ken*again, the literary magazine. Winter 2011/2012

Turning Point William Gladys
First Teacher Ken Head
Hot Dog King Steve Karas
Shedding Jennifer Lund

Mr. McDougal's History Lesson Quentin Poulsen
Tanta Anna and Lover Boy Don Riesett
The Coven Dyane Silvester
Treasured Memories From The Church Lawn Patrick J. Wilson

aturday morning, a few days before my eleventh birthday, father boarded the eleven o’clock bright red double-decker bus to Richmond, Surrey.

It was clearly a special day; father was wearing his finest blue suit, red tie and best pair of highly polished brown brogues. In his finest attire or not, he always wore coloured shoelaces, red, yellow or blue, but on this occasion, for the very first time, they were a bright shade of green; wearing coloured shoelaces was one of father’s foibles, that we in the family acknowledged as customary.

In truth, I never saw father wearing black anything; ties, shoes, socks, cardigans, hats, jackets or even a black suit, when on rare occasions, he had to attend a funeral.

Before leaving the house, he told me that he was going to Richmond’s smart shopping centre to buy a significant present for my birthday. I was excited naturally, to hear him use the superlative significant, and hurriedly finishing my breakfast of eggs, tomatoes, sausages and fried bread, thought about the implication of this splendid word. In between sipping my hot milky tea, I whispered the warming and comforting words repeatedly, ‘a significant present’, anxious to know what this significant present could be.

Perhaps a racing bicycle, a Great Dane puppy, my favourite breed, anything smaller would not do. A much larger hutch for Bernie and Dot my rabbits, a Webley & Scott air rifle, or air pistol, a multi coloured parrot in a bright brass cage? Perhaps a battle weary sword that had wounded or even killed a warrior, a suit of armour, a full size billiard table, with cues and balls of authentic ivory carved from elephant tusks. These thoughts and many more entered my head, but how would father get it back in one piece from the shopping centre?’ On the one hand, I reflected, it could not be a bulky gift because pops, my fathers’ family nickname, had to rely on public transport to have large items delivered.

His work as a nurseryman at Blevins Nurseries, although regular, meant that he would never have enough money to buy even the cheapest of family cars, let alone afford the hire of a van, shell out hard-earned savings for a costly taxi, or purchase a high-priced gift. Even so, I was convinced that I could discover the contents of any present from its shape and size, and told mother directly, of my desire to meet pops on his return from the shopping trip to Richmond. My awkward beseeching was fruitless however, failing to elicit even the smallest sum of compassion, ‘I want nothing to do with such pointless emotions’, she said, dismissing me without the need for further comment.

Consequently, before I had any chance to plead further, and no doubt to curtail any likelihood of my discovering the present’s identity before my birthday, I was quickly ushered out of the house. Carrying a scratched and battered holdall, and grease-proofed paper wrapped sandwiches, I was put on a bus to Staines, and told that I would be staying with my least favourite aunt Phoebe and Cousin Philip for three days. ‘It is necessary’, my mother said with a knowing smile, ‘to thwart any thoughts or perceived act of temptation that might be lingering in my head’.

This decisive cordiality, although expedient for my parents, was a disaster for me. Staines was miles in the opposite direction to Richmond, and to make matters worse, I was fated to stay three days with relations who made me feel uncomfortable. ‘It is essential,’ my mother exclaimed rather theatrically, ‘for father to be able to conceal the present in a safe and secure place, so that on my birthday, the gift could achieve its maximum effect of surprise and pleasure’. Nevertheless, I considered, what if after all this comic subterfuge; my imagined treat was a disappointment and failed to please. Furthermore, why tell me if the intention was to keep it a secret for a few days anyway? Much better surely, for it to remain undisclosed from the outset.

However, it was clear that my plea to mother had coincided with one of her sporadic days; when, unlike the three proverbial monkeys, she could see all, speak all but hear absolutely nothing. Consequently, I festered within at the futility of spending wearisome and boring days with my mind numbing, acne faced; halitosis inflicted Cousin Philip, whose major pre-occupation centred on whittling wood.

As it turned out, my three-day stay in Staines flashed by. Any protracted thoughts about my birthday and the impending present forgotten. Since I last met him a year earlier in his mother’s neat semi-detached bungalow, Philip had changed appreciably. His dominant pursuit of wood whittling replaced by other more interesting and appealing pastimes.

On my first day, Aunt Phoebe provided us with a plentiful supply of cheese and tomato sandwiches and bottles of lemonade, where we spent an exhilarating day canoeing on the river Thames between Sunbury, Staines and Runnymede. In the clear shallows of a reed-bordered tributary, we were thrilled to see dragon and damselflies feeding, a motionless pike waiting to ambush its prey, the brilliant coloured flash of a kingfisher, and in the fields beyond the plaintive calls of Lapwings.

On the second day, we ventured a couple of miles further, and came across extensive and unexpectedly isolated woodlands. It was there, captivated, that we observed a pair of buzzards routinely leaving and returning to their nest site with food for their young. Later in the day, we watched a group of roe deer grazing in the distance, and satisfied with our countryside adventures, explored intriguing indications of badger occupancy near a sett.

It was on the third day as I sat on the homebound bus I recalled with increasing excitement, the significant present that awaited my return. In my haste, I almost met with disaster. Ignoring the warning shout of the conductor, I rashly jumped from the bus and stumbled before it had stopped moving. On reaching home however, I was relieved to see the kitchen door ajar, as out of breath, I hurried inside; and their on the kitchen table was my long awaited birthday present. I soon identified the elongated carton covered in brown wrapping paper, as a much-desired air rifle, and after removing the outer wrapping paper, the bold words in red on the lid revealed the thrilling iconic name Webley-Scott. A smaller secondary parcel contained two hundred lead pellets, half a dozen soft cleaning rags, a small can of lubricating oil and fifty cardboard bull’s-eye targets. On the inside of the lid, printed instructions for the uninitiated, described how to load, shoot and maintain the rifle.

That afternoon I pinned targets to the shed door at the bottom of the garden, and spent an exhilarating hour getting my eye in, as pops called it. As a skilled poacher of the local manorial game, he knew how to adjust a rifle’s sights, control breathing and finger pressure, and be conscious of fickle winds, which could shift the projectile away from the target. On the following day, bearing in mind pops instructions, I progressively moved the target further away until I was able to hit the centre of the target with ease.

For good or ill, there was an accepted common familiarity within our cul-de-sac community, which ensured that the street grapevine would quickly reveal to public knowledge even the most singular or mundane occurrence. This to be sure was the case vis-à-vis my newly acquired air rifle. Three days after my birthday, mother opened the kitchen door to Eric Styles our far-flung neighbour who, she said, wished to speak with me about disposing of a spate of rats in his father’s coal yard. Now getting rid of rats was all right by me as long as it ended there. Unhappily, Eric Styles, a wilful destroyer of wildlife would shoot anything, animals, birds, snails, slugs and insects for example, whenever the opportunity arose. On the other hand, rats were in a league of their own; disease-spreading vermin, and justifiably, neighbourhood approved quarry. This was why I joined him and his terrier Patch later the next morning, to flush out and kill as many rats as possible, which although concentrated in his father’s coal yard, were proving a nuisance to people in the surrounding environment.

As a result, by the early afternoon, we had proudly purged the neighbourhood of twenty-seven rats. I was on the point of returning home for a well-deserved high tea, when Eric, plainly questioning my ability to shoot accurately issued a challenge. A dare which I should have ignored, but foolishly, accepted, placing pride before my better judgement.

“Bet you can’t hit all five of the fruit at the top of the pear tree”, he jeered sarcastically. After so many practises earlier, I knew I would hit each one easily, and I did, but clearly, my expertise could not satisfy him on this day. Pointing in the direction of the telephone wire, which hung above the coal-yard he continued in a mocking tone, “bet you couldn’t hit that swallow?” On recalling matters later, it was obvious I should have ignored the challenge, and yet stupidly, I agreed and prayed wordlessly that in the next few seconds the small bird would fly out of range.

Carefully raising the barrel of the air rifle, I took aim slightly to the right of its head, intent on missing the bird. Unfortunately, in the microsecond that followed the squeezing of the trigger, the swallow lifted off the wire, and the lead pellet hit it in the chest. The forward motion of its brief flight, combined with the force of the shot, propelled it with a stomach-churning thud into a concrete wall. Picking it up, I held it in both hands and sadly admired its beautiful colouring, white chest, bluish black head and orange russet throat. Although still warm, its eyes were already clouding over in death.

Placing it in my pocket and ignoring Eric’s congratulations, I walked home and buried it deep in a tiny garden grave where years later, it remains undisturbed. The following morning, I returned the air rifle and lead pellets to its box, and absent of any ceremony deposited them in the attic where year on year, I hoped it would gradually rust away, uncherished, unloved and unwanted.

At the time, without realising it, a remembered incident in my childhood evolved into a decisive turning point for me, directing a developing passion and interest into preserving and conserving wildlife instead of destroying it. Consequently, for the rest of my life, the only shooting of the natural world was with a camera, resulting in a great number of photographs and films being featured in magazines and TV nature programmes worldwide.

1 Cousin Philip graduated and became a teacher. His pastime and natural skills of woodturning and carving are widely collected in Canada where he lives with his wife and two daughters.

2 Eric Styles joined the British army as a regular soldier and became a prominent regimental sniper; at the age of thirty-one, he died on patrol behind enemy lines, struck in the right eye by a snipers’ bullet. Apparently, the glass in his telescopic sight glinting in the sun attracted hostile fire.

auly sat behind the register and played Tetris on his cell phone. Between landing tetrads, he glanced up at one of his regulars who was wiping mustard off his chin. He knew all his customers by name. This was Ed, a middle-aged toolmaker with pockmarks across both cheeks and a comb-over. Your average working stiff like most of the guys who stepped through his doors. They were loyal customers, though, each and every one of them. Guarantee: you tasted Pauly’s food, you’d come back too.

Ed gave Pauly a nod as he crumpled up his paper bag and dumped it into the trash bin. “I’ll see you next week, Pauly,” he said. “Still the best hot dog in the city.”

Damn right it was. Vienna beef, poppy seed bun, sweet pickle relish, tomato wedges, pickled sport peppers, freshly-chopped raw onion, a crisp dill pickle spear, yellow mustard, and a dash of celery salt. No ketchup. Never on a Chi-town dog.

“You believe they’re crowning this guy at Eighties the ‘Hot Dog King’ tonight?” Pauly said.

Ed wiped his hands on the back of his worn-out jeans. “Your dad was the original Hot Dog King. When my pop used to bring me here as a kid, this place had a line out the door and around the block. Everyone in the city came here for the dogs.”

“Yeah, well, neighborhood’s changed, the recession hit.” Shoot, minus the 1973 Oil Crisis and the Reagan recession, Pauly’s old man had it easy.

He gazed past Ed, flipping a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. His elbow rested on a stack of Eighties takeout menus he’d snagged from a nearby apartment lobby on his walk in that morning. “I mean, you think anybody goes to Eighties for the food?” Pauly said. “The jerk ropes ‘em in with all that gimmicky stuff. His dogs aren’t even all-beef franks, buddy boy. That’s why they’re so cheap.”

José, the Mexican cook, peered through the opening behind the register and grinned.

“He knows what we’re talking about,” Pauly said. When he turned around, he felt his belly roll out of his tee like a rockslide. “Hey, señor, what do hot dogs have to do with the 1980s anyway?”

Pauly stepped out of his little five-hundred square foot shop behind Ed. He took a seat in the folding chair outside the front door and sparked up a Camel Light. He’d smoked Marlboro Reds for years until he’d tried to quit. He looked down Harlem Avenue at Eighties and shook his head. What he’d do with all that space. But this guy! Wall-to-wall posters of Crocodile Dundee, the Thriller album cover, and G.I. Joe. Cardboard cutouts of E.T. and Rocky Balboa that kids could stick their faces into. My God, people were suckers.

Nick, the owner of Eighties, was up to his usual Friday night summer production. His parking lot was slammed with classic cars from the 1980s: Chevy Camaros, Trans Ams, Firebirds. As always, families pulled up in SUVs and kids climbed out of back doors like cockroaches. Only on this night, there was a van there, too, with the “Fast Food Network” logo painted in red across the side. There was a chesty brunette with a microphone in hand and a guy with a video camera over his shoulder. And there was a big banner over the door anointing Nick “Hot Dog King of Chicago.”

Pauly’s nineteen-year-old nephew strolled in later that night. “Dino, my boy!”

Dino was his brother’s son. Might as well have been his own, though. Looked just like him – a younger version. Slimmer, of course. Pauly had always been a role model to him. The kid was majoring in Business at the University of Illinois even though his own dad was a divorce attorney, his mom a teacher. Go figure. Here it was, a Friday night, and the young buck was coming to hang out with his uncle, the businessman. The entrepreneur.

Dino took a seat at a table; Pauly joined him. He wiped down the tabletop with a wet rag. An unlit Camel hung from his lips.

“You been working out, huh?” Pauly said. He squeezed Dino’s bicep. “You freakin’ stud you.” He was tan and lean, good skin. Probably roped in all kinds of girls. “Don’t look at me now. When I was your age, my buddies would make me the bouncer at all their parties. My place – I mean, I was still living with your grandparents – but the place was a revolving door of hotties.”

“So what’s on tap tonight?” Pauly said. “You gonna go chase some tail with the boys?”

“Nothing too crazy. We’re meeting up with a few chicks.” He paused. “Across the way at Eighties actually.”

The Camel dropped from Pauly’s lips. He glared at Dino. If he wasn’t blood, Pauly would’ve jumped over the table. “You – freakin’ – traitor.”

“Come on, Uncle Pauly. My friends wanna go. I just didn’t want you to see me over there and think I was trying to hide it from you.”

Pauly shook his head. Silence. The fan swirled above; the A/C window unit hardly blew. José peeked out from the kitchen.

“Guys will do anything for a piece of action, won’t they?” Pauly said. “His food’s garbage, you know?”

“Definitely not as good as yours, but it’s all right. You ever been there?”

“Have I ever been there? No, I’ve never been there! I wouldn’t step one foot into that dump. He doesn’t even serve all-beef franks.”

“Well, that’s not what I heard.” Pauly wiped sweat from his forehead with a napkin. “Anyway, he puts ketchup on his dogs. The so-called ‘Hot Dog King.’”

“He’s a good guy,” Dino said. “He actually got his business degree from U of I too. You know, when he first opened that place, it was half the size of this spot.”

“Gimmicks,” Pauly said, “that’s all he’s got. You don’t learn about real business from books, son. You learn business from sitting behind the register and mixing it up with the locals. See that guy right there?” Pauly pointed to Slick Rick, one of his regulars tucked away in a booth, whose forehead was slick enough to be a bowling lane. “He’s here every night. Loves the onion rings.”

“You know, you should market yourself as a high school hang out. You’d get crazy business with the school so close by. Put in some video games, play hip hop music.”

“Come on, I had the whole high school cheerleading squad in here just last week.” Pauly watched Dino’s eyes survey the shop. The walls were bare, with the exception of a Dr. Pepper clock and a White Sox World Series poster. “You still got a lot to learn about business, buddy boy. A lot to learn.”

They walked outside. Pauly lit up. The smell of grilled meat blew over from Eighties.

Pauly sat in his folding chair. He looked down the street at Eighties. Kids were being pushed in strollers. Probably tourists. Dads and their sons wandered from Pontiac Fieros to Monte Carlos, chomping on hot dogs and sipping on pop. Nick’s robust voice reverberated off the walls of nearby buildings: “You take it easy now, folks. Come again.” Show off.

School. Books. Degrees. Nonsense. Pauly hated the U of I. It reminded him of the social worker he was forced to meet with way back when he was in high school two-plus decades ago. Salt and pepper beard, could hardly fit in his office chair, wore a U of I sweater every damn day, his alma mater. It must’ve been assumed they’d relate to each other, connect, the two fatties.

“What do you want to do with your life, Pauly?” the social worker had asked him, tugging at his beard.

“I don’t know. I’ll probably become a doctor or something. Like a plastic surgeon. Move to Beverly Hills.”

“Pauly, you have a 0.86 grade-point-average. You’ve got to do a lot better than that to have any chance at becoming a doctor.” The social worker breathed heavy, like he’d just climbed ten flights of stairs. “Your dad’s got a fast food place, right? How about working for him?”

“Well, you still have to get through high school and you’re failing four classes as of now. You might want to go to college, get a business degree.”

“My classes are easy, doc. I could ace ‘em if I wanted to. It’s just that my teachers all suck. They don’t know how to teach. Ask anybody.”

Even the guy’s walls were plastered with U of I pictures. Pauly ditched the fatso every time he tried to meet with him from there on out. He managed to graduate high school. Straight D’s his senior year even though he spent half of it in the cafeteria burning through the wad of cash his dad gave him each day for lunch.

Pauly dug his Camel into the sidewalk and peered down the street again. The “Fast Food” crew was loading up its van. Nick, with his thick head of hair and six-and-a-half foot frame smiled and shook their hands like he was running for mayor. From a distance, Pauly spotted two boys approaching on dirt bikes, heading towards Eighties. When they were a few feet away, he couldn’t resist.

The boys slowed, dragging their feet against the pavement. The first was tall and lanky with a moppy head of dark hair that fell over his eyes. Pauly wondered how he could even see through it. The other wore skinny jeans, a long chain from his neck, and a backwards baseball cap. What the hell was becoming of America’s youth?

“Come on in for a second,” Pauly said. The boys looked at each other and hesitated. The mop-headed one checked his iPhone like he was going to speed-dial 911 if he had to. “Oh come on, I’m not Jeffrey Dahmer, for Chrissake. I’m not gonna chop you up and stuff you in my freezer.” Although he probably could. He was damn proud of the size of his freezer.

Pauly had José whip up an order of his Famous Mile-High Fries: melted cheddar, sour cream, bacon bits, and jalapeños. The works. Then a couple Chicago dogs.

“I’m having a little promotion,” Pauly said. “Free food, all weekend, for all high school kids. Tell your buddies. Put it on Facebook or Tweeter or whatever you kids do nowadays.”

What was it that appealed to high schoolers? To Generation Y? Pauly pulled out his Camel Lights and made an exception on the state-wide smoking ban in the name of good marketing. “You guys want a square? Just don’t tell your folks.”

Pauly, wide-eyed and grinning, watched them bite into their juicy dogs. He swirled his extra large cup of Coke. The ice rattled.

“So what do you think, huh?” Pauly said. “Is that not the best hot dog you’ve ever had in your life?”

The boys looked at each other, but didn’t answer. Mop Head shrugged his shoulders.

“You ever been to Eighties?” Pauly said. “Tell me this isn’t better than that one by a long shot. Who’s the real ‘Hot Dog King,’ slim? Huh? You know it. Go ahead and throw that up on Myspace and YouTube.”

Skinny Jeans spoke up, his cheeks stuffed. “You don’t even have any games in here or anything, though.” He pointed to his mop-headed friend. “Anyway, he’s definitely not going to say this place is better than Eighties. His dad owns it. His dad’s the real ‘Hot Dog King.’”

The boys sped off on their bikes. Skinny Jeans yelled back when they were a good distance away: “Thanks for the free food…loser!”

Pauly swept his day’s build-up of cigarette butts into the street. It’d been five years since he’d inherited the shop when his dad and mom retired to Bonita Springs with other well-off Chicagoans. They sold their house in Barrington; Pauly had to find his own place. Oh well, the only reason he’d even been crashing there was to keep an eye on them since they were getting older.

“It’ll be good for you to have some responsibility,” his old man had said. “Don’t ruin it.”

“Don’t worry about franchising it. Just don’t get this store shut down.”

He reminded Pauly how hard he’d worked to build a life for them. How, when he’d immigrated from the old country, all he’d had was the shirt on his back.

“I’m gonna add ribs and pizza to the menu,” Pauly had said. “Maybe get a liquor license, have a little bar off to the side. You’ll see.”

José began turning off the machines and the lights. Pauly watched Nick close up Eighties and pull away in his black Escalade. You know, maybe it was about time he shook up the menu, put up some flat screens. He’d always wanted one of those basketball carnival games. High schoolers liked that kinda stuff, didn’t they? Pauly eyed the “Hot Dog King” banner and took a swig of Coke.

Truth was, even if his hot dog was better than Nick’s, and it was, nobody really cared. So, fine, Nick was the official “Hot Dog King.” Nick was an all-out marketing genius. And maybe Pauly was the so-called “loser.” But, watch, he’d prove ‘em wrong. All of them. He’d come in tomorrow, kick around some changes.

“Hey, señor,” Pauly said, “do we still have that ladder in the back? Bring it out here. And scissors.”

Tonight though, first and foremost, that “Hot Dog King” banner above Eighties was coming down. You wouldn’t find that move in any U of I textbook. And if they dared put a new banner up, Pauly would just snip that one down too. He gulped down the last drop of his Coke. José stumbled out, crashing the giant ladder against both sides of the door frame.

ichael stepped into the warmth of his house, shutting the snow and bitingly cold air out behind him. He strained his ears against the unusually silent welcome of his home as he shed his coat and boots. Running a hand through his short black hair to dust off snowflakes, he called out to his wife, “Miranda?”

The hush surrounding his usually acknowledged return from work caused a flurry of worry to bloom in his chest like ugly flowers. Walking heavily against the disturbing tranquility, Michael headed towards the living room. Beige couches crowded red walls, interrupted by bright windows and colorful paintings, but the usual indent where Miranda would be found emerged in a novel, with her hand absent-mindedly twirling her hair, was abandoned. The gathering snow drifting urgently past the windows against gray skies outside caused creases of anxiety to bracket Michael’s young blue eyes.

“Miranda?” he called again, his voice more demanding than curious now. Pacing backwards and gripping the railing with a frozen hand, he mounted the stairs quickly.

Michael heard Miranda’s soft whimpering before he saw her. Softly opening the bathroom door, he took in the disaster of his beautiful wife standing in front of the mirror.

Small hands cupped uselessly below her face shook alongside her sobbing shoulders. She stared at Michael through blurred hazel eyes, her youthful face crumpled in disappointment, her soft mouth a twisted grimace.

All the rigidity of building stress released itself from Michael’s solid frame, his muscles relaxing into a gentle sympathy to yield to her trembling body. He stepped towards her, arms open for comfort, and she flinched back away from him, her hands flying to cover her face weakly.

“Don’t!” her voice worn and cracked, “Michael. Oh God, Michael - what have I done?”

She collapsed once more into a fit of sobs and Michael enveloped her soft hands in his own, anchoring them down. He studied her tearful face. The damage had certainly progressed. Above Miranda’s right eyebrow, the hairline was pushed back past her ear. The brunette hairs there having been worried at and plucked, unintentionally and gradually. It now left Miranda with a cleanly expanding, balding patch. A part of Miranda’s impulse control disorder, making her a trichotillomaniac - causing her to tug away at her hair in a stressed, subconscious manner.

Michael had been well aware of this part of Miranda when he married her six years before. They had met in university, Miranda catching him with her enticing smile and lively eyes. She had long, dark hair then. Every now and then, Michael, with his quiet manners and steady gaze, would catch Miranda teasing at her hair or pulling at her eyelashes. She would not be focused when she was doing this, a clouded gaze under a brow pleated with thought, and occasionally Michael would gently pull her hands away. Now, as years had worn past alongside prodding fingers, the once seemingly harmless act had turned into a ruin.

Miranda tore her hands from Michael and pushed past him into the bedroom.

“I need to cover this - I need to fix this.” She had begun to tear through the closet with trembling hands and frantic urgency. “I can’t go anywhere like this. Oh Jesus, Michael, what did I do?”

Grasping a blue toque between her pale hands, she rushed back to the mirror in the cramped washroom. The wide-eyed mess before her made her flinch, and she pulled the hat over her head with desperate agitation.

Michael’s concern had peaked, and he anxiously gripped her wrists, halting her hands as they pulled the hat down further. “Miranda, just stop. Please. Breathe.”

Miranda’s wild eyes fixed on his clear gaze, blue in a way of constant comfort and understanding for her. She stopped struggling and tried to control her breathing, to stop the air from rushing in and racing out of her lungs. He gently released her and lifted the hat from her head.

In another frenzied charge of actions, Miranda struggled hopelessly to put the hat back on. Scratching thoughtlessly, she screamed, “Look at me! Are you even seeing me? Michael, look what I’ve done! Look!”

Michael had to throw that hat behind him and firmly seize her shoulders to steady her small, fragile body twisting in anger. It took only a few short moments for Miranda’s spasm to end in inevitable defeat. He then wrapped himself around her, holding her securely and swaying soothingly until he was sure of her surrendered anger.

Tenderly pulling away, Michael brushed her flushed cheek and pressed his lips to her soft scalp. “I never stopped looking, Miranda, I couldn’t.” He tilted her face upwards to meet his gaze, “I couldn’t because you’re beautiful. And I love you.”

The image of his sincere face blurred and swirled behind her damp eyes, the anger seeped from her exhausted body and she leaned gratefully into him, safe and loved.

utside the assembly hall we paused to do up our ties. Inside we needed a moment for our vision to adjust. It was dark and rank with the musty odor of dry timber. Row upon row of crewcut heads, tanned and freckled faces, gray uniforms and cardinal ties. The hall hummed with chatter and partially restrained laughter.

"Davis! McKay! Ya homos!" We greeted the boys we knew.

"Johnson! Lancaster! Ya fags!" They grinned back from their seats.

The hall fell silent as the headmaster entered, came clumping down the narrow aisle among us, stepped up onto the stage. All stood to attention. A tall man, Mr Henderson, barrel-chested, he wore a gray suit and the cardinal St James College tie. Around the back of the pink cannon ball head ran a crescent of white hair. From behind the square-framed glasses blue eyes peered around at us, and in a low, sonorous tone, we were instructed to be seated again.

"It is always a pleasure to welcome pupils back for the new school year. We have spent much time and energy these past two months preparing for what is certain to be a stimulating and rewarding year, here at St James College . . ."

The same speech as the year before, and the one before that. To begin with we remained attentive, then grew fidgety, wisecracks were whispered, titters smothered, seats lightly kicked. By the end of it we were struggling to contain ourselves at all.
Back to our feet the sonorous voice bid us, to sing the national anthem. Not once but several times we bellowed out those words, and those of us who could not remember them by heart were able to do so before the end. Next we were coached through a few renditions of the headmaster's favourite, 'Yellow Submarine' - a more cheerful tune, at least, despite the senseless lyrics. Over those verses we stumbled, but when it came to the chorus we shouted in unison:

"We all live in a yellow submarine!
Yellow submarine! Yellow submarine!
We all live in a yellow submarine!
Yellow submarine! Yellow submarine!"

From the assembly hall we trooped back to the Churchill block, taking care not to stray from the concrete pathways, for hard shoes on the cricket fields was punishable by detention, and nobody wanted to stay behind after school to pick up rubbish.

English with Edmunds was first lesson of the day. A frail, waxy fellow, old Edmunds, with a wild crop of fair hair and a red mustache. Through Dickens we had battled the previous term. Now it was Shakespeare's turn. He put us to task on 'Othello,' and it was almost a different language, what, with all that 'thee-ing' and 'thou'ing' and words you normally only saw in the Bible.

"Sir, what's 'bumbast?"

"Same as 'bombast,' Matthew. To act importantly. To show off."

"Sir, what's a 'Moor?'"

"The Moors were from Africa, Jonathan. They invaded Europe in Medieval times."

"Were they black, Sir?"

Mr Edmunds paused to consider this. "More of a brownish hue, I should imagine," he replied, and a few of the boys tittered.

Throughout the lesson we peppered him with questions, for it was easier than trying to figure out anything for ourselves. Besides which, the play was excrutiatingly boring.

History with McDougal followed, further down the corridor. He had a face like an old bulldog, McDougal, and liked to write on the blackboard a lot, making it squelch with his quick sharp strokes. White clouds of chalk dust hung in the air around him. On the wall beside the blackboard was a map of Europe. Using the yardstick Mr McDougal prodded at places on it.

"Aye, the turrbile Tarks!" He rapped the yardstick against the lower right corner of the map. "The scourge o' Yurrup for more 'an five centuries. Some turrible things they did too. Generations upon generations o' Christian Yurrupeans lived in fear o' the turrible Tarks."

At the images he conjured up for us we shuddered. Christians having their throats slit by the bloodthirsty Ottomans in the streets of Constantinople. What dire misfortune had delivered them into Turkish hands in the first place? I wondered. Had I been a Christian in those times, I would have stayed as far away from the Ottoman Empire as I could get.

"Awesome!"

Raising his bulldog head, Mr McDougal peered toward the back of the room, and those of us at the front looked around too. Sitting at the back, rocking on the hind legs of his chair, was a bushy-haired boy, his face a caramel circle among the rosy ovals behind us. At the attention he grinned broadly.

"And who do ye think you're addressing, laddy?" Mr McDougal barked.

"I reckon they were awesome, Sir. They conquered half a Europe."

Behind the steel-rimmed spectacles the teacher's eyes bulged, so that he looked set to charge in for the attack. "Wot's your name, laddy?"

"Hori, Sir."

Audible titters filled the classroom. What kind of a name was that? But the bushy-haired boy at the back of the room just kept grinning.

"Well . . . Hori," said Mr McDougal. "Your 'awesome' Tarks soon became the 'Sick Man o' Yurrup,' as we shall see. T'was only a question o' time before we finished 'em off. Aye, and that glorious event duly occurred, as ye all should know, when Great Britain emerged victorious at the conclusion o' the Farst World War."

"Oh, me dum' Hori, Sir!" said the bushy-haired boy, and now everyone laughed.

There was even a spark of amusement in old McDougal's eyes. "Aye, that ye are, laddy. That ye are."

The Chinese army had reached the hedge at the back of the section, and each time one of them came through and made a run for the fortress we mowed him down. Sometimes they came in waves, but we mowed them down with our machine guns, quite heroically. I could almost see them writhing in the dirt beneath us, blood spurting from their bullet wounds. Lancaster's mother brought biscuits and cola out to us.

In one corner of the hut lay a hardback with a glossy cover. Lancaster's uncle had given it to him for Christmas. Through the pages we flicked. Hazy black and white photos from the Second World War: grinning Nazis, skeletal Jews, glowering Japs, untold corpses - and some of those people had died in unthinkably horrible ways. In fascination we stared. It was the dark side of human nature. Thank God we had never had to experience a 'real' war ourselves, and how righteous we felt that our nation had fought against those evil armies - and prevailed.

"Even Hitler admired the British," crowed Lancaster. "He admired 'em 'cuz the Germans an' the British are basically the same."

I nodded pensively, registering the fact that, while we were not actually British ourselves, our parents were. Indeed, both of my grandfathers had served Britain in the Second World War.

When Lancaster's mother called him inside for dinner, I rode my bicylce home. In the living room I found Mum as always, watching the 'Chris Washington Show,' on the coffee table in front of her the customary bottle of red wine. She held a glass in her left hand, while a cigarette burned between the fingers of her right.

"There's sausages and mash on the stove," she informed me, without removing her eyes from the screen. "Just heat 'em up a little."

"I was at Simon Lancaster's. His dad built a fortress in the back yard."

"That's nice."

"It's awesome! Wish I had a fortress like that."

From the bottle she refilled her glass, leaning forward in the armchair for the purpose. Another hour or so and her speech would become slurred, her movements clumsy, her breath sour with alcohol fumes. By that time I would be safely in my bedroom.

"There's a kid in History called 'Hori.'" I chuckled. "Said the Turks were 'awesome' an' just about gave the teacher a heart attack!"

"Why in God's name would anybody call their child 'Hori?'"

"He's a Maori."

"Not daft, am I? Course 'e's a Mowri with a name like that. Take my advice and stay away from that lot. Nothing but trouble. Now shoosh-up, lad. I want to wotch my drop o' culture."

Buxom Becky was behind the bar at the Rover's Return, chatting with Ken Barlow and Elsie Tanner. They were all getting on. I vaguely recalled the days when Ken still lived with his parents and Elsie was still attractive. I went out to the kitchen to heat up my sausages and mash.

At twelve I found Hori in the locker bay, knowing he would come there to to put his books away at the end of class, as all the boys did.

"Going for lunch?"

"It's lunch time, Cuz." He giggled back at me. "Where ya think I'm going?"

"I mean . . . where ya going for lunch?" I hastily added.

"Cross the road for a pie."

"Yeh, me too."

I imagined Smithy, Winchester and Lancaster waiting for me at the bicycle ramp, wondering where I was. But they wouldn't wait long. Besides, It was of little concern to me right then. My only objective was to befriend Hori.

Outside the school gates he paused to light a cigarette. "Know why they call this place 'Poneke?'" he asked as I pulled up beside him.

"Course. It's Maori for 'Port Nicholson.'"

"Nah, Cuz. 'Port Nicholson' is English for 'Poneke.'" He shook his head and laughed. "Actually, its real name was 'Whanganui a Tara.' Means 'Harbour at Peak.' Me ol' man tol' me, eh. For the Maori the south was up an' the north was down, so this harbour was at the peak a the North Island."

"So why did they change it?"

Hori drew on his cigarette. "The British came, Cuz. Don't know much about history, do ya?"

From the back of the room the perspective was different. You took in the whole class, not just the teacher looming above you. All those crewcut heads, sandy, blonde, brunette, a couple of them ginger. Pink necks and gray backs, patches of sweat between narrow sets of shoulders. The teacher seemed smaller, less imposing, yet the bulldog face barked and the rampant chalk squelched, the white clouds hung in the air, the yardstick rapped against the map of Europe on the wall.

"In sixteen eighty-three Black Mustafa marched his army to the gates o' Vienna, but this was to be the last Muslim onslaught on Christian Yurrup. While the Tarks were fighting the Habsbargs, the Poles crossed the Danube and lined 'emselves up for a downhill assault. Aye, an' the outcome was a rout. The Tatars fled, the Hungarians followed, and most o' the Tarks went with 'em. Ten tho'sand were killed on the field o' battle and a farther seven tho'sand perished when a bridge o' boats collapsed beneath 'em. A glorious victory for Christian Yurrup it was, putting an end to the Tarks as an invading farce and indeed they were never to retarn."

"Aye, the turrible Tarks!" the caramel face growled beside me.

Hearing that accent coming out of his mouth, I laughed aloud. His teeth were very white, prominent when he smiled. In the amber eyes there was a spark, something akin to defiance. His nose was broad and flat. A handsome kid, this Hori, in an unusual sort of way. Up close I could see that.

"Turrible!" I agreed, but it didn't come out so well as I failed to roll the ‘r' the way McDougal was inclined to do.

He might even have heard, for he turned to face us at that moment. Bespectacled eyes roamed the classroom, as if seeking out the agent. They did not come to rest upon me, however, but upon Hori.

"Something to say, laddy?"

"It was the end a the Turks, Sir," I interjected hastily. "Christian Europe was safe from them at last."

“But the rest a the world wasn’t safe from Christian Yurrup?” Hori murmured, just loud enough to be heard by all.

All heads turned to stare. There was a moment of complete silence. The teacher's normally pallid features had turned a dark shade of crimson.

"What’s that, laddy?!" Mr McDougal thundered. “You’ve a problem with Christian Yurrup then? And who do ye think dragged you into the civilized world in the farst place? Who do ye think gave ye your freedom. Aye, if it hadn’t been for us you'd all be speaking Japanese right now!"

"But we ain’t speakin’ Japanese. We're speakin’ English."

"And wot language would ye like to be speaking, laddy? Chinese?!"

Audible titters around the room brought a gleam of triumph to the teacher's eye. But Hori was no longer smiling.

"I'm a Maori. Why should I be speakin’ English?"

"So far as I'm concerned, laddy, you Mowries ought a go back to where ye came from."

Up sprang Hori from behind his desk, the chair clattering onto the floor behind him. "You can shove ya haggis up ya kilt!" he snapped, and stormed out of the classroom.

"Aye, good riddance to bad rubbish!" the teacher declared, as Hori slammed the door behind him.

That was the last we ever saw of Hori.

over Boy was my uncle. Tanta Anne was his aunt. Baltimore ’s Pigtown was their home.

My uncle, the second oldest of five brothers and the one most likely to become a juvenile delinquent, grew up regularly charming his way out of the kind of trouble that usually landed his four brothers in fistfights, mostly to cover for Lover Boy’s small frame and big mouth.

His aunt Anne was a round, sedentary woman of the Wernsdorfer clan that had arrived in Baltimore from Germany in the late nineteenth century. Tanta expended no more energy than was absolutely required to get from one end of the day to the other, preferring to sit in her well-worn chair behind the painted screen of her front window watching the world go by and waiting for someone to throw a party.

Their neighborhood got its name by virtue of being the turn-of-the-century runway for the boxcars of little oinkers off-loaded at the B&O Railroad’s Mt. Clare station and herded through the streets to the slaughterhouses of South Baltimore . Old-timers told tales of the days when the pigs were running and neighbors’ arms reached out from the tiny row houses’ sooty, street-level portals, otherwise used for coal deliveries, in hopes of snagging one of the little porkers on its way to sausage glory. It was a blue-collar neighborhood where everyone seemed to be related…many by blood, virtually all by heritage.

In the summer of 1945, my uncle returned home from the war, no longer in harm’s way but still in uniform. I wasn’t there. In fact, I was still about a year from being anywhere. But thanks to the story’s endless retelling at family gatherings, the scene plays out in my mind as if I were watching it from the balcony of my very own cinema paradiso. It is a memory that keeps me happily grounded in my roots.

The taxi picked up my uncle that morning at Baltimore ’s Pennsylvania Railroad Station and drove him the two short miles southwest into Pigtown’s crisscrossing rows of tiny brick-front homes, industrial warehouses, and northern European immigrants. As the taxi turned onto Wicomico Street , my uncle looked out at his childhood home, perhaps appreciating for the first time how much life he, his four brothers, and their parents had managed to squeeze into such a small space.

Stepping out of the cab, he paused to observe the old neighborhood; the midmorning sun reflecting brilliantly off the iron rails that carried freight cars down the middle of Wicomico Street to meld into the B&O’s eastern corridor commercial lines. Directly behind him stood the huge Butler Brothers Warehouse that provided hourly wages for so many in Pigtown, especially the women awaiting the return of soldier husbands, sweethearts, brothers, and sons. Before him, dwarfed by the eight-story warehouse and the massive freight cars, stood a row of five runty two-story houses—each less than twelve feet wide, maybe thirty feet deep. Home. For several precious moments, he lost himself in memories of life before the war and life during it. It was good to be back.

Just then, Mrs. Linthicum, who lived two houses down, opened her door and propped herself against the jamb, one leg on her front stoop and one still in her living room. Cloaked in a standard-issue Pigtown housedress—a single sleeveless garment adorned with muted flowers that hung on her overweight body like a drape—she held a feather duster in one meaty hand and a cigarette in the other.

“Whaddya mean, what am I doing here? I’m home from the war,” my uncle responded.

“I can see that,” Mrs. Linthicum said as she sucked in a satisfying drag of her Lucky Strike. “Thing is, your mother doesn’t live here anymore. They moved.”

“Around the corner on Cross Street . Not far from Annie. Good to have you back, Lover Boy.” With that, Mrs. Linthicum flicked her butt onto the sidewalk, raised her flabby, sleeveless arm to wipe away a stubborn bead of sweat from her forehead, surveyed the street one more time to see if any other wayward souls needed direction, and disappeared inside.

Fortunately for Lover Boy, in Pigtown, everything was close. His parents’ move had been a short one. Hoisting his bulky service bag over his shoulder, my uncle trudged thirty yards up Wicomico, past Mr. Sam’s corner grocery, and across Scott Street to the church before turning onto Cross, where he noticed a couple of women scrubbing their white marble stoops. It was one of Baltimore ’s great rituals and supreme ironies. Ironic, that such simple brick row homes should be entered via magnificent slabs of white marble, kept that way through the diligence and hard-brush scrubbing of the ladies of the neighborhood…a ritual that reflected not only personal pride and housekeeping competence, but competitive spirit as well.

“I hope so,” my uncle responded with no small bit of sarcasm. Then, lifting her off her knees, he gave her a long hug, confirmation that home would always be wherever they were together.

Across the street, perched in the big easy chair that sat in her front parlor, just behind the pastorally painted screen in her front window, sat Tanta Anne. She had watched Lover Boy walking past Mr. Sam’s grocery and onto Cross Street . It made her toes wiggle. Lover Boy might have been the runt of her sister’s five-boy litter, but as his nickname suggested, he had an uncommon zest for life, fun, and good times. Tanta knew the return of Lover Boy meant a party. And there was nothing Tanta loved more than parties, especially dance parties. As she watched her big sister hugging Lover Boy, she could feel the rhythm building.

It bears noting that Tanta Anne was a large woman—sixty to seventy pounds overweight if an ounce. She spent the greatest portion of any given day doing exactly what she was doing at that moment—very little. Her position of preference was to be embedded in a comfortable chair. To see her in such a stationary position did not conjure images of Ginger Rogers swirling magically to the lead of Fred Astaire. But as soon as a party was in the air, Tanta was ready. In no time, she would be moving on the dance floor like a schoolgirl in new pumps—smooth, graceful, and incongruously light on her feet.

The party would be held at the 1019 Pleasure Club, just a few blocks away on James Street . Lover Boy’s father, my grandfather, was a charter member of “the 1019”—an unassuming row house converted into a social club, fronted with a glass block window surrounded by formstone, the faux rock plaster compound aptly described by Baltimore native John Waters as “the polyester of brick.” The club had a large front room with tables and a dance floor, and a smaller back room where the bar and kitchen were located. Like all things Pigtown, “the 1019” was a simple place that served simple people: people like Lover Boy, Tanta Anne, and Mrs. Linthicum; ladies like my grandmother who scrubbed their marble stoops; men like my grandfather who worked in the steel mills; and a host of other largely German immigrants who needed little more than a few beers and a bowl of pretzels and chips to have a good time.

My parents grew up in Pigtown in the days when pigs were still herded through its streets. They met, married, and gave me my start there. When I was four, we moved away, but my grandparents lived there until I was well into my thirties…so, in a way, I did too.

Today, Pigtown is sandwiched between the city’s sparkling baseball and football stadiums and the multilane highways that lead to Washington and New York . It sits in the shadow of a revitalized city and on the edge of brick-and-mortar monuments to the industrial remnants of the old economy. It is poor and largely ignored. Yet every time I go there, I am reminded of scenes from the past—of family and extended family.

I see my uncle in his military uniform hugging my grandmother in her housedress. I see Tanta Anne sitting in the big chair behind the painted screen. I see my family gathering at “the 1019” for birthdays and anniversaries. I see a lifetime of memories.

In time, Pigtown will be gentrified. Its fringes are already feeling the evolution. It will be discovered by the young and cultivated by the affluent. The old Butler Brothers Warehouse will undoubtedly be transformed into fashionable loft space, with Soho-like cafes and art galleries below. Perhaps one of the freight cars will be positioned on Wicomico Street ’s rails as the centerpiece of a pedestrian promenade dotted with Bohemian coffeehouses. Paddle tennis courts could rise from the remains of the old sheet metal yard at the bottom of Scott Street . Babies will be born. New memories will be created.

May those memories of Pigtown be as deeply felt and as warmly recalled as my own.

arianne wasn't entirely certain whether the others would turn up tonight, especially since the trouble with Juliette last moon. As she hauled her grandmother's blackened iron pot out of the cupboard under the stairs and lugged it across to the hearth she'd built in the stand of trees at the end of the garden she only hoped that they hadn't all decided that she wasn't really a witch. Feeling unusually subdued, she returned to the terraced cottage she called home to change into her witch's garb, and wait.

Last moon Juliette had challenged Marianne's leadership of the coven, suggesting that she was only pretending to believe in it all and Marianne reacted without thinking, throwing a curse at Juliette, who threw one back. There was an uncomfortable silence as Marianne felt a tingle run down her neck and the others waited for something to happen. When nothing did, Marianne felt the growing feeling that perhaps the whole thing was just pretend, and she desperately wanted it to be real.

The truth of the matter was that Marianne herself didn't really believe she was a witch; it had just seemed a good idea back at school to pretend when the others had taken to bullying her, and it was so easy to make little things appear to happen to them whenever they'd been unkind: Karen's ruler disappearing and turning up broken into several pieces outside her front door; Ellen's pet rabbit escaping - although Marianne still regretted that he'd been run over.

Just after sunset, as Marianne was beginning to think that no-one would come, Ellen, a slight, quiet figure wrapped in a grey cape with her father's pigeon on her shoulder, appeared at the gate and came across to the hearth where Marianne now had a fire burning brightly. She seemed nervous.

"She's off at her parents' I think. I'm not sure that she's back until Sunday," then, after a barely perceptible pause, “Don't worry, she'll come round; we'll do a binding spell this evening to keep us all safe and together.”

Ellen nodded, but a certain uneasiness lingered, broken only by Faye's arrival. Faye breezed happily across to the trees, her bright sari sweeping the dew from the grass as she came, discharging immediately the tension surrounding Marianne and Ellen. There was nothing complicated about Faye, indeed Marianne always thought she was so naïve and open that there was no challenge, no fun, in deceiving her.

“Hi! Kate's on her way, and she said Anna's going to be late. Is Julie still away?”

“Yes.” This was Marianne, a slight edge to her voice, although this went straight over Faye's head. “She went to her parents' after last moon.” Marianne ignored Ellen's sharp questioning glance, deciding that if she was going to keep control she needed to make it look as though she'd got the better of Juliette. She'd even brought Gran's diary tonight, with the spells and recipes.

Faye knelt, warming her hands at the fire, and peered at the brew in the cauldron. Catching sight of the diary she picked it up and began to leaf through the pages, a faraway look on her face until Marianne snatched it from her

“Don't!” Faye recoiled as though she'd been burnt. “Don't touch things so powerful.” Marianne's voice was soft but so full of menace that even Faye couldn't miss it.

“Well don't.” Still sharp “It's not your place to think; only to obey.” Faye moved away from the fire and shivered a little. Marianne was so powerful, a beautiful, strong, priestess.

Full dark saw the six girls huddled around the fire sitting on their usual logs, Marianne standing over them, stirring the cauldron with her left hand and holding the diary in her right. She had closed the circle around them a little after sunset, and was now reading, occasionally pausing her stirring to scatter herbs or water, or gesture around the group. The words she read from the diary were a strange combination of Latin and Gaelic and Marianne's voice was mesmerising. She stopped abruptly, and handed a bunch of juniper to Faye who stood and held it over the cauldron.

“May I be bound to this circle, to protect, obey and keep the faith.” She took a sip from the wooden spoon Marianne held out to her, trying not to think too hard about what might have gone into the warm sticky brew, then opened her sari and allowed her forehead, breasts, stomach and feet to be gently anointed. Passing the juniper back to Marianne, she sat down and watched whilst the others took their turns to be bound to the circle.

Only Ellen didn't stand. She stared challengingly up at Marianne, but the tremor in her voice gave away her uncertainty.

“I can if I have to.” Marianne's voice was gentler now. “The Circle will give me the power, but you'll only be letting your Sisters down.” She held out the juniper.

Ellen looked around the circle, her gaze lingering on Juliette's empty place. She took the juniper and stood but recoiled as Marianne held out the spoon to her lips. She shook her head

“Come on El,” Marianne gently touched her shoulder. “I promise it's ok,” but Ellen backed off, hugging her cape tightly. Marianne took a step towards her, and laid a hand softly on her cheek. “Come Sister, don't be afraid...” and before Ellen could react Marianne had her by the hair yanking her forward to the cauldron and ducking her violently “Bind her! She will protect and obey! Bind her! She will not leave! Bind her!” She let go, allowing Ellen to stand, spluttering, then tried to push her back down onto her log but Ellen remained standing, her eyes blazing. She realised she was still holding the juniper, and extended her hand towards Marianne, her voice almost inaudible:

“I curse you! I curse your circle! I curse your lies! You will never stand against me again!” She threw the juniper on the ground at Marianne's feet and was gone.

Faye met Ellen at the village store a couple of days later and, without thinking, reached up and hugged her. Ellen looked at her, surprised

“What's that for?” She had a soft spot for Faye, especially in the face of Marianne's bullying.

“Oh”, Ellen did her best to act nonchalant, “Don't worry about that, Marianne's no big deal, she's all bluster and I don't really care about the coven stuff. I don't think I'll be going along any more.”

“Faye, it's a load of rubbish”. Faye looked unconvinced “honestly, there's no such thing as witches and magic spells, it's been a laugh but Marianne's just getting out of hand.”

She walked away before Faye could challenge her, or see the tears in her eyes. She knew that in spite of the stories about Marianne's Gran, and Marianne seeing her ghost, Marianne didn't have any power. What frightened Ellen more than anything was that she couldn't work out where her own words had come from at the meeting, and she was afraid because despite what she had told Faye, she did believe in magic spells and witches, she did believe her own mother's diary, and she knew she had more power than she could properly control. Marianne hadn't been answering her calls, and Ellen was terrified of what she might have done.

Tommy always had this rebellious attitude about life since he and Pete were teenagers in their old neighborhood. Tommy was always pushing the limits of life as far as he could, and he didn’t care what his attitude or actions would cause when he was sixteen, not in a bad way, of course – but in a good way. Now, at twenty-six, he still had the same pusher attitude, only worrying about life’s results after-the-fact.

However, Pete had a maverick-like attitude when he was younger. He would push the limits of life with reason, slightly tiptoeing his way ever so closely towards that invisible line, which represented the prohibited area Tommy enjoyed, where one usually heeds the mind’s warning and stops before traversing that invisible line and passing the point-of-no-return.

Though there was something about that humid July afternoon that caused an uneasy sensation to dally in the pit of Pete’s twenty-five-year-old stomach, as the two comrades lugged their oversized bags of metal and wood grass slayers up the church lawn. Something inside Pete’s mind was saying they should be donning their russet khakis and clutching old smelling hymnbooks instead of wearing their discolored, sweat stained golf shorts and carrying wooden tees. If for nothing else, out of respect for the occasion and the day: It was Sunday after all.

“They’ve spotted us,” Pete said underneath his breath as sweat trickled from the end of his nose.

“So what, man! Why are you so worried about those church folks, huh?” Tommy questioned, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“Pete – the worst those folks can do is ask us to leave, right? You should be worried about getting sunburn instead.”

Pete sensed Tommy was experiencing the same uneasy feeling, yet he wouldn’t admit it even if he were.

Still, the two young men could read each other’s minds even after so many years apart from each other by the minor shifts of their eyeballs. That anxious look as one shifts his eyes to the left. The other one shifts his eyes to the right. Then, slowly, they turn their eyes back at each other to finally provide a confident nod the coast was clear, as if these two friends wore orange jumpsuits who’ve recently escaped the local jail and were eluding the guards surrounding the grounds; but in their case the folks filing into the building with the massive cross over its door.

“Well, Tommy – we’re trespassing on their property,” Pete said, struggling to keep his golf bag on his right shoulder and waving the sand gnats away from his face.

“Yes, Pete – you’re right. But it’s not like we’ve caused any mischief or murdered anything, except for the dozen deerflies while walking up their lawn.”

“Pete, you need to relax, man! I doubt those church folks care that we’re here.”

“I believe those folks see us as two men having a quiet afternoon at a tranquil place where we can hit a few golf balls. If they thought we were trouble, I’m sure the cops would’ve been here by now.”

“We’re here now! So let’s tee up, hit a few balls, and see what happens. In fact, Pete – you may need some divine guidance to fix your killer left slice.”

“That’s the spirit my friend, just watch out for those parked cars!” Tommy hollered.

What happened over the course of that evening was enchanted; at least, for the two long-term friends who hadn’t spent much time together over the last few years, mainly due to the daily callings of life.

For Pete, who mostly lived in Florida, his job and college courses kept him busy and fasten to the state. He would visit Tommy when Tommy used to live in North Carolina – during a Spring Break here or there – but money became tight for him over the last year and a half, as it had for most people, so Pete didn’t get a chance to spend time with Tommy as much as he would’ve liked. For Tommy, who called the Florida seashore his genuine home, his career (or the lack thereof) in the entertainment field kept him moving from one state and gig to the next.

Nonetheless, after the economic meltdown and a few mishandled gigs, Tommy quickly found himself jobless and running out of money with each passing day. Thus worried that he might find himself living out of a cardboard box, Tommy decided to move back in with his parents in Florida.

Tommy’s living arrangement with his folks was to be a temporary situation, until he could find steady work in his field. Both Pete and Tommy knew their time together this time could be cut short, so their afternoon on the church lawn was a homecoming of their friendship in many ways.

They not only found their own, free, driving range, which they took full advantage of it over the remaining weeks of summer, but also they found a friendship that was still strong and budding, unlike the so many other friendships they’ve had with the other kids in their old neighborhood. Those friends who are there with you as a teenager, yet become merely outsiders as you grow older.

Pete and Tommy didn’t have to worry about becoming strangers with age. In fact, each time they would tee up at the church they knew neither one of them would become the next Tiger Woods, but they did believe their golf swing was getting better just as they believed their friendship was getting stronger with each passing Sunday.

Perhaps, the fact that their golf game was getting better was the only thing surprising to them, that and the fact they were getting older and time was moving quicker with each day. They must’ve lost a few dozen white balls, broke a few hundred wooden tees, and soaked their clothes in sweat countless times since the end of July.

Besides, the church folks didn’t mind their company or the holes they were making on the lawn, as they would wave at them coming and going from each evening service. Nevertheless, they were sure the landscaper wasn’t thrilled with them; they were sure he was cussing up a storm each time his blade found one of their abandoned golf balls.

As the days of summer began to shorten, from the end of July to that of August, Tommy and Pete found themselves not having the time to tee up as much as they did weeks before, mainly since Pete started college again and had a full time working schedule, and Tommy finally found a gig in Kentucky and was busy packing for his move back north. Although the two friends made one final tee time at the church, it was the first Sunday of September, and the last Sunday they would spend knocking up dirt together for some time.

Pete was thrilled for Tommy; his new job, his new journey in life. Likewise, Tommy was happy for Pete – another semester closer to graduating. Still, their final day together was a miserable one. The fervor to hit a few golf balls was in their minds, but it wasn’t in their hearts.

“So, buddy – I guess this is it for a while, huh?” Pete asked as he kicked his shoes in the dirt.

“Yep! I guess it is man,” Tommy said, looking in the distance where they’d hit so many balls over the summer.

“You know it’s not gonna be the same hitting golf balls out here by myself.”

“I imagine after you leave tomorrow that I won’t come here as much. The thought of chasing after these little white balls by myself isn’t so engaging.”

“I hear ya there, bud! I’m gonna miss these summer evenings almost hitting those parked cars with ya.”

The two friends spent more time talking about their plans and reliving some of their outstanding golfing moments that they’d over the last few weeks that they hardly hit a single golf ball. Before they knew it, nature’s light bulb was leisurely turning off for the evening. They said their departing words and wished each other all the luck in the world before heading their separate ways again.

Pete, nonetheless, returned to the church lawn a few weeks after Tommy left town. It felt different; he felt different. The grass was brown and hadn’t been cut in a few weeks; the parking lot was empty, and Pete felt how it looked. At first, he thought it would be futile – hitting the golf balls from one side of the field to the other – without any company, anyone to talk to. After awhile, Pete decided to hit a few balls, and he recalled that Tommy was right about one thing: he needed someone’s help, for his game was off that afternoon.

Pete only had two balls – a new one he bought before Tommy left and one that Tommy found a few weeks earlier that no doubt made the landscaper mad at them. Of course, it didn’t take Pete long to lose the good ball since he sliced it far right, somewhere between the long snake grass and the Amazon rain forest that was growing around the church lawn.

Though sad and tired of playing his own caddie, Pete decided to pack it in for the evening. It was getting late, the sun was going to bed early behind the quiet pines, and he’d other plans for the evening. Yet before he left, Pete took one last look at that chopped up ball Tommy found. And for a moment, he laughed at the time that he and Tommy both came close to hitting the cars in the church parking lot.

Nonetheless, Pete’s laughter soon turned to despair after he realized his car was the only one there. He wondered who would become his golfing buddy now since his old one was a few states away. As Pete wondered this, he looked up the church lawn that Tommy and he walked several times over the summer, and he swore he saw an image that favored Tommy swinging a driver and connecting with a ball sticking out of the ground. The wind picked up briefly during that moment and Pete thought he heard his friend’s voice.

Pete left the church lawn that Friday evening in better spirits; he’d wonderful memories to cherish and a superb tan to show for it. But as he was pulling out of the church parking lot, he received a text message from his buddy, Tommy, and was a little shocked when he read it:

Hey, bud – thought I would see how things were going down south. I finally got a day off, so I decided to check out a local driving range. It’s weird hitting by yourself man. Though, I swear I thought I seen someone just like you a couple spaces down from me. His slice was similar to yours. I thought about yelling your name to see if it were you, but thought against it for fear that I would look silly since I knew you were still in Florida. Anyways, talk to you soon, pal!

Pete realized after reading Tommy’s message that he doesn’t need a physical golfing partner while hitting golf balls at the church or anywhere else for that matter. Just as long as the personal memories of friendship never fade from his memory – he can always find a sympathetic ear or eyes of a true friend from a single message or phone call. Tommy might be hundreds of miles away, but the memories they’d shared this summer will always be present on the church lawn.