you to meet my sons. This is Billy. The one in the middle is Joe. That one over there is Mickey. Mickey and Joe are twins.”

Billy looked like a demon, primarily due to his flying red hair and jam-encrusted face. All he needed was a pair of fangs and some horns. Joe and Mickey were duplicates, down to the brown freckles dancing on their cheeks. They even wore matching clothes. As long as they didn’t move, I shouldn’t have any trouble.

“Come into the nursery. I want you to meet Nancy.” Mrs. Wilson led the way, with the flotilla of boys drifting in her wake. I brought up the rear, noticing as I did so, that either Joe or Mickey had sat in something brown and gooey. Could it be?

“There’s my little girl!” Mrs. Wilson stood in the doorway of a pale pink room. A stark white crib sat along one wall, a matching chest of drawers on another, and a changing table on the third. Fortunately, she explained how to operate the changing table, or I would have been in terrible trouble.

“When you come, the boys will already be in their pajamas. After you read them a story, send them to bed. They know the routine. Nancy will be asleep. You shouldn’t have to do anything with her at all.”

“Okay.”

The family headed for the front room, so I tagged along. By now I knew that I was in over my head. Three boys, all under five, plus a diaper-clad baby. I yearned to tell Mrs. Wilson that there was this family obligation that I just remembered, but the words failed me.

“Here’s the television. After the boys are asleep, you can watch whatever you like. You don’t do ironing, do you?” Her hand swept melodramatically toward an ironing board set up in one corner of the room. A huge pile of clothes filled up a nearby chair. “We’ll pay extra if you also iron. What do you charge?”

I had no idea. Not only had I never babysat, I’d also never done someone else’s laundry. “A dollar an hour.”

“We’ll give you one-fifty, as that is what our last babysitter charged. Then we’ll give you another fifty for the ironing. That makes two dollars an hour. Does that sound good?”

You’ve got to be kidding! For taking care of four little brats, plus ironing two-week’s worth of clothes, she should give me a hundred! “Fine.”

“Great! We’ll see you Friday!” Mrs. Wilson smiled as she escorted me to the door. Billy had his middle finger embedded in his nose, while Joe and Mickey clung to their mother’s skirt. “Say bye, boys!”

“Bye!” they chorused.

I stepped onto the porch, wondering what I had done to myself. True, I had wanted to become a professional babysitter. True, this was a prime opportunity to hone my skills. There were a few problems, one of which was telling my parents that I had accepted a job at a total stranger’s house. The other had to do with three little boys and a baby.

Surprisingly enough, neither of my parents complained about my independent thinking. My father’s only requirement was that he drive me to the house and meet both parents. I didn’t tell him about the ironing.

The next two days flew by, as all summer days do when you are young. This was long before the Internet, so I had no way to research proper babysitting methodology. I would just have to figure things out as they happened.

Just after dinner on Friday, my father picked up his car keys and headed out the door. By now I was scared nearly to death. My heart blocked my throat and my legs wobbled like pudding. Nevertheless, I picked up a book that I was reading, and followed.

When we got to the Wilson’s house, my dad said, “Let me do the talking. If things don’t check out, then I’m taking you back home.”

Please, please, don’t “check out.” Please take me back home. “Okay.”

With his normal swagger, my dad stepped on the porch and pounded on the door. He held his shoulders back, and a stern look fell across his face. He seemed much bigger than his five foot seven frame.

“Hello,” Mrs. Wilson said as she opened the door. “Is this your father, Terry?”

“I’m her father. I just wanted to make sure that she would be safe here.”

Not that routine! Please don’t embarrass me! Not tonight!

“No problem. Come on in.” Mrs. Wilson held the door open for us.

I felt like a little girl clinging to my father’s proverbial belt, as we stepped into the front room. “We should be back by ten. The boys are ready for bed, and the baby is sleeping. Terry is going to do our ironing once everyone is asleep. After that, she’s going to watch television.”

Why did she mention ironing and television?

Without saying a word, my father turned and left. I faced the boys, who sat on the couch, with hair wet from baths and faces squeaky clean.

“We’ll be going in a few minutes.” Mrs. Wilson disappeared down the hall, her skirt swishing behind her.

“Hi,” I said as I sat on the edge of the couch. “Want me to read to you?” Billy nodded and handed me a book. I found a spot between the twins, and began reading.

“We’re leaving now,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Boys, you be good and go to bed when the book is finished. We’ll see you at ten.”

Mrs. Wilson looked gorgeous, decked out in a fancy dress and high heels. Mr. Wilson wore a black suit and white shirt. They made a handsome couple.

After the car drove away, all hell broke loose. Billy climbed up the back of the couch and began shooting at the twins. Joe and Mickey ran in circles, dodging the imaginary bullets. Billy jumped down, picked up a sofa cushion, and threw it at Joe. Is that Joe or Mickey? Who cares anyway? Joe threw it at Mickey, hitting him squarely on the nose. Mickey crumpled to the floor, blood squirting between his fingers. Joe chased after Billy, threatening to kill him. As they ran in and out of the kitchen and family room, I got Mickey up off the floor and into the bathroom.

While I tried to stop the bleeding by pressing his nose with a cold cloth (ineffective, but the only thing I could think to do), Billy raced down the hall, shrieking like the devil he was. Joe wailed, complaining about an injury to his right ear. The baby woke up with the commotion.

I left Mickey in the bathroom, holding a blood-tinged cloth to his still-dripping nose. I caught Billy as he ran by, and held him up in the air, his feet pounding my thighs. His attempts to wriggle free worked. As soon as his feet found purchase, he was off and running. Meanwhile, Joe had found a plastic gun, which he was waving around like Clint Eastwood. Nancy’s screams reached ear-splitting level.

I decided to check on the baby, and to let the boys kill themselves. When I picked up Nancy, my hand squished something cold and wet. She was soaked all through her pajamas. The din in the hall had escalated considerably, as Mickey had joined the fight now taking place in kitchen, front room, hall, and family room.

I placed Nancy on the changing table, and unsnapped the pajamas. I got the clothes off of her despite her flailing arms and thrashing feet. Not only was she wet, but she had also pooped a gooey, sloppy mess.

The bathtub seemed too big for a baby, so I immersed her in the sink. Using the only washcloth that I could find (the one with Mickey’s blood on it), I washed off the urine and poop. Nancy stopped shrieking, which was the only good thing happening.

I got her reasonably clean and then carried her back into the nursery. I fished around the table until I found a diaper, a plastic cover, and a clean pair of pajamas. While she wriggled and squirmed, I got the diaper in place. Unfortunately, I didn’t know to put my hand between her body and the diaper pin, so she got stuck. Her face turned dark red, and then a wail erupted the size of Mount Vesuvius.

I could hear the boys, now hooting like banshees, throwing something that thumped and crashed. I prayed that it wasn’t breakable.

As soon as Nancy was dressed, I put her in the crib. That was not what she wanted, however, and so she resumed screaming. I picked her up, thinking that I had better get the boys in bed.

When I stepped into the family room, I thought a bomb had exploded. Books littered the floor, the pile of clothes covered all surfaces, and pieces of tableware (fortunately not broken) were balanced on the arms of the chairs and the couch.

“Stop. Please, stop.” When there was no change in behavior, I searched deep inside and found my “parent voice.” “Stop, now.” I put my left hand on my hip and glowered, as I’d seen my mother do. They’re stopping! Yes! Now what do I do?

“It’s time for you to go to bed. All of you,” I said.

One by one, they peeled off the couch and headed down the hall. I followed to ensure that their intentions were honest. “In your own rooms,” I said as all three turned into the same room. With a sheepish grin, Billy went into the next room and slammed the door. I watched as the twins climbed into their beds. I patted each one on the head, and said, “Good night.” Before stepping into the hall, I asked, “Do you want me to leave the door open?”

“No! Close the door! Close the door!” Mickey stood up in bed, and began jumping and chanting. Joe did the same. Nancy thought the whole thing was pretty funny, and she started giggling.

“Get back in bed. Your parents will be angry if they knew what you were doing.”

“No they wouldn’t. We do this all the time,” Joe said. “Jump, jump, jump,” he sang in his high-pitched voice.

A loud pounding came from the direction of Billy’s room, so I left the twins. When I opened the door, Billy threw a hardball against his wall.

“Stop,” I said.

“Make me.” He threw the ball, aiming for my head. Just as it bounced off the wall behind me, I grabbed it and tucked it into my pocket.

“Go to bed.”

“You can’t make me,” Billy sang. “You’re dumber than our last babysitter. She quit and won’t ever come back.”

My heart skipped a beat. I knew that this was too good to be true! Mrs. Wilson took advantage of me. Nevertheless, there was nothing I could do except get these kids in bed.

“Well, I’m here, and your mother wanted you to be in bed. I’m going to stand here until you get under the covers.”

Billy, for some strange reason, complied.

When I left him, I was feeling ill. My heart had grown ten sizes, and was ready to explode. My stomach churned like Niagara Falls, and my head spun like a carousel.

I stopped outside the twin’s room and listened. All was quiet. That left Nancy to get back in bed, and then tackle the ironing. I carried her into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and found a bottle filled with milk. Nancy pulled it to her open mouth. Thinking that all would be fine now, I put her in the crib. She sucked noisily, making a snuffling, gurgling sound.

There was still no noise coming from the other rooms, so I sighed, thinking that the worst was over. About that time, Nancy’s yells echoed off the walls. I scurried into the room. She had spit up, and a creamy vomit covered her pajamas, the wall, her blanket, and the sheet. I took off her messy clothes, only to discover another pooped-in diaper. I got her cleaned up, then put her on the floor.

After changing the sheet and blanket, and scrubbing the wall, (while trying not to throw up!), I got her back in bed.

By now it was nine, and I was exhausted. I straightened up the family room and kitchen while the iron warmed. With the television on, I made it through the huge mound of clothes. I hung up each item, proud of my work.

It took me over an hour, but I felt satisfied with my efforts. Thinking that the parents should be home at any moment, I stretched out on the couch to watch a little television.

I must have fallen asleep, for I jumped when a man leaned over me, calling my name.

“You were sleeping,” Mr. Wilson said.

“No, I was just resting my eyes.”

“So, you got the ironing done. That’s good. And the kids are asleep. Thanks. I’ll drive you home.”

“Okay.”

I followed him out the door. I got in the passenger seat and closed the car door. He drove me home, talking constantly. When we pulled up in front of my house, he said, “We’re going out next Friday. Would you be interested in babysitting?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, here’s your money. I put in a little extra since we got home so late.”

“Thanks.”

After I had closed the front door, I looked at the clock. It was two in the morning! Then I counted my money. Mr. Wilson had given me one dollar more than he owed.

You would think that I had learned my lesson and would never babysit again. Unfortunately, I gave it two more tries.

The next was on a stormy night. Branches scratched against the windows and the wind whistled as it blew. Lights flickered and all the shows on the television were frightening. I ended up calling home for help. My dad came and spent the time with me until the parents came home.

The last time I took care of a baby boy. When his diaper needed changing, at least this time I knew what to do. I took out the pins, removed the stinky diaper, but as I was putting on a clean one, the baby let out a stream of urine that shot into the air. I caught much of it with the diaper, but then I needed another clean one. Just as I got it into place, he pooped. I went through all the diapers on the changing table before I finally got one pinned on. When his parents came home, the mother was horrified.

After that I gave up babysitting for good.

Emma Healey’s debut novel, Elizabeth is Missing, deals with the issue of dementia. The protagonist, Maud, forgets the simplest of details. She writes things down that she does not want to forget and then stuffs those notes into her pocket where they become crumpled. Her daughter comes over every day to help out, plus there is a part-time hired assistant who arrives in the morning.

The effects of aging concern all of us who have reached a certain age. We have relatives who have dementia or other forms of cognitive deficits and worry that the same thing will happen to us. We see them struggling with basic tasks such as feeding, toileting and self-care. They lose their driver’s license and eventually can no longer live alone. They wear diapers, become confined to wheelchairs, cannot walk and lose the ability to recognize people that once were important in their lives.

Dementia is a frightening affliction as there is no cure. Drug companies are test-marketing medications that might slow down the process, but none can stop the progression of the disease.

We live in an instant-gratification world. When we want something, we can find it online if we can’t get to a store. Food, electronics, books, clothing, shoes, music are all available with a click of the mouse. But what happens when our memory fails and we can’t remember what we want, what we already have, what we have dreamed about?

In the novel, Maud is obsessed with one worry: she believes that her friend of many years is missing. She cannot remember what she has been told about her friend and so goes about pestering people with her concerns.
Spotty recall is one of the indications of dementia. Initially short-term memory is affected. The individual cannot remember what he/she just ate, who called or visited, what she watched on TV or whether or not he had a bath. Yet for some reason, he remembers the names of his children, but not grandchildren, where he lived as a young man, and even when he bought his television and computer. She isn’t able to turn on the computer or operate a remote, and following a conversation is nearly impossible. The only possible blessing is that dementia destroys so many connections in the brain that the individual eventually loses herself in the fog of the disease.

Of course there are other afflictions that are equally disabling. For a lover of books and movies, there is the loss of sight. Those inspired by music fear deafness. The physically active are troubled by impairments that leave them unable to walk without assistance. For the ones who cherish independence, the inability to drive and to live alone are profound.

Maud is a sympathetic character. We expect our protagonist to experience change in response to the plot, and are most pleased when the change leaves our character better off then when the story began. Unfortunately dementia has no happy ending.