The Secret Life of Engineers

My father was well into his eighties and dying before he told me certain things.

My mother, he told me, had had a nervous breakdown, sometime in 1966, about the time I was due to start junior high. One day she was fine, and the next day she woke up crying and cutting the bed sheets to ribbons with a pair of kitchen shears. The crying he could ignore, my father said, but the shears... Well, you never knew what those shears might be aimed at next. Let the Freudians among you think what you will. Have a field day.

"You never knew, did you?" my father said.

"No," I said. I couldn't have been more glum. To be unaware when one's own mother heads off to the loony bin? "Where was I?"

"Camp," he said. My confusion made him happy, of that I could tell. "Three weeks in the beautiful Mojave Desert."

The brochure had promised archaeology, geology, and desert survival skills, but the reality was tube tents, a desert wind that froze us each night, and high school and college-age counselors who lectured us about Marx and Lenin and Mao, then gave us hits off their joints. They turned a blind eye when we got into their stash of Boone's Farm and Ripple. We learned slogans, "Hell, no. We won't go," being among our favorites. I came home with tonsillitis, a hangover, and a revolutionary attitude.

"I came home from Japan," my father said, "when the neighbors started to complain. She was wandering the block in her nightgown. There were the bed sheets. The shears. She had pulled the stuffing out of the mattress. Your mother dropped you off at the YMCA parking lot, and then she went crackers. She didn't like to be alone."

My mother's dislike of solitude was directly related to my father's absences. Absences that, to my mind, were not that frequent or that long in duration, but seemed to my mother to be interminable. "I didn't get married," I remember her saying, "so your father would have a ride to the airport." While my father was gone, my mother bitterly counted the hours. When I was younger, we often spent the nights at my grandparents' house; she didn't sleep well since, without him in our wood frame house, every creak and groan was evidence of burglars and rapists, murderers and thieves. "One of these days," my mother often said, "he's going to come home to the sight of our bloody, dismembered corpses, and won't he feel bad then?" Frankly, I didn't think my father, who was guilty of terminal cheerfulness, was capable of feeling bad about anything, including the deaths of his family, either real or imaginary, whereas my mother was able to feel terrible about everything, including those events confined entirely to her own imagination, a psychic space that was diminished-if only slightly-when she was no longer alone.

My father, on the other hand, never minded being by himself. On several occasions during the three years that my mother was dying, we offered him our spare bedroom, but he declined each time. "Don't think I don't appreciate it," he told Ellen, "but the last thing you kids need is an old fart hanging around, clogging up the sofa, and stinking up the bathrooms."

Ellen and I looked at each other across the kitchen table, connected by our guilt since that was more or less the assessment we had each come to, the offer being made out of assumed obligation more than any true desire. Ellen felt that obligation more keenly, but she was also the more greatly relieved by my father's refusal. She loved my father, she insisted, but he was stubborn and insensitive and a pain in the ass, and if he were to live with us, she'd probably want to kill him about fourteen times a day.

"Don't worry about me," my father said. "I've got ten good years yet, twenty if I follow that dumb doctor's orders, and I don't intend to become a burden."

"All right, then," Ellen said. "I'm going to hold you to it. The moment you need help in the bathroom is the moment I hand you the Jonestown Kool-Aid."

My father, whose cancer would kill him in six more months, said: "And don't think I won't be grateful."

Copyright © 2007 by David Borofka

Debbie Harry Sings in French

(Henry Holt & Company Spring '08)

I picked up the two parts of the chain, with a strange feeling in my chest.

"Looking for something?" I knew it. I turned around. There was Brian, holding my bike up high, by the front tire. Donald stood close behind him.

"Oh, hi, Brian," I said, smooth as I could manage. "Where's the third stooge?"

"Shut up, faggot. You want this back?" I felt hot prickles beneath my skin.

"No, you can keep it." He blinked, not sure of a comeback. Finally, he hoisted it up with both hands and threw it. Maria and I both ducked. The bike flew over our heads and smashed down in the trees behind us.

"Brian!" Maria exclaimed. "Who do you think you are, the Incredible fucking Hulk?"

"If I'd known you liked hanging around with queers," Brian's chest heaved, "I never woulda wasted my time."

"But, Brian," she batted her eyes innocently. "Why do you think I hung around with you?"

"I don't know what the hell they did to you up there," he gritted his teeth at her. "But they sure didn't do you any favors."

"Why don't you and Donald go wrestle each other," she put her sunglasses back on, looking annoyed. She turned away, but Brian wasn't backing down, and for a second I thought he was going to hit her. A car horn blasted.

"Hey Brian! Come on, man, let's go!" We all looked up. It was Ben. He was driving a huge, beat-up Bronco with a rebel flag in the back window. The radio blasted Tupac. Ben kind of nodded at me. Acknowledging me, but nothing more. I squinted at him. I was glad we didn't have any dissections coming up.

"Later, faggot," Brian swaggered off towards the behemoth with Donald trotting closely behind him. The engine grunted and they took off. Maria gave them the finger, but it was futile. We went into the trees to retrieve my bike.

"Man," she sighed as we pulled it from a thorn bush. "He really messed it up." I stood the bike upright. The chain had come off, but it wasn't broken. The back tire rim was bent, though - there was no way I could go anywhere on it now.

"I don't know how I'm gonna get it home."

"Worry about that later," Maria said. "Come on. We'll take mine." I limped my bike over to the rack and tried to tie it up with the two broken chain pieces.

"Both of us? Where am I gonna ride, on the handlebars?"

"No. On the back," she led me to the farthest rack - there, chained up like an ordinary bike, was a blue Vespa motorscooter, like something out of Roman Holiday. "Cool, innit?"

"I'm downright speechless," I finally said.

"But the beat goes on. Here," she popped open a compartment under the seat and handed me a small, stylish black helmet. "Safety first." I strapped it on and climbed on behind her. She revved the engine until it hummed.

"Hold on to me tight," she commanded. "Don't worry about being fresh." I slipped my arms loosely around her waist, trying not to go too low or too high. She was warm, and smelled a little like lavender and cigarette smoke. We took off faster than I anticipated. Startled, I squeezed her, and she laughed.

"I told you to hold on!" She pulled out into traffic and we sped past the doctor's offices and fast food restaurants, past the retirement home and the hospital. Her hair whipped around my face as we buzzed along. It smelled like almonds. There was a cool smell in the air, too; the smell of the woods, of old trees.

Winter coming on, I guess.

Drinking People

The TV was on in the living room. Dave Letterman was debating with Paul Schaffer over whether a rubber chicken would float or not. My mother sat on the couch beneath the amber-colored lamp, going through an old shirt box full of papers, her reading glasses on. I sat down next to her and saw that she had a near-empty bottle of Jim Beam tucked into the crook of her arm.

"Geez, mom, have a drink."

She handed me the bottle.

"This is your father's. I've only had a couple sips." I felt the burn in my throat and handed it back to her. "I figured it would be the last -" she sighed and gazed at the bottle. "Oh, I don't know what I figured. I've been turning this house upside down for the past two days looking for a will -"

"You think he might've left you the fine china?" I snorted. My mother gave me a weary look.

"I thought he might've left some clue as to what he wanted done with his remains. But instead all I've found is a bunch of old stories he never finished and letters he never sent." She handed me a sheet of folded, yellowed hotel stationary from the shirt box. "Here, look at this."

Septembersomething, 19seventysomething, San Fransomewhere

3:25 am

Suzy, Jesus,

You wanna accuse me of something, fine, but lemme remind you whose been taking care of whose. Not to mention the kid. So you want some marlon brando loverboy to show you a goodtime, fine, kick me to the ol' curb and have fun doing it, but don't jangle me around like yr old highschool saddleshoe promdate ho-dee-ho Goodtime Dan. I'm jangleproof, baby. Shake me, I don't rattle.

But I'm not angry with you. It's early and the sun will make the bay turn pink soon and I'll think of your pink skin in the hot bath and the way your teeth leave little halfmoon tracks in my shoulder when you bite down. I want to be there with you but I don't know if you really want me there anymore. I don't know if I should be there or here or anywhere and I get scared at night that I might start tearing around like a tornado some which a way and just whip you up in it, in this frenzy in my head that I'm afraid will bust outta me one day and I can't be held accountable for what it might do. For what I might do. I'm afraid of the day you look at me and don't recognize me. I don't know why I can't sit still and be good, honey. I want to be with you and our kid in our house and even though I told you on the first day we met, no promises, I want to be that real standup guy of your dreams and I'll change change change, unzip my head to whatever psychobabbler you want, I'll join the army, I'll teach geometry, I'll stay right by your side and knit sweaters, you just say what it is you want, and I'll give it to you.

By the way, you got the wrong idea about that girl from Del Rio, honey.

I'll be here with Mack until Friday. Working up a storm because these bastards won't let me alone otherwise. On Saturday we go down to Hollywood for that Sunday morning television show, but by the time you can see me on it I'll be home to you, if you want me.

I miss you, Suzy. Goddam. Love,

Eddie

"Did I ever tell you about how we met?"

"Yeah, sure." He came into her father's bakery in Shreveport and stole her away.

"Not the bakery story. The real story."

"I'm all ears."

Copyright © 2007 by Meagan Brothers

No Man's Land

Springtime in Halifax was not known for its warmth or sunshine. Neither was Barrett, Lyons and Goldstein.

Tess Lange allowed herself a one-minute break and gazed out her window on BLG's associate floor. Drizzle specked the glass, obscuring the line of cars snaking along Lower Water Street. Friday night rush hour was just beginning.

She turned back to her desk, forcing her eyes to focus on the separation agreement spread out in front of her. The fourth this week. The thirty-seventh since she joined BLG. She grimaced. The irony was not lost on her. She'd left Marshall and Assoc. because Madelyn Marshall had a preponderance of family law clients. Tess had assumed -- incorrectly -- that she'd seen the end of them when she'd packed her boxes and left four months ago. Instead, she'd done more separation agreements at BLG than she'd done during her eighteen month tenure with Madelyn.

"Tess." A man's voice broke through her thoughts.

She glanced at the door in surprise. She hadn't heard anyone coming.

Her pulse jumped into her throat.

It was Randall Barrett. Himself.

She rose quickly, smoothing her skirt. "Hi, Randall." She gave him a brilliant smile, grateful she wore the new suit she'd bought with her last pay cheque. It had been a toss up between replacing her old articling clothes or the old kitchen piping, but the lure of the Jackie-O style suit had been too strong. When she heard the pipes groaning that night, she'd regretted her extravagance, but couldn't bring herself to take the sleek cream suit back and ask for a refund. She'd learned a long time ago that there were no returns in life.

Now, eyeing Randall's exquisitely tailored grey suit, she was glad she'd kept it. He, of all people, needed to see that Tess belonged in this office, that her name had a place on BLG letterhead. Because it didn't, not yet. Not for another two months.

And only if she cut it.

Carpe Diem

"You heard what I said, Alexandra." He threw me an exasperated look. "Why do you have to be so stubborn?"

"Why are you never willing to listen to me?"

His mouth tightened.

Good. My jab had hit home. "I have a plan that will get you -- and me -- off the hook for treason."

"Indeed." He raised an eyebrow. "Alexandra, I have racked my brain for a solution to this difficulty and have come up dry."

"So did I. But then it just dawned on me." I didn't dare tell him I was seething with jealousy over his book of Shakespearean sonnets when I had this revelation.

"Oh yes, you are an expert in the field of law." His biting tone cut me to the quick. "I had forgotten."

"You're damned right I am an expert." I jabbed my finger at him angrily. "I have almost as many years at the Bar as you!"

His jaw worked. "So you say."

The Erato was getting closer.

"You won't even listen to my plan?"

He sighed deeply. "Pray tell me what your plan involves."

Annoyed, I mimicked his tone. "It involves you marrying me."

A look of incredulity crossed Thomas's face. "Have you gone mad? How could that possibly be of benefit to either of us?"

I almost burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Me proposing to a man. Man calling me crazy. Me pleading my case: "Thomas, very simply it will benefit both of us because as husband and wife we cannot incriminate one another."

Comprehension dawned in Thomas's eyes.

Copyright © 2007 by Pamela Callow

Roaming Around the Country Without Grownups

Aunt Ella cut across two lanes of traffic without indicating and pulled into the exit lane for some podunk place called Creztown. She got off the exit ramp, drove into the parking lot of a McDonald's, and shut off the engine.

Then she went, all casual like it was no big deal, "This is where I get off, girls," and she opened her door and stepped out.

And I was like, "Aunt Ella!"

But she was already halfway across the parking lot -- she didn't even grab her purse from the backseat -- and she ran into the arms of this really tall dude. He had to be at least six foot six.

"Who is that guy?" I said.

"I dunno but he probably weighs less than you, miss skinny mini," Stacey said.

"Jumpin' frogs legs, Stace! At a time like this you're thinking about how much that dude weighs? If you keep obsessing over weight, I'm gonna check you into the same rehab clinic Ashley put Mary-Kate in." Anyway, Stacey was right. The dude was a total beanpole. He actually sort of looked like a ruler because he was so flat -- it was like he'd been run over by a station wagon holding a family of elephants. Even his nose and butt were flat.

And Aunt Ella, who's even shorter than us -- she claims she's five foot one but I'd say five feet tops -- and more than a little chunky but she does wear her weight well, was there in the McDonald's parking lot hugging Beanpole as if he was her long lost one true love!

Then I looked at Stacey, still sitting in the front passenger seat, and she turned back and looked at me and we so knew we were both thinking the exact same thing -- 'What the heck?!' And it had nothing to do with any sort of special twin connection and everything to do with our wacky aunt having totally outdone herself this time. We nodded at each other, got out of the car, and walked across the almost empty parking lot, over to Aunt Ella and Beanpole.

They were still hugging away like long lost loves who had been separated by a world war or something. Stacey and I looked at each other like 'Now what?'

Then I cleared my throat and it was like a hypnotist had snapped his fingers or something. Aunt Ella spun around to face us and she smiled this goofy smile -- it was so goofy, the moment Stacey saw it, she whispered, "God, Ti, Aunt Ella looks like a little kid who just learned the word 'fart'."

Aunt Ella, oblivious to the fact that Stacey had propelled me to the verge of giggles, said, "Girls, I'd like you to meet Harry Harnum, my one true love. Harry, these are my nieces, Tiana and Stacey."

So Beanpole shook our hands with his left hand (I always thought that you were supposed to shake hands with your right hand, but who knows). Anyway, Aunt Ella said, "Girls, Harry is the star trapeze artist with Harnum and Hailey's Circus. I'm going to spend the next eleven days on the road with him."

Then Aunt Ella handed the Jetta key over to Stacey, smiled all proud like she'd discovered the cure for cancer or something, and continued, "And you girls get to hit the open road with each other. That's my birthday gift to you -- independence."

I went, "Um, Aunt Ella, we're really happy for you that you've found true love with Beanp- um, I mean, Harry, but how exactly are we supposed to go on our road trip without you? Neither Stacey nor I has a driver's license. Hello? We just turned fourteen."

Aunt Ella waved her hand in the air dismissively and went, "License, schmicense! A driver's license is just a piece of plastic with an ugly picture on it." She winked at Stacey and said, "I know what an excellent driver you are."

Then she blew us both a kiss and she and Beanpole rode off into the sunset together. Well, okay, they walked over to a yellow and purple RV, and Beanpole opened the door and helped Aunt Ella in.

I yelled, "Our parents will kill us. And you!"

She turned and yelled back, "They'll never know! I'll meet you back in Ryerville on your way home. They'll think I've been with you the whole time. I'll contact you through the DP to finalize the details!" Then the door closed and we watched the RV pull out of the McDonald's parking lot.

Copyright © 2007 by Thushentha Devan

Midnight Confessions II

(Kensington 2007)

Once inside, Belle floated up the stairs ahead of her, dressed in a peignoir set that had once been green. Faye saw flashes of color in the folds as they fluttered behind Belle's otherwise monochrome beige. Being outside in the grey overcast light and with the faded grey wicker at her back, Faye hadn't noticed Belle's lack of color.

It wasn't like her to be beige. Something must be wrong. "Are you upset at the idea of my inviting Kim to the house?"

"No, of course not. I have a feeling Kim will be very entertaining."

"You will leave Kim alone," Faye said firmly to Belle, whose knowing smirk irritated the hell out of Faye. "She's not to be jazzed up in any way. While she's here, she'll be working, either helping get the new location ready or searching out new inventory. She's not a plaything." If they messed with Kim, Faye would lose her for sure.

Faye heard a deep sigh come from the wall beside her. She stopped and put her hands on her hips, spun toward the long-suffering sound. "I'm not joking, Lizzie. You leave her alone."

With Lizzie's penchant for practical jokes, Faye was afraid the spirits would go too far and she'd lose a great employee. Not to mention a friend.

There must be a state law against terrorizing the help. Just because she had no problem being surrounded by spirits didn't mean Kim would be okay with it.

"All right, I promise," agreed Lizzie from somewhere deep inside the wall. At least it sounded like she was inside the wall. It might have been the ceiling.

Now, all she had to do was make Annie and Felicity promise to leave Kim alone and she'd have an easier mind about Kim living here for the next few weeks.

"But the minute one of you pulls something on her, I lose my help and you'll be sorry," she threatened, loud enough for all of them to hear. What good threatening the dead did, she didn't know, but it was worth a shot.

The attic entrance was in the ceiling of a back hall corner.

Belle stood to the side while Faye tugged on an ancient rope. The stairs folded down from the ceiling with the groans and squeaks that were to be expected from hundred year old hinges. But, once the stairs got moving they opened easily enough and Faye climbed up, surprised by the sturdy feel underfoot. "What," she slanted a glance at Belle, "not coming with me?"

"I'll meet you there."

"You being afraid of heights seems a little weird. You can't exactly get hurt."

Belle blew her a raspberry.

As soon as Faye set foot on the attic floor Belle appeared seated on a trunk in the corner. Dust flew everywhere, but for all the years of neglect, it smelled clean enough. There were no obvious signs of animal or bird infestations.

No bats, either. She hated bats. They flew so erratically.

From the central staircase opening, the attic went off in every direction. From here it was clear how large the house was because the entire floor area was open. Dormer windows were evenly spaced around each wall, including the additions that were built on later. There was an octagonal area that was obviously over the conservatory.

Each dormer wall had hooks on the walls. Some even had tiny closets built in.

"What went on up here, Belle? These sort of look like cubbies or partitioned areas."

"Staff slept up here if they didn't have homes to go to. Beds were tucked in under the windows and there was a stove by the stairs for heat in the winter. It wasn't unpleasant."

She took a closer look and saw curtain rings on poles stretched across the openings to each dormer. "How large a staff did you need?"

Belle shrugged. "Four or five live ins. More in the summer to tend the garden. We had a laundress, eventually some kitchen help, but mostly the cook's son, Henry, at first."

Four or five live ins. Willa was right. She was going to need more help than she thought. Even with modern equipment like a dishwasher, vacuum cleaner, and a washer and dryer, Perdition House was too big for one person to keep up. Especially one person with a business to run.

"Did Annie work in a cathouse in Butte when she ran away from home?" She might have suggestions for efficient use of Faye's time.

"Yes, and it wasn't anything like working here. She'll tell you that!" Belle chuckled and the green in her gown returned.

"You're feeling better."

"Why, yes." She cocked an eyebrow at Faye in query.

"You were beige. First time I've ever seen you so colorless. Is something worrying you?"

"Nothing for you to be concerned about. I may have a renegade in the ranks, that's all."

"Renegade?" She laughed, finding the idea funny in a weird way. "A renegade ghost. Ooooo, scary."

Belle frowned. "Until now your experiences have been pleasant, haven't they?"

"You mean things could get nasty?" The thought of a ghost going postal suddenly scared the bejeebers out of her.

Copyright © 2007 by Bonnie Edwards

To Buzz or Not to Buzz

The next morning I awoke with a powerful sense that this day would finally be prosperous. As I drove to work, the sun smiled on me from a clear sky. Well, except for that one oddly penis-shaped cloud.

The Starbucks near the mini-mall tempted me to cross the street and order a chai latte, but prosperity tea awaited me upstairs.

Samantha trotted up the stairs ahead of me. Women milled about on the landing, preparing to go into the Curves to have their chocolate sins exercised from their bodies. As I stuck my key in the lock, whispers surrounded me. I looked up. Three of the women had descended on me. "Can I help you?"

They rushed inside. I grabbed the canister of endurance tea on my way to the register. "How many weeks worth of the tea would you like?"

The women glanced at each other. A petite woman with red hair a few shades lighter than my own auburn stepped forward. She leaned forward as if she were about to reveal the secret to achieving non-stop orgasms by consuming minute amounts of luxurious dark chocolate. "We're not here for the tea."

"I can make you any kind of candle you need," I said. "What's your goal?"

The plump brunette shook her head. "We need the thing you gave Tania."

"How do you know Tania?" I asked.

"I'm her lawyer," the slim brunette said. "She told me about it."

"And she told us." The redhead turned in a circle, surveying my wares. "Where are they?"

"I don't have any."

"I told you we should have come earlier. She sold out already."

"She opened three minutes ago." The slim one set her briefcase on the counter. "Can we special order them?"

I hadn't even drunk the prosperity tea yet. Was this a sign of the day to come? "That was a special. Just for Tania. But there's a Hustler store further down Sunset. They have a good selection vibrators."

"It won't be the same." The redhead shook her head, her bun bouncing. "You charmed it. Tania said she had the best orgasm of her life. We'll pay double for the rush. Triple. Whatever it takes to get them here pronto."

The other two women nodded their agreement.

I couldn't resist all of them combined. Besides, it couldn't hurt to get a few more vibrators: for special cases related to saving my business. Just so long as this rule breaking didn't become a habit. "Leave me your numbers. I'll call you when they're ready, hopefully by tomorrow."

The redhead gripped my hand. "Thank you so much. You're saving my life."

I took their information and promised to call them as soon as possible.

At the sound of the door opening, the three women turned toward it. The temperature in the room shot up as Dave strolled inside. They looked at me with lust burning in their eyes. I waved to him.

The redhead leaned close to me. "Did your magic bring him?" she asked.

They stared at him as they skirted past. There was something about his toned frame and movie star blue eyes that made women walk into poles. True to form, one of the brunettes backed into the doorframe with an "oof."

I'd done the same thing when we met at the bookstore nine years ago. Some days I wished I hadn't called off our fling a week later when I met Jack and erroneously deemed him The One. Alas there was no use dwelling on the past. I'd been twenty-three. I'd been stupid. I'd learned my lesson.

Dave grinned at the three red-cheeked ladies. Like teenagers being noticed by the captain of the football team, they giggled as they hurried out of the store.

"What was that about?" he asked.

"Tania referred some friends."

"Great, new business. You need more of that."

"It's not exactly the kind of business I want." I crooked my finger at him to come closer and lowered my voice. "They wanted charmed sex toys."

Copyright © 2007 by Aryn Kennedy

Kimchi & Calamari

(Harper Collins, 2007)

Alone at last with Mom. I could ask what she knew about the day I was born. Seeing Yongsu and his parents got me wondering again. Plus, I still had to give Nash something to search with, since my talk with Dad was a bust.

"Can I ask you a few questions, Mom?"

She gave me a curious look. "Ask away," she said. "Do you know my birth parents' names, or where the adoption agency found me?" I folded the napkins in triangles, concentrating so I wouldn't have to look at Mom.

Mom started to say something, then paused. "I planned on sharing this with you at a special time. When you were, well, a bit older."

"Sharing what?" I asked.

"The information the adoption agency gave us. But it isn't much, Joseph."

"I really want to know whatever it is. Now," I pleaded.

She took a breath before she began. "They told us they found you in the south of Pusan, by the waterfront, in a police station parking lot. An old woman was walking back from the fish market in the afternoon when she heard crying. You were lying in a basket, wrapped in a blanket."

This sounded like the Baby Moses story. Had I floated down a river in Pusan, too?

"What was my birth mother's name?"

"They didn't give us names."

"What day did the old lady find me?"

"May seventh," Mom said, rubbing the top of my head with her fingertips.

"Well, since my birthday is May fifth, that meant my birth mother took care of me for two days. Maybe she felt torn and didn't want to give me up," I said, blurting out my thoughts.

Mom nodded. "Maybe," she said.

"Move, Frazer!" Sophie yelled from the family room. That old boxer loved to park himself in inconvenient places, like on top of the puzzle.

"What's got you thinking about all this, honey?" Mom asked.

Should I tell Mom about the essay? I wanted to, but she was practically crying already. I didn't want to make her feel she wasn't a good-enough mom. "I just met this new kid at school today, and he's Korean. That's all."

She nodded and started scooping mashed potatoes from the Styrofoam container onto the plates.

I kept imagining how it all happened in Pusan fourteen years ago. "Maybe it was a baby- snatching conspiracy and the lady who found me was in on it," I said. "She could have kidnapped me, realized she was going to get caught, and then dropped me at the police station with that story so they wouldn't suspect anything."

"I don't think so. The adoption agency told us that's just the way babies are left in Korea. Birth mothers pick spots where they know their babies will be safe and get discovered quickly."

Then Mom continued, as if trying to convince me she was right. "Unmarried Korean women can't keep their babies, Joseph. Having a child before marriage is taboo there, much worse than here. Mothers without husbands are outcasts. Sometimes they can't even find jobs or homes. I think your birth mother knew you both would have had a difficult life if she'd kept you."

"Why do Koreans make the mothers feel so bad? That's dumb," I said. "Besides, maybe my birth mother was married to my birth father and they just didn't have enough money to raise a kid. Or she could have gotten sick. Isn't that possible, too?"

Copyright © 2007 by Rose Kent

The Dust Prophet

"Did Doctor Taylor tell you about your condition?"

"Yes." She stood unnaturally still for a child. Stock still. And she had a way of turning her head slightly while still keeping her eyes on a person. "I'm going to have a baby."

"Yes. Well, we need to talk about that, don't we?" He found himself blinking to compensate for how seldom she did. "Esta, I need to know who did this to you. I know it might be frightening to talk about. But it needs to be said out loud. The person who did this to you did a bad thing. Who's been at you, child?"

She cocked her head a few degrees but remained silent.

"Esta, we need to know the father of your child."

"It's between me and God," she said.

"Alright. We can discuss it later if you'd rather. But I'd like to talk with you about what you told Doctor Taylor. About Jenny."

"What about it?" she replied.

"No one knows better than I how it feels to want to give comfort to those who are suffering and yet be unable to. I have spent much of my adult life and all of the last two months striving to grant the tiniest measure of comfort in the face of terrible loss. But it is wrong to create falsities, even with the purest of motives -- to ease another's pain."

"I wouldn't do that," she said.

"I must assume that you were school friends with Jenny Taylor and that she told you about the dress and how she wanted to wear her hair."

"I've only ever had one friend, Reverend," Esta said, "Miss Margaret Goode."

Thomas heard the door to the office opening and conversation between Doctor Taylor and a woman.

Thomas continued, "Then you must have heard this information from Margaret Goode. Perhaps you've stored this memory without even being aware where it came from."

"I know where it came from," she said.

"Where?" Thomas heard himself say. Doctor Taylor pulled back the curtain and entered the room with Priscilla in tow. The woman was in wretched shape with large dark circles around the eyes and a frantic expression.

"The Lord showed it to me when he lifted me up," Esta said.

"What is this?" Priscilla said.

"I told you, Prissy," Doc said. "This is the girl who was found on the church. She says she saw Jenny with God in heaven."

"Doctor Taylor, I'm not sure it's wise to involve Priscilla with this," Thomas interjected. "Let me talk with the girl alone."

"My Jenny?" Priscilla said choking on sobs.

"Yes," Esta said.

"Esta, stop it this instant," Brother Thomas pleaded. "You can't toy with people this way! Tell the doctor that you made this up, or that it was just a dream!"

"Tell her about the dress and her hair," Doc Taylor said. "She was wearing the green dress you made and her hair was in plaits, Priscilla. It was our Jenny! In Heaven with God!"

"But how could you know this? How could you see into Heaven?" Priscilla pressed.

"Exactly," Brother Thomas added.

Esta had been waiting patiently to be asked. She looked at Mrs. Taylor and Doctor Taylor only as she relayed the story of what happened to her on that day.

"It was blowing hard outside. Miss Merrell was poised to hit me with the ruler for not paying attention in class when my cousin, Doris, looked out the window and yelled, 'It's a twister!' Then the roof peeled away."

Esta closed her eyes now and a slight smile turned up the corners of her mouth. "And I heard a loud voice say 'Talitha Kumi'." And then I was pulled upward and all the sounds of crashing and screaming and blowing fell silent. And I saw a shining light, bright like the sun, only gentler. It drew me into itself. That's when I saw Jenny seated at the feet of the father. Then the voice said, 'be blessed,' and touched me here," Esta said pointing to the middle of her chest.

Esta opened her eyes again. "And then I could hear the wind again and I was moving backward, but I didn't want to. And then it went dark. When I woke up, I was on the church roof."

"Praise God! Praise God!" Priscilla exclaimed. Doctor Taylor embraced his wife as she bawled unabashedly.

"It's a miracle!" he said.

"My girl! My baby! I was so worried, what with her not bein' baptized!"

Priscilla tore herself from her husband and ran to Esta pulling the child tight to her chest. "Thank you! Bless you, child."

Brother Thomas pulled Esta from the woman's grasp, "Doctor Taylor, I would ask you to kindly take your wife back upstairs. She's had a tremendous shock and needs to lie down." He shot Esta an angry glance as he ushered the two parents toward the office door.

Upon returning, he ripped the curtain back and glared angrily at her. "What are you up to, Esta Macphee, with this cockamamie story? You and I both know that nothing like that happened. You were simply lucky to be thrown clear of the awful death the other children shared and now you would mock the very God who mercifully spared your pitiful life! Surely, he will not allow you to go unpunished for this sin!"

"I thought you didn't believe in luck Pastor," Esta retorted.

"You will speak of this matter no more, young lady. You've got yourself in a delicate condition which requires your full attention. And I won't have you distracting good God-fearing people from their rightfully- earned grieving. Now let's get you home. We've got some news to share with your parents." He took her by the arm and marched her swiftly to the car.

The ride back to the Macphee farm felt far different than the ride to the doctor's office. Brother Thomas sensed that there had been a shifting of sorts -- the same feeling he often had when he presided over a wedding or a funeral. It was the uncertainty of stepping from one age, to the next. That the occasion of the telling of Esta's outlandish story, to an even greater extent than the school tragedy itself, marked a new focus in his work on earth, and a new season for the community of Harmony.

As he parked the car in the Macphee yard and shut off the ignition, Esta spoke. "Brother Thomas, remember when I came to you and asked you about my spiritual gift?"

He gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead trying to will the child to be shocked into silence once more. Forever more. But it didn't work.

"I think I know now what mine is."

Copyright © 2007 by Shannon Landrum

The Sloth's Eye

The Halloween decorations were gone from the hallways but the pumpkins were still in the exhibits, most of them now looking gnawed-on to various degrees. Which just made them even better as far as I was concerned. I was admiring my jack o'lantern with the fennec fox ears when I heard footsteps, brisk confident steps that covered the ground like the whole planet was her private domain.

"I love your Halloween pumpkins," Allison said. What was she doing here at this hour? Who knew. She could be anywhere at any time. "I adore the Halloween event. What could be better than combining trick or treating and a trip to the zoo?"

"Yeah," I nodded. I had to agree. Candy and animals, did it get any better than that?

"I thought when I came through last night that you are all doing such a nice job, but this building needs some attention. You haven't had anything new in a long time, and the collection is a lot less diverse than when I was the curator here. Maybe you could give me some advice about what we could do."

Somehow, under the magic touch of her attention, I didn't think of how strange it was for the zoo director to be asking advice from someone as lowly as me.

"A wombat," I said dreamily, almost to myself. I knew we'd never get a wombat. I'd had this conversation with Larry, our curator, dozens of times. A wombat was a lousy exhibit. It would sleep all day and take up a lot of space with nothing interesting for visitors to see. A big snoozing mound of fur that might as well be a stuffed animal. Not worth the time or effort or real estate.

But I loved wombats. I longed for a wombat the way other women longed for babies, as far as I could tell about how other women felt. I had clearly somehow imprinted on the wrong species as a newborn. I had no idea what it felt like to want a baby. But, oh, how I imagined a sweet little round wombat pup in my arms.

"A wombat!" Allison exclaimed, jolting me out of my marsupial reverie. "What a splendid idea. We don't have anything quite like that. Since we don't have an Australia building anymore, Small Mammals would be just the place."

I was startled. I looked at her dumbly for a minute, waiting for her to laugh at her joke. But she didn't.

"Um, " I said, "But... won't it sleep all day?"

"I'm sure we can figure out a way to deal with that. We can make sure its den is visible to the public. That way you'll always see something even if it's asleep. After all, that's better than an animal that's hiding all day when it's awake, isn't it?"

"Where will we put it? Where can we get one?" I surreptitiously pinched myself. Surely this was some kind of crazed zookeeper fantasy dream, where the director swoops down and gives you the animal you've always longed to work with. I was sure that in a minute I'd wake up and go into work and tell people about it, and I'd find out that everyone had had this dream, like we'd all had the dreams of our animals getting out, or those moments where we woke up in the middle of the night, positive we'd left some shift door in the wrong position.

"Details, details," Allison said. I seemed to be awfully good at dreaming that particular cadence she had, that tone that assured you that everything would always go her way. "Don't worry, that's why I have a staff. If we want a wombat we'll have a wombat. Do you know which species you want?"

I'd never thought about it. The idea had never gotten anywhere near close enough to reality for it to matter. "I don't know. Can I go and do some research?"

"Of course. Just email me when you decide. I'll come by again soon and we can talk about what renovations we need to do to house it."

I gazed off toward the pygmy marmoset exhibit in a daze. The plant wall needed watering and tons of that mossy stuff had fallen down and needed to be replaced. I decided that I wasn't dreaming after all, because in my dream Small Mammal House, the plant wall in that exhibit waters and re-mosses itself, instead of me having to crawl in there and hit my head and get soaking wet and covered in moss.

Copyright © 2007 by Linda Lombardi

Touch Me

(Kensington 2007)

"You have a right to be mad," Adonis told her. "Your mom cheated you of things a kid should have."

Ann's body stiffened. "I'm being unfair. She tried her best."

"Maybe so." Touch firm but gentle, he stroked her chest, breasts, rib cage, trying to give her the warmth her mother seemed incapable of. "Doesn't mean you don't have a right to be pissed. Children should be nourished with hugs and kisses, praise and love."

"I wish . . ." She sighed and her muscles loosened. "I was going to say, I wish I had a different mother. But that's not true, I love her. I just wish she'd been different."

"Is it too late? Could she change?"

Her eyes were squeezed shut. "I w-wish. But she's set in her ways." She sniffed. "D-damn, I never cry. Tears are a waste of time."

But they were welling from under her closed lids. "That last voice sounded like your mom's," he said gently.

She sniffed again. "It was." A tear spilled over.

"I don't agree with her." He caught the tear with his finger and brought it to his mouth. "Tears help you let pain out, where it doesn't have so much power."

She opened tear-glazed eyes. "That your mom talking?"

"Yeah." Definitely not his macho dad.

As tears tracked down her temples into her hair, he said, "Your mom may not be super affectionate, but you know she wanted you. She could have had an abortion or given you up for adoption, but she kept you. Loved you."

"I guess. But it puts so much pressure on me, being the only person she's got. Pressure to live up to her expectations."

She was still meeting his gaze and he looked deeply into her damp hazel eyes, feeling the hurt inside her. He took her by the shoulders. "Those expectations are hers; she owns them. She's the one who let rejection hurt her so badly she never lets anyone into her life. Focuses on her career, rather than risking her heart. You can be braver, you don't have be the same as her. Figure out what you want, and tell her."

"What if she says I'm wrong?" The tears were sliding freely now.

"Then tell her again." He lay down beside her and gathered her into his arms, felt the dampness of her cheek against his shoulder. For a while, he just hugged her close as she cried.

Then, when the tears eased, he said, "Tell her you love her, you respect her, but you have to find your own path. And if she loves you, she should try to understand and respect you back."

She sniffed. "Is that what you told your father?"

Crap. "Uh, maybe not quite like that. More like, I didn't want to be a tile layer so I wasn't going to do it."

"Which he'd take as rejection of everything he's worked for."

"Shit." He'd never thought of it that way, but once she'd said it, it was obvious. "I guess you're right."

"I know if I'd ever said I didn't want to be a lawyer, that's how Mother would have felt. But it was okay, she made it so fascinating, there was never anything else I wanted anyhow."

"And now?"

She eased away, wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands, sat up. "I want friends, too. A life away from the office, maybe one day a family of my own." A little smile. "Perhaps a puppy or kitten."

He sat up too, caught and held her gaze. "Those are all good things. Normal things. She's the one with the warped life, Ann. That's sad, and you don't have to be like her."

She nodded slowly. "Adonis, what's the thing you've most wanted from your dad?"

He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, then opened them again so she could see into his heart. "For him to say he's proud of me, like he does with my sisters."

"Me too, with Mother. Every time she compliments me, there's some damn qualification. Or, what I've done is good but she wants more from me." She sighed. "And I've been trying. Now you, you deliberately chose another path. Neither way has worked out for us."

"Nope."

"So, what's the worst case scenario?" she said thoughtfully. "They never say those magic words. But we know they love us. Right?"

"Yeah." He managed a small smile. "That's not such a bad thing to settle for."

"Some wise man once told me, conflict's inherent in the parent-child relationship."

His own words. The smile grew. "That was pretty smart. So, I should tell Dad I respect him and what he's accomplished, but his way isn't mine, and I wish he'd respect me too."

"And if he's still on your case, remember conflict's normal, and he loves you."

God, she was beautiful, even all swollen and tear-stained. Beautiful and smart and brave. And sexy. Opening up the way they'd both done was even better than sexual foreplay. He felt so close to her, and he wanted to get closer. Until they merged. Body and soul.

It was so cool she'd finally got into the gazing into each other's eyes thing. He could see the moment she read his thoughts. The green flecks in her eyes sparkled. Her lips curved. "You haven't finished my massage."

"Later." He leaned in for a kiss.

She avoided his mouth, her smile widening. "Hey, aren't we doing hours of foreplay, before sex?"

"We've done hours. Now it's time for sex." He stripped off the silk boxers and leaned in again.

Copyright © 2007 by Susan Lyons