Death Most Poisonous - Part I A short mystery set in Ancient Rome Jess Steven Hughes Rome, mid-September, A.D. 72     At the sound of sandals on the mosaic path, Macha, on her knees in the garden tending the soil, turned to see her trusted servant, Shafer, towering over her. The Moorish freedwoman stepped beside the sundial with an apologetic look on her ebony face. Macha stood, slipped a silk cloth from the waistband of her blue and gold stola, and blotted her brow. It was mid-afternoon, the hottest time of the day.     “Lady Carataca, Mistress Camilla is here to see you. She said it was urgent.” Shafer spoke in heavily accented Latin.     Macha stepped outside the latticed fence surrounding a tree and onto the pathway. “Send her in and tell one of the slaves to bring refreshments.”     Why would her friend Camilla come to see her during the hours of siesta, especially in this sweltering heat? The matter must be serious.     Shafer led Camilla to where Macha waited on a cushioned bench beneath an ivy-covered trellis. Camilla was in her forties. Fine lines around her swollen copper-colored eyes and a single-stranded gold necklace stood out against her alabaster skin.     She sat down, leaned forward, and placed a hand on Macha’s arm. “I am gratified you could see me, my dear.”     “You are always welcome, but I thought you would be in seclusion after the funeral. You know how people talk.”     “I know I’ve been a widow only three days, but seeing you is more important than custom. I thank you for attending Mettius’ rites yesterday. For some reason, your presence set me thinking about the circumstances of his death. I am no longer certain of how he died.”     “You said it was food poisoning.”     “Yes, but now I am not so sure. I do not know what to think.” Tears welled in Camilla’s eyes and she began to weep.     Macha placed an arm around her friend’s sagging shoulders and comforted her until the tears stopped flowing.     The Roman woman wiped her eyes with a black silk handkerchief. “I am sorry, Macha.”     “You’re still grieving—it’s only natural. But do you really believe someone poisoned your husband?”     Camilla sniffled. “I cannot say for sure, but the thought persists even though my physician said it was most certainly food poisoning.”     Macha shook her head. Camilla’s so-called healer, Cimon of Lemnos, was a notorious quack. He wouldn’t know food poisoning from the throes of giving birth.     “If there is any truth in what you say, shouldn’t you go to the Prefect of the Watch?”     “I don’t want the Vigiles involved.”     “But Camilla, your husband was of the Equestrian Order. His death warrants an investigation from the highest ranks of Rome’s law enforcement.”     “The officers of the Watch are a hardened, unsympathetic lot. They would investigate his death as a murder when that may not be the case. I am suspicious, but not certain. No, the matter must be kept private.”     “Then you must seek a private informer.”     Camilla twisted her mouth into a sneer. “They are the vilest of men—they will lie about anything to line their filthy purses. No, it is your help I want.”     “Why me? I have no experience in these matters.”     “But you do. Your efforts cleared Titus of treason. And you learned who murdered two of your slaves.”     “I had help.”     In an instant, the whole sordid mess of involving Titus, Macha’s husband, then an officer in the Roman Army, came crashing back to her. She had spent two harrowing months clearing his name of treason. In the process two of her slaves were murdered because they could identify the real traitors. And twice she was almost assassinated. She had prayed to Mother Goddess that she would never again experience such a terrible ordeal.     Camilla jabbed a finger in Macha’s direction. “But you were the force behind it. How many other women have done as much for their families?”     And how many women had endangered their own lives and those of their loved ones, Macha wanted to say. If I help Camilla, I will place my own life in danger again. I’m not a skilled informant. Men are far more experienced in these matters. She sighed and shook her head. There had to be another way.     “Are you sure you want a woman rather than a man to investigate your husband’s death?” Macha asked.     Camilla crinkled her nose and frowned. “It’s been many years since I trusted any man, including my departed husband.”     Macha raised an eyebrow. What woman did fully believe in her husband? Macha had more faith in Titus more than most, but even that had limits. Still she was puzzled why Camilla sought her services. Curiosity told her to pursue the matter, but that wasn’t all. In spite of Camilla’s contempt for foreigners, she had taken Macha under her wing and introduced her to all Rome’s nobility. Camilla had proven herself to be a good friend, and Macha believed in helping friends. She prayed she wouldn’t regret her decision.     She would simply have to resolve the matter before her husband returned in four days. Titus, who had been transferred to the Praetorian Guard after being cleared of treason, was in Ostia inspecting the seaport’s Praetorian garrison. He was used to Macha’s independent Celtic ways—Celtic women had more freedom than their Roman sisters. But he would be against her putting herself in harm’s way.     “All right, Camilla,” she said, “I’ll do what I can. I need to visit your house.”     “You can return with me now, if you like.”     Camilla’s answer startled Macha. She hadn’t expected to be invited so soon.     “Wait here while I give instructions to my slaves to care for my son.” * * *     The two women arrived at Camilla’s palatial home on Aventine Hill overlooking the cavernous Circus Maximus and beyond to the Emperor Vespasian’s residence on the Palatine. They proceeded to the summer triclinium where the family took their meals. Small portraits of bucolic country scenes decorated the dining area’s three walls. Bright afternoon light pierced the broad windows on the fourth side, which bordered the manicured garden. Perched in the middle of the room were three cushioned reclining couches forming a U-shape around a small circular table. Behind each couch stood a tall bronze stand from which hung four oil lamps. The smell of rancid olive oil lingered in the stifling heat.     “Has anything been changed since the night of your husband’s death?” Macha asked. She circled the room not sure what she was looking for. When Macha had attended Mettius’s funeral, she had learned that this was the room where he had died.     “Everything is the same, except for the clean linen covering the couches. I have them changed every day.”     “About what time did you eat the night of his death?”     “Just before dusk. The slaves lit the lamps and tapers.”     Macha pulled out her handkerchief and wiped the sweat from her cheeks and forehead. “Who dined with you besides your husband?”     “Only our children, Diana and Didius.”     “How many attendants were present?”     “Four. One slave for each of us, to serve our meals.”     “What did the family eat?”     “Mettius ate a mullet in fish sauce, especially baked for his birthday.”     Macha could no longer stand the heat of the dining room. She stepped out of the triclinium and into the shade of the colonnaded walkway bordering the garden. Camilla strolled beside her.     Macha stopped by the little shrine to the household gods set into the masonry wall. She faced Camilla. “Did you and your children eat part of the fish?”     “Oh, no. In this stifling heat we ate a much lighter meal. It was a simple fare of cold meats, vegetables, and fruit.”     As Camilla and Macha continued their walk, Macha scanning the garden and passageway to see if anyone lurked nearby. She lowered her voice and asked, “Who served your husband?”     “Tamos, the Egyptian. I doubt he would have poisoned Mettius. He has been a loyal slave for twenty-years and is well-treated.”     Macha paused by a bed of yellow chrysanthemums growing along the walkway’s edge, the first growth of autumn. The pungent smell lingered in her nostrils, triggering a thought. “Do you think someone in the kitchen might have poisoned his food?”     “Possibly, but I don’t see why they would.”     “I need to speak to your kitchen slaves.”     The matron nodded.     “There is something else I must ask.” Macha studied Camilla closely. “Since you regard me as a friend, I will speak bluntly. Do you think one of your children might have poisoned their father?”     Camilla clasped her hand to her chest, her voice rising in indignation. “How can you say such a thing? They loved him very much.”     “I’m sorry to have to ask the question. But I need to learn if they may have had a reason for wanting his death.”     “To my knowledge they have none.”     “I’m sure they don’t, but I still must speak to them as well as the slaves.”     “Slaves can be tortured to confess.”     “I shall have no part of torture. A victim will confess to anything to avoid being torn apart on the rack.”     “Then we shall not use it, but I need your help,” Camilla answered. * * *     The women entered the sweltering kitchen from the far end of the atrium. Two shuttered windows opened onto the garden. Macha and Camilla were met by a combination of acrid smoke from the hearth’s charcoal fire and the savory aromas of a stew flavored with rosemary and thyme. A gaunt slave stirred the contents of a large earthenware pot on the hearth while two small bronze pots simmered on the iron grate over hot coals.     At opposite ends of the kitchen, slaves chopped vegetables and meats at two large oaken tables, pushing the food scraps to the side. A stone mortar and pestle sat near where a tall female slave filleted a red snapper. Macha noted that the tufa stone floor was nearly spotless, which was most unusual. Even her own slaves never kept a floor this clean.     Macha didn’t bother interviewing the serving slaves and kitchen staff. She went directly to the head cook, Formio. He was studying the daily menu on a waxed tablet at a desk in one corner of the kitchen. Macha and the slave had been acquainted for many years and she found him trustworthy.     Macha motioned to Camilla. “I will speak to Formio, alone.”     “I will be in the garden,” Camilla said.     Macha and the cook proceeded to the atrium. They stopped a few paces inside the entryway and Macha’s eyes scanned the area before turning to the sweating Formio. She tilted her head slightly to meet the stocky cook’s scowling gaze.     “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”     “Yes, lady. It’s about the master’s death.”     “You’ve always been honest with me.”     “You mean blunt.” He folded his arms in front of his oxen chest.     Macha chuckled. “Of course. Don’t change now.”     “I can tell you this, if the master died from poisoning, it wasn’t at my hand,” Formio said in a haughty voice. “I take pride in my cooking. The mistress is very fussy. Every day she inspects my meal preparations and screams at me if any scraps are left on the kitchen floor. The place has to remain spotless. But it’s the little things she says that irritate me most.”     “Such as?”     “The texture of the sauce.”     “What about it?”     “The day the master died the mistress came to the kitchen to inspect as usual. What was strange was seeing her daughter with her. Diana hates anything to do with cooking. All she does is eat.”     Macha understood. Camilla’s seventeen-year-old daughter was too heavy for her short height. “What does this have to do with sauce?”     “The young mistress asked me questions about cooking while Mistress Camilla inspected my preparations. Usually, I follow the mistress around the kitchen, but Diana kept distracting me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mistress Camilla glaring down at a sauce pan, but I turned to answer another question by her daughter. Then the mistress ordered me to stir the sauce. She wasn’t satisfied with its texture.”     Formio snorted. “I make the best sauces in Rome. I asked if there were any ingredients she wanted me to add. She yelled to do as I was told.” He threw up his hands.     A chilling thought raced through Macha’s mind, and a sense of betrayal. Regardless of who might have committed the murder, she decided to refuse any offer of food and drink while she was in Camilla’s household.     “What kind of sauce was it?” Macha asked.     Formio folded his arms again. “A sauce for broiled mullet,” he answered. “It has many ingredients: pepper, lovage, cumin, small onions, oregano, almonds, figs, dates, honey, and much more. It’s very good.”     Macha nodded. It would be easy to add poison to a sauce with so many ingredients. No one would taste the difference. “Was it to be used on all the family members meals or just the master’s?”     “Only his.” Formio unfolded his arms. “That’s why I presumed the mistress was fussier than usual. You don’t think I killed him? I was told by the mistress he died of food poisoning, and it’s all too common. But not from my kitchen.”     She shook her head. “You take too much pride in your work. I’ll see you again if I have further questions.” * * *     Camilla waited for Macha in the garden.     “Did you learn anything from Formio?” she asked turning from a rose bush she had been inspecting.     Macha sighed. “Not much except that you inspect all meal preparations.”     “As mistress of the house, I can’t trust the slaves,” she answered with a huff. “Besides robbing you blind, who knows what they would serve you at mealtime?”     Or what poison they might have added to the food, Macha wanted to say. She bit back the words.     “When can I speak to Didius?”     “He should be home soon.” Camilla called for a slave and gave instructions for her son to meet them in the garden.     While they waited, the two women strolled along the pathway, Camilla pointing out many flowers and shrubs. Normally, Macha would have been impressed by their beauty, but today her mind was busy mulling over the problem at hand.     “Naturally, I oversee the activities of my gardeners as well,” Camilla said. “Sometimes I take a personal hand in the planting and trimming. It is very relaxing. Most patrician women would not dream of soiling their hands. Foolish ladies: it washes off easily enough.”     Camilla pointed to the flowering oleanders, roses, and snapdragons “The oleanders are so beautiful and fragrant.”     “But every part of the plant is poisonous,” Macha said.     “Many flowers are. That didn’t stop me from decorating Mettius’ funeral bier with oleanders. I personally cut the sprays.”     Although the use of oleanders was customary, Macha had always found it ironic because the plants were so deadly.     “Have you ever used oleanders for anything besides decorations?” Macha asked.     Camilla paused and crinkled her forehead. “Why, yes. I do not believe in waste. The gardener told me when the leaves are ground into powder they make a good rat poison. We have been plagued by those awful pests.”     A slave announced the arrival of Camilla’s son.     As he approached, Didius weaved from side to side along the mosaic walkway, tramping the daisies growing along the edge. A wrinkled toga streaked with purple stains draped his tall emaciated frame. Dark curly hair crowned his flushed horse face, and his breath reeked of too much wine. He appeared old than twenty-one years of age.     “Lady Carataca wants to talk to you about your father’s death,” Camilla said.     Didius stopped before Macha, his body still swaying. He glowered at Macha through cavernous bloodshot eyes before turning back to his mother. “Why?”     “Because I have asked her to look into the matter of his death.”     “Isn’t obvious?” Didius shouted, gesticulating wildly with his soft patrician hands. “He died of food poisoning.”     “I think it may have been otherwise, dear,” Camilla said.     “Well, I don’t!” He turned to Macha and jabbed a bony finger barely missing her face. “You are a woman and a barbarian. I don’t have to answer your questions.”     Macha lightly touched her smooth face. “It is true my tall height, freckles, and red hair tell all of Rome that I was born a Celt, but I have lived as a Roman for twenty years.”     “You can dress as a Roman, but you’re still not one us, and never will be.”     “Didius, why are you so rude?” Camilla asked, obviouslly appalled by his conduct. “Her husband is Titus Antonius, Tribune of the Praetorian Guard.”     He belched and spat. “He’s a Gaul.”     “You know very well he was born in Rome. His late father was a senator.”     “Roman born or not, they’re still barbarians.” Didius turned and staggered out of the garden.     Visibly shaken, Camilla braced herself against the side of a high-back wicker chair. “I apologize for my son’s rude conduct. He is usually charming to the ladies.”     “I’ve been subjected to worse, Camilla.” Macha also knew that Didius treated everyone in the household with disdain, family and slaves alike. She had even seen him treat his mother with disrespect before. But Macha knew when to hold her tongue. In most situations she would not hesitate to defend her heritage as a British Celt. Her father was the great British chieftain Caratacus, who had been captured by the Romans and pardoned by the Emperor Claudius. But it was useless arguing with a drunk.     “Camilla, it occurred to me, won’t Didius inherit his father’s fortune?”     “Yes, and he is certain to ruin us all. He is a notorious gambler and deeply in debt. We shall become paupers.”     Could it be that Didius murdered his father to pay his debts and have enough money to continue gambling? Although he treated the family badly, Didius was a known coward. Killing his father didn’t seem to be an act he would attempt, but Macha couldn’t discount him as a suspect.     “If your son wasn’t around to inherit the family fortune, who would be next in line?” Macha asked.     “Why, me.” Camilla gasped. “Macha, you do not believe I would be so foolish as to murder my own husband?”     “No, you’re not a fool. In the end you would lose everything including your life. Bear with me. I have to look at this matter from all sides and at everyone remotely connected to your husband’s death.”     Camilla wrung her hands and shook her head. “I can’t believe anyone in my house would kill my husband.”     “Where is your daughter, Camilla?” * * *     Macha left Camilla and found Diana, dressed in a long flowing yellow tunic, sitting on a stone bench in the garden between rows of oleanders and roses. She noted the striking resemblance in facial expression between Diana and Camilla, but that’s where the similarities ended. Unlike her elegant mother, Diana was short, round, and plain. Macha sat down beside the girl.     “Is it true?” Diana’s voice rose barely above a whisper. “Does Mother think Papa was murdered? One of the slaves told me she asked you to question the household, including me and my brother.” She slumped in her seat not meeting Macha’s gaze.     “She has her doubts.” Macha turned in Diana’s direction. “Don’t you find it unusual that your mother asked me and not the Watch to investigate your father’s death?”     “No.” The young woman lifted her head and met Macha’s eyes for a brief second before shifting her gaze to the roses across the pathway.     “Do you know why anyone would want to kill your father?”     Diana shook her head.     Macha stood and dabbed the perspiration from her nose and forehead with her handkerchief. Slowly, she walked to the far end of the bench. “Who would want him dead?”     “No one. Mother loved Papa and...and so did my brother. Papa was always kind to our slaves.”     “Your brother is heir to your father’s estate. Wouldn’t he use the money to pay his creditors?”     Diana glared back at Macha with dark hostile eyes. “He wouldn’t kill father—I know it!”     “You loved your father?”     Camilla’s daughter straightened her shoulders and set her thick jaw. “Of course. I wanted to please him.”     Macha set her full lips into a straight line. “Look at me, Diana. If you didn’t please him, were you punished?”     Diana nodded.     “What kind of punishment?”     Silence.     Macha resumed her seat beside Diana and placed a hand on the young woman’s warm arm. “He’s no longer here. You can tell me without risk to yourself.”     “I can’t!” She sighed. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”     “Sometimes talking about it helps.”     Diana shook her head.     “Very well. How did you please him?” Macha pulled her hand away.     She blushed, twisted her fleshy fingers, and turned away from Macha.     “Surely, you can tell me something. No one is going to harm you.” Unconsciously, Macha crossed her sandaled feet.     “The harm’s already been done!” Diana blurted. She shot her hand to her mouth.     Macha got up but kept her aqua eyes on Diana. “I’m sorry to have to ask these questions when you’re still grieving the loss of your father.”     For the length of a heartbeat Diana’s face tightened. She glanced at the red oleanders.     “Beautiful aren’t they,” Macha said.     Diana sighed. “I can still see them surrounding my father’s body.”     The Celtic woman gestured to a bed of yellow roses. “Do you ever work in the garden?”     She raised her thin eyebrows. “Holy Mother Vesta, no. I hate soiling my hands. I leave gardening to mother—she loves it.” Diana seemed relieved Macha had changed the subject.     “What are her favorites?”     “Roses, chrysanthemums, and,” she hesitated and nodded, “oh, yes, oleanders.”     For a split second Macha pursed her lips and closed her eyes. “I hear your house has been plagued by rats. Has anything been done to get rid of them?”     “Mother says the gardener uses oleander leaves as poison.”     Diana glanced about. Abruptly, she stood. “I see where this is leading. Next you’ll accuse someone in my family of killing my father with rat poison. It’s not true.” She turned and hurried from the garden.     As Macha was about to leave, she spied the gardener hovering near the roses, a little closer than she would have expected. What did he know about Mettius’s death? Macha motioned him to her bench. He dropped his pruning knife by a pile of chopped vines and approached her.     “How much did you overhear, gardener?”     “Nothing, lady.” He stopped several paces away from Macha and wiped his dirt-stained hands on his homespun tunic. He removed the wide-brimmed straw hat, covering close-cropped red hair, and held it in one hand.     “There is no need to lie. Your secret is safe with me.”     “I didn’t mean to overhear,” the wiry, leathery-faced man answered.     Macha motioned him to step closer. “I don’t know what your mistress has told you, but at one time I was a slave. I may be free and married to a Roman, but I still try to protect slaves whenever possible.”     “I’ve heard rumors that you won’t allow the torture of slaves.”     Macha nodded. “What’s your name and where are you from?”     “Mael, from Hibernia.”     “Ah, the green island west of Britannia. I thought I recognized your Celtic accent. Will you help me?”     The gardener narrowed his piercing gray eyes and searched the area around them before returning his gaze to Macha.     “I don’t know if this helps,” he said, “but since the master’s dead, do you promise not to tell the mistress?”     “Yes.”     “I’ve heard tell the master took liberties with his daughter that weren’t natural. Did things with her only a wife or slave should know, if you understand my meaning.”     The gardener’s words confirmed her suspicions. The idea a father would molest his own daughter nauseated Macha, but it was common practice in Rome. She braced herself against the wooden backside of the bench and straightened her shoulders before turning back to the slave.     “Like I say, it’s just a rumor,” Mael continued. “He started when she was five and didn’t stop till she was fourteen.”     Macha sucked in her breath. “Merciful gods. If that’s true, why did he stop?”     “He liked them young,” Mael answered in a voice of disgust. “He found a little slave girl to replace her.”     “How old is the girl, and where can I find her?”     Mael spat through his chapped lips. “You can’t—he killed her.”     “A child?”     The gardener shook his head. “Who’s to say? It’s the master’s right.”     Taking a deep breath, Macha mulled over the revelations. The slave stood quietly waiting for her to speak again. Diana didn’t seem capable of murder, but it appeared she had every reason to kill her father. How could she have been expected to forget the degrading of her body and soul for nine years?     Did Camilla know about the molestations? Macha wondered.     “I hear the mistress is an avid gardener,” Macha said.     “Aye, ‘tis true. She loves her flowers.”     “Even oleanders?”     “Them too, especially of late.”     “Since the master’s death?”     Squinting his eyes, Mael snorted as if he knew what she was thinking. “No, before. ‘Course we had problems with rats so I asked her if I could cut off the leaves and use them for poison. She said she would take care of it. I cautioned her to be careful, because the residue from its powder might be deadly if she didn’t wash her hands. She still insisted on doing it.”     “How much powder did she make?”     “Not sure, but enough to kill the rats.”     Macha raised an eyebrow and motioned to the garden’s far end. “Did she store it somewhere?”     “Aye, in the tool shed—in four earthen jars, but they’re empty.”     “Strange that she wouldn’t allow you to help.”     “Her daughter helped her, and that was odd ‘cause she hates gardening.” Mael removed a dirty linen cloth from his tunic’s waistband wiping his sweaty hands and face once again.     “How do you know?” Macha asked.     He stuffed the cloth behind the band. “They did the grinding in the garden shed. I’d pass in and out and see ‘em when I’d get my tools.”     Macha cleared her throat. “When did this rat problem start?”     “About a month ago—killed most of them.”     “Can you remember the last time you saw your mistress and Diana grinding leaves?”     Mael squinted and for a moment peered skyward. “I think it was about a week before the master’s death.” * * *     As Mael departed, Macha stood on the walkway shaking her head, oblivious to the birds chirping and squawking as they flew or hopped about the trees and bushes. Even the fragrant odors of the garden’s variety of flowers seemed lost on her. More and more it appeared that Camilla, and perhaps Diana poisoned Mettius. Had Camilla decided enough was enough? Had she found the courage to take revenge on her husband to vindicate her own weakness? Perhaps she decided to place the blame on her son, thereby inheriting her husband’s fortune. The thought that her good friend, Camilla, could be a murderer terrified Macha.     How can I confront the women and get them to admit they murdered Mettius? Or did they? Macha pondered how her husband, Titus, would approach the situation.     She would question Diana again, the weaker of the two women. If her father had committed the acts alluded to by the gardener, then he was a monster. Yet if Diana poisoned Mettius it was deliberate murder.     How would justice be served if Camilla and Diana had killed Mettius? That wasn’t for her to decide. As disgusting as she found the molestation, premeditated murder wasn’t the answer. She hoped the courts would show mercy and allow them to go into exile—the same right allowed male Roman citizens.     Macha loathed the fact that with nearly every type of murder committed by a Roman citizen, the justice system literally allowed them to walk away untouched. Patricide was one of the few exceptions, considered the most heinous of all crimes. She shuddered thinking of its penalty. Victims were stripped naked, scourged, and then sewn into a sack that was also crammed with a dog, a cock, a monkey, and a snake. The sack was tossed into the nearest river, drowning the victims and animals alike. Did anyone deserve to suffer such a terrible fate? Not Camilla—no, not Camilla or Diane. * * *     She found Diana sitting on a stool in a corner of the tablinum. The young woman held a parchment scroll. Macha nodded and glanced about the library. The walls were lined with shelves from ceiling to floor, filled with scrolls and leather canisters containing more documents. A citrus wood desk inlaid with lapis-lazuli sat in the center of the room.     Macha took a seat behind the desk. “What are you reading?”     “The poems of Sappho of Lesbos,” Diana answered. “They are so beautiful. She can see into the depth of a woman’s soul.”     “She had little use for men, did she?”     “Men are such animals!”     “Does that include your father?”     Diana met Macha’s gaze briefly but did not answer.     Macha summoned up the courage to ask the next question. “Your father used you as he would a slave or wife. Do you deny it?”     Diana slowly shook her head up and down. Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks.     Macha rose from the desk and stepped around the side placing one of her hands on Diana’s. She soothed the girl with a few comforting words until Diana had dried her tears.     “I’m sorry to have seemed so harsh, Diana, but I had to be sure. I want the truth.”     “I know,” she answered quietly.     Macha sat on the edge of the desk looking down on Diana. “Is that why you poisoned your father? Because he abused you?”     “No! Neither Mother nor I poisoned him. It was the gardener, Mael. The slave girl who replaced me was his daughter. She was barely five!”     Macha shot straight to her feet. “Great Mother Goddess, no!     “It’s all true, I swear it.”     Attempting to recover from her shock and thinking about her next question, Macha paced the room. Diana twisted her hands.     “He didn’t mention that he had a family,” Macha said.     “Papa bought Mael, his wife, and daughter about five years ago from a slave trader who brought them from Hibernia.”     Macha stopped by the wall of scrolls. “How do you know he killed your father?”     “I heard him swear an oath that one day he would.”     “When and where?”     “Two years ago, the day after his daughter died. I overheard him when I passed the tool shed. He was inside, weeping. I heard him say that someday he would find a way to revenge his daughter’s death. I thought it was the empty words of a grieving man.     “But on the day Papa died, I saw Mael in the tool shed putting oleander powder into a pouch. The door was ajar and I watched him. I knew what he was going to do, and I didn’t stop him. I was too afraid of killing Father myself.” Diana paused and gazed at the floor.     “Please continue,” Macha said.     Diana sighed and clasped her hands together. “He went to the kitchen. Mael brings herbs from our garden to the cook before every meal and eats while he is there. So I went with my mother when she inspected the meal to see how he would poison papa’s food. Mael was in the kitchen when we arrived. I caught a glimpse of the pouch tucked behind the belt. No one seemed to notice but me. He must have put the poison in the sauce before we got there.”     Macha pulled the chair from behind the desk and sat next to Diana. “What makes you think so?”     “Mother was very fussy about the sauce. She must have thought something was wrong with it. I glanced to the floor in front of the hearth where it was cooking, and I saw a tiny bit of powder. I thought it was oleander. That’s why I kept distracting the cook: I was sure he would spot it. When Mother moved away, I casually walked by the hearth and scraped my shoe across the powder spreading it to nothing.”     Macha flinched and wiped her hands on side of her stola. “There were other slaves working in the kitchen. Didn’t they see you?”     “No. They keep themselves busy when Mother is around, especially, Mael’s wife, Bridget. Mother has beaten her for not keeping her area clean.”     “I didn’t know the gardener’s wife worked in the kitchen. Which one is she?”     “She’s the tallest one and wears her hair in a bun.”     Macha remembered the woman filleting the red snapper when she first entered the kitchen with Camilla.     “Does your mother know anything about this?” Macha asked.     Diana shook her head.     “So you allowed your father to be murdered.”     She nodded. “He deserved to die. He did such awful things to me. I didn’t have the courage to kill him myself. I was glad Mael did it. Are you going to tell Mother?”     “I will speak to Mael first and see if he admits to it.”     “If he doesn’t?”     “I will decide then what to do. But I’m still puzzled. Why would your mother want me to make inquiries?”     “She wanted you to exonerate my brother, and she trusted you to be discreet. All Rome knows how you proved your husband’s innocence when he was accused of treason. Your bravery in killing two assassins is still the talk of the city.” * * *     Macha found Mael heading rose bushes. He dropped his knife, removed his hat, and greeted her.     For an instant Macha hesitated. The pruning knife was still within Mael’s reach. She stepped back from the gardener a couple of paces and looked about, seeing no one. Her lips and tongue went dry, her palms damp. Still she had to take a risk. Tall as the Celt, she searched his melancholy eyes. “Mael, I know you poisoned your master.”     Mael raised his hand in protest.     “It’s useless. Diana saw you with the oleander powder. You know who her mother would believe, don’t you? Although I won’t be part of torture, I can’t guarantee it won’t happen once I leave the house.”     The color drained from Mael’s sun-baked face. He swallowed and his eyes darted about fixing on the knife for a split second. He glanced to Macha and back to the weapon. For the space of a few heartbeats a tense silence passed between them. Slowly, Macha backed another step.     The gardener exhaled and slumped to a bench. “What good would it do to deny it? Whatever the truth be, I’m doomed.”     Quickly, Macha retrieved the weapon before Mael changed his mind. Like any Celtic girl, her father had taught her to throw a knife with deadly accuracy.     “Did you poison your master?” Macha asked.     “Yes,” he answered in a strong voice.     “Why?”     “You know the reason,” he growled as if he were a wounded bear. “He molested and murdered my daughter.”     Macha’s head snapped backwards as if she had been slapped. Noise rushed through her ears like ocean waves crashing on the beach. For a moment she remained speechless while pulling her thoughts together. What a monster. Finally, she asked, “Was anyone else involved with the killing of your master?”     “Me alone, but there was someone else who wanted to kill him. You must believe me.”     “Who?”     “The young master, Didius.”     Macha wasn’t surprised by Mael’s revelation. But she believed Didius too cowardly to involve himself.     “Why did he want to murder his father?”     “He needed his inheritance to pay his debts. He offered to set me free and give me fifty gold pieces if I would kill his father.”     Macha gulped and swallowed. “That’s a small fortune. Why you and not someone else?”     Mael balled his hands into fists but kept them at his side. “Because he knew I was still enraged about my daughter’s murder even though it happened two years ago. I was the right person.” He bared yellowed teeth. “That monster did terrible things to my little girl.”     As Mael grew agitated, Macha kept hidden her own growing nervousness. “When did Didius ask you?” she asked in an even voice.     “Last month, but I told him I would think about it.”     She cricked her head to one side. “Oh? Why was that?”     “I was suspicious. I was sure he would murder me later to keep my silence. Besides,” he added in a calmer voice, “I wanted to kill the master in my own way and time.”     Macha shook her head, disgusted by the whole ordeal. She studied the gardener’s pleading eyes, turned away, and took a deep breath. Would justice be truly served if she informed Camilla? Macha had no stake in this sordid matter. Diana and Mael’s daughter had suffered terribly at the hands of Mettius. Like the rats that infested their house, Mettius had deserved death. Macha knew what it was like to be a slave and at the mercy of a master. No slave deserved such degradation and cruelly.     Legally, she knew she had to report what she had learned to her husband, an officer in the Praetorian Guard. If Titus learned she’d withheld information, he would confine her to the house, or worse! She came to a decision.     “Mael, I won’t tell your mistress anything. You and your wife have suffered enough.”     Trembling, he went down on one knee in supplication. “Thank you, lady. May great Lugh bless you.”     “Remember, this conversation never took place.” * * *     As Macha strolled into the atrium, she encountered Camilla standing near the shrine of the household gods.     “I’ve just had a most revealing conversation with Diana,” Macha said as she halted by Camilla’s side. “Do you deny Diana was molested by Mettius for nine years?”     “She told you?”     “Should I doubt her?”     Camilla screwed up her face, body quivering as she attempted hold back the tears. “It’s true. I know incest is against the law, but I am so weak. I did nothing to stop him. Nothing!” Tears rolled down the sides of her narrow cheeks.     Quietly, Macha waited until Camilla’s sobbing subsided. She understood even though she found the whole travesty revolting. Had Camilla interfered, Mettius as head of the household could have killed her.     The matron removed her handkerchief and dried her eyes. “I’m sorry, Macha.”     “You needn’t apologize. You and Diana have been through enough.”     “What does this have to do with my husband’s death?”     “Everything and nothing.”     “What do you mean?”     Macha stepped to the empty impluvium, the tiled shallow pool in the middle of the atrium used for catching rain. Camilla followed in her wake.     “You have to admit Diana had every reason to kill your husband, but she did not.”     “I am thankful to hear that.”     “Your son wanted him dead as well.”     “Not Didius! How can you say that?”     “He tried bribing the gardener, but Mael refused.” That part was true as far as it went.     “Then who did murder my husband?”     Macha shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve done all I can for you.” Macha hated lying: it wasn’t part of her nature.     “I must return home,” Macha continued. “My son needs me.” * * *     A month passed, and a sense of peace settled over the House of Camilla. The click of pruning shears echoed through the garden, now in the hands of a new gardener. Within a week of Macha’s inquiries, Didius departed on a trip to the East for an indefinite time. Macha learned from her freedwoman, Shafer, through her slave contacts that Mael and his wife had committed suicide by taking rat poison.     “But why?” Macha asked, shocked by the revelation.     “Before his wife died, she told another slave she had poisoned the master, in revenge for killing her daughter,” Shafer answered. “Her husband had wanted to confess to the murder, but she would not allow it. He did not want to live without his wife, and they died together. It’s a shame because Mettius deserved death for what he did to the young ones.”     Macha wiped tears from her eyes. Men! They always have their way. It had all been so sordid. Can I ever forget—keep Camilla as a friend? No.     If only I could go back to Britannia where life is clean. But I must live here and pray to the gods to give me courage and do what they require of me.

a Considerate Dog John Ragusa     Josh Garber went to a pet shop one afternoon. There were animals of all kinds in it. Garber had a wide variety of pets to choose from. He had already decided what pet he wanted, however. It was not the kind of pet most people would buy. Garber was a man of unusual tastes. He preferred weird things. He had no admiration for the ordinary.     A salesman approached Garber. “What can I do for you, sir?”     “I want a unique dog,” Garber said.     “You’re looking for a special pet, is that it?”     “That’s right. I want a dog that can do something no other dog can do.”     “I think I can help you.”     The salesman showed Garber a Great Dane. “This might be the dog for you. He is a very rare breed. He has the ability to talk.”     “No kidding? That’s hard to believe.”     “It’s true, though. He can hold an intelligent conversation with you. He says the most amazing things.”     “He must be a very smart dog.”     “Yes, he is. He was trained by one of the best English teachers in the country.”     “I would have thought that he was born with the capability of speech.”     “No, someone taught him how to talk.”     “What does he talk about?”     “Sports, politics, food – you name it, he talks about it. He can discuss a wide range of topics.”     “I could use someone to converse with.”     “Well, this dog just loves to engage in conversation.”     “He won’t talk my arm off, will he?”     “Oh, no. He knows when to shut up.”     “Does he talk too loud?”     “No, his voice is low.”     “Make him say something.”     “I will, but it’ll cost you $50.”     “That’s a lot of money.”     “It’s how much a demonstration costs.”     “You drive a hard bargain.”     “I’m sorry; those are my rules.”     “All right. If he speaks to me, I’ll pay you the money.”     So the salesman said to the dog, “Okay, Dixie, say a few words for the man.”     The dog yawned, scratched behind his ear, and said nothing.     “Come on, talk for me,” the salesman said. “Don’t make a fool out of me.”     The dog still didn’t speak. The salesman was baffled.     “I don’t understand it,” he said to Garber. “Normally this dog would have spoken volumes.”     “I think that maybe you were pulling my leg,” Garber said. “Everyone knows a dog can’t talk. It’s simply not possible.”     “I swear I wasn’t lying to you, sir,” the salesman insisted. “This dog really can talk.”     “Then why isn’t he speaking to us?”     “I don’t know; I can’t explain it.”     “I was naîve to have believed you. What you fed me was a load of bull.”     “I take exception to that statement,” the salesman said. “I am an honest businessman. I wouldn’t try to cheat a customer.”     “I ought to check you out with the Better Business Bureau. They can tell me if you run a reliable store.”     “You go ahead and do that. You’ll find that everything I do is legitimate.”     “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t leave here at once.”     “If you stay around long enough, the dog may decide to speak. I can only assume that he is shy because you are a stranger. If he gets to know you better, he might start talking to you.”     “Very well. I’ll remain here for a while and wait for the mutt to talk. If he says something, I’ll buy him from you. But if he doesn’t, I’ll take my business elsewhere.”     Garber waited several more minutes. The dog remained silent. Garber was about to walk out the exit when the telephone in the next room rang. The salesman excused himself and went to answer it.     After he had gone, the dog told Garber, “Will you please buy me? I hate living in this place.”     Garber was dumbfounded. “You really can talk!” he said. “That’s incredible! But why didn’t you talk before?”     The dog looked at him and said, “What are you griping about, Mister? I just saved you 50 bucks!”

Vanishing Man   Tim Pompey     JANUARY 8, 2009 JON BRYAN OPENING NOTES VENTURA DAILY BREEZE VENTURA, CALIFORNIA   My editor, Tom Banks, assigned me to work on a missing person’s story for a feature he would like to run in a couple of weeks. He wants me to dig around, see what I can find out. It’s a very strange case involving a local high school football coach who left his house early A.M. last February and never returned. The case so far is dead ended. Understandably, the family is distraught and puzzled. I’m keeping a log of interviews and notes, trying to piece things together. This story is so odd that, if I can explain or solve it, maybe someday it might have legs as a book. You never know. People love a good mystery.   PRELIMINARY RESEARCH   Malcolm Rose was a 42-year-old black male living in Port Hueneme with his wife and two children. He called a Yellow Taxi @ 5:30 A.M. on Monday, February 4, 2008 and was picked up at his house at 248 7th Street @ 5:45 A.M. The driver took Rose down Pacific Coast Highway to Mugu Rock on the southeastern outskirts of Oxnard and dropped him off in the gravel parking lot at the base of the rock. The driver remembers letting him out @ 6:05 A.M. No one has seen Rose since. Rose worked at Hueneme High School as a football coach and teacher for fifteen years. The family seems solid in the community. Both are members of St. Paul’s United Methodist. Both are active volunteers in the community. His wife Dushana said there had been no recent medical changes in his life. He did, however, complain as early as January 28 about a very strange occurrence. He told her he was disappearing – as in body dissolving and fading. I’ve talked to a couple of psychiatrists up at Vista Del Mar Psychiatric Hospital. They can find no listing for this type of complaint in the Diagnostic Statistical Manual (DSM). Here’s the key question I will pursue: What plausible explanation is there for a man who tells his wife he is disappearing, then actually disappears?   INTERVIEWS   JANUARY 10, 2009, 10 A.M. INTERVIEW WITH WIFE DUSHANA AND DAUGHTER JENEA HOME OF MALCOLM AND DUSHANA ROSE   Note: Rose’s wife Dushana is 40-years-old, very athletic looking. Hair straight, brushed back. Reminds me of a leaner, taller Oprah. Round face, expressive eyes, big smile. Very intelligent and to the point. Daughter Jenea is 16 and looks a lot like her mother. We’re in the kitchen drinking coffee, discussing Malcolm’s disappearance.   Jon:                 When did Malcolm first talk about vanishing? Dushana:        He was getting ready to go to school that Monday. Jon:                January 28 – Dushana:        Right, and I heard him in the bathroom, you know, shaving, that sort of thing. Suddenly, he called out, “Dushana?” We been married twenty years, so I knew there was something wrong in his voice, like he was afraid or something. I went in and said, “What is it, honey?” He was just looking at himself in the mirror and his eyes were wide like he’d seen a ghost or something and I said, “Honey, what’s wrong? What’d you see?” Jon:                And then – Dushana:        He just stood there like something froze him to the floor. He said, “Don’t you see?” And I ask him, “See what?” And he kept saying, “Don’t you see?” Finally, I must have sounded a little mad and I say, “What the hell you talking about?” and I laughed at him. “Don’t keep talking crazy,” I say, “keep repeating something without telling me. I don’t see what’s wrong with you, but then, I don’t know what you looking at.” Jon:               You think he saw something in the mirror – Dushana:        Exactly, and finally, he raised his arm in the air and looked real close at it, like he was inspecting himself, and then he said, “My skin.” And I say, “What about it?” And he say, “It’s . . . disappearing.” Now that really strikes me as strange, so I say back, “What you talking about? Don’t you go all Michael Jackson on me. You still coal black, blacker ‘n me, that’s for sure,” ‘cause, you know, I got a little cream to my color, kind of honey black, if you know what I mean. Malcolm’s dark, dark, like he was born in Africa. So, that’s where all the trouble seem to start. After that, he just got stranger and stranger. Jenea:             Yeah, I notice, when he come out for breakfast, he had this look on his face, kind of sad, like someone he love just died. My daddy’s usually pretty strong. You know, six-foot-two, built like a linebacker, ‘cause that’s what he used to be in college. If he stare at you with them big ol’ eyes, you just want to escape. No one’s ever scared my daddy, but that morning, there was something different about him. I never seen him look like that. Jon:                What do you think was happening? Jenea:             I don’t know – Dushana:        I told you. I think he saw something. What, I don’t know, but you can’t tell me, knowing him like I do, that he would act like that if he didn’t see something. Jenea:             I heard him in the living room later that night when I was supposed to be asleep, just talking to himself, saying, “What’s gonna happen to my family? I don’t want to go.” Over and over like that. “I don’t want to go.”   JANUARY 13, 2009, 3:30 P.M. INTERVIEW WITH HHS HEAD COACH BOBBY BRISTOL HUENEME HIGH SCHOOL         Note: Bobby Bristol is a tall white guy, mid 30s, blond hair, blue eyes, with an angular face and nose. He has a presence about him, like you would expect from a football coach who wants to be tough. He talks out the side of his mouth. We’re meeting at Hueneme HS after school in his office.   Jon:                Bobby, you spent a lot of time with Malcolm. You guys coached, worked, hung out together after school. What did you notice the last week you saw him? Bobby:           He wasn’t the same Malcolm I was used to. I kept asking him, “Rose,” – that’s what we called him around here – “Rose, you look like a truck drove over you. What’s up man?” But I couldn’t get him to talk. You know, he’s not the kind of guy who complains anyway. Being a football coach and all, you don’t get there by whining. But I could tell something was bothering him. Jon:                In what way? Bobby:           Well, he was always kind of outgoing, loud sometimes, but in a good way. Always joked around with the kids. He could be tough – not mean, just straightforward and honest. Kids always knew where he stood, knew better than to cross him, if you know what I mean. But that last week, he was real quiet. Friday, I saw him sitting alone in the boys’ locker room after school. I came up and said, “Hey man, you look like your dog died.” Jon:                Did he tell you anything? Bobby:           Yeah, in a strange way, I guess he did. He looked at me and said in this low kind of voice, “Bob, anything ever happens to me, would you stand in, maybe help Dushana and the kids?” I tell him, “Sure, man, you know I got your back.” He just answers, kind of whispers, “Good. Good. I feel better now.” That’s all he said. Then, he just smiled, got up, and walked out the gym. That’s the last I saw of him. Jon:                As far as you know, everything okay at home? Bobby:           You mean was he happy? Was his home life good? You know, I probably spent more time with them than anyone here at school. Hell, he and I burned a lot of midnight oil at his house putting together game plans. I was his Assistant Coach, you know. We’d work till one in the morning. Dushana would put out a pot of coffee for us before she went to bed. We golfed together at Saticoy, hung out on weekends. Sure, like most married folks, sometimes I seen them get into little fights. They were both strong-willed people, but I’m telling you, he loved his wife and kids more than anything. He and Dushana were active over at St. Paul’s on C Street. Dushana sung in the choir. Malcolm volunteered with the youth. Jon:                No financial problems, anything like that? Bobby:           I don’t think so. You know, like everyone, they probably got caught in the recession. Rose didn’t get rich teaching high school, but Dushana, she’s an accountant over at Dutton and Brewster in Ventura. Makes a pretty good living that way. She’s a smart woman. Worked hard after the kids were born to get her CPA license. And she’s pretty good with the dollar. Rose used to joke, “She could squeeze a dime out of a nickel.” Jon:                Any problem with the kids? Bobby:           You mean Malcolm Jr., Jenea? Hell, I wish they were my kids. Malkie – that’s what we call the boy – he runs track at USC. Got a scholarship, you know. Jenea’s the star of the girl’s basketball team. Your paper listed her last year as All County. Yeah, they’re teenagers and Malcolm always ran a pretty tight ship, but he was a great father. Face always lit up when he mentioned their names. Jenea adores him. I don’t know what goes on behind closed doors, Mr. Bryan, but there’s no problem with those kids that I can see. I’m like their Uncle. Since he’s gone, I keep a close eye. So far, so good, knock on wood. Jon:                Dushana said he complained he was disappearing. Did he ever mention that to you? Bobby:           No, never. I kind of heard about that later, you know. Doesn’t sound like something he would say. You know, the man was solid as a rock. They don’t come any tougher. Not the kind of guy you’d think would end up saying he was invisible or whatever. I don’t know what to make of it, him talking like that. Kind of weird. But the last week I saw him, something got to him. No doubt. Jon:                You could tell he was distressed? Bobby:           Yeah, being as quiet as he was, definitely something wrong. What, I can’t say. Really not like Malcolm, though. Jon:                What? Bobby:           Just to take off, no word, just – Jon:                Disappear? Bobby:           Whatever. I miss the hell out of him. He could have his job back, if I saw him walk through that door. I’d hand him the keys and say, “Let’s go.”   JANUARY 15, 2009, 11:00 A.M. INTERVIEW WITH SENIOR PASTOR LYNDON LEROY SAINT PAUL UNITED METHODIST CHURCH   Note: Pastor Lyndon Leroy is tall, black, maybe mid 50s, very distinguished looking. Thin, square-jawed, greying temples. Seems so calm and self-assured when he talks. We’re interviewing in his church office.   Jon:                Did Malcolm come see you, or mention anything about what he was going through the week before he disappeared? Lyndon:          Yes, he came to see me. I think it was Tuesday of that week. We had a good long talk. Very sad, what happened. Jon:                Can you tell me what he was concerned about? Lyndon:          Well, I guess you could say he was making a confession. Jon:                About what? Lyndon:          I can’t tell you that, Mr. Bryan. As you may know, confessions are very private – between God and me and the person doing the confessing. Jon:                Had he ever done this before? Lyndon:          Hmm, now that you ask . . . no, I don’t think so. But he was a regular at the church, and really so good with the kids. Did a lot of volunteering. Malcolm Rose was a generous man. Good for the community. Good here at St. Paul’s. Jon:                Okay, but, obviously, something was wrong, or he wouldn’t have come to you. Lyndon:          That’s a safe assumption, yes. Jon:                Something on his conscience? Lyndon:          You a church-going man, Mr. Bryan? Jon:                No. Lyndon:          That’s usually why people confess. We call it sin and repentance. Malcolm felt he needed to get some things off his chest and seek God’s forgiveness. We prayed together about it. I believe he left that day with a clean heart. Jon:                Did he mention what may have pushed him to repent, besides just the sin part? Something else that may have caused him to seek help? Lyndon:          All I can say is, he sensed his own mortality and realized, as some people do, that time was running out. God was asking him for a change of heart. Jon:                Really? Lyndon:          Sometimes, Mr. Bryan, a person, even a church-going person, can look and realize something’s missing. Jon:                But you’ve already said Malcolm was involved in the church and, at least in my mind, a good person. So, what turnaround did Malcolm need in his own life? It wasn’t like he was out living dangerously, hurting people. Lyndon:          Malcolm was a good man, but, like all good men, he wasn’t perfect. There were things he had on his mind that bothered him. For whatever reason, he felt the urge to confess. Sometimes, even for people of faith, God calls us to a deeper level of commitment. Jon:                You mean becoming a priest, something like that? Lyndon:          No. More about following God more closely in our daily lives. Nothing changes in our routine except we become more aware of God and try to live a better life. Jon:                But something pushed him to be aware of that. You’ve said something was troubling him. Lyndon:          Yes. Jon:                Something made him aware of his mortality. Lyndon:          Yes. Jon:                Do you know what that was? Lyndon:          Yes. Jon:                But you’re not allowed to tell me. Lyndon:          I can’t tell you what he told me, no. Jon:                Would it have anything to do with his fear that he was disappearing? Lyndon:          (Pause) So you know about that? Jon:                Yeah, from several people. It seems to be what drove him to get in the cab and go down to Mugu that morning. Lyndon:          I can tell you that he mentioned it to me. I can tell you that it may be what drove him into my office. Disappearing, however, is not a sin. It may have been the pebble that caused the landslide, but Malcolm was here to confess. Beyond that, I can’t tell you anything else. Jon:                Well, putting two and two together, maybe the disappearing part made him reexamine his life? Lyndon:          I think you’re very smart, Mr. Bryan, probably pretty good at figuring these things out. I would guess that’s why they put you on this to begin with. Jon:                 I’d like to figure out what happened to Malcolm. And if he’s got something to hide, well, that’s just part of the process. Lyndon:           I don’t object to you inquiring about Malcolm, but if you do find out things beyond these church walls, all I ask is that you be respectful of the Rose family. Jon:               I appreciate that, Pastor, but I’m trying to help solve a mystery here. If we learn what happened, good or bad, it might bring Malcolm’s family some peace. Lyndon:          Mr. Bryan, as you may know, some kinds of knowledge are good and some are destructive. Now, I know you have some idea of right and wrong. Figure out which is which and seek the good. Jon:               You mean, if I figure out the sin, keep it quiet? Lyndon:          I mean, Mr. Bryan, if you can bring Malcolm back, or tell us where he’s at, that’s good. If you use his life, whatever secrets he had, to further your own career, or the career of your newspaper, that’s bad. Jon:               We all have our jobs, Pastor. Yours is confession. Mine is news. Lyndon:          Doing good always trumps ambition, Mr. Bryan. Jon:               Seeking truth is not limited to the Church, Pastor. Lyndon:          Then seek truth wisely. That’s all I ask. Jon:               I wish I could believe you. Sounds more like a coverup to me. Lyndon:          Well, that may be, but what’s being covered up, Mr. Bryan, is a very sincere and heartfelt confession. Malcolm confessed and Jesus forgave him. He left here a redeemed man. Jon:               There’s no redemption to this story, Pastor, until we know what really happened to Malcolm, and why. Lyndon:          Then I wish you Godspeed in your quest. Jon:               I don’t need Godspeed. What I need is evidence, some of which you’re hiding. Lyndon:          Then, Mr. Bryan, I’ll pray that something more apparent comes your way.   JANUARY 19, 2009, 9:30 A.M. INTERVIEW WITH LEAD DETECTIVE RICK ORTEGA ASSIGNED TO INVESTIGATE ROSE DISAPPEARANCE OXNARD POLICE DEPARTMENT   Note: Detective Rick Ortega is short, stocky, muscular, square face, very intense eyes. Crew-cut hair. He’s come to this interview dressed in a coat and tie. Probably a neatnik. He also has the typical cop-like wariness about talking to me. We’re in a conference room just down the hall from his cubicle.   Jon:               Detective Ortega, can you tell me the status of the investigation? Rick:              Ongoing. Jon:               Can you tell me what you’ve done so far, in general terms? Rick:              We had the crime lab comb the parking lot where he allegedly disappeared. We’ve interviewed the family to get a sense of his state of mind at the time. We’ve notified all relevant agencies, law enforcement and otherwise, that we have a missing person. At this point, we’re waiting for some new leads. Obviously, we haven’t located him. So, as I said, the case is ongoing. Jon:               Can you tell me if you’ve got any solid leads? Rick:              I’m not trying to be rude, Mr. Bryan. I think you know I can’t answer that question. I’ve already told you. It’s an investigation. I can’t share any privileged information with you. Jon:               Any special persons of interest you’ve questioned? Rick:              We interviewed the family for informational purposes only. We talked to a lot of his friends too. Same reason. Do we suspect foul play? We don’t know one way or the other. Jon:               You don’t think any of his friends or work associates were involved? Rick:              At this point, I have no reason to suspect anyone close to Malcolm was a part of his disappearance. Jon:               Seems kind of strange, doesn’t it? A man like Rose, respected in the community, well-liked, just disappears? Rick:              Mr. Bryan, I don’t mean to sound cynical, really, but every day someone goes missing. I’ve got a six-inch stack of fliers and faxes piled on my desk. Husband, wife, child. I’ve been a detective for ten years and I know this kind of thing happens more than we care to admit. People suddenly kidnaped, tortured, murdered. Sometimes we figure it out. More often, we don’t. And sometimes, hard as this sounds, people just vanish – for no obvious reason. Jon:               What about his claim that his body was disappearing? Rick:              Uh – as far as we know, Mr. Rose had no serious physical or emotional problems in his life. Jon:               Except his claim that he was disappearing? Rick:              Except for that, yes. Jon:               Anything you know of that would explain that? Rick:                No, no clue at this point. Jon:                 Seems kind of odd, don’t you think? Rick:              Trust me, in my line of work, I’ve heard stranger things. Jon:               Do you believe it’s possible? Rick:              What? Jon:               To disappear like he claimed. Rick:              We’re proceeding as if he’s still alive, until we get confirmation otherwise – and I’m assuming that we’re still looking for his physical body. So, no, I don’t believe he disappeared. (Pause) What about you, Mr. Bryan? Jon:                 What? Rick:              Do you believe he just vanished? Jon:               Frankly, Detective, I don’t know what to believe. I just think it’s weird that he claimed he was vanishing and then, right under our nose, that’s exactly what he did. Rick:              We stick to the evidence, Mr. Bryan. Do yourself a favor and keep that in mind. Jon:               The evidence hasn’t told us anything yet. Rick:              We may never know where he went, but what we do know comes from evidence gathered, not speculation. If we keep at it, sooner or later the evidence will speak. Jon:              Until then – Rick:              It remains an open case. Jon:               An unsolved open case. Rick:              But still a case.   JANUARY 20, 2009, 11 P.M. INTERVIEW WITH MANUEL FELIX, TAXI DRIVER YELLOW TAXI CAB SERVICE   Note: Manuel Felix is a short, wiry Hispanic who immigrated here from Guatemala. He has a thin oval face, curly black hair, eyes and facial expressions that are quite intense. When he gets excited, he swings his arms around. I’m catching Manuel in the lounge just before he’s ready to go out on night-shift.   Jon:                 You were the last person to see Malcolm Rose before he disappeared. Manuel:          I guess so. Jon:               What can you tell me about that trip down to Mugu Rock? Manuel:          It was the end of my shift, actually my last trip. From what I remember, I picked him up at his house. Trip took about twenty minutes or so. City streets, all that. Jon:               What about Malcolm himself? Anything strike you as odd or different? Manuel:          What, outside of going to Mugu Rock at six in the morning? That’s kind of strange to me. Jon:               I’m more interested in Malcolm, how he looked, what he said, that sort of thing. Manuel:          I remember he was big – and black. And he kind of walked like he was dragging himself through the mud. Sat in the back, didn’t say nothing that I recall. Just sat and stared out the window. Jon:               Really? No conversation? Manuel:          Well, the only thing I remember, I asked him, “What’s at Mugu Rock?” and he just said, “I’m leavin.” “Leavin?” I say. “Leavin where?” But he never answered. Just kept saying, “I’m leavin.” Guess he wasn’t kidding. Jon:               Did you see anyone else in the parking lot? Manuel:          No, man. It’s Monday, fuckin six in the morning. Who else would be there at that hour? Jon:               So, it’s not like he was meeting anyone? Manuel:          No. I’m telling you, when I dropped him off, he was alone. Maybe he had other plans for the day. I don’t know. Jon:               Nothing out of the ordinary with his physical appearance? Manuel:          Other than he was big and black and walked funny, no. Jon:               When you dropped him off, where did he walk to? Manuel:          I don’t know. I wasn’t his baby sitter. I took him where he asked, he paid me, that was it. I left to go home. What else can I tell you? Was it strange? Yeah, but no stranger than some other places I’ve taken people to. At least he was sober, didn’t give me any shit, and he paid me. Jon:               You mentioned he walked like he was dragging himself through the mud? What do you mean? Manuel:          Kind of slow, his back seemed bent, like he wore a heavy backpack or something. And he shuffled like someone, you know, maybe can’t walk straight, something wrong with his legs. I figure maybe he was crippled or something. I even got out, opened the door for him. Maybe that’s why he didn’t say much. Maybe he couldn’t talk right. Jon:               Interesting – Manuel:          What’s interesting about it? Happens to people all the time. I get people in wheelchairs, walkers. You know, old people, slow as molasses. I don’t think much about it. Jon:               According to his family, he was a very healthy man. Manuel:          Not the morning I picked him up. Jon:               You’re sure of that? Manuel:          Yeah, I got an eye for that stuff. You do this job long enough, you learn. I’d say he had something like MS, maybe some other kind of problem. I know about that. Had a cousin with it once. Really terrible. Rose looked just like my cousin Eddie before the poor bastard got tied to a wheelchair. Jon:               That bad, huh? Manuel:          Early stages at least. Man was definitely not right. Jon:               But he could still get around. Manuel:          Sure, or I wouldn’t have left him there. Jon:               You were anxious to get home. Manuel:          I did my job. He got where he was supposed to. End of story. Jon:               He went missing. Manuel:          I didn’t stuff him in my trunk or nothin. I let him out and drove away. That’s what people do when they take a cab. Get in, get out. Jon:               I know, Manuel. It’s just you were the last to see him. I’m trying to get as clear a picture as possible. Manuel:          I give you what I know. I can’t get no clearer. Now, if you don’t mind, I got work to do. Jon:               Okay, thanks. Manuel:          You’re welcome. Hope you find the guy.   JANUARY 22, 2009, 7:30 P.M. SECOND INTERVIEW WITH DUSHANA ROSE ROSE RESIDENCE   Note: This is my last interview with Dushana. I’ve shared my latest information. She’s looking at some of my notes, trying to piece together a picture of her husband just before he disappeared. We’re back in the kitchen drinking coffee.   Jon:               Now that I’ve updated you with what I’ve found out the last week or so, is there anything else you can think of that may have affected Malcolm, pushed him over the edge so to speak? Dushana:        I don’t know, Mr. Bryan. Obviously, the man was more troubled than I knew about. It’s true, you know, my Malcolm could be all sewn up sometimes. But I knew how to coax things out of him. You stay married long enough, you learn how your man ticks. Jon:               I’m interested if you noticed anything physically wrong with Malcolm. Dushana:        Well, now that you mention it, he did walk a little slower. I thought maybe he was just tired. Malcolm’s a hard worker, really puts himself into coaching and teaching. Sometimes even the strong have to slow down. But the walking thing, that’s news to me. If Malcolm was crippled, he didn’t tell me. And for it to happen in a week – Jon:               He was still physically active? Dushana:        Well, we played golf that Sunday before he first complained. Eighteen holes worth. That active enough? Jon:               Can you tell me anything about his visit with Pastor Leroy? Dushana:        Nothing other than he spent some time with Pastor Lyndon. We’re good friends with the man. He and Malcolm sometimes go out for coffee. So, I don’t think nothing about it if he decides to go visit. Man wants to talk with his pastor, that’s a good thing to me. Jon:               Pastor Leroy described it as a confession. Dushana:        Well, he’s a pastor. That’s what pastors are for. Talk sin, talk golf. Either way, when you talking to a man of God, nothing’s out of bounds. Jon:               I don’t know. This seemed different, almost life altering, like Malcolm was getting ready to die or something like that. Dushana:        Then whatever he said was between him and God. All I know is, he was a good man. I never had no trouble with him. He loved his family. He loved me. Even before we married, he was straight. Not the kind of guy you picture as a football player. No boozer, skirt chaser, that sort of thing. I never see him stray far from me. Me and him, we pretty tight. Jon:               Okay. Dushana:        You know something I don’t? Jon:               No – Dushana:        ‘Cause if you do, tell me straight out. I sure as hell don’t want to see it splashed across your paper before I know about it. Jon:               No, Dushana. As far as I can tell, you’re right. Malcolm was a good man. Dushana:        Good. Let’s be respectful of his memory, all right? Don’t be printing things you know nothing about. Jon:               I wouldn’t do that. Dushana:        Well, some people would. I hope you’re different. Jon:                 You have my word. Dushana:         Well, now, you asked what kind of shape he was in. Just to make my point, here, you can see for yourself (reaching under the TV). Here’s a disc we made of his last birthday party, the Saturday before he disappeared. He just turned 42. You watch this and tell me if this is a man burdened by sin. He’s laughing, joking, happy. It’s the last time we spent together as a family. You can see for yourself, he’s in a good mood. Jon:               Okay, let’s talk about this one last thing. Why would Malcolm go out to Mugu Rock? Dushana:        Well, before all this happened, it was his thinking spot. Sometimes in his spare time he’d go out there alone. And during football season sometimes he’d drive out early morning to clear his head, think about the team, brace up for a big game. Jon:               Really? Dushana:        Yeah, lots of times we’d take picnics out there, sit at the base of the rock, look across the ocean. He always say, “Dushana, if I could fly like a bird, this would be the place where I take off.” Jon:               So the place was that special to him? Dushana:        Yeah, it was. (Pause) Jon:               What? Dushana:        Well – and this is a big if – if he thought he was actually disappearing like he say, and I’m not admitting he really was, you know, ‘cause it just ain’t possible for a man’s body to do that, but if he thought he was disappearing, like in his head, then it would make sense. If he believed he was leaving this earth, that’s probably where he’d go. He might think that’s where he’d enter eternity. Jon:               Really? Dushana:       If that’s the case, and he made his peace, and he was thinking that way – Jon:               You think that’s where he’d go? Dushana:        Yeah, I guess. If that’s what he thought, then maybe, just maybe, it makes sense. Jon:               He’d want to, say, disappear at that spot? Dushana:        If he had a choice, yeah. Jon:               Well, that seems to be what happened. At least that’s where he was last seen. Dushana:         (Pause) Rose, my sweet angel. What did you do? Jon:               You mean where’d he go? Dushana:        No, what he did – thinking about disappearing and not even say goodbye? Jon:               Maybe he couldn’t bear to say it. Dushana:        Maybe he couldn’t say it. Jon:               What? Dushana:        Maybe what he first say to me was the truth and just none of us believe what he saw. Jon:               You mean, you think he actually disappeared? Dushana:        You tell me, Mr. Bryan. Knowing Malcolm, knowing the story, what else could it be? Jon:               Really, Dushana, I have no clue. Dushana:        You don’t wanna believe either, do you? Jon:               You have admit. It’s pretty hard to imagine. Dushana:        Well, then, what else could he say? If no one is listening, there’s no point in talking now, is there? No point in telling someone where you going if they don’t believe you. Jon:               Probably not. Dushana:        Well, then, maybe now you solve the mystery after all. Jon:              But to just disappear . . . it doesn’t make sense. Dushana:        Lots of things in life happen and don’t make sense. Jon:               So you’re satisfied with this explanation? Dushana:        If he do this because he’s telling the truth, I can live with the rest. Jon:               Even not knowing where he went? Dushana:        No, Mr. Bryan. I just told you where. And if I know that, I don’t need to know all the whats and whys. I just leave it be and go on with my life. Jon:               You’re convinced? Dushana:        Given what we know, Mr. Bryan, it’s as good as any other explanation I got. Jon:               But it’s just so strange – Dushana:        If what he say was true, then yes, it’s strange. But, he wouldn’t be the first man this happen to. Jon:               Excuse me? Dushana:         People like Elijah, Jesus – Jon:               What happened to them? Dushana:        They got whisked up to heaven, and if that’s the case with my Malcolm, then he’s an angel now. Jon:               Angel? Dushana:        He’s with God. Can’t get any better than that. Jon:               Just because he disappeared? Dushana:        Better than the alternative. Jon:               Which is? Dushana:        Suffering, dying, Mr. Bryan. You and me, here on this earth. Happens to all of us sooner or later. Jon:               Except for Malcolm – Dushana:        Malcolm been blessed. (Pause) You and me, we still got a long road ahead, but maybe my life be easier now that I know who’s waiting for me. Jon:               Guess that’s one way of looking at it. Dushana:        We all should be so lucky. Jon:               Yeah, lucky.   JANUARY 26, 2009, 7 P.M. JON BRYAN’S CONCLUDING NOTES PRIOR TO DEADLINE SUBMISSION   A few new clues, nothing conclusive, nothing to explain this strange disappearance, except what Dushana sees as some type of holy transfiguration. I have to say, this case just gets more strange every time I think about it. At the risk of sounding repetitious, here’s what I know: Malcolm Rose saw something in his bathroom mirror the morning of January 28, 2008 that convinced him he was physically disappearing. What caused this, no one seems to know. Pastor Leroy hints something was troubling Malcolm, enough to seek him out and make a sincere confession. Whatever confession he made, there’s no evidence Malcolm was in trouble. What’s evident, however, is that he was carrying something around that week, a burden of some sort. On the morning of February 4, 2008, Malcolm called the Yellow Taxi Service early in the morning and asked to be driven down to Mugu Rock. The driver noticed that Malcolm looked crippled. His last words to any human that we know of: “I’m leaving.” Malcolm was dropped off in the Mugu Rock parking lot. That’s the last anyone has seen him.   ARTICLE CONCLUSION VENTURA DAILY BREEZE SUNDAY EDITION FEBRUARY 1, 2009   I took a trip out to Mugu Rock this week, about the same time of morning as Malcolm before he disappeared. It still nagged at me. Why Mugu Rock? If he was disappearing, or dying, why wouldn’t he choose to be with his family instead? As I walked over to the cliff and watched the sun come up, the reason became clearer. Dawn was breaking and the black outline of the Santa Monica Mountains was slowly joined by a faint blue light. Then, off to the east, the first yellow rays of daylight appeared and revealed the most amazing display of colors – blues, yellows, dark lavenders – and against that backdrop, the eternal blue spread of the Pacific Ocean, as if it was a long, wide carpet. If you stand at the edge of the cliff in the parking lot, you can look straight down and watch the waves break against rocks shaped like giant shark’s teeth. If you turn around and look up, the jagged face of Mugu Rock juts up like the nose of a space ship. If you look southeast, you can watch the joining of the mountains and ocean by a beautiful bridge of light. It’s a reminder of the sturdy presence of the earth, the fluid horizon of the ocean. Together these two make up life as we know it: a solid existence, an eternal viewpoint. If Malcolm saw his life fading, it makes sense that he would slip away here. The facts don’t speak to the whole story. How he disappeared is still a mystery, but perhaps this case demonstrates that humans are more complex than facts. I would argue, then, it might be more than just metaphorical to say that, on Monday, February 4, 2008, sometime after 6:05 A.M., Malcolm Rose – solid citizen, devoted husband, loving father – stepped to the edge of this parking lot. As he took a last long gaze over the horizon and inhaled a fresh breath of salt air, by some mysterious means he vanished. Whether he was whisked into eternity to be with God, or leaped over the edge into the ocean, was kidnaped or magically dissolved into thin air, we’ll most likely never know. I would be willing to bet, however, he’s never coming back.   EXCERPTS FROM DUSHANA ROSE’S DVD MALCOLM ROSE BIRTHDAY PARTY FEBRUARY 2, 2008, @ 8 P.M.   Dushana:        Hey, Malcolm, smile for the camera, would you? Malcolm:        How’s this? My teeth white enough for you? Dushana:        Oh, you look good with that little dunce cap sitting on your shiny black head. Malcolm:        (Smiling) You make fun of me, I’ll put this cap somewhere you don’t appreciate (Laughter around the room). Dushana:        Hey, don’t you be mouthing me or you won’t get no birthday cake. Jenea: (In the background) Oooo, Daddy, I think you’re in trouble – Malcolm:        (Laughing) Your mama don’t scare me none. She know I’ll give her plenty to smile about tonight. Unknown female voice:    Ohhh, Dushana, your husband is an animal.   Dushana:        Yes, he is, but I’m the lion tamer in this family. He knows where his meals come from. Malcolm:         (Mugging for the camera) Grrrr. Meow! Dushana:        That’s better. Happy birthday you big ol’ pussy cat. Malcolm:        (Smiles, makes a claw out of his fist) You my owner, now, ain’t you? Dushana:        (Laughing) And don’t you forget it. Malcolm:        Well then, you better feed the beast. Jenea, where’s my cake? Jenea:             Right here, Daddy. (Oooos from guests and family as the cake appears. As Jenea lays the cake on the dining room table, everyone sings happy birthday.)   Malcolm:        Now that’s what I’m talking about. My little girl done baked me a man’s cake. Someday, with a cake like this, she gonna drive some poor boy crazy – with loooove. Jenea:             Daddy – Dushana:        All right, Malcolm, make a wish . . .

my old men H.D. Brown they died of winstons they died of marlboros they died of kools they died of wild turkey some died of heartache the men I love die the way they᾿re born to die let them rest in peace

Ned Haggard reading the H.D. Brown poem My Old Men read from Down in the Dirt magazine from Scars Publications, in the 12/10 v.89 issue, which was also released as the 6" x 9" ISBN# book When the World Settles

Watch this YouTube video read 12/07/10, live at the Café in Chicago

Campfire Dreams Kelli Landon     “You fixed my favorite meal,” I said sarcastically.     “Oh Margie, we know how much you love a can of baked beans warming over a campfire,” Shelly told me.     The thought of baked beans was revolting to me. The thought of biting into something that squishes in your mouth, was not very appetizing. “That’s gross. I’ll just have a hot dog.”     I realized I sounded adolescent after the words came out of my mouth. Lately, I’ve found myself trying to be older than sixteen while I was around my older cousin and her popular friends. I loved going camping, especially with older, cooler kids who were seniors. Shelly knew I always looked forward to going camping and hoped to do it many more times. She was my ticket, and at times my alibi, to getting out of the house since I didn’t have friends my own age. They were too juvenile for my taste.     The popping sounds of the campfire filled the quiet wooded area. It was quite relaxing until Shelly broke in. “Well, this is our last year you guys. After grad, we won’t be doing this anymore.”     “Speak for yourself,” said Steve, Shelly’s boyfriend. “I’ll be out here every September. Kind of like a tradition.”     Steve’s comment made me smile. He took the words right out of my mouth.     “Will Shelly be your guest?” Tracy asked, holding onto a skewer with a blackened marshmallow at the end. I was waiting for it to slide off into the fire.     “Oh, I dunno.” He put his arm around Shelly. “She’ll be going off to college right after high school so I may have another woman to bring up here.”     Shelly gently hit him in the shoulder with her fist.     “Hey Margie, you have a couple more years,” Steve told me. “You wanna be my campfire girl every fall?”     My smile faded as I uttered a nervous laugh.     “What was that?” Tracy asked.     “What?” I asked her, bringing my skewered hot dog back from the fire. The wonderful atmosphere of the night air and crackling campfire evaporated. “I have to get a bun.” I then walked away to the picnic table where the food was, open on display to the night insects.     “Margie,” said Shelly, “what’s wrong?”     “Nothing,” I said, tearing away a hot dog bun. “I’m just hungry.”     “Well, you should have had the beans,” said Steve, jokingly.     I turned to look at him as he gave me a wink which almost brought me to my knees. I cut my eyes to Shelly who was looking directly at me, so she didn’t see his reaction.     “You look uncomfortable,” she said.     “It’s my eyes,” I told her. “The fire makes them burn sometimes. I’m going to sit over here at the table.”     That night we were all nestled in our tents. Tracy and I shared a tent while Shelly and Steve were in another.     “Shelly’s mom would have a fit if she knew Steve was up here with us,” Tracy told me, zipping the tent closed.     “Yeah” was all I said as I snuggled into my sleeping bag and tried to keep warm.     “You’re not too talkative.” She flopped down next to me.     “I know, sorry.” I wanted her to shut up as I closed my eyes and tried to doze off, but no luck.     “You like Steve, don’t you?”     My heart skipped a beat as my eyes snapped open. Could she tell?     “That’s okay,” she said, rolling onto her side, away from me. “We all think he’s gorgeous.”     I lied there, listening to hooting owls, crickets and other critters as I wondered if anyone caught on to my strange behavior toward the end of the night.     “But,” she added, “he and Shelly were made for each other. They even have the same initials. They definitely are the high school sweethearts of Flatsville High.     I longed to be in Shelly’s shoes. To have someone special to run away with every fall. Shelly will be going away to college next year. Would she ever find out about me and Steve and the few times we’ve been up here? In a way, I hoped she did. I hoped she would get upset and walk out on him forever. That would open the door for me. I hoped I would be his next girl to accompany him as much as he wants to escape to the campgrounds. I only hoped.

A Dream Deferred Jarrett Fulton     “Iz dis it?”     Keyshawn slipped his hand into his pocket. His fingers groped around inside, but he didn’t find what he was looking for except a set of house keys and a book of matches; he checked his rear pocket. A torn sheet of scratch paper protruded from the open slit of jeans. He pulled it out. The letters written across the sheet of paper were barely legible, but he was still able to make out the words. The information provided a home address along with a brief description of a car.     Keyshawn glanced up and read the sign illuminated by a street lamp.     Rockwell Boulevard.     Keyshawn folded the sheet of notepaper and slid it back into his pocket. “Yeah, dis it,” he answered.     Placed at the edge of each driveway was a black metal-frame mailbox with the set of white numbers printed across the side. “1221,” Keyshawn now counted under his breath. “1225...1229...1233...1237...124-” He pointed his finger at the front yard of 1241 Rockwell Boulevard. “Der it iz.”     A sports-luxury vehicle, a Monterrey LX500, sat undisturbed in the driveway. The black two-seater had a low narrow body equipped with customized features such as a diamond-gloss platinum chrome grille, a sliding sunroof, and platinum alloy chrome wheels.     “See anywon?”     The neighborhood appeared to be asleep.     Keyshawn turned toward his partner, Will, and shook his head. Then, he listened for any suspicious sounds. He only heard the faint buzzing of electrical current running through the streetlights from above and the rumbling of the motor generating heat into the pool in the backyard of 1205 Rockwell Boulevard. He also detected a few other random sounds such as a dog barking, a gate lock rattling between its hinges, and an engine from an airplane propelling across the sky; but there were no immediate threats. So he stepped to the lip of the curb and surveyed the neighborhood.     The 1200 block of Rockwell Boulevard consisted of twelve houses which stood respectably on each side of the street. The homes themselves were quite simple: a two story house with a wide rectangular porch, a medium-sized garage, and a small, manicured yard, which parted in the middle with a walkway. Many of these homes weren’t all that luxurious in design, but they appeared to be suitable enough for the average working-class American.     “I need ya’ to stand ova dere,” Keyshawn pointed at the light pole across the street in front of 1234. “Holla if you see anywon.”     Will crossed over to the opposite side of street and stood underneath the streetlight. The yellowed light glared dimly exposing the full rim of his lips, his black-and-white Yankee cap, and the cubic zirconium pinned into his left ear. He primarily watched for people that might appear or any cars that might show up, but no trouble came, so he pulled the brim of his cap over to the side, leaned his back against the pole and stuffed his hands into his pockets.     Keyshawn backed away from the curb, eluding the yellow glint of a street light, and stood beside a tree on the lawn of 1201. He prompted himself with a slow, starting step, and then he sprinted. The blood lagged into his legs, which at first, caused him to waggle through his first set of steps with his shoes swooshing through the ankle deep grass. Not long did take for his speed to climb, pulling his momentum forward. The crisped wind whipped across his face, sucking the moisture from his eyes as he fielded across the yards of 1209, 1213, 1217, 1221, and 1225 Rockwell Boulevard. But when he reached the front yard of 1229, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. The passageway to his lungs became constricted, and he began wheezing and coughing up his breaths.     I need to stop smoking, he realized.     Crummp. Crack!     Keyshawn stopped abruptly. He swooped down into a kneeling position and crawled into the casting shadows beside the house of 1233. He listened. The wind limped, waning to a whisper. Now, all he heard was the monotonous lull of his own breathing and the tumbling roll of a plastic trash bag caught in the light breeze.     Cluk! Clamp! Clak!     Keyshawn sought out the noise again and found it to be a grunt from a door. His eyes traced along the home of 1237 and watched as the front door pulled back, and the screen door pushed open, smacking against white and green weatherboards of the house. A young black woman walked through the door. She was comfortably dressed in a gray and blue West Campbell University sweatshirt and a pair of black denim jeans. “Mom! Dad!” The woman yelled out with her back to the street, “Hurry up. I’m leaving.”     Neither parent came to the door, so the woman reached down to untangle the shoe strings of her pink and white cross-trainers. She crossed the laces over, tied them, and stood up again.     Keyshawn dropped into a crouch and lurked across the gap between the houses of 1233 to the front yard of 1237. Then, he sank behind a low bed of bushes. Convinced he was safe there, he rose to one knee and cautiously brought his head up to watch.     The woman still faced the doorway. “Mom! Dad!” She yelled again into the house, but there was no answer, so she flicked some of the dreads that hung beside her ear. “I’m ready.”     Keyshawn wanted to move closer, so he crawled toward a spot behind an iron pedestal and a large weathered stone-finished Buddha statue. His movements shuffled with the faint passing of wind as he tucked himself behind the pedestal and then craned his neck over the side of statue to watch.     The woman’s parents finally stepped through the doorway of the house. They were dressed in silk silver-and-gold sleep wear with their arms clutched around each other. “So when are you coming home again,” the woman’s father asked.     “Dad, we discussed this before at Auntie Candice’s house. My field team is flying to southwestern Peru to study the recent activity in one of the volcanoes over there. By the time we gather enough data and research, the semester will probably be over with, and who knows, I probably won’t have enough time to hang around here because the fall semester will have already started.”     “Well, in that case, can you at least try to stay for another day? Your grandmother will be pleased for you to visit her again.” The woman’s father read the reaction on his daughter’s face and grinned. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m not too wild about the woman either, but this is your spring break. And you have four days left before your return to school. Can’t you relax until then?”     The woman slouched, then rolled her eyes. “I am relaxed,” she replied, “but dad, I’ll be all right. I’m going to try to write to you when I can.”      “All right, honey, just be careful. Call us as soon as you get there.”     The woman turned and walked up the landing of the porch. “Okay, dad,” she said and took a step down. “I will.”     “Honey, wait.” The woman’s father lowered his arm from his wife’s shoulder. “We need to tell you something.”     “What is it now?”     The woman’s father walked up to the handrail. “I know that school and work are creating a lot of stress,” he placed his hand on his daughter’s shoulder, “but just remember that we’re proud of you.”     The woman spun around. A grin blossomed in her face. “Thanks, dad,” she rose up a step to hug her father and then reached over to kiss her mother on the cheek. “I will talk to y’all later.”     “Okay, and don’t forget. We love you.”     The woman descended the flight of steps and walked over to her four-door Honda sedan parked in the driveway. She opened the door, sat herself down and reached her arm over for a suitcase lying in the passenger seat. She pulled back the metal zipper and peeked inside. Everything had been packed, so she closed the door and stuck the key in the ignition.     The car’s window rattled from the music blaring through the front and rear speakers. Keyshawn couldn’t understand the muffled lyrics juking through the windows, but it sounded like pop music with a leading female vocalist.     The woman backed the Honda out the driveway and into the street. She honked her horn, making a final good-bye, and drove off.     Her parents waved and then went back inside.     Keyshawn heard the front door shut and then someone securing the top and bottom locks.     The neighborhood was silent again.     Yet, Keyshawn remained still. His eyes focused away from the house of 1237 and followed a path leading up to the driveway of 1241 where the Monterrey sat under the faint glimmer of the moonlight.     Almost there.     Keyshawn lifted to his feet and strode across the remaining length of the yard of 1237. He softened his steps once he tracked along the aisle of concrete of the driveway. He knelt beside the driver’s door of the Monterrey, then he slid his hand underneath his shirt and pulled out a long, thin-metallic bar called a slimjim.     To unlock the door from the outside, Keyshawn needed to attach the notch on the slimjim to the lock rod between the window and the weather stripping of the door. He had very limited space to use to penetrate the crease in the window, but he controlled the trembling in his hands and slid the slimjim inside. The metal bar rustled around, thudding against the springs and the glass inside the door. Then, he heard a click.     Keyshawn yanked up.     “Fuck.”     A small scratch appeared on the lower corner of the window where the slimjim had missed.     Keyshawn tried again. He widened the space between his fingers and squeezed. The sweat filled the small etched lines in his palms as he used the weight of his shoulders to steady the slimjim down into the window.     “Shyt,” Keyshawn’s fingers slipped causing the metal bar to bend back against the door and trigger the alarm.     RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!     The car squawked as its front and rear headlights flickered. Keyshawn hadn’t quite panicked yet, but it was difficult for him to concentrate, so he twisted his neck over his shoulder and glanced down the street.     Where was Will?     RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!     A white glare, perhaps from a reading lamp, had suddenly clicked on. Keyshawn turned his eyes up to the second floor window of the house of 1241 and could feel the danger mounting as he watched a shadow slowly rise from the bed.     Keyshawn had no time to decipher his thoughts. He pulled the slimjim out of the window, retreated from the door, and then crouched behind the rear wheel of the car. He glanced up at the window again.     The curtains had been drawn back. A middle-aged man with a white mottled face and a brown, stubble beard was staring though the small space between the curtain and the corner ledge of the window.     Can he see me, Keyshawn wondered, but he quickly realized he was dressed in all-black, and he had pocketed himself underneath a cast of shade beside the rear bumper of the vehicle.     RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!     The man withdrew his head from the window. The curtains dropped back into place, and the reading lamp clicked off.     Keyshawn, now relieved, kneeled and scrambled beside the door. He raised the slimjim above his head and came down, stabbing the bar into the window. He jiggled the slimjim back and forth until he felt he had a hold on the lock. He yanked up.     The lock popped.     Keyshawn stuffed the slimjim underneath his shirt, pulled back the door and crawled into the driver’s seat.     RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!...RRRRRRR!     The inside of the car offered very little light; however, Keyshawn managed to pull the lever underneath the steering wheel, which popped the hood. He made a quick peek at the house to see if anyone had come out. No one had, so he jumped out and ran to the front of the car.     Keyshawn lifted the hood.     RAHHHHH!...RAHHHHH!...RAHHHHH!     Keyshawn ran his eyes along the battery, then the engine and back to the battery. He reached into his other hip pocket and pulled out a small, black leather case. Inside the case were a screwdriver, some pliers, and a mini-flashlight. He crammed the flashlight into his mouth, aiming the light beside the engine, then set the case on top of radiator, and dropped his hand into the pocket of space between the engine and the battery. His fingers riffled around the three wires that ran into the battery coils. It didn’t take him too long to find the right wire that disabled the alarm, which he cut with the pliers.     The alarm suppressed and the streets muted into sudden, deafening silence.     The easy part was over, Keyshawn thought.     Unfortunately, unlike what is seen in the movies, Keyshawn could not just jump into the driver’s seat, break into the ignition key with a screwdriver and drive off like any typical American model.     Nope. This was a Monterrey LX500, a foreign-made model equipped with state-of-the-art technology. This only meant to Keyshawn that he needed to hot-wire the car from an access point beside the engine right below the alternator.     Keyshawn switched the pliers for the screw driver, which he used to fire the starter. The engine cranked, misfiring twice before turning over in a low throttle.     Keyshawn smiled, then he placed everything back into his case, shut the hood, and ran back to the driver’s door. He readied himself for his final act as he hopped into the driver’s seat.     He had to unlock the steering wheel.     The interior of the car, like the steering wheel, the dashboard and the instrument panels, were made up entirely of a sophisticated brand of plastic, easy for Keyshawn to break into. He simply pushed the screwdriver into the center of the steering column, causing it to snap, and pulled the wheel up, releasing it to move.     “Coo-Coo!”     Will?     Keyshawn slid his leg inside the car and closed the door. He scrunched down, hunching his knees up against the bottom of the steering wheel, and kept still. The wind pounded against the windshield with a handful of leaves skittering across the roof. Then, a dim glare of light from the porch of 1241 struck through the car’s window and shimmered across the tip of the wheel, revealing the bulge of his knee.     Keyshawn stuffed his legs below the steering wheel and shifted his body around, pressing his cheek against the seat. He listened. He could hear a soft clacking of a door opening and then a pair of some flip-flops smacking against the wooden boards of the porch. He allowed a moment to pass before he mustered the courage to peer up.     A short, slender man with pale-olive skin stood on the shadow recess of the porch. He wore only a royal blue house-robe and a pair flip-flops with the back of his slightly greying head covered with a black yarmulke.     Keyshawn remained still.     The man walked to the banister where he rested his hands over the railing and leaned over. The grogginess from a broken sleep colored the whites in his eyes, but he seemed alert as he stared at his car through his thick, black frame glasses.     Keyshawn imagined that the man thought that he were hearing things. Or maybe a cat had triggered the alarm. Or maybe the alarm itself malfunctioned.     The wind howled, muffling out the deep droning of the motor.     The man still hadn’t found any evidence of mischief, so he glanced down the street.     This help eased some of Keyshawn’s wariness as he started to believe he might get it away-     The man drifted his eyes back to his car and spotted Keyshawn crouched there peeking from the window in the front seat.     Keyshawn felt so many sensations at once that the rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to stop as the saliva in his mouth began to taste bitter. His eyelids collapsed, shutting out his sight, as the cords in his throat swelled, stalling his breathing. He anticipated that the man would stand straight up and scream out something like, “Hey, hey you!” or “What the hell. How did you get into my car?” The next thing that would happen is that Keyshawn would have to back the car out of the driveway, drawing unwanted heat to himself and his partner, and then drive away, possibly escalating the scene into a police chase. The results would always be the same: His capture and spending another stint in jail.     Keyshawn opened his eyes, accepting his fate, but what he saw was not what he’d expected.     The man still stood slumped over with his forearms resting against the banister. His facial expression remained calm as he opened his mouth to yawn.     Keyshawn thought he was hallucinating until he realized...     The windows.     The windows were tinted.     The man was actually looking back at himself!     Keyshawn twisted himself back into the seat. He rested his head on the steering wheel and shut his eyes again.     He had done it, but the celebration didn’t last long.     Keyshawn couldn’t say for sure if he was angry when he first heard Will’s footsteps approaching the passenger’s door, but he admitted that he no longer cared, which explained why he immediately unlocked the doors when Will rapped on the window to get inside. Keyshawn rationalized the fact that the mistake had already been made, so the only thing he could do now was to sit back and see what would happen.     Will slammed the door. “Pool off!”     “Why didn’t ya’ wait.”     “I thought he caught ya’.”     “Da windows are tinted en you can see dat.”     “Fuk it, pool off.”     Keyshawn ignored the order and looked out the window.     The man had stood with his shoulders and back erect. His pale, grey eyes blinked, astonished.     It fascinated Keyshawn to now see the man move away from the banister and run down the flight of steps at an astonishing speed, which almost seemed not of his own. But the momentum the man created from running had put too much strain on his knees and his ankles buckled under the pressure of his weight, causing him to fall over the final step of the porch.     “Cuz, why you sittin’ dere?”     Keyshawn didn’t respond. What diverted his attention was a set of keys that had slipped out of the man’s pocket lying beneath the bottom step of the porch.     “Cuz, pool off!”     The man placed his palms flat against the concrete and boosted himself up to his knees. His flip-flops slipped from his feet as he was slow to get up. His toes scraped across the asphalt of the driveway, but he managed to hobbled toward the nose of the car.     “Hey,” the man’s voice flowed out with a sense of urgency that compelled both Keyshawn and Will to listen. “What the fuck are you little shits doing inside my car?”     No response.     The man reached for the door handle and tried to open it. The door didn’t budge. He kept his composure as he bent down and brought his hands together, placing them against the window. He brought his face up to the glass to get a clear look, but all he could make out were two dark figures sitting in the front seats. Now, his face infused with panic as the hot air streamed through his nose, fogging up the window. “I can see you two in there,” he crammed his hand into his pocket, fumbling around for his keys. He couldn’t find them, so he looked down, searching frantically along the driveway.     No luck.     The man went back to the window and tapped rapidly against his door. “Open up,” he demanded. The loose skin around his neck tightened, making his larynx visible. “Or I’m calling the cops.”     Again, nothing happened.     “Goddamn it, you little fuckers,” the man brought up his elbow and rammed it into the window. “Open up!”     Little damage had been done to the glass as his elbow only left a greasy smudge across the window. However, the man tried again. “Open up!”     He produced the same result, but this time, a small tear formed on the back of his sleeve. Still, determine to get inside of his car, he gave it another try. He thrusted his elbow into the window, leveraging his weight on his hips and shoulder.     The window shattered. Pieces of broken glass fell across the dashboard and into Keyshawn’s lap.     Keyshawn flinched, twisting his neck away from flying bits of grass. He had underestimated the man’s strength and his will, but that no longer mattered because it was time to leave. He swept the glass from his crotch, and then slid his hands behind the steering wheel, turning it to its original position. His foot stomped down the clutch pedal and he pulled the car into reverse.     The car eased itself out of the driveway. Keyshawn pumped a little gas. A rat-tat-tat came from the engine. The power of the car bullied Keyshawn’s hands away from the wheel. The car swirled onto the neighboring lawn of 1237. The tires trampled over a garden fence that surrounded a heap of roses where the car continued to steer backwards until the rear bumper bashed into the mailbox, tilting it over.     Keyshawn stomped the brakes.     For a moment, the man neither speak nor moved. The expression on his face seemed to say, “Is this actually happening?”     Keyshawn eased off the brake, allowing the car to retreat from the sidewalk and roll onto the street. He tapped the gas pedal. A deafening report shot from the engine. The front end of the vehicle slipped off the edge of the walkway, bouncing onto the concrete of the road. A haze of blue sparks scintillated underneath the car.      “NOOOOO,” the man shouted, chasing after his car as it stopped again. He ran up to the driver’s door and stuck his arm through the shattered hole in the window. “Y-Y-You sonofabytch!” He clasped his fingers around somebody’s neck. It was immediately batted away, so he grabbed the steering wheel. “Yo-You fucking can do this to me!” The man started turning the steering wheel towards him until he felt a hot, wet sensation gnawing into his wrist.     The man released the steering wheel and withdrew his arm from the window. “God-damn you-you fucking bastards,” the man rubbed the bite mark on his forearm. “When I get my hands on you,” he went for the door handle and tried to rip the door open. “I’m going to kill you and everyone you fucking love!”     The springs in the door handle broke. The man’s hand slipped, and he stumbled back and fell.     Keyshawn and Will looked at each other. They were impressed.     This man really did love his car.     However, this mutual admiration didn’t last long for the neighborhood had started to wake up. The bedroom windows of every home on Rockwell Avenue went white with the faces of women looking out through the corner of the curtains suspiciously as several of front doors opened where the men of the households stepped out wearing their nightly attire, and stood on their porch in a watchful silence.     The man got back to his feet and ran out into the narrow clearing of the street. “I beg of you,” he backed away, treading his bare feet through in a small puddle of water, as he created some space between him and his vehicle. “Please don’t do this to me,” he rasied his pale arms over his head and motioned them back and forth. “I pay you anything you want.”     Keyshawn stepped on the clutch, switching the gear into first, and released his foot from the brake. The car rolled up the street.     A jewel of sweat appeared below the man’s chin. “Please,” he said as the fear crept the his voice. “I beg you.”     Keyshawn floored the gas pedal causing the engine to hiss. The wheels spun fast on the gravel, leaving behind a trail of smoke.     “Stop!”     The car did not yield to the man’s demands as it continued to charge up the street.     The man, not willing to give up, retreated a step until he realized the car was coming straight for him. He knew he was not agile enough to get out the way, so he closed his eyes, threw his arms over his face, and opened his mouth to scr-     The car clipped him. The man’s body straightened from the impact, then his shoulder and chest folded over the hood where his head hit against the windshield. His legs lifted up, rolling him over to the roof, and he bounched off, landing face first onto the pavement.     The air was dense with black smoke. It floated there for a moment and thinned away. Keyshawn could see through the rear-view mirror the man lying there sprawled out with his face upward to the light with blood spurting from his mouth as his eyes went back, showing only the whites, and his neck twisted at a slant. His eyeglasses were crushed and his yarmulke had rolled off his head and fallen over, lying against the grate to a gutter.     Several of the neighbors sprinted from their porches and into the street. They gathered around the man. Someone kneeled down beside the body and checked for a pulse. Then, the neighbor looked up and nodded, indicating that the man did still have one.     Keyshawn lowered his eyes to the steering wheel. He wanted to hate himself, but he instead chose not to and then checked the rearview mirror again to see if they were being followed.     They were not, so he made a right turn, following a route that led out of the neighborhood. The slight chill blowing through the hole in the window brought to Keyshawn’s attention that he didn’t want to make this car visible to the local authorities. There were streetlights everywhere, making it almost impossible for him to lurk through, so he took an alternate route back to the city.     The back roadways were deserted.     Keyshawn felt his heart rate return to normal and his nerves eased. He was ready for the drive home, so he pushed the seat back and moved the steering column up to give himself some extra leg space. He navigated through each intersection, speeding up at the beginning of each block, and cruising through until he reached a stop sign where he then slowed down and stopped behind the crosswalk. He continued to drive this way until he reached the outskirts of the city.     Very few words were exchanged for most of the trip. Keyshawn and Will had both made some mistakes; yet out of pride, neither one of them tried to correct the other. However, Keyshawn started thinking. Why hadn’t he pulled off right away? Or why did he run over the man when he clearly could have swerved around him? He wanted to explore his thoughts and somehow find an understanding?     “I ben thinkin’,” Keyshawn said, slowly articulating each word. “Maybe I need to go back to skcool.”     Will smiled. “C’mon, Cuz,” he said, surprised to be having this conversation, “you know sckool iz for da hoes, to keep up wit da latest trend en to chill out with da fellas.”     “Yeah, but let me be real fo’ min’id,” Keyshawn continued to press the issue. “Itz seems like, back ack home, everyting I know seems tue be bullshyt, you know whut I’m sayin’? Lik I can’t be myself cuz I got to try to live up to sumting dat I know I’m not. Either I waste half my money ack da mall, or ack sum damn party, or trying to get into sum club.” Keyshawn drew his foot off the brake and stepped on the gas pedal. The car crossed the intersection. “And I ben tue tue many parties, you know, and I’m lik, what am I celebrating? Ain’t dun shyt my entire life. I aint going nowhere. I mean fo’ reel, Will. Caint I be nobody else?”     The amusement disappeared from Will’s face. He studied Keyshawn for a brief moment and then responded coolly, “so whut are you trying to say?”     “Dis ain’t me anymo’.” Keyshawn finally admitted. His words had made a leap from the denial of a choice of lifestyle to a personal conflict. He had now decided to confess to someone how he really felt and he didn’t want to omit any information.” I feel lik I ben runnin’ away fum sumthing. You know, I sumtimes find myself in uh corner, giving’ up, and dat I shouldn’t do nuthin’ bout it. I don’t know alot, cant do alot, but stead of doin’ sumting bout it, I jus’ cover it up wit tings I really don’t need lik new clothes, or flashy jewelry, or braggin’ bout how many bitches I fucked, you know whut I’m sayin’? Deres people out dere doin’ tings en aw I can do iz be da same ass lazy muthafucker on da corner and I might be stuck dere fo’ da rest of my life. Whut type of example iz dat fo’ my kidz or fo’ my lil’ brother?”     “So you thik skcool ‘pose to help?”     Keyshawn nodded.     Will flipped down the visor. He now extracted a small piece of dead skin from his bottom lip and flicked it across the dashboard. “Da only people I know who worked hard en college and made it wuz ether yo’ mama who iz uh teacher or sumwon who played ball en dey didn’t go nowhere, but dropped out and ended up wit sum factory job. So whut da hell are you gonna do?”      “Dunno,” Keyshawn stareted to mistrust Will’s motives. “Maybe I can git a degree and find uh honest job.”     The Monterrey reached another stoplight. A pair of bright lights flashed from an oncoming car that traveled in the opposite direction and then disappeared.     Will closed the visor. There was no expression showed in his face when he turned to look at Keyshawn. “I don’t have time to lissen to your bullshyt.”     “Ain’t no bullshyt.”     The stoplight turned green, but Keyshawn kept his foot steady on the brake. He fought with this dilemma: The conflict between knowing what he was capable of and the world’s opinion of him. He did not want to stand on a corner, or play ball, or even rap. No, it was when he read the newspaper or magazines, or went to the movies, or took a walk downtown that he felt he could merge with people in the crowd. He wanted to be part of the something different. He wanted to be given a chance, even though he was ignorant. He had realized he was handicapped by poverty, lack of education, and just plain misfortune, but he knew enough that he didn’t have to live the way he did simply because no one in his family or anybody in his neighborhood had bothered to journey out of their surrounding limitations. “You know,” Keyshawn decided he wanted to disrupt the tone of the conversation, “I saw someting tonite.”     “Whut?”     “Uh college student.”     “So.”     A collage of thoughts gathered in Keyshawn’s head. He sorted them out and then coerced them into words. “Do you know any young mothers walkin’ round our neighborhood telling der friends or der family dat dey wants der baby to grow to be lik you? Or me? I steel cars fo’ a livin’ and no one ever came up to me and said ‘Aye, you really doing sumting good fo’ yourself,’ or ‘I’m proud of you.’” The words now shrilled out of his mouth as he spoke them at a faster tempo. “Aw I hear iz, ‘Did you hear bout Ethel’s grandson? Da cops hauled his lazy ass off to jail again.’ And do you tink anywon cares? Fuk no. It jus one less sonofabytch off da street.”     Will grunted, negating this fact. “Maybe you’re rite,” his head turned toward the window. A glint of green from the traffic light colored the tip of his nose. “But you paid your grandma’s rent didn’t you?”     “I ain’t trying-”      “Didn’t you?”     Keyshawn measured the sum of the question, but he didn’t like the answer, so he didn’t respond.     “Your son ate last nite, didn’t he? You got sum nice clothes in your closet, dunt ya? So why da fuk are you complaining fo’?”     “I steel cars-.”     “And you good ack it. Dats whut God put you on dis earth to do and so goddamn it, do it. I understand you have your good days and your bad, but you have to learn to live wit it.” Will jammed down his Yankee cap and slumped back. “En whut you gonna have to realize, cuz, iz once you in, deres no way out.”     Keyshawn smacked the steering wheel with his opened hand. “Man, I don’t believe dat bullshyt anymo’.”     Will finally lost his cool. “Okay, cuz, heres da deal.” He sat up in his seat and leaned forward, resting his eyes in the palm of his hands. “You ben to jail twice, so dat means you twice da fuck up. And plus dat, no man, white or black, iz gonna hire your ruthless ass. You can barely read, so your bess bet iz tue enroll ack some ghetto azz community college program to git your GED. Den whut? Who gonna give you any money fo’ college? You a felon. Wit your record, you’ll be lucky if you ain’t stuck cleanin’ up shyt aw day en a publik bathroom fo’ da rest of your life jus’ tue pay off one sirmester of college. Fuk dat. I tried to work. Eight dollas an hour iz not gonna to cut it.”     “But-”     “And whut bout your family? Your grandma needs dat surgery, rite? Your baby’s mama pregnant again, ain’t she? You got tue lil’ kidz to feed, don’t you? And dey jus’ cut da damn gas off at your crib again. So whut you gon do bout dat? Read uh goddamn. Hell naw wit dat. Your dreams dide da day you dropped out of high skcool and had uh baby. So stop acking like a bytch, grow up and drive.”     Keyshawn opened his mouth to speak, but the words stifled in his throat.     What could he possibly say to that? What was so discouraging was not what Will had said but how he had said it. It astonished him so much that it even ushered a tear. A sense of strangulation swept over him as he sat there now, hating himself for the predicament he was in. No. The predicament others had put him in, but because of his pride, he had not wanted anyone, especially Will, to know that his life was entirely conditioned by their attitudes. Keyshawn was never brave enough to venture outside his circle and gain confidence in himself and establish his own rules, which he knew were different from those accepted in his neighborhood.     However, what was it that troubled him the most?     It was the stillness in his life he could no longer tolerate. His routine of having nothing to do but wait around for the day’s excitement of eating, drinking, fucking, and finally sleeping, just to wake up and do it all over again had finally sobered him up and forced him to face his problems. Yes, he stole cars and peddled drugs, but he often felt like the victim. His neighborhood stripped him of his power, disciplined his natural ambitions, and incarcerated him from the simple joys and freedom of life. And it was those reasons that led him to blot everything out with weed, alcohol and women. He believed, if he allowed himself to feel the full effect of his life, the result would only come down to an immeasurable burden of misery.     So there it was. Keyshawn had now opened the door to a room full of emotions no one else beside Will knew, but he was devoid of words to further explain them. All these doubts and frustrations he had had been the reason why he lashed out and hit that man with his own car. Keyshawn just wanted to accomplish something that showed his individuality that would catch anybody’s attention.     God how he dreamed of being free.     Keyshawn shut his eyes. He knew in his heart he wanted to be somebody else. He wanted to be better, but he just didn’t know how.     When Keyshawn opened his eyes again, he glanced at a billboard a block down from where he had stopped the car. A pair of young men with a woman standing between them posed in front of a large, beautiful white-and-turquoise campus. The words written across the top of the billboard in black bold-face letters read: West Campbell University Demolishing life’s obstacles, one lecture at a time.     Keyshawn lifted his foot off the brake and stepped on the gas. The Monterrey drove through the intersection and traveled up the dark deserted street back to the bright lights of the city.

Chokehold Nicholas Conley     She’s sticking her fingers down her throat again.     I’ve dated Linda for four years now. When you know someone that long, you develop a sixth sense about their actions. I know when she’s lying. I know when something’s about to go wrong. However, I deny the dirty little truth to myself. I’ll deny it even when the truth is as plain and in my face as a sucker punch.     I’ve been sitting on the computer for half an hour, while Linda’s supposedly cleaning our bedroom. She wanted to be alone. I want to trust her. God, I’d love to trust her. I love the woman and I want to give her the personal space she craves.     But how can I let her have space when I know that if she’s alone, she’s going to look in the mirror? She’s going to look at her gorgeous, full figure and spit on it. She’ll try to rip off her own stomach. She’ll burst into tears as she flips through all those magazines on her dresser, filled with pictures of the bony, angular women that she idolizes.     Then she’s going to purge herself again.     I’m trying to focus on my term paper but my mind is too distracted. I’m waiting for Linda to come out and prove my suspicions wrong. I want to run into the bedroom and take her into my arms. Tell her how beautiful she is and maybe, for once, she’d actually believe me.     However, out of some skewed idea of loyalty, I can’t go in there. No matter how much I want to save her, she has to be free to make her own mistakes. I’m her lover, not her guardian angel. Unfortunately, my trust in her is cracked. I wish I could be strong and somehow convince her to stop. Hell, I’d settle for at least being able to walk away if she didn’t stop.     I can’t, though. I’m too hopelessly in love. I’d tear into myself before I ever tore into her.     The computer screen has gone black. I bite my fingernails. Another 30 minutes passes by. I’m about to explode. Linda’s voice calls out to me.     “Hey Anthony, come look at this!”     I almost leap from my chair. I reassert myself quickly; I can’t let her know my suspicions. I have to be careful. I have to tread on glass.     I walk into the room and she’s sitting on the floor, legs crossed. The room is actually cleaned up. She looks full of life, as healthy as when I first met her. A wave of relief flows over me. How could I have doubted her?     “Hey, beautiful,” I say with a smile.     “You remember this photo? I thought I’d lost it.”     I look at the photo, then at Linda. She’s wearing different clothes than she was before. This raises my suspicions, so I glance around the room again. A putrid odor suddenly assaults my nostrils.     The trashcan has been hidden behind the door.     “What’s that smell?”     “I don’t smell anything,” she replies anxiously.     There’s a paper plate at the top of the trashcan, situated in such a perfect way that it hides everything underneath. That definitely wasn’t there before. I lean down to move the plate.     “No, don’t!” she cries out.     I stop, startled by her outburst. My heart isn’t pounding in my chest; it feels sickly and infected. Linda’s face has knotted itself into a blank, guilty expression. There’s no tears, no quivering lip, just a solid sense of mortification. I don’t want to spoil the illusion she’s created and make her more ashamed than she already is...but I have to.     I take the paper plate out of the trashcan. Sticky, brown-colored vomit drips from its underside.     I collapse onto the bed. I feel as if I’ve failed her; I should’ve gone into the room sooner. I should’ve done something to stop her. Deep inside, though, I know there’s nothing I could’ve done. The realization of how helpless I really am here only makes it worse.     Her expression hasn’t changed. She’s terrified that I’m going to call her insane. Scared that I’ll leave her or that I’ll say that I’ve finally had enough. Unfortunately, she’s wrong. I love her too much to walk away. So I’m going to sit with her and pretend everything’s okay. She’s going to promise to me that this was the last time and that she’ll never do it again. I’m going to force myself to believe her lies.     But it’ll happen again and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Lethargy Marooned Christopher Hanson My beer’s gone flat, Knocked over And sprayed away, Induced, By the buzzed up caffeine stupor Of another – One thing or another, When I want to drink alone, Emphasis – “Alone.” I dismiss the Ghost And Grab the survivor, Or the “one” that’s most full. Only to Stare at the TV, Empty And beyond the realm of Power, I like it that way. In addendum to The lacking electricity I remain to Eyeball the music, And listen for the picture – A more prolific collaboration, I come up with nothing. Nothing, Like home When the apartment’s empty, And I’m empty. Hell, My fish have even packed And are ready to go. I plan for the same And crawl my way towards The first Wire – Connection. I pick up the phone, Half a life-line, Half a Hell And fondle numbers, All of her numbers, Numerically magical Numbers – 2 legs, 2 arms, And 1 warmer place As if she were really here, And she could be, But I’m not, Or not in the mood As my beer’s hit “E.” So I join the fish, And pack for the road. I take to the Miles That lead me to women And one in particular, A venture towards Companionship Mingled with that special kind of Solitude parallel completion – Similarity meets singularity. My fish were smarter, They made way to sea – Plentiful food, Plentiful drink, Multiple partners, Space And plenty more space.

“The man with many names.” (the Christopher Hanson Biography)     I was born “Christopher Hanson” in Minnesota; Born in the same hospital as Bob Dylan, not that it matters. I remember very little from this snowbound world having actually grown up in California where I picked up the nick-name, “Cloud,” I don’t know why, simply, “Cloud.” While in good old San Fran, I made nice with some fellows and females of Japanese decent. I picked up a sword, I learned to eat sushi and wander in between the realms of Aikido, Iaido and Zen. They dubbed me “Kazuki.” All aside and all names following me into college, I studied for five years at the University of Wisconsin and graduated with degrees in both Criminal Justice (to bust-up a broken system) and Anthropology – I love people, what can I say? During year five of college, I’d acquire my latest addition, “Yang Yun,” my Chinese name. The name basically translates to, “a tree in the cloud.” This was the name given to me by my wife, the love of my life that I met while studying abroad in China. Since my graduation in 2008, I’ve lived in China for nearly two years as a teacher and within this last year, have finally made it back to the states, wife and all. It’s been a wild ride and something tells me that it’s just begun. As for my “writing” and my “art,” it’s a time-honored tradition and way of life – at least for me.

Why Were You Screaming Last Night? Kevin Limiti     A pale moon shines down upon me.     -Was I screaming? I ask     -Yes. You woke everyone up.     I feel bad about it, but I don’t remember screaming or being loud. I just remember sitting at my desk working. My book had just been published and I’m a very famous person now. J.K. Rowling knows this. I’ve got about a thousand more years of life; plenty of time to write the greatest story ever told.     The woman with the Jamaican accent herds us into the cafeteria but there is not enough room. Everyone is staring. I feel neither embarrassment nor exclusion. I take my meal of a ham sandwich, ginger ale, and little packets of mayonnaise and sit on a blue plastic chair and eat. The food is great. It’s revitalizing; especially the ginger ale. You need ginger ale to live. It’s like alcohol.     I am sitting there taking notes in my notebook. I am a writer and I have to understand this experience for what it is. It seems like I’ve stumbled upon something grand, and that’s how I feel in the pit of my stomach. I see an Asian girl reading ‘The Perfect Blue’ and I know that book. I’ve read it, and now I want to read it backwards. That way I know what it’s really about. Just like the Giver. The Giver was good backwards, but forwards it is a mystery only some can discover. I am an inductee into it’s mysteries that began with Socrates shouting “Eureka ” so many years ago. An agency dedicated to social good. Everywhere I go there are hints of people’s involvement. My father is a member, but he’s forgotten. His memory will awake now that I’ve ended up here of all places.     The hours are ticking away. I know I am dying, if I am not already dead. The Wayans Brother’s are on TV and it is genius and not a comedy. I weep as I realize how the whole thing is about me. These are all the mistakes I’ve made, all the lies I’ve been told, all the friends I’ve had, good or bad. In the end though, I get the thing that truly matters to me. I became the happiest person alive. The whole cross dressing angle was simply an elaborate metaphor of my attempts to discover who I am. Now I know.     I have to take a shower soon. If I am fearful and I hesitate even for an instant, I will die but if I’m strong and courageous I will pass and will become famous and wealthy. I feel my way along that stretch of hallway that is the green mile, as described in Stephen King’s novel. I am Rocky Sullivan as I jump into the shower without even taking off my boxers. I am happy though because I know I am alive when that cold water pours all over my body. I take my time and scrub everywhere, then I go to my room. I don’t sleep though. I cannot sleep. I try to write, but I want to get out of here. I don’t want to stay here any longer. I hate this place.     The watchman is there blocking my exit. He is my son. I know this because he looks just like me. I stare at him. He tells me to go to sleep. He is Folk. He is a doctor or maybe a nurse; reading Mario Puzo. I know it’s a good book and I really want to read it backwards, but he tells me he needs this book. He seems upset for some reason and I guess he’s either happy for me, but maybe sad. He must know how tough it is for me. Maybe he’s already gone through this. Maybe he is me. I want to go to sleep but I feel like I will die. I try to tell him this, but he just tells me to go to sleep.     Maybe I should just die then. I look under my bed. There are needles and syringes everywhere. There are white packets of heroin and cocaine. I can hear them calling. They want me. They’re coming after me. I see that guy again too, the big one with the goatee. He is injecting it into himself. I’m scared of him. I want to die. I want to go to sleep.     But I can’t. Too much is at stake here. My mind races backwards and forwards without stopping. J.K. Rowling sits in the next room, she is the overlord of this facilty located somewhere in Canada .     Of course, it had to have been in Canada. There was too much at stake in America. Way too much at stake. The cycle was in full effect; everything was coming full circle. First it was the Lord of the Rings, then it was Star Wars, then it was Harry Potter, then it was Fight Club, and it’s all me. All of it.     I knew for years that the government was becoming too oppressive, but it wasn’t until the last few days that I really began to see just how much in danger we were. Without the overall power to start up a movement with greater political power then in the 60’s, We were a national security threat, and the hints have been dropped so that in some way we could carry out the mission, and in essence gain the happiness we so desired.     Let me explain myself: My name is Michael Callaghan. Things are going so fast that it’s impossible to write everything down. I feel so tired, but something is compelling me to write. As far as I can tell, I’m at some kind of school. This has to be a school for gifted children. Immediately as I walked into my room, there were books all around. Books I had known since my childhood. I saw Harry Potter and the Hobbit. It was very nostalgic. Was that their intention? I don’t know.     All I know is that I am obviously being tested in some way. Whatever way it is, I’m not sure yet. I can’t second guess myself; can’t analyze my actions. If I do so, then something bad will happen. I’m just not sure what it is yet.     I just walked into the doctor’s office. I forget everything he said except he asked if I smoked marijuana. I couldn’t exactly remember, only I know I did it whenever I could, so I told him that. He put me down as one joint per day type of guy, even though I mostly smoked blunts.     My mom came with my sister the other day. I don’t really remember much of what we talked about, only I was always trying to analyze what was going on and what I was doing here. I thought my sister might’ve been my wife. Now I’m not sure. I remember someone named Frank. We got into a fight. Was that why I was here? I cut him somehow, but someone told me I came out of it with bruises all over my forehead. I don’t remember it hurting.     So this is Queens. A nice cage; a nice sun; plenty of young black men and women who are actually as crazy as everyone thinks they all are. Two of the younger black kids are tossing around a football, a couple of them are playing cards, some are talking to the guardians; I am writing, because that’s what I do. I write.     It’s not as if I can stop what I’m doing; too many things flow through me. I keep on forgetting what I’m thinking, and I’m writing everywhere. My J.R.R. Tolkien book is full of notes all of the pages and inside cover. As I look over my notes, I feel more confused then I was before.     I wanted to see Transformers but nobody else wanted to so we watched Little Man instead. I feel like a racist for calling it a black comedy but that’s what it is. I just didn’t get it.     During our community meeting, we talked about how my girlfriend had been writing mean things about everything in her notebook. She apologized, but I knew she was a liar. I don’t care if I was her girlfriend, though how it ended up that way, I don’t know. I hate her.     I requested a promotion but it was denied on the basis that I didn’t have the proper paperwork. Apparently, it works like a points system, in that you have to get the nurses to assign points according to how well you behaved. All I had to do was ask, so I resigned myself to make a commitment to do that.     Mom and Dad come to see me together, and it’s weird because it’s been years since I’ve seen them together where they are not fighting. Such a nice happy thing though. They even brought me diet Pepsi. They seem very happy for me. So am I.     I knew this feeling couldn’t last. I want to get out of here. This place is fucking bullshit. They won’t let me leave, and they are torturing me. They locked me in a room because I wasn’t quiet and I banged on the door but they wouldn’t let me out. I saw somebody get strapped up in a straitjacket just like in the movie. I beg my mom to let me go but she can’t do it. I feel sick now. I want to die.     I just woke up, I had to wait in my room, I got outside, I went to the cafeteria, I ate, I got the nurse to sign my points, then I left. I met up with one of the students, at least he looks like a student. He wouldn’t tell me very much, but he was apparently very normal. I had wanted to play chess for days since I got here, I don’t know why, I think to test my own intelligence, but our game is interrupted and we are herded into the gym.     I see my hated enemy, Jamaican nurse #4. He’s like, “Fight Club, Fight Club,” and does a kung fu stance. I watch him, my mouth open, astonished that somebody could be so insulting. After all, not only is Fight Club very important but I did not want these moments to be tampered with. So I chose to take insult to it, and bring it up at the next community meeting. A lot of the residents chose to back me up. They’re good people; Harry Potter’s offspring; the orphans who are only half-crazy and want to get out too. They’ve been here for months, and people wonder why they behave with such dissidence. I guess I probably would’ve done the same to, if this mental hospital became a way of life for me.     I met a very special girl today. Her name was Brianna. I liked her immediately because of the way she dressed, and the way she talked. She was a true punk rocker. We talked about a lot of bands like Rancid, specifically the song “Burn”. She said that she set things on fire to that song, and I could certainly see it and would’ve loved to have joined her; such a sweet, sweet smell.     We spend much of our time talking together. Even right now, she is sitting next to me. She asked me what I was writing, I said a memoir, and she told me that was really cool. I liked that. It was difficult to talk to her sometimes because she was apt to stare at the walls and ceilings for no apparent reason from time to time. So I’d have to try and say something to her, and she would apologize and say she was just spacing out for some reason.     I blame the medication; all that chemical goodness meant to balance us out into good productive citizens? What was the point? They destroyed our happiness; or tried to. I’d rather be crazy and happy, but with other crazy people like these.     Our conversation went something like this today:     -Who here would you like to go out with? she asked     My heart did a double beat. A very pleasant and familiar one though.     -You, I admitted, Why?     She shrugs and said, I like you too.     -Why?     -I dunno, because you’re different?     Later on, I gave her my home phone underneath the table. We have to be sneaky, because the guardians do not appreciate anything remotely sexual going on.     -That’s awkward she said, smiling.     That’s the last time I ever saw her.     The next day, I’m told that I was being discharged. I had gotten a lot of points for good behavior and I was now allowed to eat in the private room, listen to my CD’s (I played the Dropkick Murphy’s Do or Die), and even play the Playstation 2. The social worker told me I had done well, and that I was going to be put in a nice transistional stage where I went to another hospital but this time only for partial. That hospital was a lot more fun, I assure you.     I told one of the nurses that I was going to publish this as a memoir when I got out of there. She told me that she’d have to see about the royalties.     Now that I’ve finished delving into my past, I’ll update you on the present. I never spoke to Brianna again, which is a god damn shame. I’ve never had to go to the hospital for psychosis again, they’ve taken me off almost all of that sedative medicine but I still have to take lithium, and I currently feel quite happy. I’m not exactly clean and sober, but I don’t care to be sober for the rest of my life anyways; as my friend once told me, “Smoke weed and fuck bitches; every day.” Words to live by. There is nothing else to it. I think I’ll just end it here.

Flowers of the Heart, art by Ernest Williamson

Reverie Frank De Canio The lines are drawn. Too many words the page swears at night for such a piddling wage. But you’re in the right turn of phrase for my subordinate clause to pique your interest if think banks fail with ideas that brainstorm the teller takes all. The writer transcribed glasses filled with 20-20 proof against deep sea wishing, where he scribbled at the margin of a world, recovered in the ocean blue of melancholy thoughts of you, as in the beginning, God-willing.

Ned Haggard reading the Frank De Canio poem Reverie read from Down in the Dirt magazine from Scars Publications, in the 12/10 v.89 issue, which was also released as the 6" x 9" ISBN# book When the World Settles

Watch this youtube video read 12/07/10, live at the Café in Chicago

Frank De Canio, brief bio     “I was born & bred in New Jersey, work in New York. I love music of all kinds, from Bach to Dory Previn, Amy Beach to Amy Winehouse, World Music, Latin, opera. Shakespeare is my consolation, writing my hobby. I like Dylan Thomas, Keats, Wallace Stevens, Frost, Ginsburg, and Sylvia Plath as poets.”

Movie Night Sonja Condit Coppenbarger     He made popcorn the way she liked it, the way nobody made it anymore: in the copper-bottomed pan she used for spaghetti, shaking the lid as the kernels sizzled and burst, first one by one and then by hundreds all at once. He melted butter until it bubbled; he ground sea salt over the bowl. It was the best popcorn in the world, one of many things he did well. And he stopped by the video store to bring her the movies she couldn’t go to see by herself. How could she go alone to the MultiMax, to watch The Dark Knight while the movie theater popcorn congealed in its tub, and her husband’s ghost sat beside her saying words like trivial and derivative?     Leo put the bowl on the coffee table and said, “Coffee? Decaf?”     “Can you rewind the credits?” Amanda asked. “I didn’t see who played Batman.” The mask showed only his chin; it was a lovely chin, a little like Leo’s must have been thirty years ago, and even more like Donald’s when they were first married, before he grew the beard. She wanted to know whose chin that was.     “He’s the first name on the list. Christian Bale.”     Amanda had been a widow for three years; Leo was still married, because his wife wasn’t dead yet. End-stage ovarian cancer, he said. He couldn’t divorce her now, not while she was dying, not after all these years: she’d be dropped from his health insurance. He had to wait it out. He owed her that much.     She loved that he felt compassionate even when love was gone; she tried not to pray for Janet’s death, except for mercy’s sake; she’d even suggested, at lunch last Wednesday, that he spend more time at the hospice. “Hospice?” Leo had said, his dark eyebrows drawn in, tight and sudden; his mouth pulled back in a half-snarl, like a frightened terrier ready to bite. “What hospice?” And then, just before she had to explain, he shook his head and said, “Oh, Janet’s hospice. She’s home again. They thought it was best. We’ll have to meet at your place for a while.”     How long of a while? Until Janet died, or until she went back into the hospice? What kind of revolving-door hospice was this? Weren’t hospices supposed to be something like coffins for the living – softly cushioned, plush even, but once you were inside, you stayed forever? You weren’t supposed to pop in and out of hospice, like it was a corner store and you’d forgotten the milk. It was unseemly.     Leo thumbed the remote and the names ran backward, eaten up in past time. Donald’s chin, Leo’s chin, Batman’s chin. When she first dated Donald, they went to the movies all the time. Jaws. She’d slept with him two days after that. He’d swum under the blankets, singing PUMpum PUMpum PUMpum as he nibbled her thighs. She stopped letting him do that, after he grew the beard; it was too scratchy. Yet he never shaved it. . . . He died of a stroke, sudden and young. It seized him and dragged him under. Blood in the water. Music beating into silence. The last movie they’d seen together was Little Miss Sunshine, which he’d pronounced trite and sentimental.     Thirty years with Donald, but she was a young widow, really; all she needed was a wash of blond over her gray hair, and an ad on Craigslist, and here she was watching The Dark Knight with a man who had Batman’s chin, and a wife in hospice. Or home again, as it might be, which was why all their dates were in her apartment. He had to be home by ten, to give Janet her medication.     They hadn’t slept together yet. He had an appointment with his doctor next Tuesday, to get the necessary prescription. Would he nibble on her thighs? She’d better shave all the way up, just in case.     “See?” said Leo, pausing the credits. “Bruce Wayne, Christian Bale.”     “But who’s Batman? I thought they’d put him first.”     She sat on the sofa with her feet curled up, her head against Leo’s chest; she felt his laughter more than she heard it, and his hug tightened around her. How warm he was, and maybe it was trite, trivial, sentimental – everything that Donald had despised – but she loved to press her head against a man’s chest and hear his heart. It was the one thing she missed more than sex, more than conversation, more than anything. Just the sound and the touch. Just the presence and the heat.     That was why lonely women got cats. So far, she had resisted, even though her downstairs neighbor had kittens six weeks old, ready to go. She wasn’t going to be that woman.     “Bruce Wayne is Batman,” Leo said.     “Wait. Bruce Wayne is Batman?” He laughed and hugged her closer. She pushed him away with both hands. Bruce Wayne was Batman? When did that happen? “I thought Batman was a separate character. Why did they do that?”     He picked up their two wineglasses in one hand and the popcorn bowl in the other. “Amanda. Bruce Wayne has been Batman for fifty years. They’ve all got other names. Batman. Superman. Spider-Man.”     “Spider-Man too?” She couldn’t help her dismay, even though she realized, just before she said it, how stupid she sounded. She knew better: Spider-Man was the first movie she’d rented after Donald died. What kind of hospice sent a dying woman home, to be cared for in her last days by a man like Leo? He’d bought a special cell-phone, and she was the only one who had the number, so that poor dying Janet wouldn’t be bothered by Amanda’s calls. He’d be home by ten to give Janet her medications, and what was Janet supposed to do until then – macramé? All of them, they were all alike: other faces, other names, other lives.

Swimming Lessons Brad Buchanan Surviving water means ducking under the surface tension to teach your breath to accept the need for interruption, acquainting yourself with the transparent repulsion of depth. You see, death is patient; as long as you can arch your back, spread your arms, relax, and kick for the least resistant pool of light, you will never quite swallow it whole, no matter how much you may drink, shiver, complain, or howl with fright. All you need to leave behind is your sense that the heaviest thing in the world is a single human soul; drowning here means refusing to fall.

About Brad Buchanan     Brad Buchanan’s poetry and essays have appeared in more than 160 journals worldwide, among them Canadian Literature, Fulcrum,Twentieth Century Literature, Grain, and the Journal of Modern Literature. I have published two books of poetry: The Miracle Shirker, which won an Honorable Mention in the 2007 Writer’s Digest awards, and Swimming the Mirror, which won a First Prize in the 2009 Writer’s Digest awards. I also run a new operation called Roan Press, Sacramento’s Small Literary Publisher (website www.roanpress.com), and my most recent book, Oedipus Against Freud, has just appeared from the University of Toronto Press.