Story

Unexpected bundle of joy

It'd been awhile since we saw the nephews and nieces. My stomach was churning but my curiousity was strong.

Jackie said they had something important to ask her. I wondered if they would even take the time to stop and say hello. And what could they need to talk to Jackie about?

Six years before, right after we settled into our first home, my husbands sister called to ask if we would take in her four children and one nephew as she was unable to care for them. Our hearts immediately said yes, but our minds were reeling, how were we going to manage this one?? We already had four children of our own, these five would be coming from an entirely different way of life and would, for the sake of us all have to be subject to about a gazillion new rules.

Needless to say, it was no picnic, for any of us, but perseverance prevailed. By summer, the kids seemed to have settled into a new way of life. We had fought off the demons of change, fought for our rights and understanding of the school system and the worse was over.

Then my husbands sister called to ask the kids if they'd like to visit for the summer, then return when school starts. There were two that protested stating they were sure they would not return if they left. My husband, to avoid any family politics, told them to be strong and make sure they come back.

Needless to say, they didn't get on the plane when it came time to return. We were saddened, hurt and we didn't hear from them until now when Jackie, who was married to the oldest of the five and had 2 young girls of their own informed me of their visit. I halfway didn't expect they'd come to see us.

They were due to fly in at 11:00am. Jackie would pick them up from the airport.

At 2:30 that afternoon, Jackie called to say they were on their way to our house. My heart must have skipped a couple of beats, I wasn't sure how to talk to them. Of course they were anxious to see their cousins, my kids. I asked her who came, she said it was the two oldest girls, Michelle and Gena, now, ages 21 and 23. "Karen, she said, they came with Sophies' newborn, they want me to take care of him. He's only 2 weeks old. Sophie is in a mental hospital and they want me to take him!"

The Visit

When Michelle and Gena walked in the door there was all kinds of excitment. The dogs were barking and jumping, the kids were all talking at once, the phone was ringing and I was trying to straighten up the kitchen.

Michelle and Gena came and gave my husband and I a somewhat reserved hug and set the carseat with baby on the kitchen table and went downstairs to visit.

I looked at the baby. He was so tiny. As I watched him sleep I envisioned what his life would be like and I felt sad for him. I tried to feel a connection with him, but it wasn't there. I thought about all the wierd dreams I'd been having the last couple of months, I called them nightmares. They all consisted of me, in various ways of having another baby. One dream I'd find the baby in the woods during a drive, another I would have the baby and it was already talking and walking I had to look deep into myself, was this wishful thinking? I was done having kids.

Snapped into reality

Just then Michelle came over to the baby and snatched him up as if I were trying to kidnap him. I was offended but relieved at the same time. It was then that I made a pact with God. I said I believed he took care of the children. I trusted he would see this baby got the care he needed. Perhaps I wasn't to be the care taker, no hard feelings, but promise me...

I was hurt by Michelles' open anymosity, Gena took me aside and said Michelle was feeling a bit nostalgic. It was like going back in time, leaving Mom and going to people we didn't even know. She was scared all over again and in tears. We brought the baby here for Jackie to care for but she said she couldn't so we're going back tomorrow and taking the baby. They didn't even keep me as an option for taking care of him. Oh Well, he'll be fine, God promised!!!

Kinship in Karnataka

Kinship in Karnataka

The trend is not confined to the Nehru-Gandhi family in the Congress, the Gowdas in the JD(S), Karunanidhi in Tamil Nadu, or Karunakaran in Kerala. The phenomenon of our politicians promoting family members has reached a new high in Karnataka with more than 50 relatives of various leaders contesting the Assembly elections.

The children of a former Prime Minister and five former chief ministers — H D Deve Gowda (two sons), J H Patel (two sons), S R Bommai (two sons), S Bangarappa (two sons), R Gundurao (one son), and Ramakrishna Hegde (one daughter) — are in the fray. A few of them are battling it out in different Assembly segments, but some are contesting against each other.

Deve Gowda’s sons, former chief minister H D Kumaraswamy and former minister H D Revanna, are contesting the Ramanagara and Holenarsipura (Hassan) seats, respectively, which have earlier been represented by the former Prime Minister.

The picture is a bit different in the Soraba Assembly segment in Shimoga, which has been held by former chief minister S Bangarappa’s family since 1967. His elder son, Kumar Bangarappa, who has held the seat for the last 10 years, has been pitted against his other son Madhu in the last two elections. This time, too, the two brothers are contesting against each other while the former chief minister is hoping to win from Shikaripura in the same district.

However, family politics has been taken to new heights by the Jharkiholi family. Five Jharkiholi brothers are seeking election from Belgaum district — three of them were legislators and two of these MLAs have even been ministers.

Former minister Satish Jharkiholi, who was a minister in the Dharam Singh-led Congress-JD(S) government, is now seeking re-election from the Yamakanmaradi constituency. His brother Lakhan is contesting against him as a JD(S) candidate. Former MLA Ramesh Jharkiholi (Congress) is pitted against first-timer Bheemshi Jharkiholi (BJP) in Gokak. Former minister Balchandra Jharkiholi is seeking re-election on a JD(S) ticket from Aarabhavi.

In Bellary, mining barons, including member of Parliament G Karunakara Reddy and his brother G Somashekhara Reddy are seeking to enter the Assembly from Harpanahalli and Bellary City on BJP tickets, while cousins Anil Lad and Santosh Lad are seeking re-election from Bellary City and Khalaghataki (Dharwad district), respectively, on Congress tickets.

Another interesting fight that is on the cards is that of Congress parliamentarian A Venkatesh Naik contesting against his grandson Shivanagoud Naik of the JD(S) in Devadurga Assembly seat in Raichur district, while three family members — former MLAs Jyothi Reddy of the JD(S), Shivashankar Reddy (Congress) and first-timer Ravinarayan Reddy (BJP) have been pitted against each other in the Gouribidanur Assembly segment in Chikkaballapur district. Former MLA

Ashwathnarayana Reddy, another relative, is seeking to enter the Karnataka Assembly from Chikkaballapur constituency.

Political observers are expressing concern over the monopoly and feel that electoral reforms have taken a backseat as family politics has been encouraged by most parties. They feel that the situation is not going to improve unless there is a mechanism to regulate internal party democracy.

Sandeep Shastri, a political analyst and director of the International Academy for Creative Teaching at Bangalore, as well as Trilochan Sastry, a professor at IIM Bangalore and the founder of the Association for Democratic Reforms, attribute the growing dynasty politics to this lack of internal democracy. “This is an indication of the clear distortion of democratic norms,” says Shastri, adding that “internal democracy was the greatest lacunae in our political party system”.

Both feel that there should be reforms to regulate political parties, such as those in Germany and the Scandinavian countries, if not a laborious process like the one in the US. In Germany, candidates are democratically elected by local party workers through a secret ballot, Sastry points out.

The family-affair phenomenon, which was earlier confined to the Congress, has now spread to most parties, feels Sastry, who was responsible for making it mandatory for all candidates to declare their assets and liabilities, educational and criminal backgrounds. “Chieftains, who don’t want fresh blood to come into politics and who want their own families to be helped to power and wealth, have brought about this situation,” he says.

The Congress’ dynastic trend, which had prompted several politicians to break away and form their own parties, has now become the norm and even the BJP is not an exception. In Bangalore alone, the party has nominated five brothers of two families, while it has two brothers in Bellary and the neighbouring Davanagere districts contesting the elections.

“It’s ironic that those who opposed family rule are now encouraging it,” says Shastri. He, however, doesn’t see this phenomenon of dynastic rule as exceptional to the Indian polity. “We have always had this culture of promoting offspring,” he says, and hastens to add that the trend can only help children or relatives get a foothold. “To establish oneself in politics, one needs to prove one’s worth, even after getting that initial push,” he says.

Baggio's Story

Baggio's Story

I would like to be a philosopher.

Well, anyone who has said the word 'Why' can argue that he is a philosopher, so I want to be more than that. I want to be remembered as a philosopher.

One day soon I will be dead. People will look back at my life, and they might say I was a martial artist; for I have earned a seventh dan black belt (in both karate and judo). They might say I was a musician; for I have composed successful operas (in three different languages). They might say I was a footballer; for I used to represent Italy (and scored twenty-seven goals for my country during my career).

But above all, they will say, he was a great philosopher.

The difference between a hobby and greatness is total immersion, to the sacrifice of all else. I must devote my entire life to this pursuit; I must give up absolutely everything for this cause.

I assumed that giving up my material wealth would be the easiest part of this quest, but it is proving not to be straightforward.

Yesterday, I hired a removal van and packed it with all of my possessions, leaving my house utterly bare. I drove out to the public common and unpacked the van there, laying every item out upon the grass.

I labelled my bank cards with the relevant pin numbers. I labelled my bicycle lock with its code. I labelled my house keys with their address, and my car keys with instructions to find the car. I abandoned the rented van, for liabilities are also proprietary.

Finally, I stripped the clothes off my back and folded them into a neat pile. And I walked away.

It was late by then, and cold. I decided to forestall the next part of my mission until the morning. So I wandered the streets, looking for a warm place to sleep for a few hours.

No haven was forthcoming. The few warm corners I did find were barred to me by people that I suppose took issue with my nakedness.

I ended up walking aimlessly all night, to keep from freezing. As the sun rose and the pre-dawn chill passed, I found myself approaching the common again - my subconscious mind had guided me in a large circle back to where I started. The soft, dewy grass soothed my aching feet.

< 2 >

I walked up to the pile of my belongings. There were a few people staring at it as they passed, mostly early morning joggers and peripatetic tramps.

To my surprise, not a single item was missing.

Ashamed as I am to admit it, my first reaction was to feel hurt that nobody had valued my possessions enough to claim them; but of course I did not indulge my misplaced pride.

I waved down a passing cyclist and asked him why he had not stopped to take something.

'This stuff is yours?' he asked.

'Not anymore,' I replied, 'I wish to give it all away. Would you like to take something? Perhaps this stylish Armani duffle coat? It is a cold morning, after all.'

He looked at me, and then glanced all around him as if looking for a candid camera. 'No thanks,' he frowned, and cycled away.

I noticed a vagrant inspecting the pile of goods, and I approached him. 'Would you like some help carrying a few items away?' I asked.

'Jumble sale, is it?' he mumbled, his eyes still casting over the assortment of household wares.

'If you like,' I remarked, 'except that every item is free of charge.'

'Just looking,' he grunted.

I mentally shrugged my shoulders and prepared to walk away, but an irresistible impulse to see the job through to completion compelled me to do one more thing.

I walked over to my writing desk, which was on the grass between my mixing deck and my unicycle, and I pulled a bullet-tip pen out of the top drawer. I carried over a large imitation Caravaggio I had knocked off during primary school (perfect in every detail, of course), and propped it against the desk so that the back of the frame was facing outwards. I wrote across the wood in bold lettering: EVERYTHING FREE. HELP YOURSELF.

'Excuse me, sir,' came a voice from behind me. I capped the pen and turned around. It was a policeman. 'Is that your van, sir?'

'No,' I said, looking over to where the rented van was parked.

He sensed he would have to be more specific. 'Did you rent that van, sir?'

'Yes.'

'It's illegally parked, sir, you'll have to move it at once.' The policeman surveyed the pile of personal property laid out on the ground in front of us and his brow creased. 'Are these things yours, sir?'

< 3 >

'No.'

'They are your things, sir. Look, this golf bag has your name on it. You're that footballer, played for Italy didn't you?'

'I am a philosopher,' I retorted.

'I'm afraid you can't leave these things here, sir.'

'They're not my things anymore. I've given them away.'

'Regardless, sir, you can't leave 'em here.'

'I will leave them here. You'll have to arrest me.'

'I'm not going to arrest you, sir, although I will insist that you put some clothes on and pack these things back into your van.'

With frustration, I intercepted an attractive young mother that was pushing two children in a pram. 'Excuse me, madam,' I smiled. 'Can I interest you in a proposition?'

The woman stopped and eyed me with suspicion. I continued: 'I would like to give you everything I own, and in return all I ask is that you take responsibility for it. You see, this policeman here insists that I must move it all away, but I don't want anything to do with it.'

'Don't be silly,' admonished the woman.

'But these commodities are worth hundreds of thousands of pounds!' I appealed.

The woman cocked her head and scratched her chin. She surveyed the paraphernalia on offer, and her brow furrowed as if conducting a challenging mental calculation. At last, after a full minute, she spoke:

'I'll give you ten grand for the lot.'

I sighed. I might even have rolled my eyes. 'You can have it for free,' I clarified. 'All of it.'

'Well, if you're gonna play hardball, no deal,' she huffed, and stomped away.

I turned back to the policeman with an exasperated look. He glared at me as if he were a teacher expecting an apology from a naughty pupil. 'Well,' I said, 'if you're not going to arrest me...' And I walked away.

My attention turned fully to the task at hand. The path to greatness is total sacrifice. To be a philosopher, all I need is my mind and a pen. Everything else must go.

I intend to make the ultimate living sacrifice: I will give away my free will.

With no distractions, I will achieve a purity of mind more complete than anyone has achieved before me. And the consequences of my sacrifice will be the subject of my study.

< 4 >

Then I will be, above all, a philosopher.


It has now been three days since I gave away my free will and my experiment is not going well.

Before I decided to relinquish my freedom, part of me was concerned about the degradation and humiliation to which I would be exposing myself; for if I was commanded to do housework in a bikini for the rest of my waking life, I would do it. That is a natural risk of devolving my decision-making.

And another part of me hoped with eternal optimism that, unfettered by laziness or lack of self-belief, I would be able to reach my full potential; for if I was commanded to colonise the moon I would devote every fibre of my being to that purpose until it was achieved. That is the divine potential of foregoing free will.

These extremes of possibility excited me. And I felt certain that whatever happened, I would be inspired by the insights into the human psyche that this noble pursuit would provide.

However, I find myself neither in heaven nor hell, but a cramped and lifeless purgatory.

I gave away my free will at random so my ego would not contaminate the decision. I asked each passer-by if he or she would accept responsibility for my decisions until one of them said yes.

After many rejections, a tall, dark-haired, smiling man stopped to consider my proposal. To protect his identity, I will call him Leo.

'So I'd make all your decisions,' Leo affirmed. 'I could make you do whatever I wanted? Even -'

'Yes, even that,' I interrupted. 'The lone exception is that I reserve the right to make one recurring decision: While you're asleep I may choose to muse and write, for I wish to be remembered as a philosopher.'

'What do you expect for me to decide to do with your life?' he asked. 'What if I mess it up, or waste it?'

'You can do whatever you want; it's not my place to say. Even if you feel like you're wasting my life you'll be doing me a great service, for by taking away my responsibility for making decisions, you're freeing my mind to think clearer and deeper than ever before.'

< 5 >

'For how long?' he queried.

'If you accept, that is not for me to decide,' I responded. He asked a number of practical questions such as where I would live and how I would eat, and each time I replied with a similar answer. It would all be up to him.

'It's quite a responsibility,' he said at last. He surveyed me with considerable curiosity.

'It is likely to be a significant commitment of time and effort,' I admitted. 'But I have no expectations, so you have no responsibility to me in that sense. If you desire payment, you can make me work for you in whatever way you want.'

'Well, if I can make you decide anytime to take back responsibility for your own decisions, then it's zero risk for me... I have just one more question.'

'Yes?'

'If I told you to, would you kill yourself?'

'Without hesitation.'

'I'm in.'

He took me back to his home, a claustrophobic one-bedroom flat in a converted Victorian terrace. The place was tidy enough, but structurally questionable. The fading patterned wallpaper had the occasional inexplicable dent or damp patch in it.

He briefly showed me around and then gave me some instructions.

'Right,' he asserted. 'If you're hungry, you're to eat bread. If you're thirsty, you're to drink water. If you need the toilet, go. If you're tired, sleep. If there's danger, you must get away from it. Those basic rules last forever, and take priority over any other decisions I make for you, unless I specifically override them. Do you understand?'

'Yes,' I nodded. Inwardly, I felt pleased that he seemed to have grasped his new role quickly and with intelligence.

'Excellent,' Leo smiled. 'I'm late for work now. Stay in here and watch TV till I get back.'

'What channel?' I asked.

'Channel one,' he ordered, and turned to leave, bolting the door behind him.

For nine hours I obeyed, absorbing inane daywatch with all its empty rhetoric.

I felt a frisson of excitement when I heard him come back in - now the game would really begin. But I was to be sadly disappointed.

His opening words were: 'I thought you might've tried to steal everything.' I shook my head in response. 'You're serious about this, then?' he asked, without needing an answer.

< 6 >

Then he set about his daily rituals, barely acknowledging me at all. I had not been given any other decision beyond watching television, so I continued to watch as he showered, ironed his shirts, prepared supper, called his mother...

He gave me a portion of food and told me to eat it, and three hours later he went to bed. That was it. No scintillating conversational exchanges. No deep analysis of the potential of my sacrifice. No bizarre or daring decisions. No imagination whatsoever.

Time passed until I felt I could safely assume he was asleep, but I was too discouraged, too brainwashed by hours of dullness, to take up a pen and begin my philosophical musings. So I tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep.

The next day, yesterday, I hoped for better things. But the same tedious scene was played out; and again today.

I have subjugated myself to a dolt.

I am this man's puppet, yet he plays me with no imagination, no art. Without imagination, a puppet is an empty thing; but with imagination, all the world's a stage. If only he used me with a bit more creativity; then we could achieve powerful things.

Even if he abused me I'd prefer it, if he showed a little flair.

But it is clear that this man will not catalyse my mission. He is incapable. Now I must focus on training my mind to think more deeply, so that it doesn't matter what my body is doing. I must start writing my philosophical masterpiece.

He is asleep now, and the pen is in my hand.


Six months have passed, and my life has changed forever. All concern I ever had for the direction and meaning of my life has faded away. My past achievements mean nothing to me anymore. Even my philosophical opus, although I still think about it sometimes, has fallen by the wayside.

And I'm happier than I've ever been.

My master, Leo, is wiser and more cunning than I suspected. Those first few days of dullness were merely his way of helping me to appreciate the consequences of being a creature without free will. I laugh at myself now for having been so arrogant.

On the eighth day - it feels so long ago now - I confronted him. He had just returned from work and started his usual routine (I was watching television of course), when I blurted out: 'I'm bored!'

< 7 >

'Then decide to be happy,' he ordered.

'But how can I? You've been given an opportunity that is unique in the history of humankind and you're too much of an imbecile to do anything with it.'

He raised his eyebrows, and let a silence hang in the air for a moment. 'Did you just decide to say that? To insult me? Did you decide off your own back?'

'No,' I objected, 'I've been bursting to say it for days and I was no longer able to hold back.'

'Fine. Keep watching television.'

'But what will that achieve?'

'You tell me,' he countered. 'You're the one who gave up your free will.'

'Yes, but -'

'But what?' he interrupted, splaying his arms in the air. This was the most animated I'd seen him. 'You told me it didn't matter if I wasted your life. You told me I had no responsibility to achieve anything with you. So, tell me, why are you doing this?'

'I gave away my need to make decisions so I could focus more of my mind on deeper thoughts,' I explained.

'You're so full of yourself! Can't you see how ridiculous that is?'

'I'm a greater person than you'll ever be!' I yelled.

'Really? What makes you so great?' he shouted back.

'I have the achievements of several lifetimes behind me, and you still live in a crappy flat and call your mother every day!'

'Well, now I control you, so you're only as great as me. If you don't like that, then leave! Every day I come back from work and I expect you not to be here, because you've given up; because you've decided to make your own decisions again and get out of here. Why are you still here?'

He had started pacing around in front of me as he said this, like a buzzing mosquito. I felt disproportionately annoyed at him, and I was determined to swat him away. 'If you want me to leave, tell me to leave. Tell me to choose another master.'

'Why should I? It makes no odds to me.'

'Well then, leave me alone, so I can get on with my thinking. Your shallow little brain is sapping my thoughts away.'

< 8 >

'You're full of crap. Show me one deep thought you've written since you've been here.'

'I've not yet committed anything to paper.'

'Then tell me one deep thought you've come up with since being here.'

'No!' I whined.

'Ha! A-ha! That's not your decision to make,' he asserted, with some degree of glee. 'I'm deciding that you will tell me all of your deepest thoughts.'

'I -' I started, but then I realised that I had to comply. I had no free will, and I had been given a direct order, so I had to comply.

I opened my mouth, ready to dispense some overblown piece of wisdom that would quieten him at last, but with a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach, I realised that I could not think of anything at all.

The sinking feeling grew into a mental panic. That was the turning point: I realised that I had not had a single deep thought since the day I gave away everything I owned at the public common.

I had not written a word of philosophy since this experiment began. And it was my own fault, not Leo's. That single revelation, the possibility that I was failing because I was inadequate, terrified me to the core. I stayed quiet.

'There you go,' Leo said calmly. 'Now watch television and think about what you've done. Think about what you want. I'm going to bed.'

As he left he added: 'If you're not here in the morning, goodbye.'

But I stayed. I was too shaken to move on. I didn't even have anywhere to go - and now I could see that I might have given it all away for nothing. Had I ever had a deep thought in my life? The more I thought about it the more it scared me. I was all success and no soul.

I watched television all night that night, numbing my brain to the emptiness of my situation. Leo did not say a word to me in the morning as he got up and left for work.

I cried. I wasn't even sure what for.

I had to think. Leo had ordered me to think about what I wanted. Without really being conscious that I was making a decision to do so, I left the flat and went for a walk.

< 9 >

I inhaled the crisp sunshine air as I approached the public common. I cast my eyes over the scattered people jogging, walking, chatting, sitting; and I asked myself, 'Why?'

Why was I here? Why had I done all the things I had done? Why was I unhappy?

I was back in the flat when Leo returned from work. The television was off.

'How are you feeling?' asked Leo.

'Lost,' I admitted. 'I would like to stay, if I may.'

'Sure,' he nodded sympathetically. He studied me for a while, and I think the corners of his mouth raised into a half-smile, but only for a second. 'I'm going out for a couple of beers with some friends of mine. Do you want to come?'

'If you say so,' I whimpered.

'Come.'


I got to know his friends in the weeks after that, and I began to rediscover myself. I had never had that kind of companionship before - it made me see things in a different way.

These new friends did not judge me for what I had done badly, or for what I had not yet achieved. The people I used to call friends were only friends while I was successful, but these new friends had no expectations from me, and they included me in their lives without conditions.

These friends became a sounding board for my thoughts and worries, an earthly touchstone for my life rather than having to measure myself against the entire cosmos. I came to value them above all else.

I took a gardening job and started paying Leo some rent. Of course, I had to start making some of my own decisions again, but only small ones. The big decisions, about where my life was going, or how I could inject meaning into it, did not trouble me anymore.

Leo became less of a master and more of a mentor for me. I grew to view him very fondly. And what surprised me most was the realisation of how lonely I had been before.

My friends, and Leo - my best friend - have helped me to appreciate the small things in life. The most important things. Now that the burden of aimless ambition has faded away, I can work with them to build a quieter purpose in our lives.

< 10 >

One day soon I will be dead. People will look back at my life, and they might say I was a martial artist; they might say I was a musician; they might say I was a footballer.

They might even say I was a philosopher, for now that my personality has become less broad and more deep, my thoughts have become deeper too. Recently I have felt the edges of philosophical inspiration tickling my mind, and it won't be long before it becomes clear enough to commit to paper.

But I think I would prefer it if they said, above all, he was my friend.

The Star

The Star

When the world started to end, you were ashamed of yourself for weeping bitterly in your bedroom for an entire day. You saw the president crying and begging on TV and it sent you into a panic. You lay in bed with the blankets pulled up to your nose, crying, refusing to answer the door when the maid, your manager, your assistant, and finally your parents begged you to come out.

After twenty-four hours, your father took the door off its hinges and dragged you down the stairs into your sunken living room with the white carpet and leather couches. You kicked and screamed until he had to pick you up and carry you over his shoulder. You called him a motherfucker and threatened to take back the Mercedes you'd purchased for him last Christmas.

Your mother sat solemnly on the couch, her hands clenched into fists on top of the newspaper in her lap. She said it was all over.

You glowered and glared; you asked what the hell is happening, and will you still be on the talk show circuit next month?

The television stations are all color bars and static. Your father says that the talk shows are all gone, and not to worry. He tells you that there are far more important things happening right now. How can you not worry? You were supposed to debut your new fragrance next month to coincide with the release of your latest album.

Your mother tells you that the album isn't going to happen, and she clenches her fists even tighter than before. You can't believe what she's saying. How can she say that? There will always be an album, and there will always be television. You tell your parents they're idiots, and that this will all blow over in a few days, as soon as they replace that pussy of a president.

Your mother says that the world is ending. They dropped bombs, she says darkly.
There are diseases and radiation poisoning spreading all over the country, your father says.

Not in LA you shout defiantly.

Your mother holds up the newspapers one at a time. WAR is on the cover of each one, along with speculations on the doomed fate of the country, including LA. You feel sick, you're dizzy. You want to know what you did to deserve this, and how anyone could possibly do such a thing before you had a chance to accomplish the things that mean so much to you.

< 2 >

*

Two days later, your mother and father are discussing survival, and filling jugs with water from the tap just in case. Your father is worried about the electricity holding out. You sit in the living room wondering why all the servants quit the day before, and if your assistant is ever going to call you back. The only connection to the outside world is the radio, and it's hard to get real information between the crying and praying on almost every channel. On the pop station, the dj says over and over that it's only a matter of time. Your father tells you to switch to the AM band because they have more sense on AM, goddammit.

You hear reports of death and destruction all over the country, and all you can think is that you hope LA is okay. Even after reports of people dead in their cars, you imagine Rodeo Drive the same as it ever was, untouched by nasty things like war, sickness and death. How could a place a beautiful as Hollywood ever be destroyed? No one messes with LA, you say, and your father won't look you in the eye.

When the electricity goes out that night, your eyes fill with frustrated tears, and you light the scented candles you'd been saving for a special occasion. The radio runs on batteries, but they won't last long. Your father tells you to conserve them, and stop leaving the radio on so much. You tell him to shut up, and that you can afford thousands of batteries. The man on the radio says that much of the east coast is destroyed, along with Detroit and Chicago. He says that the radiation is coming west at an alarming rate, and you wish you had a map so you'd know what that meant. Instead of worrying, you get out that limited edition pink nail polish and give yourself a pedicure. It isn't until you spill the bottle, and nail polish gets all over the carpet that you realize you can't stop crying.

In the morning, your dad tells you that your mother is very sick, and he doesn't feel so well himself. You roll your eyes and tell them to take some pepto, but on the inside, you can't deal with the possibility of them dying and leaving you alone, so you go back to your room and sit in front of the window. Your yard looks the same. There is no death and destruction on your property, but you wonder what's changed outside of your front gates.

< 3 >

In the afternoon, you bring your four gold records and three Grammy awards up to your room so you can look at them. Your finger traces your name on the awards over and over, and you can't comprehend how someone who has accomplished so much in such a short time should be allowed to go through something as horrible as this. You're a star, for God's sake, you deserve better than this.

Your father is calling your name in the hall. He sounds sick. His voice breaks repeatedly, and he's gagging between words. You don't want him to throw up on the carpet in the hall, but you keep your mouth shut. If he does, the cleaning woman will take care of it tomorrow. You pull the blankets up to your chin and close your eyes. Your father's voice sounds farther and farther away now as you clutch the Grammy close to your chest and squeeze your eyes shut.

Tomorrow you'll wake up and things will be better. Tomorrow you'll be on the Tonight Show, and be as charming as ever. Tomorrow your agent will apologize for not calling. Tomorrow you'll still be a star.

I Should Have Been Kissing You

I Should Have Been Kissing You Story










Teddy stood there in front of the door at the Flav-R-Rite canning factory watching the sun make her car look dirty and naked in the asphalt lot as the huge parking lights clicked off. The morning blue was hazy, as if it didn't want to be blue at all. The glass in the door kept fogging up with her breath, but she didn't move.
Arnold came up from behind her.
'You wanna share these pretzels?' he asked. 'I just nabbed them from the vending machine.'
She didn't turn at all, not even an inch. 'Which one?'
'I didn't know there was more than one kind of pretzel,' he said, looking at the bag with eyelids scrunched up.
She kept looking at her breathing coming and going on the glass. 'Which vending machine?'
'Ah, well, to tell you the truth. I snuck into the managers' hallway and grabbed it from their machine. That one's always full of stuff.'
'That's because they never eat from it, Arnie. They actually make money. They like to eat things that don't have ten pounds of salt crammed into it.'
Arnold hovered a bit, turning the bag over, looking at the table of contents.
Teddy finally turned around. 'Never mind, Arnold. Eat up, really. I'm just...waiting.'
'I can't finish em, so have some.' He began pouring them into the rind-like contours of his palm.
'What are you waiting for? Car don't work?'
'No.' She turned around just as the blue began to gather some sense of itself. The parking lot began to look less shabby.
'Car's fine. I'm fine. Go ahead. Get out of here...' She turned around. 'You worked all night. Go on...'
'Suit yourself. I see you eat plenty of French fries at the bowling alley.' He dropped a few pretzels, looked at them ricochet off the pavement. He appeared satisfied with something as he pushed open the door, teetering a bit as he brought his hand up with the pretzels. He walked like there was an invisible bowling ball he was balancing between his rickety thighs.

< 2 >

Teddy held the door from slamming, then propped it open a bit.
'Everything in that machine is months old, Arnie. The bosses don't eat it, so no one bothers to change...'
Arnold kept talking and eating, walking and eating, dropping one here and there. As soon as he got his keys out, and the metal began to tinkle as the keys dangled down from his hand, he heard the brush rustle at the near end of the parking lot. He looked over to see what he thought was a dog. No, not a dog, it was too, well, it just wasn't dog-like. It looked more unreal, if that makes any sense. It had a different kind of tension. Made its way through a spate of clearing, where a few half-starved trees poked out from the low lying weeds. Was it a coyote, here, next to the Flav-O-Rite processing plant, he thought. He never could get the full profile, just jabs of fur almost alight as the sun came over the bend.
Teddy stood there, watching him watch the animal, and wondered what kind of man he was when he wasn't feeding himself fistful of pretzels or wheeling his cart around the factory floor, trying to sell cigarettes, Wringleys, even old Hustler trading cards. She wondered if he was the kind of guy who would stop by the Taboo Video on the way home, where her friend Kit worked, the pudgy one with eye glitter, and ask her about Star Wars toys or if she knew when the young kid might be in back in the video booths, the black kid who wore that damn nylon thing on his head and liked to please. One time Teddy was there the boss lady was even tweaking, and there was a different guy on the floor. Just laying there. The boss bought some of her Dad's Playboys for 25 cents, had some stomach that just wouldn't hide beneath her belt, and kept screwing her mouth up. But Teddy liked the way she called her 'darling.' She made enough money for the $3.00 breakfast down on Lancaster, in front of the bar with the pink sign that said, 'Happy 30th B-Day Julie. It's All Downhill from here!' They can't be for real, she thought, then eggs were inside her, warm and nuzzled by Coke. She always drank Coke for breakfast, something that her neighbor used to do before high school. He was a cool kid, played drums in a metal band called Armed Vision and played Dungeons and Dragons, but one that he had rigged up on his Atari computer. She tried to play his drums once, she ended up just following the damn singer, you know, boom boom boom. He said follow the beat. Teddy thought, this is the beat, isn't it? He just shook his head after a few minutes, went to tell his mom there were fleas down there, so they better do something. Later, the bus with the band flipped over, and a mic stand went right through him, like he was butter with some random bones here and there.

< 3 >

The breaths started to seem like snowflakes mutating on the glass. Everyone else from the third shift had left already. She didn't leave, she never wanted to leave. Well, right now. She felt like she could never be the kind of woman grandma called the Black Madonna, the kind that scrubs floors and knows the truth about men at jukeboxes. That knows why tattoos are a kind of vein that tell you that trouble is spelled with all kinds of colors, mostly faded. She liked men, men with baseball caps and even lip-rings. Yeah. That's right, the kind Danny has shoved in his face. He could fix her car, well, change out the damn brakes, and even if they got stuck on the beach because he was too stupid and drove right up to the foam, he wasn't stupid, because he just went up to some mom and dad, showed them a rope and said, 'Let's do this, can't we folks?' He was a good kid, her boss said, after he came and brought her Denny's to-go for lunch. He's a good kid, she said, knowing that she hated her other boyfriend in Hawaii, where he went to open a sunglass shack in a new mall. As if they needed another one, as if there weren't sunglasses on every friggin block there. But, at least she got his truck, and when he wasn't harassing her on Myspace for talking to friends, he could be sweet. Well, not sweet like Danny, but his own kind of sweet. 'Kinda like getting hit by a truck load of gravel,' her boss said, talking about Mr. Hawaii, 'That's not love, just a stupid excuse.' She didn't like her boss when her mouth webbed open like that, not at all. But that's OK. I don't have to like all people at all times, she thought.
Teddy moved forward, pressing her hands against the glass right under where her breath had clouded it. It felt like the side of a cue ball or tile floor. A bit of wind came in. 'Thank god,' a woman said, beside her suddenly, pushing it even further. She leaned over Teddy's shoulder.
'I needed to get some air, get a damn minute to breathe. You should hear them back there, rattling off how hard it is to be a woman and all that crap.'

< 4 >

She had short hair, but it didn't make her look like a man, just made her cheeks look chiseled. Her eyes were big as gray green quarters, it seemed. For a minute, Teddy thought she'd seen the woman in the sub-basement store Wednesday morning, downstairs off the so-called Hollywood District, where the floors were uneven, and the place felt like a gray, surreal bunker under the pall of fluorescent bulbs and 50% off Baccarat crystal saxophones, heavy duty dented cookware, and smelly wicker baskets. Just being down there made her feel dizzy. And this woman seemed like the one...
'You leavin'?' she asked, twisting around her and jabbing the door wide open now, sticking one foot out with some lukewarm air of confidence.
'Well, I'm done with my shift.'
'So, what are you waiting for, an invitation?' she replied.
'No, just...' Teddy's words hit the end of her tongue and just walled up.
'Waiting for your man, sweetie? He pickin' you up today? Guys are always late. You can tell them, just come early, you know, wake your butt up early this time. Set the damn clock ahead ten minutes. Or don't bother with the coffee, cause I don't like it anyway, but they're late anyway, huh?'
'No one's late. I'm just standing here, feeling kinda stupid.'
'No man? Then you must have something waiting for you. Babies right? Don't want go home to that right now. I get you...Know the feeling.'
'It's not that,' Teddy shook her head and half-smiled, 'I never got to that part yet.'
'You ain't got no babies? You gotta be thirty, girl, right?'
'What's that got to do with babies?' Teddy wanted to laugh a little, but she was a bit sore instead.
'I dunno. It seems like it's just got everything to do with it. Nothing wrong with it, don't get me wrong. Just want to get a bit of air, hang my head out here a second.'

< 5 >

Teddy felt guilty, not because she didn't have any C-Section white scars running below in tiny skid marks, or because this woman was just plain getting in the way of this day, when the sun might clear her head and get the whole fuzz inside worked out, that tingle that seemed to come from the back of her neck and sit uncomfortably on the ride side all night, just a Styrofoam empty tingle. Coffee wouldn't do it. This baby talk wouldn't do it. It was like being back at Wal-Mart, working at the pharmacy counter, all the old people smelling like oatmeal and old feet, fumbling with their cards, asking her the weirdest questions. Well, the guys mostly. Did you work at the downtown location? Was she having a long day? Those were the ones easy to blow off, just smile half-robot like, but then they'd get weirder as the night dragged on. One guy came up to her, and it wasn't like he looked different, or that he had a boll weevil freak kind of approach. He looked dead-on dad, just khaki and sweater kind of humdrum everyday guy, but then he leaned forward and said, 'You know how to fight the devil, right?'
Teddy just looked at him, not baffled, just lazy and half-hearted.
'No, but can I help you?'
'Fight the devil?'
For about two seconds she thought about Motley Crue. Fight the devil, was that their second album? Wait, the album her brother Wade always swore was the metal masterpiece of the 1980s; the CD cover had some red and black devil sign looking thing on it.
'No, you have a prescription to pick up?' she asked.
'I'm more concerned about the devil than my blood pressure.' He put both elbows on the counter, put his hands up and in his hair, cracked his neck as he jostled it side to side. One finger slipped down and bumped his glasses.
'Blood pressure medicine is very important. You should be regular about it. Just tell me your last name.' She tried to remain in the zone of 'nice' but felt like just turning around and waiting on the car window, where someone had just pulled up and placed an order in the sliding slot.

< 6 >

'I'll tell you how to fight the devil. Just go up to him and say, 'Get the hell out of here before I shove you up my anus where you belong.''
Did he say that, she questioned herself. Did he just say that, to me?
Then the woman at the factory half-closed the door.
'Watch it,' she said. 'I know where you're coming from. I'm from the 1970s you know, when kids were like, I dunno, considered crib monkeys or something. In high school, that's what they'd say in the bathroom, 'Better take the pill cause you don't want no tit leeches,' and we'd laugh, knowing the boys would probably have a heart attack if they heard us.' She smiled, brushed hair away from her eyebrows. 'Guys are all alligator skin, but when it comes to babies, they melt like soap. Well, some run, I guess, but some just get that dad kind of high, that cave man thing...'
'I got to go now.' Teddy slipped out the door, nudging the woman, feeling her jostle in the mid-section.
Teddy walked the parking lot thinking about Danny. He didn't even drink coffee or Coke. He just seemed like a never ending boy. He actually drank milk. So weird, she thought, who drinks milk, in a glass, from top to bottom?
She was almost to her car and opening the door when she knew that she needed to remove something from the trunk. Hesitating, she flicked her fingernails against the window, making deadened little pitter patter sounds. The nearby trees and gray mashed potato clouds filled the reflection in the glass, though a brief sun glare almost washed it all away in a sharp blaze. She turned, looked at the back of the car, then looked across the parking lot, eyeing the yellow lines that darted here and there.
She didn't want to go back in there, but she knew she should, knew she had to, to get her mind unblocked.
Turning far enough sideways that her hips felt a dull ache, she could see the woman at the door finally leave the foyer and disappear into the building that stuck out like Legos for nearly a quarter mile. Nothing but a few dwarf shrubs trying to make it look half-way hospitable.

< 7 >

She made herself go to the trunk, go to that keyhole that had been scratched until it looked like faint silver varicose veins. She stood right up on top of it, watching her shirt blow a bit, skimming the discolored metal.
She opened it, but didn't let her mind cling to anything, because every time she thought about what she was thinking, she felt undone.
It opened with a quick squeal, metal on metal, and there it was, like nothing more than a sandwich or water bottle. But it was a gun.
Fear did not sit under her skin. This was Indian land, she thought. Guns settled it, though disease did most of the grunt work. In high school, the lesson came like a slap in the face: The tribes moved from place to place, ate the bulbous roots of a spry blue flower, made sounds that had no place in white language, even chewed on slugs and wasps' nests when the hazelnuts weren't underfoot. She was Indian...well, her grandpa married an Indian in the hills of Wisconsin, but all she knew about being an Indian was playing the slot machines. God, what have we done to this place, she thought. The hops farms, blueberry farms, and peach orchards were a kind of netting covering everything, except the giant cottonwood she loved, by the lake, with the robins the mosquitoes loved to bite. It stood just like the statue of Blackhawk down on the river bank, so unshakeable. Lincoln had been in the Blackhawk Wars, she knew, picturing Instructor Schulz fumbling with the chalk. He had seen the dead bodies, he knew the white people had the guns on their side. Now, she had the gun on her side.
She felt as though she was shouldering the weight of the world, but the weight was measured in ounces of broken bits of concrete, all scrambled in her head. She wanted to fold away the voice in her head, the one that said, 'I never should have gone to the pawn shop,' where the fat man stood like a giant cardboard box, just useless, really. It was like the bumper that pressed up against her knee was the nudge of a lover telling her, 'You should have been kissing me.'

< 8 >

The gun had shown up like something unchangeable in her life, something steady.
Some kids were going to Utah on the highway, in a van, or so she thought as she glanced up, imagining a swimming pool, janitors hanging around the bathroom with cans of Lysol, boys urinating on coals. Television. 8 Ball. Stale bread smudged up on hooks to catch those carp. That bogus magic of ranch homes and pot lucks and fried Twinkies, each held up like a cup of light to prisoners like her.
I'm telling you, she felt cold then, inside that body, behind that face that was not hers. Not the one she was going to become, but did become, because she could not salvage that half of her brain that made her answer the right questions at the right time. She couldn't get the wiring straight, until now, facing that gun. Knowing how her muscles were ready to inhale this moment, she was ready to head back in, see the boss.
'Got a flat or something?' It was Arnie, with half his window rolled down. He must have pulled up near her from the backside of the lot. She figure that by this time he'd by eating his Hi-Hoes, drinking a lukewarm cup of coffee, and smoking cigarettes in the parking lot of his apartment complex called Pine Lakes, though there was only a drainage ditch and no pines left.
She was surprised he made his way back to her. Not taken aback in a way that would make her slam the door, raise up on her toes, or feel the rash of sweat, but just worried that she had been so dumb not to make sure he was gone, really gone, and not slinking around like men do when they don't seem to get what they want. 'They're so needy,' she thought.
Arnold was not going away. He wasn't going to do anything until she had one drink with him, until the waitress would look at them, until the cook with the tattoo tear and crucifix on his chest made something resembling breakfast.

< 9 >

Arnie's whole life seemed like regurgitated honky-tonk song to her, just like the whole factory seemed like an invitation that said, 'You will never know anything.' It didn't make her feel scarred, like it was some kind of leprosy, but it didn't make things easy for her, for she would wake up without caring if she could dangle her foot down and touch the floor. The same days when the moon fell behind the last wall of trees and dawn only delivered up this naked dirt of living.
'No, Arnie.'
'Then get what you need to get, and come have a beer with me. C'mon, this morning needs a good laugh, and I don't wanna start watching TV yet, and you know how I can't sleep. I'll jab your ear off tomorrow, telling you how missed...'
'Arnie...' She closed the trunk, turned towards him, though her hand was still pressed down on the metal.
She remembered that the grip of the gun made her feel as if she had finally arrived somewhere, but she couldn't get to it. Like Jerusalem for some people, it was just too far away. Arnie's words felt like wet napkins. The highway looked anemic. She folded away his voice, put it in a jar, and placed it on a shelf.
'Get going. I'll be there. Warm the grill.' She put a smile to work on her face, kind of a half-glum one, one falsely stretched into a curve, as if there wasn't much wattage to lift it. She didn't want to remember the time she went home with him, out of some misplaced pity, and touched him. He seemed so....pulverized. She remembered slipping, in a minute of total boredom and half-cooked empathy, her hand between his legs and feeling his penis, which felt like the tofu that one of her boyfriends asked her to make. He wanted more, wanted kisses that made her question the very existence of penises, those appendages that stuck out like lumpy, shapeless fingers when they were soft. She had gone down for a minute, but when a smell like soap and wet clay lifted into her nostrils, she just gave it a tap, tenderly, and said, 'I'm not your girlfriend.'

< 10 >

He rolled down his window further. 'Huh? You mean warm the seat? Cause I can't go back there and just...'
'Yeah, warm it. I'll be right behind. Well, you know, let me have a cigarette. Then I'll be there.'
He smiled, then moved across the parking lot, barely whirring in his old Ford. It was like finally hearing the music end. That undisturbed minute clung to her.
She looked at the factory, at the doors, at the ridge just to the left with just a sliver of snow remaining in the light. How did people speak before they could figure out what they wanted to say, she thought. She walked down the line of cars, letting her hand clip each with a sound that reminded her of a computer keyboard, the ones she'd thought she would train on before every boy thought she should be barefoot and pregnant instead. Boys, god, all the things they do in the name of sex and love. All the mental whiplash they unleash just to get your pants down, she thought. She wondered what it was like before microwaves and trailer parks.
That's when she reached the front door. No one was there. The lights were gray inside. The candy machine looked like a red statue with a robot head. She then turned around back towards her car, felt a breath fill her lungs.
'It's not the end of the world,' she thought, looking through her purse to find the keys. Maybe she should just go the library annex, where the books were little more than a quarter, in the old wing that still felt like 1960. She liked to flip through the books there. When she was a kid, when her brother would go straight for the monster books and Hardy Boys, she would look at the travel books, ones splayed with full color photos. Now, she liked the fiction, but not just anything. She would read the first page, then the last, to see if anything rippled or pulled her in. This drove her mom crazy. 'Why in the heck do you do that,' she'd say, peeking around the corner with an armful of books that looked like soft-core porn more than a story. 'What's the point of reading the damn thing if the ending's all given away?'

< 11 >

No, she thought, to hell with that. It may be the end, but the words between count for something. Actually, they mean the most.
But she didn't want to go to the annex, she didn't want to go get mom, and she really didn't want to get near Arnie right now, and she didn't know what to do with the gun, but knowing it was there made her feel both breathless and important.
She sat down in her car, smoked until the ashen curlicues hung a minute before slipping out the window.
The sky was cleft by zigzagging geese of some kind, maybe from Canada. She had been there once, through the locks of Sault St. Marie, up north of Michigan, then she went to the mall in London. Dad thought it was so uncanny that there were two Londons, and since there was no way in the hell he could buy a plane ticket to London, then driving the old Chevy Malibu to a mall in Ontario had to be the next best thing, right? She bought a Metallica tape for her boyfriend, ate some Chinese food. It tasted the same as down in town.
But this made her tired, thinking of Dad, thinking of men, and sleep came down on her. A good sleep, the kind she had been dreaming of for weeks. The last thing she remembered seeing was the image of the scrubbed, white metal factory glinting in the front window. Then the sleep came. The kind that comes from the aftermath of peace, of not knowing what would come next.

Love story Victorian Bazzar

Love story Victorian Bazzar

Her given name was Blythe Anne Goodwin, and in her mind’s eye, she was a “lady” now, in every sense of the word. For, at last, she had reached her eighteenth birthday! What jollity was clamoring within the innermost reaches of her heart! Today, of all days, there was a glow about her as warm as the mellowing embers. With auburn hair, skin that resembled that of a porcelain doll, a voluptuous form and cheeks that hinted a natural blush, she was no less than captivating. And, the moment for which she had long been awaiting will have finally arrived. Just a few more hours---eight down to the count---spent in breathless wonderment, and then, she would know!

It had been some time since her cousin, Beth Willingham, of whom she was so fond, had sent word of a gentleman friend that, indeed, had expressed a desire to meet her in person. Beth had told her only that his name is Thomas Seymour, a refined and “well to do” gentleman, and, that he was already an admirer! Yet, how could this be? For, within her own deepest thoughts she was far from the beauty one would travel many miles to gaze upon. Nevertheless, it was this “lowliness of mind and heart” that was seated at the center of her grace and loveliness. Could he, from dearest Beth’s description alone have drawn this solemn conclusion? How ever would she meet his expectations? Furthermore, would he meet hers? They were due to be arriving by the dinner hour!

There was yet preparation to be done. Her satin day gown needed to be readied, for it had been purchased and hung hopefully in her wardrobe since Beth’s mere mention of his name. There were the accessories to be chosen and her long tresses to be done in a style that was befitting a lady about to be introduced to a gentleman caller. The house needed its final touches, although mother and she had given more than the usual attention to its cleanliness. Also, she must not forget the freshly cut flowers! As she hurried down the staircase, she nearly stumbled over the vase she had placed there earlier from the cupboard. “This was no time to entertain clumsiness,” she thought. “I am about to meet the man of my dreams and ...and, I am as unsteady as a newly born colt! I must somehow find it within myself to gain my composure!”

She headed for the garden and, as the heat of the morning sun’s rays fell gently upon her arms, she felt a tingling. Could this be the sensation she would feel, as fleeting thoughts of his arms around hers passed through her mind? In daydream, Blythe gathered the floral assortment as quickly as she could, and sped back up the garden path through the door and hurriedly placed the flowers in the vase. “I shall wear one of these burgundy roses in my hair, for their scent is that of the gods!” she bellowed loudly. “What is that you say Blythe?” her mother called from the kitchen. “Oh, nothing at all, mother” she atoned. “Can you help me with my tresses after I have bathed?”

Just then, Rebecca, her sister who was five years younger than she peeked around the banister. “You had better wear the whole bouquet if you want to catch a man,” she jeered. “Oh, go catch a lowly sparrow!” Blythe quipped in dismay. “My whole life lies within the outcome of this day, and you make little of me!” she added. Rebecca sneered as she turned away and ran to the kitchen to see what mother and the maid had prepared for dinner.

Time passed by quickly and it was almost time for Beth, her brother Derrick and Thomas Seymour to arrive. Blythe gently gathered her cherished gown of green satin and carefully put it on, making certain that her petticoats were out of sight and her bodice was not too revealing. When she was satisfied with the look of her gown, she perched upon the seat of her dressing table, and reached for her hand mirror with apprehension. “Oh, I do hope he is easy to please,” she thought as she glanced at the cascading tresses and the splendid rose in her hair. “What if though, he would have me resemble Godiva!” she grimaced as she fondled one of her curls. “Well, I must be of positive thought and just keep in mind, that ‘beauty is as beauty does’!” she thought reassuringly.

It was not long thereafter that a knock came at the door and all three guests entered. “Let me take your cloaks, and your cape, my dear ones. How good it is to see you once again,” Master Goodwin said, as he kissed his niece on the cheek. “And, you my boy,” he said to Derrick, “are already a man---a dandy one at that!” “Thank you, my uncle, and you are looking very well yourself!” he replied, as they shook hands strongly. “And let us introduce to you all our good friend Thomas Seymour,” he said with pride. Thomas shook Lord Goodwin’s hand, and bowed genteelly to Lady Goodwin and Rebecca. “My pleasure to meet you sir and my fair ladies,” he said warmly, as he held a fabulous bouquet of deepest pink cabbage roses intended for Blythe. He handed Lady Goodwin one of the roses and said politely, “for you my lady.”

Lady Goodwin curtseyed with a smile. Then, Blythe’s father escorted them into the sitting room. As they all were seated he added, “and let us all have a spot of tea. Do rest your weary bones as we converse, for you must all be exhausted from your journey.” They talked for a while.

Blythe was listening at the top of the staircase and could hardly contain herself. “His voice is so...so ‘manly’; I wonder if, he’s tall or short, dark haired or fair, stout or slender,” she thought cajolingly.

After a time, Master Goodwin spoke up, “Rebecca, will you kindly let your sister know that our guests are waiting for her?” “But, of course, father,” Rebecca replied respectfully. And, as she stood up, her squozen tea bag tumbled to the floor and rested upon Thomas’ shoe. Everyone giggled as Rebecca excused herself and made a beeline for the stairs. When she reached the top, she whispered to Blythe, “Your Prince Charming has arrived and is awaiting your presence,” she snickered. “Oh, Rebecca, don’t be impudent, and you had better not spoil things,” she warned. “I have waited to time indefinite for this day to come!”

Descending the stairs, Blythe tried to steady her quivering knees. She reached the bottom and ever so ladylike, entered the room. The gentlemen rose and Beth ran over and gave her cousin a hug. “We have waited so long to see you, Blythe, and don’t you look simply stunning!” Blythe responded, “ Oh, thank you, and it is so grand to see you once again!” Over Beth’s shoulder she caught Thomas’ eye and her cheeks immediately began to turn bright pink. “He is so dashingly handsome, a man of stature and a perfect gentleman as well, ” she thought trying not to reveal her embarrassment. Derrick took Thomas’ arm and led him to the doorway. He hugged his cousin and said, “Blythe we would like for you to meet our good friend, Thomas Seymour.”

Thomas had a gleam in his eye. The sunset’s amber rays shone through the expanse of the window and fell upon Blythe’s curvaceous silhouette and what appeared to be hair of “gold,” her “crowning glory”. “It is my utmost pleasure to know you my lady!” he replied as he offered her the exquisite bouquet and softly kissed her outreached hand. “These roses cannot compare with the beauty I see before me.” Blythe was ecstatic! Never had she been spoken to in such a manner, nor had she ever experienced such exultation!

Confidently she replied, “You speak as the poets...you are too kind, my sir, and I thank you for these magnificent roses! Rebecca, darling, would you mind getting the cut glass vase from the cupboard?” she asked. “Not at all, my sister,” Rebecca retorted pretentiously.

Everyone could clearly perceive that this was a match made in heaven; and as Lady Goodwin beckoned her guests to dinner, the pair hesitated and slowly walked side by side falling well behind the others. It was as if they had known each other forever. “Do you believe in ‘love at first sight’ Blythe?” Thomas asked in a whisper, as he leaned closely to her ear. “I suppose I do,” she said coyly. “ And, may I be so bold as to say that your hair smells ‘divine’ ?” he continued. Blythe smiled, reminiscent of her own comment when she had retreated earlier from the garden.

She pondered a moment and as she removed her gloves, she exclaimed, “I think that I shall pinch myself that I may awaken and this moment will all have been a spectacular dream!” “This is no dream, my lady, yet, now I must believe that dreams actually do come true,” he replied. Blythe agreed, “and so must I,” and in wonder she added, “from where does this harmony come and in such little time?” Thomas conceded, “but I have known this day of long ago when I was first given your name,” for it means mirthful, does it not?” “Why yes,” hesitatingly Blythe offered, “and would it be too unwitting of me to divulge that in daydream I had presumed myself quite often to be Lady Seymour?” He smiled as he stared deeply into her eyes, and gently took her hand. “Come, we will warrant much distain if the dinner gets cold,” he told her softly. And then, he escorted her to the dining table. As they were seated, everyone smiled in approval... with the exception of Rebecca, who was ravenous and staring at the chandelier in boredom...