What was the point of waking up? Today would be no different from yesterday. Or the day before that. Or any day over the past year. Has it been a year? Or more? Jim wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been sure of anything for a long time. All he knew was that he didn’t live at home anymore.
Jim couldn’t recall much of his life before whatever had happened to him. He thought he had a wife. But was she still alive? Sometimes he asked about her. He thought her name was Norah, but he couldn’t be sure.

When the man came in to get him out of bed, Jim asked about his wife. “Is my wife coming today?”

The man helped Jim sit up and took off his pajama top. “Today is Monday. Your wife always visits on Monday. Don’t you remember?”

Jim lifted his arms. The man slipped a long-sleeve shirt over Jim’s head. And then a sweater. Jim liked the feel of the clothes. They were soft and warm.

“What’s her name?”

“Norah,” the man said. “Scoot to the edge of the bed.” The man took off Jim’s bottoms and underpants. He put on new ones. And a pair of soft pants. And socks and shoes. “Okay. Time to stand.” The man slipped his arms under Jim and lifted him up. Then the man turned Jim and put him in a wheelchair. “Now off to the bathroom.”

Jim did everything the man asked him to do. Eventually he was put at a table and a plate of food was placed before him. Jim ate, but he couldn’t remember what the food was called. He wasn’t sure if he liked it, but he knew that the man wanted him to eat and drink everything.

After eating, Jim was moved to another room. One that had a television. Jim liked the television. It was bright and colorful and full of sound. He stared at it, no matter what was going on. Some things he liked better than others. Like sports or car racing. He didn’t like shows where there was a lot of talking. He couldn’t follow what was said and it confused him.

“Is my wife coming today?” Jim asked the man when he came in to do something to the television.

“Yes. She should be here soon.”

The morning passed by, like every other morning that Jim could remember. The man pushed him to the bathroom and helped Jim sit and do his business. Afterward the man pushed him back in front of the television.

A woman came and kissed him on the head. “Hello, Sweetheart,” she said.

“Do I know you?” Jim asked.

“Silly, of course you do. I’m your wife.” The woman sat in a chair next to Jim. She held his hand. “How are you today?”

Jim smiled. “Okay.”

“Good. Let me see your arms.” The woman pushed up Jim’s sleeves. “She rubbed one arm and then the other. “The bruising seems to be going away.”

Jim smiled. “Who are you?”

“Norah,” she said. “Guess what? Bruce called this morning. He’ll be coming for a visit later this week. Won’t that be nice?”

“What?”

“Bruce, your son, is coming. He wants to see you.”

“Oh.” Jim stared at the television. Those cars were still running around and around, making a lot of noise. He liked that. “I want to go out for a drive. I’ll take my truck.”

“You can’t drive anymore,” the woman said. “You don’t have a license. Besides, I sold your truck.”

“I can’t drive?”

“No. You haven’t driven in years.” The woman touched his cheek. Her hand was so soft it almost tickled.

“You have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning,” she said. “I’ll be here early. Right after breakfast.”

“Okay.”
“After your appointment we’ll get a cup of coffee and some fries before the transit gets there. Will you like that?”

“What?”

“Fries and coffee.”

“I guess.”

“And then on Wednesday I won’t be coming. I have to take the car in for a checkup.”

“Oh.”
“Bruce will be here on Thursday and Friday.”

“Okay.”

“So you’ve got a busy week coming up.” The woman held Jim’s hand and rubbed his arm. “Will you like that?”

“What?”

“A busy week. Places to go and things to do.”

“I guess.”

Jim and the woman watched television together. The cars were still running around and making lots of noise. Jim liked the colors of the cars.

“I have to leave now,” the woman said. “It’s your lunchtime.” She stood and kissed him on the head. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Bye,” the woman said.

Jim watched the cars go around and around. The man came and took him to the bathroom again. Then put him at the table. Jim ate all the food and drank whatever was in the cup. When he was finished, the man pushed him to his room, got him out of the chair and put him to bed.

“Is my wife coming today?”

“She’s already been here,” the man said.

“She was?”

“Yes. You watched television together, remember?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s time for your nap,” the man said. He put a blanket over Jim. “Close your eyes and rest. I’ll be back when it’s time for you to get up.”

“Okay.”

Jim watched the man walk out of the room and close the door. Jim felt lonely. He missed his wife. He wished she came to see him. He thought she was still alive, but he wasn’t sure. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what she looked like.

She had yellow hair. And she was small. He couldn’t recall the word for it, but the picture in his mind was of her leaning against his side and him resting his chin on the top of her head. He couldn’t remember anything else about her. What color were her eyes? Where did they live? Did they have kids?

Jim was so confused. The man asked him all kinds of questions every day. Jim thought very hard, but didn’t know the answers.

Jim kept still on the bed. He didn’t like to move around because it was so small. He was afraid of falling out. He stared at the ceiling and tried counting the dots. Jim counted to twenty, but couldn’t remember what came next, so he started over again.

What was the point in trying to remember? Every day was just like the one before. Jim was so sad sometimes that he cried. He didn’t understand where he was or why he was alive. Is this living? Jim didn’t think so.
The one thing he wanted to know, more than anything else, was when he could die. He hoped it was soon. He was so tired of everyday being the same.

Whispers in the silent night
Tender touches by starlight

Words unsaid in angry voice
Actions fulfilled by free choice

Love’s strong arms held open wide
Know that God walks stride by stride

Watches like a parent proud
Mistakes expected: allowed

Understanding, patient, kind
Always there for us to find

Calls our names in winters wild
In spring, He gifts breezes mild

Summer’s heat sends us outside
God’s gifts in flowers abide

Rains remind of deep pain felt
Tragic death, deftly dealt

All these things, of faith speak
Comfort to all those who seek

God’s good grace, offered free
Sin’s release, for you and me

Faith defined in little things
Given by the King of kings

A true friend is a gift from God.
No more, no less.

Ears, eyes, heart
finely tuned
to every thought
action
need

A friend seeks balance,
craving only that which
is offered
and not one drop more

Giving, sharing
even the smallest things.
A warm hug,
kiss,
smile

A friend knows when
to step up
and when to step down.
Never pushing
or demanding

Reaching fingers
with open palm.
Electric energy
pulsing
across the gap,
joining
two strangers
into one compact unit.

A friend asks for nothing,
but is grateful
when something
drips into the heart,
warming the soul’s
ties.

Prayers offered
and heard.
Thanks given
for the smallest
of gestures

A friend is all
and more.

Marissa always thought something was terribly wrong with her. At least going back as far as she could remember. She was not a happy child and wasn’t childhood supposed to be the best time in one’s life? She can’t remember laughing much. Sometimes there’d be a moment when she’d smile, but most of the time she was miserable. A sulking, sad little girl.

When she began going to school, she hated it. Kindergarten was an awful place. Every day she was told to do things that she didn’t know how to do. Like identify colors and shapes. Hold a pencil. Write her name. And playtime was lonely-time. She liked the sandbox the best, where she could move the sand around to make roads and drive toy cars over the lumps and bumps. Once a week ladies would bring in things that kids could buy, but Marissa never had any money. So she never owned any of the pretty, shiny ribbons. Never got a pretzel. Never got her school pictures. When all her classmates ran up to buy things, Marissa cried.

Elementary school wasn’t much better. Lonely on the playground, lost in the class. She couldn’t read as well as the others. Couldn’t do the math or write the answers that the teacher expected. Where she really failed was in Art, and then when she got older, in French. And still, no friends. But who would want to spend time with a gloomy girl? No one.

At home, she never felt like she belonged. Marissa often dreamt that she was adopted. That someone had made a terrible mistake and dumped her off in the streets somewhere and then she ended up in this family. That someday the mistake would be discovered and she would be returned to her rightful family. And she would smile.

It was confusing living with these people, especially once she became a teenager. She was expected to get perfect grades on every assignment, in every class. But she wasn’t given time to study. She had to clean house, from top to bottom, every day. Do laundry. Polish the leaves of the plants. And learn how to cook. But she had no interest in cooking. What Marissa loved was reading books. Books about horses and faraway places and happy people in happy families.

When she read, she was calm. And nurtured. Something about the feel of the book, the texture of the pages, the comfort of the words, carried her away and into worlds that were kind and gentle and patient and interesting.

She dreamed of escape. She thought about running away, but was too frightened of the unknown. Of where she would sleep and bathe and get food, and so she stayed put. It was in high school that Marissa discovered a way to leave. College. She go to a college somewhere, far enough away that she no longer had to stay in that house. And so she studied harder than she ever had before. Even when her counselor told her that she would never succeed in college, that she wasn’t smart enough to pass classes. Marissa just worked harder than ever, often staying up until late at night, going over and over the lessons. It wasn’t easy, but she understood that her ways out of the house were limited.

It would be comforting to think that Marissa had happy birthdays and Thanksgivings and Christmases. That there were vacations and laughter and good times. Maybe there were some moments here and there when things weren’t so bad. Maybe a time when she could relax her guard and just be. But when?

Most kids grow up thinking of the gifts they would receive. The parties when friends would come over. The sleepovers and trips and places to be seen. They imagine Santa and the reindeer. Put out cookies before they go to bed. Wake up in the morning to find gifts under the tree. Marissa had some of that.

When she was in middle school she met her first friend, a pretty girl in her class. For some reason, they bonded. The girl saw through Marissa’s unhappiness and so invited her to spend the night. Marissa was used to tense dinners in her own house, when no one spoke for fear of getting lectured. In her friend’s house, dinner was a time of laughter and talking about the day. In Marissa’s house there was no watching of the television, but in this house the family sat around the set and enjoyed one show after another. This family played board games. This family had desert. This family gave each other hugs when it was bedtime. Marissa wanted to stay there forever, she was so happy.

There were vacations, always to one relative’s house or another. Even when there were children living there, though, Marissa was not allowed to play. She was told to sit on the couch and not move. Not even to go to the bathroom without asking permission first. It was hard to watch her cousins running around and having fun. To hear them laughing and teasing and playing. She wanted to live with them. But no, it was not to be. She always had to get in the car for the silent ride home. If she was lucky. If not, then there was yelling and screaming and hateful words.

When Marissa was accepted to a college far away from home, she rejoiced. Here was her escape. Her chance to find friends and happiness. She lived in the dormitory. Her first roommate was a spoiled rich girl. Not a very nice person. She made fun of Marissa’s homemade clothes and old-fashioned hairdo. She smoked and left her ashes on Marissa’s bed. So Marissa found things to do away from her room. She met people in the cafeteria. Nice people. Kind people. People who made her feel happy and loved. Things began looking up.

But not everything worked out as in Hollywood. There were assignments that she had to redo. Parties that involved too much alcohol. Marijuana. Hands all over her body that would not stop even when she begged. Men who offered marriage and taking her away to foreign lands where women had no rights. One disaster after another.

And so Marissa understood that there was something wrong with her. Something that could not be fixed. She was broken.

She had some choices. Continue to be miserable or seek happiness in those things that she did well. Marissa had plenty of experience being miserable, so that meant that happiness would be her choice. And so she worked at it. She smiled at strangers. She laughed when others did, even when she didn’t get the joke. She stood straighter. She got a job. She raised her voice to a normal speaking level. She changed everything about her that could be changed. And life improved. In many ways.

You cannot take anything for granted. That’s not an original thought, yes, I know. Yet how often do we assume that things will go smoothly and then get frustrated when they do not.

So what do we need to do to try to minimize any disputes that might arise?

In terms of what happens to your “stuff” after you die, you must prepare. You cannot assume that paperwork will be found, or that everything is in order, or that all the beneficiaries have that same understanding of what is supposed to happen. Do not believe that documents are on file in the county courthouse for anyone to find. Do not trust that your estate lawyer has filed and recorded all important deeds unless you have copies that prove that this has been done.

You’ve got to get your files in order now, while you still have the mental capacity to do so.

So here is my list of advice:

1. Make sure that all beneficiaries have copies of your will/trust. We will be doing this over the next two months, giving copies to each of our children the next time we see them.

2. Make sure that all beneficiaries know where you keep important documents such as the title to the house, income tax forms, passwords, accounts, titles to cars and any other piece of property that will need to be dealt with after your death. This includes retirement income, stocks and bonds, military benefits, Social Secutiry.

3. Make sure that the executor knows what your wishes are in terms of disposition of property. In our case, we have not yet made this clear, but will be doing so. Even if you think no one will want your “stuff”, provide for it in your will/trust. But do not sweat the small stuff, such as lamps, electronics and furniture that will be old by that time, as well as decorations, knickknacks and other goodies that you have sitting in cabinets, on shelves and hidden in bedrooms. and so on.

4. Make sure that documents are readily available for any contracts that you have ongoing, such as cable, Internet, phone, so that they can be cancelled at your death.

5. Make sure that beneficiaries understand how “stuff” will be distributed after your death. For example, will they sell everything of value, such as the house and cars and equally divide the proceeds? Makes sense. But what about all the rest of the things in your house? No one will want our clothes, so It can be donated wherever. But what if two people want the china and silver? Who gets first pick? We did stipulate this in our will, but recently discovered that our will is about 15 years old. It needs to be rewritten as it is no longer valid.

6. Make sure that your medical directives are on file with your insurer, in our case Kaiser, and tape a “cheat sheet” to a wall in the house so that medical personnel arriving in an emergency can find it and follow your wishes. For example, I do not want a tracheotomy that will permanently take away my voice and my ability to eat and drink. I do not want to be attached to a ventilator for any extended period of time. But where is this information in my home? Right now, nowhere.

7. Understand that no matter how clear you think things are, that there will be misunderstandings, confusion, and even possible bickering after your death. No one will want my Red Hat Society hats, right? But what about my Yosemite hat, jacket and sweatshirt? What about my husband’s A’s jacket and his Boy Scout memorabilia? Sounds like junk to me, but it might become a point of contention. So it might be good to ask beneficiaries to read over your documents and see if anything needs to be clarified now, before you die and things get nasty.

8. Begin the conversation about your wishes/hopes when you can no longer live safely in your home. This is a tough one. I do not want to be a burden to my children, so what happens if one of them invites me to move in? Especially if I am suffering from dementia and will be an emotional and physical burden? I would say no, if I had the ability to do so. Put me in a home, preferably away from the SF Bay Area where things are too expensive, and let me live out the rest of my days there. We have yet to have this discussion with our children, but as we are both getting older, we need to do it soon.

I hope this has been helpful to you and saves your beneficiaries heartache and despair.

I dreamt that I traversed the sands of time
to a place mysterious and sublime.
Where gigantic trees with branches stout,
safely nestled all feathered friends about,

providing shelter from many foe,
yet allowing freedom to come and go.
Silky soft leaves whose gentle caress
becalms restless souls, soothes with fine finesse

young and old alike; no bias here
where all live in peace for many a year.
Through the sands a winding river ran
giving sustenance to both beast and man.

Surprisingly blue with not a trace
of sinister longings upon its face.
It speaks of a sweet love; it calls to me,
“Step right in,” it says, “ and I’ll set you free

from all that ails; as well sin and pain.
You have nothing to lose, but much to gain.”
With tremulous step I slowly crept
into her warm, comforting arms. I slept.

Or thought I did, for there soon appeared
hosts of angels. I panicked, a feared
of my demise. But to my surprise
they lifted me on high with joyous cries.

The night did end. My dream soon left.
The suffering world found me quite bereft
and yearning for that heavenly place
whose welcoming arms did me quick embrace.

One thing alone I brought home with me:
knowledge that all men could soar high and free
seeking truth, wisdom, righteousness, and grace.
making earth a truly heavenly place.

“What else can I tell you?” Sharon asked her mother. Her mother who stared at the ceiling without blinking, it seemed. Without showing any emotion. Tucked into a hospital bed, tubes snaking everywhere. But nobody home.

Sharon checked the numbers monitoring her mother’s blood pressure, heartbeat, and oxygen level. It was an exercise in futility, she knew, but what else could she do? She couldn’t shake her mother back into consciousness. There was no amount of coaxing or pleading that would work miracles that medicine could not.

“Did I mention that Pete planted the corn and tomatoes this week? Or that Steve might come for a visit in July?” Sharon gently patted her mother’s hand. She stroked her withered fingers, hoping there would be some kind of reaction. There was not.

Her mother was losing her battle. Slowly. Steadily. Most recently her mother had lost the ability to swallow, so no food or water for her. She couldn’t breathe on her own, either. The doctors said there was no hope for recovery, that her m other was too far gone to come back. But her dad had refused to let her mother go gracefully, and so the medical staff complied by keeping the ventilator, monitors, and feeding tubes in place. It was a sad way to go.

Sharon stepped out into the hallway, just in time to see her mother’s doctor arrive at the central desk. She quietly moved to his side, and asked, “Dr. Nguyen, is there any change?”

“No, Mrs. Chalmers, there is not.”

“Have you spoken to my father recently?”

“Yesterday. Still no change in his feelings, however,” Dr. Nguyen replied as he replaced the chart on the rack. “Let’s see how your mother is doing today.” He held the chart loosely in his hands as he took the steps to her mother’s room.

Sharon hesitantly followed, not wanting to witness the daily poking and prodding performed on her helpless mother, yet at the same time feeling a need to be there to witness any reaction that might signal some small degree of improvement.

“Hello, Mrs. Holmes,” Dr. Nguyen cheerfully said as he touched Sharon’s mother on the forehead. “How are you feeling today?” Getting no response, Dr. Nguyen began his examination anyway. Sharon stepped out into the hall to give her mother some privacy and sat in a chair just outside the door.

Over the past few months, Sharon had spent many hours of each day sitting and waiting with her father while one of many different specialists tried to bring her mother back to life. Over and over, she tried to discuss the effects of dementia with her father, explaining how the illness takes the mind first, then slowly the functioning of the body. He didn’t want to hear the truth, always believing that there was a pill or procedure that would revitalize the woman he loved.

While Sharon respected his eternal optimism, she didn’t share his feelings. There was no way to reconnect the pieces of the brain that were gone, no way to restore the bodily functions damaged. Optimism has its place, but only where there is hope. There was none here.

Sharon wanted her mother to die in peace. To live the rest of her days with some degree of dignity. Her father wanted full recovery and so they were at odds. This was not an unexpected state. She had grown up feeling like a pawn in her parent’s never ending war.

Her father was a strict taskmaster who saw in Sharon someone whose only goal should be the running of house and family. Her mother saw her as a house maid, someone to take care of laundry and cleaning. Someone who should learn how to cook for a husband.

This made for a difficult situation, as Susan dreamed of escape. Of college and job and independence.

As a young girl, Sharon feared her parent’s wrath, her father with his explosive, irrational temper and her mother with a jealous streak that she deployed whenever she wanted to control loyalties. Things only worsened as both of them aged, for they become more and more demanding of Sharon’s time. To the point that her parents believed that Friday nights were to be spent with them, in their home. No options allowed.

Sharon quietly rebelled. Calls were infrequent and visits occurred only when Sharon felt she couldn’t get out of it.

But when her mother fell ill, her father called on her more and more as an equal. He needed Sharon’s calmness that he had never before respected. Someone to help him pass through the difficult days of watching his wife disappear. Someone to share the burden of sitting by the bedside, talking and holding hands as if there was someone still actively alive in there, and that Sharon could do.

When Dr. Nguyen left the room, shaking his head to indicate no change, Sharon settled into the chair next to her mother’s bed. The ventilator continued its rhythmic hiss, forcing air into her mother’s lungs. Her mother’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell, never changing in rhythm.

While Sharon did not come every day, she came as often as she could. She read books aloud or articles from the newspaper. She talked about her son and daughter-in-law, what they were doing and places they had gone. It was tiring, always trying to think of something new to say, knowing that there would never be a response.

There were questions that plagued Sharon, that had plagued her for many years. Like why her mother never loved her, why she never had a kind word to say, why there was never a hug or a kiss on the cheek. She wanted to know why her mother never whispered a word of thanks for all the gifts, and lunches, and time spent together over the years. Why nothing Sharon did pleased her mother. All the things Sharon never had the strength to ask when there was still a mother to ask.

Later this afternoon the respiratory therapist was going to remove the ventilator to see if her mother could resume breathing on her own. It had been tried twice before, and failed both times. Sharon’s father had agreed to one more attempt, and then he claimed that he would allow her mother to pass away in peace.

That’s why Sharon was here this day. That this was to be her mother’s last day on earth. Sharon’s feelings rocketed from one extreme to another. Guilt for hoping that the end would come. Relief for being freed from the chore of sitting by the bedside. Worry about how her father will react. Sadness at the loss of the mother she wanted but never had. Knowing that there were only hours left, and that the relationship could never be repaired, tears flowed down her cheeks.

“Well, Mother,” Sharon whispered, “I guess this is it. This is the last chance we have to be together,” she said. “I guess you could say that we loved each other, in our own way. Even if it wasn’t enough for me, it seemed to have been enough for you.”

Sharon pushed her large body out of the chair to look out the window. Behind her the whoosh of the ventilator continued its easy rhythm and the clicking of the monitors never skipped a beat. She watched a young family of four walk toward the hospital doors, hand in hand, followed by an elderly couple shuffling at snail’s pace pushing an oxygen tank between them. A gust of wind blew some loose papers out of the gutter and across the parking lot, lodging under the tires of a small blue car. Wispy clouds dotted the sky, and off in the distance, a lone hawk circled around and around as if searching for a lost loved one.

Her reverie was broken by a series of loud alarms erupting behind her. When she turned, she saw that the monitors showed straight red lines. She watched dispassionately as the medical team rushed in and attempted to resuscitate her mother by adjusting this machine and that and even using the defibrillation paddles to restart her mother’s heart.

Nothing worked. The dementia had taken its final steps, shutting down one more organ, the most vital for life. Her mother’s heart. The one thing Sharon had yearned to touch was gone forever. She walked out of the room, out of the hospital, out into the brisk afternoon, and watched the hawk circle alone.

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.