Author: Maxwell Xavier

On Water’s Edge

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Shake my soul, and it will appear,
the carnage of the fight,
long buried, not long forgotten,
the forsaken lagan.

I carry it with me, quietly,
a constant friend, foe,
the scar of a different time,
a shamed master.

Farewelled from me, and
me from faring well,
a last knife, a final twist,
a freefall from all known.

Now lie silent, now lie derelict,
consume the cold dark,
forget the sun, forget me,
lie abandoned, your just reward.

Your black tentacles reach far,
and for far too long,
a traitorous urchin, silent,
witness to the wreck.

A discordant chord rips through,
a sail whips me,
a bitter taste, a bitter memory,
a master forgetting its shame.

You’ve dipped below the sun,
dipped below all that matters,
all that moves here and there,
on these blue waters.

Now lie silent, now lie derelict,
consume the cold dark,
forget the sun, forget me,
lie abandoned.

On Staying in Touch

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 2 Comments

During my high school graduation ceremony, the principal on multiple occasions remarked that the graduating class would never be in the same room together again. It was an odd statement. It was not only the last time we would be in a room together, but it was the first time we had ever been in a room together! Moreover, when your graduating class has over 500 students in it, it’s not as if it’s a close-knit family. I’m sure there was a sizable percentage of students I graduated with that I did not know, or recognize for that matter.

I’m sure not a single classmate has bemoaned the fact that the entire graduating class can’t be back together again.  Then again, I guess I need to give my high school principal a little slack; surely he could not have envisioned how easy it would become, in just a few years, to stay in touch with almost everyone you’ve ever met in your life.

Staying in touch has never been easier. Sitting on your couch wondering what happened to your pal from 4th grade? You can probably find out in less than 5 minutes. Technology allows us to stay in touch with speed and ease, but that very ease begs the question: why stay in touch? Once our voyeuristic curiosity is settled and we learn that our 4th grade pal sells insurance in Kansas City, we’re quickly reminded there’s a reason we needed Facebook to learn about his life now: we are not close. We haven’t been close for decades. We will never be close again. Our lives stopped intersecting in elementary school. Sure, you can send that awkward “hello” message, but what will you talk about? What’s going to rekindle this relationship that barely existed in the first place?

The ease of social media to stay in touch has a bigger pitfall: it’s not a real relationship. To a very large extent, social media (like writing one’s own blog) is an exercise in vanity. We want to be seen by people. We crave the acknowledgment. The validation. The acceptance. The Likes. It’s one thing to share that cute photo with your great-aunt, it’s another to think all 289 Facebook friends really care. (Hint: they don’t) (Double hint: you don’t have 289 friends). It’s not an equal footing, a dialogue, a shared experience. Sure, you can “Like” or comment, but, at bottom, it’s bits and bytes and really not much more.

Relationships, no matter the relationship, aren’t easy. You can’t “friend and forget” — a phrase I’m definitely trademarking. They take time, energy, and intention. It takes the willingness to listen, to care, to make something not about you. To genuinely invest in and care about a life experience other than your own for no other reason than love. We shouldn’t confuse the ease of social media for the real thing.

Our inner circles are delicate, intimate things, and whom we choose to inhabit that space is no small question.  And, the more time we spend tending those real relationships, the less time we have for social media…and the less interest we have in it too.

On Lost Throwing Stars

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

When I was nine years old, my dad gave me three Japanese shurikens (throwing stars). Stored in a leather pouch, the throwing stars were black, and one throwing star had two dragons chasing each other around the middle. These weren’t pretend toys; they were the real deal. Armed and dangerous, I was.

Kept carefully stored (or concealed, depending on how much of a ninja a nine year old can be) in my dresser, I loved to take them out and look at them. One day, Dad and I took them out to the back yard. Behind the detached garage, there was a pile of wood. Safe away from the house or anything else I could hurt with an errant throw, he let me practice throwing my shurikens. I couldn’t have been standing too far away, but I’m sure some embedded in the wood logs, while others embedded in the side of the garage. It didn’t matter to me. At that point, you’re pure ninja. My classmates’ Little League was laughably “little” compared to throwing throwing stars. Soon, I’d be scaling walls, fighting baddies, and starring in my own martial arts action-adventure films.

A funny thing happened, though. After throwing a round, we could only find two of the three shurikens. We searched high and low, around the wood pile, up and down the garage, but it was not meant to be. A shuriken had been lost, most surely the result of an errant throw. And it would never be found.

What’s interesting to me is not that a nine year old boy threw something and lost it, but that, three decades later, I recall the event with a high degree of clarity. I wish I knew why. I can recall trying to find the throwing star, and I’m sure I wasn’t thrilled about losing one, but it is not as if the loss caused great emotional tumult. My mom likes to say that we take our childhoods with us, and that’s surely true. It seems, however, we take not only the big emotional moments, the successes and the failures, the love and the hurt, but also the quiet and the unremarkable.

We all have seemingly benign moments from our childhoods that have dropped deep psychic anchor. Are the memories simply outliers, haphazard, nihilistic synaptic connections in our brains, or do they represent something deeper, some meaningful emblem of ourselves? If we could pull back enough, pull back at a psychic distance of miles and miles, would the pattern reveal itself? Would we see ourselves in the random assortment of memories, the lost mitten, the beautiful flower, the unusual cloud, the splat of rain on the window? Is it possible that the random aren’t so random and reveal more than we think?

Why do these memories come to us? These interstitial thoughts, a background chorus to our music. Neither sad nor happy, but present. Real. Softened over years, but still tangible. Is our psyche trying to find the pattern in the patternless, connecting the unconnected, the disconnected? Or, does our personality, maybe even our soul, reveal itself in this way? Revealing a sum of parts, including the random, the meaningless, the merely extant.

I still have the black leather pouch and two remaining throwing stars my dad gave me, and, from time to time, I take them out and look at them. I daydream about returning to the home of my childhood, walking into the backyard, past the grapevines and garden, circling around to the back of the blue garage, and looking down to find my lost throwing star. Waiting for me, all the time.

On Two Little Satellites

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

Two little satellites,
circling around me,
two little giants,
loving and carefree.

Have I told you my dreams?
Can you possibly know?
How I miss your smiles,
deep in my heart they go.

Two little ramble boys,
with energy and play,
two little dreamers,
small only for today.

You may be all that I leave,
all that I can bequeath,
take my life and care, and
never from my love retreat.

Two little best pals,
so close and so kind,
two little royal heirs,
the ties that do bind.

Live your nows, unaware
sing, dance, run, and joke,
For you hold a special treasure,
my beyond today hopes.

Two little monkeys,
high up on a swing,
two little achievers,
the plaudits that sing.

Your future will be bright,
shining up, up, and above,
For you will always have me,
my care and my dear love.

On Sitting Six Rows Back

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I’m in an airplane, sitting six rows back from first class. Just six small rows separate me and first class. Well, six rows and a sheer curtain that does nothing to obstruct one’s view of the fantasyland that is first class life but does everything to communicate the message that you are definitely not living the first class life.

Right now, the flight attendant appears to be serving the first class passengers meals on real china with actual utensils. I got to pay eight bucks for a plastic box of cheese and crackers. Well, I’m exaggerating; I also got walnuts and peanuts. My bad. Oh wait, now she’s passing around the bread basket in first class. I can only assume the meals have been paired with an appropriate wine straight from Napa Valley.

All is not lost, though. Hubby procured exit row seats for us. What this Faustian bargain entails is that, for a few extra (precious) inches of legroom, you agree to aid the crew in an emergency by opening the exit door and helping passengers out. So, yes, once everyone else has safely cleared the plane after it has crash landed, you will lag behind and be engulfed in the flames of the explosion. But, as tragic as that is, your knees will feel better at that moment of immolation, and that will bring a peace as you cross over the River Styx.

Okay, there are the hot towels. Bet that feels great. My small cocktail napkin probably doesn’t feel as good against my grimy skin. Okay, let me test that out.

Yep, I was right. That is totally uncomfortable.

So, Kim (that’s the name I’ve given the first class flight attendant — it just sounds nice) just had a really warm interaction with a passenger. Smiles were exchanged, a soft hand on a shoulder, direct eye contact, genuine sincerity. That was really nice to watch. Thus far, Ursula (that’s the name I’ve given my flight attendant) has hit my elbow four times with the beverage cart. I’m pretty sure she backed the cart up one time just to hit me again. That’s okay, the half glass of water I got was worth it. I wasn’t planning on using my elbow anytime soon, and the three days left in my vacation should give it ample time to heal.

Wow, Kim just surprised everyone in first class with giant chocolate chip cookies. Hold on. Yes, she is definitely explaining to the first class passengers that she personally baked the cookies in the galley kitchen. Oh, it’s her personal recipe. Handed down for four generations by her family. Okay, must be a French first class passenger, because Kim effortlessly switched to French, explaining the intricacies of the recipe, simultaneously, in both languages. The cookies do look amazing.

I have’t seen Ursula in at least half an hour.

Wait, another flight attendant just slid open the curtain separating first class and the rest of us. Could the first class lifestyle waft back to us? Okay, I see now. No, the first class lifestyle is not wafting back to us. What is wafting back, though, is the trash bag the flight attendant is carrying. Apparently, the trash first class generates cannot be stored in first class but must travel in coach. Seems only fair. As she passed, I do think I got a whiff of those delicious cookies.

So, a passenger three rows ahead of me just got up and opened the sheer curtain, attempting to walk up to the first class bathroom. At that moment, Kim was helping one of the first class passengers sharpen her resume for a job opening at the United Nations, but, when she saw the dude from coach cross into the promise land, she leapt up like a ninja, spinning over two rows like an Olympic gymnast does a pommel horse, landing in front of him. She was incredibly sweet but firm, explaining that the first class bathroom has special technology that only responds to passengers in first class. Should he attempt to use the lavatory, it would result in a mess appropriate for coach, not first class. Kim’s blue apron blocked his way, a silent guardian, a clear message to him that his bladder would find no solace at this end of the plane. From his posture, I could tell the passenger had to come to grips with his place on the plane, his place in life. Ultimately, though, he accepted the uncomfortable truth.

Speaking of uncomfortable, my chair, with its dearth of lumbar support, paucity of breathable fabric, and pinching sides, is positioned just so, allowing me to observe that the first class chairs are significantly more padded and ample. On the bright side, trying to sit with my back not touching the exposed springs of my chair does appear to lead to better posture. I guess the airline really does care.

The head flight attendant has come over the speaker, announcing a credit card offer. It seems that if you get the airline’s credit card, you can earn extra frequent flyer miles. Apparently, if you fly all the time, always using the same airline, in about 20-25 years, you can accumulate enough miles for a free flight. Domestic only. No holidays. No weekends. No summer trips. Fine print says it only applies to flights in and out of Topeka, Kansas. On Wednesdays. In January. Seems fair. During the announcement, I watched Kim hand out bundles of cash from a Brinks bag to the first class passengers. Again, seems fair.

So I’m not in first class. I can accept that. Hubby and I will get home. Eventually. Sure, we’ll feel gross, be exhausted, and ache all over, but we’ll get there. I don’t need to be fawned and fussed over, my every whim attended to. I can just sit here, admittedly uncomfortably, and wait it out. Wait out this misery. Wait out this endurance test, this crucible, this trial worthy of Odysseus. I’ll accept this as a challenge to my inner strength. My perseverance. I don’t need anything or anyone. I’m a self-made man. A rugged individual. Watch me find inner peace in this storm.

Wait, is Kim giving everyone in first class massages? Where the hell is Ursula?

On Borrowed Luxury

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Beyond my laptop monitor, at this very moment, is a gilded mirror, in which I can see the reflection of an impressive bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the windows, a desert stretches for miles after you survey the lush golf course, high rise casinos, and barren mountains. Yep, I’m in Las Vegas.

I just left the casino floor. I went down to get a Diet Coke to drink and figured the casino would bring me one if I played at a machine long enough. I was right. I enjoyed a small glass of Diet Coke, and it only cost me $100.

It’s not an original thought to say that Las Vegas is an oasis of contradictions. You find yourself surrounded by luxury — opulent casinos, pricey restaurants, and the allure of potential riches — and poverty — financial, emotional, and moral. For every luxurious casino promenade, there’s a meth addict huddled under a flight of concrete stairs, in a hundred degree heat, sleeping. Maybe passed out. Maybe dead. It’s quite the tapestry.

Trying your hand at blackjack or the slots can be fun, if not rewarding, but you’re always guaranteed a win when you people watch. You do see elegance and, here and there, some obvious wealth. But, on the whole, you see a lot more ordinary crude, rude, blunt, unsophisticated, uneducated, foul, and superficial. All here for the fun, the excitement, the action. And maybe the promise of that one pull of the lever that will change their life forever. Then again, you don’t build palaces like the modern day casino on winners.

As you walk amongst the hoi polloi, you gaze upon massive billboards, advertising the hottest musical acts, ventriloquists, impersonators, and magicians. At street level, it’s decidedly less magical. The street performers crowd the hot sidewalks, some mildly interesting, most incredibly bad. Barkers voice every tour and service imaginable, and gangs of sad looking folks in colored t-shirts flick cards at you advertising escort services with little emphasis on the escort part of the operation. Still, the bright lights, towering buildings, and air of excitement drown out the animated and unanimated detritus, at least to some extent.

It’s difficult to reconcile the Las Vegas experience with anything else in your life. There’s simply too much of everything. It’s all out of proportion. Your normal boundaries, parameters, and guidelines — simply obliterated. Pancakes at 4am? Why not. Bungee jump off a skyscraper over a roller coaster. I’m game. Pedicure while you pet a white jaguar born inside an active volcano with rubies for eyes? Sure. There are no rules (as long as you pay), no deadlines, no expectations. Just the throbbing orb of indulgence.

The casinos stand as a testament to our love of excess, of riches, of luxury. But, for most of us, we just borrow the luxury. We slip on the Emperor’s clothes, parade around for a bit, and, then, return home to laundry, bills, and responsibility. Maybe Vegas is the break from the mundane that lots of folks seem to need. In the end, though, there’s a reason Las Vegas is home to America’s magic scene. Sure, it’s a little bit magical, but it’s really one great big illusion.

On the Park Bench

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

“Good morning, sir. How are you?”

“Oh, hello. Fine, thank you.”

“Name’s Charles Boling.”

“Oh. Yes. Nice to meet you.” 

And, with that, the busy man placed his headphones on and tuned out the rest of the world.

Charles Boling continued to sit on the same park bench he’d sat at for nearly a year. At the corner of Elm Street and Craven Avenue, the bench had a nice view of the park, a grocery store, small shops, and a bus stop. A few blocks east was city hall, and, to the west, neighborhoods turned into suburbs, suburbs turned into farmland, and farmland turned into not much else. 

“Been too hot lately, hasn’t it?” Charles barked, attempting to speak over the busy man’s music. The busy man did not reply. And, within a few minutes, he stood and walked away from the bench, lost in his busy-ness.

People streamed down Elm Street, passing Charles left and right. Most lost in their thoughts. Some noted his shabby clothes — blue work pants, a white undershirt tinged gray and straining some at the chest and belly, and old brown boots. Others noticed his bushy brown beard, which traveled down his neck to the point of meeting the chest hair sprigging out of the top of his undershirt. A few noted the thick arms and hands calloused with work, but, for most all, Charles rated only as an animated accessory to the park bench. 

“Good morning.”

“Hello. Hello, Father,” Charles responded, caught off guard by not being the first to speak.

The priest sat down on the park, placing his bag between himself and Charles. 

“Lovely day, isn’t it? A little cooler.”

“Yes it is, Father. Been too hot lately for my tastes. Name’s Charles Boling,” Charles said, extending his hand.

“Michael Yates, nice to meet you Charles.” The priest took his hand. “Are you waiting for the bus too?”

“No. No, I don’t take the bus, Father. I’m just sitting here enjoying the day,” Charles answered, honestly.

Father Yates gave Charles a subtle once-over as he pulled out his bus ticket and looked up at the bus stop sign. 

“Do you come here often, Charles?”

“Every day.”

“Where do you work?” Father Yates knew his question was a little forward, but he asked with a practiced, warm smile that signaled his good intentions. 

Charles paused and then answered, “No. No, I haven’t worked in years. I was a mechanic. Long ago. Long time ago.” Charles leaned back on the bench, watching the people in the park.

The priest noted Charles’s hands. “That’s interesting work.”

“Well, when you can get it, yes.” Charles answered.

“Do you live nearby? It would be nice to be able to come to a park like this everyday.” Father Yates was no amateur.

“I live here and there,” Charles said. “I like the park.”

“Charles, my church is five blocks from here. Maybe you’ve heard of it, St. Mark’s?”

Charles shook his head.

“Well, it’s a great place, and we have a lot of programs to help folks that haven’t worked in a while or are living ‘here and there.’ Father Yates opened his bag and fished out a card, handing it to Charles. “I’d really like you to stop by. I think you’d like it.”

Charles looked at the card, flipping it over and back again in his hand.

Father Yates continued, “At St. Mark’s, we’re most concerned with your spiritual well-being. It’s not just about a job or a place to sleep.”

“I see,” Charles nodded.

Across the street, a bus pulled up, and Father Yates closed his bag and stood up. “Charles, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope I see you again.”

“Have a good day, Father.” 

Charles watched the priest cross the street and climb into the bus. Shortly, the bus pulled away, and Charles sat, lost in his thoughts. He’d been a good mechanic, or at least he thought so. Got a job during high school and never left. He liked the people, the challenge of solving a problem. Working with his hands. Everything seemed to work for a while. Met a girl. Sarah. Sweet secretary at an accountant’s office. Got married. Had a little house. Went for walks at night. They got by. 

A crowd rounded the corner, led by Representative Janet Skilling. Following in her impressive wake were journalists, cameramen, numerous aides, and dozens of supporters. Charles noted the oncoming throng and observed that the group seemed to gain mass as it neared. 

“Ladies and Gentleman,” Representative Skilling began as she stopped thirty feet from Charles’s bench, “I’ve come to Asher Park today to announce a new jobs and housing initiative in the city.” 

Cameras rolled, journalists scribbled, aides listened, and supporters gave polite applause. 

“The downturn in the economy hurt everyone, but our most vulnerable have felt the impact in a way not known to most of us. The city’s unemployment and homeless rates have increased significantly, and we have not just a social responsibility to address this, but a moral one.” 

More applause. More scribbles.  

Charles listened as best he could from his park bench. As the representative spoke, the crowd around her undulated and swayed. The representative came into and out of Charles’s sight. On multiple occasions, he locked eyes with her. 

“…and with these additional funds, we will institute new job training programs and, just a few blocks from this park, we will construct a new homeless shelter to house and care for the city’s most vulnerable, the most at-risk.”

“Representative Skilling, Tom Junken from The Telegraph. The crime rate in Asher Park has increased significantly in the past year. Assaults, batteries, thefts. Residents also complain about intrusive panhandling. How will your jobs initiative address those concerns?”

“Tom,” Representative Skilling began as she pulled taut her suit jacket, “you bring up symptoms of the larger problem of unemployment and homelessness. Our goal is to reduce unemployment and homelessness. When those numbers drop, so do crime, so do panhandling. Believe me, no one wants to make Asher Park safe for families again more than I do. When a person has a job, when a person has a home, they feel different, they act different. Less crime. Less panhandling. We want to tend to not just their economic needs, but their needs as a member of this community.”

Scribbles, nodding of heads, and applause. 

The throng drifted away from the park, following the bold lead of Representative Skilling. Charles thought about the representative’s words, and then thought about Sarah. She was short, freckled, with auburn hair that went down to her shoulders. She was pretty, but not gorgeous. Charles especially liked that. There was nothing pretentious about Sarah. She was comfortable. Real. Real with freckles. He missed that.

“May I sit here?”

Charles looked around to see a short, squat woman, dirty, with wild hair. She was pulling a cart from the grocery across the street, loaded down with what was obviously all her worldly possessions. She wore a tattered t-shirt and stained slacks. 

“Yes mam, of course you may sit here,” was Charles’s kind reply.

“Thank you. I’m so hot. It’s been a little cooler today, but I get so warm walking around. It will be nice to sit for a while. I’m Nancy.”

“Charles. Nice to meet you, Nancy.”

“Same to you,” she huffed as she flopped down.

Charles could tell from the slight slur in her words that Nancy had been drinking. Her nails were dirty.

“Do you come here often?” she asked, still a little breathless.

“Every day.”

Nancy smiled a smile of recognition. “I haven’t seen you around. Are you new to town?”

“No,” Charles said. “Lived here a long time. Been coming here ‘bout a year.”

“Well, in case you don’t know, there’s a great kitchen a few blocks west of here. Nice people. I go there just about every day.”

“So, what do they want at this kitchen, besides to give you food? What’s their concern?” Charles asked.

Nancy looked puzzled. “Nothing, that I know of. I just go there and eat.” She pulled her cart around in front of her, resting her feet on it. “I’ve never gotten in any trouble for that.”

“I see.”

“You by yourself? Have any family around here, Charles?”

“No. No, it’s just me.”

Nancy stared at Charles, a little drunk.

“I was married,” Charles replied. “My wife passed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. All you want is a little happiness, isn’t it? Tell me about her,” Nancy said.

Charles smiled back, hesitantly. “And what do you want?”

Nancy understood his question. “Just to listen.”

“I loved Sarah with all my heart,” Charles began.

On an Anticipated Son

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 3 Comments

How can I long for you,
how can I miss your face?
When I do not know, after all,
your time, your smile, your place.

You are but a dream today,
A song so sweet in my heart,
that, even now, I so fear
from that love to be apart.

You dance warmly in my dreams,
coming and going as you please,
breaking my heart when you fade,
slipping my hands with ease.

You came with a whisper,
choirs singing so sweetly,
but now you roar like a lion,
unchallenged and deeply.

I confess I am not ready,
and I will confess much more,
if you will only show yourself,
and erase the ghosts of before.

But I am left with only this love,
this love of something not known,
all my faults and sins and wrongs,
those I will gladly for you own.

If you hear my cry and prayer,
do not think me weak,
for it is a terribly great love,
a great reward that I seek.

I will stand here and wait,
I know not where to search.
It is you who must find,
and claim us from this perch.

On the day you find me,
do not mind my gentle tears,
for you will be here, my love,
my son, my child, my dear.

On an Annual Goodbye

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Edith Thomas slowly guided her silver sedan around the lush hills of Sparrow’s Trace Cemetery. It was a clear, sunny day in early October, but, at 79, she no longer trusted her eyes and reflexes as she once did. So, she drove slowly, humming her favorite hymns and pulling her hair back gently with her left hand. She slowed as she crested the high hill, pausing to look at the Gentry mausoleum as she always did. Still standing and still beautiful.

Edith glided down the hill, past the Smiths, the Flannigans, and the Browns, and she turned gently left at the Turners and the Vincents. As she arrived at the Memory Pond, she pulled over onto the side of the road and parked. A look in the mirror, a flutter of the eyes, a purse of the lips, a sniff of the nose, and an application of makeup later, she gingerly opened the door and stepped out.

Underneath the car landed two black flats, worn but still presentable at church. Like a series of blocks landing on each other came the hose, black skirt, thin black belt, cream blouse, black jacket with jade broach, and jade necklace. The assemblage was topped by a surprisingly youthful face, rose cheeks and deep eyes surrounded by an oval perimeter further fenced by short silver hair. Small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth betrayed her, but she bore a posture and pose of a woman twenty years her junior.

Edith took her flowers from the rear seat, shut the car door, and walked across the road and onto the grass leading to the Memory Pond. The grass was thick with the summer’s growth, and it appeared her slight frame did little to challenge the combined strength of the blades. She arrived at a small stone bench, her favorite, and sat, admiring the complete view of the pond. Ringed by Northern Red Oak trees, the blue-green water of the pond shimmered as if on fire when the breeze danced across. She closed her eyes, felt the sun on her face, and leaned back on her hands. She could hear the wind and the birds and a stray insect or two, as always, and, most importantly, she could hear nothing else.

She had first come to Sparrow’s Trace Cemetery thirty years ago to bury her parents. Then, she had the strength of her husband Kevin and daughter Emily to lean on. To depend on, really. Ten years later, with Emily living on the other coast, it was much more difficult when it came time to say goodbye to Kevin. Her college sweetheart. Her best friend. Her everything.

Her mind wandered to the breakfast table 21 years earlier. That’s when it started. Like every other morning, she had made Kevin his oatmeal and sliced his apple. It was just one of the daily rituals that gave their lives meaning and order and, honestly, happiness. They talked about Emily’s impending marriage, town gossip, and other things that surely seemed important. An hour later, that’s the first time Kevin felt ill. A pain in the stomach. She wrote it off to indigestion, but it didn’t resolve for hours. A few days later, the same thing. The next week, again.  Then, Edith and Kevin began the dance so many knew so awfully well: doctors, tests, more doctors, more tests, the Big C, tears, treatment, tears, treatment, exhaustion, treatment, hope, more treatment, more exhaustion, more tears.

A year later, at Kevin’s bedside in the hospital, while Emily had gone downstairs to get some coffee, Edith held Kevin’s hand as she watched him slip away. There was no commotion, no dramatics, no furious heroics from doctors and nurses. Fear becoming reality was surprisingly quiet. Edith just sat and held his hand. She knew the thought — that if she never let go he wouldn’t either — was foolish, but she couldn’t will herself to move. Edith felt Emily come into the room with the coffee, but to move to acknowledge her, to recognize her own daughter, entailed finishing her final moment with Kevin. No force in the universe could have caused that. She stared at Kevin, frantically trying to take as much in as possible, clawing against time, fighting in silence against an undefeated foe. It was not until Emily’s hand landed gently on her shoulder that the spell was broken. Still undefeated. Emily never knew that Edith’s subsequent tears embodied her anger at her for breaking the spell as much as they represented the pain of losing her husband.

Edith glanced around the pond and watched the ducks swim. For many years after Kevin’s death, Edith felt just like those ducks — grace on the surface, but kicking and struggling like hell underneath the whole time. She came to the cemetery often to visit and that helped ease the pain to some extent. Like oatmeal and sliced apples, the ritual of the cemetery visit gave her grief order. Maybe even meaning. Eventually, she visited only on Kevin’s birthday, October 4. And, so, today, it was time for Edith and her grief to take a visit. And today, she had an important message for Kevin.

She got up from the bench and carried her flowers halfway around the pond. She carefully walked up and over a slight hill and into a large expanse dotted with trees and shrubs. She smiled as she passed the Callahans and the Benders, the Julians and the Roosevelts. Edith finally came to a large, gray headstone, beautiful in its simplicity. “Kevin Bryant Thomas, October 4, 1936 to May 17, 1995, Father, Husband, Son, and Friend” As she knelt to put the white roses down in front of the tombstone, her left hand rested on top of the stone and felt its warmth. She enjoyed the sensation more than she would have thought. After all these years, she still wanted Kevin comfortable, as silly as it was, and after all that had happened.

She stepped back and took in the scene. Behind the stone and white roses, the hill fell away gradually, undulating as far as the eyes could see. Trees dotted everywhere and melted into the sky. It was a beautiful vista, one of endless possibility for spirits with no possibility. She looked around and noticed numerous flowers in front of various tombstones and took comfort in at least that level of life in this place. She cleared her throat and looked again at Kevin’s tombstone.

“I’m back. Happy birthday. You’d be 79 today, Kevin. I always did like being married to a younger man.”

She looked away, smoothing her skirt with her hand. The wind had picked up.

“I think about you every day. I do. And I know I don’t cry anymore. I can’t cry anymore, Kevin. I don’t think you’d want me to cry.”

Her eyes watered.

“Well,” she began to laugh at herself, “maybe I still cry every once in a while.”

Her small chest began to heave a little, and she wrapped her arms around herself. She stood contrapposto, fighting for the right angle to balance her sadness against the wind. Her oval face trembled now, the emotions of decades acting like tectonics, moving, shifting, shearing underneath and overtop one another, all under the surface, evidence by the slightest twitch of her eyes, jerk of her lip.

“Twenty years, Kevin. Twenty years. I have come here every year for twenty God damn years.”

She smoothed her hair back and relaxed her shoulders. The wind had died down, mirroring the slow release of all that Edith had held back for the last year.

“Last year, Emily and Joe came here with me on your birthday. We stood here, told Joe our favorite memories of you. Made him laugh. You would have been a good father-in-law to him. That night, they asked me to move out to California with them. And Kevin,” the tears were tumbling down to the thick, full, green grass, “Kevin, I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to leave you. I know, I know, but I didn’t want to leave you. Leave these visits. It was our life. Our life, Kevin, it was here. And it was a happy life.”

Edith stopped, pausing over her last words, looking away, unable to face Kevin or at least his earthly stone representative. Her shoulders had drawn up again, her hand cupping the broach he had given her on their 20th wedding anniversary.

“I told Emily and Joe that I would have to think about it.”

She wiped the tears away and caught her breath. Red leaves tumbled about her feet, one brilliant red leaf lodging in the white roses.

“While they were here on their visit. They helped me move some things up and down from the attic. Joe’s a strapping boy. He lugged those boxes up and down like it’s nothing. He brought down your old trunk from the attic. One of your old football programs caught his eye. We enjoyed looking at our college yearbooks. We were so young, Kevin. So young. When they left to go back to California, I looked around in your trunk some more.”

She paused again. Her tight face hid the delicate balancing occurring in her heart. Then, more tectonics. One plate slid underneath another, shearing off the scab she had worked so hard for the last year to build.

“I found the letters, Kevin.”

The beasts of hell had been released in slow motion.

“I’m sure you never counted on getting sick and dying so young. Were you going to get rid of them at some later date? Did you get too weak to go up to the attic to get them? Was that one thing you couldn’t ask me to help you with after your treatments? ‘Hey Kitty Kat, will you scurry on up to the attic and fetch the evidence that shows how our marriage is a scam? Thanks, hon.'”

“Did you die thinking about them? Were you keeping them to take trips down memory lane? Trips to remind you of your unfaithfulness. Trips to remind you how, with a small daughter and wife at home, you carried on a double life with a cheap office harlot for four years?  I guess we weren’t enough. Was that it? Did you want a trophy? Was it a conquest? Was I not exciting enough? Was I not dedicated enough? Did I not give you enough? Twenty God forsaken years, Kevin. Twenty years coming here. Twenty!”

Her scream ran down the hills. The grass and the leaves listened. Her emotional weight bent the light around her.

“You didn’t even have the creativity to come up with new pet names. Kitty Kat, how stupid was I! How many more were there? Did you get it out of your system, or was I an ongoing fool? Was it nothing to you, all an act? Or was our family all an act? Was I on stage or in the audience? Please let me know, I want to know.”

She stopped and breathed. Her first parry complete. Exactly as rehearsed. For months.

“I want to know, Kevin. I deserve to know, Kevin. I deserve….”

She trailed off as a car rounded a corner in the distance. She straightened her jacket, smoothed her blouse, reset her shoulders.

“I deserved better.”

The tears that had been dried by the heat of anger rolled onto the shore again.

“I’ve come here for twenty years. It gave me strength to remember this amazing man. This amazing husband. This amazing father of my child. Do you think I liked being alone? Do you think this is how I wrote my future? Do you think I wanted this, this, this non-life? I’m known for the past, not the present, much less the future. I’m a living museum exhibit. I’m spread so thin, Kevin. Why, Kevin, why?”

“But I held on to you, because you were wonderful to me. And, then, I read the letters. And I’m holding on to a dream. Holding on to a lie. A fiction.”

“Did you regret it? I wish you could tell me you regretted it. Tell me it was your worst mistake, made you love me more, made you even more committed. Tell me any one of the lies people tell each other in such situations. Tell me something. Anything.”

Edith’s shoulder’s slumped, her youthful posture and strength sapped.

“I haven’t told Emily. I won’t tell Emily. Not because I’m protecting you. I’m not. I feel sorry for you, that’s why. You cheated yourself out of loving someone completely. I don’t want your daughter to know you did that. She would think less of you, as I do. I still love you. I cannot change that, but I also can’t un-know. I will forgive you in time, but I won’t forget.”

The plates rested. An equilibrium had been reached. The trees, the leaves, and the grass were still.

“I’m moving to California next week. I won’t be back here again. I’m taking Emily and Joe up on their offer. I gave you twenty years of widowhood. That’s nineteen too many.”

She turned to walk away, took three steps, and stopped. Edith wheeled around, walked to the headstone, and removed the red leaf from the middle of the white roses. Kneeling, she whispered, “I still love you, Kevin. I’m angry, but I still love you. I was faithful, and nothing ever changes that. I loved you. I gave you what I had to give.”

Edith continued to kneel, for a long time, hugging the tombstone, crying, and offering “I loved you” as a quiet, rhythmic chant that rolled over the hills, among the leaves, and through the thick green grass.

When there were no more tears, when she had wrung all of the farewells and goodbyes from her soul, she turned and walked away over the hill, never to visit her husband, her only true love, ever again.

*******************************************

As Edith approached her car, a landscape worker was fixing some equipment near a tree, and she stopped and watched.

“Oh, hello mam. How are you?” the young man asked as he walked toward her.

“I’m okay, thank you,” Edith responded, her red eyes and streaked cheeks attesting to something different.

The young man had had many such encounters and tried to be as respectful and as unobtrusive as he could be, but felt moved in this instance to add, “It’s never easy to lose someone, is it?”

Edith took a long look at him. So long that he feared he had been inappropriate, only to hear her respond, “No, it’s not, especially when you learn that you had lost them long before you thought you had.”

The young man didn’t understand.

“May I ask you a question?” she asked.

“Yes, mam, of course.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes I am. We have two little boys.”

“You must have your hands full.”

“We do, but we get by. We’re happy.”

“Good, now I have a favor to ask you.”

Confused again, the young man replied, “Yes mam?”

“What’s your wife’s name”

“Theresa.”

“Tonight, when you get home, I want you to take an envelope and write on it ‘I love Theresa and my sons.’ That’s all. Don’t write anymore. And put the envelope in your dresser, where you’ll see it everyday.”

“Mam, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I want you to remember that everyday, and, if you ever get tempted to put any other letters in there, you’ll see that envelope. Give yourself the chance to love someone completely.”

The young man still unsure what the elderly woman meant simply replied, “Yes mam. I think that’s a good idea.”

“Trust me, I know it is.”

*******************************************

Edith got in her car, wiped clean her face, and began winding around the hills of the cemetery toward the exit. She no longer felt the inertia of the place, that grounding force that retains and retards. The trees and the leaves and the grass passed by, no longer interlopers on her pain, but a more unified whole.

She pulled under the ornate iron gate, paused, and turned right toward home. The feel of the last tenon releasing was not the snap she had expected. More of a gentle release. From her own hand.

On the Last Booth: An Axton Village Story

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this meeting of the Axton Village City Council will come to order.”

With those words, Paxton Cobbler VI opened the city council meeting. As the scion of Axton Village’s most prominent family, many in the village felt it right and proper that he should oversee the important work of the city council. And it was a heavy burden. In addition to overseeing the town’s international frisbee competition, the council oversaw day to day operations of the village government; created, amended, and ignored annual budgets; and selected the pancake flavor of the month for all local truck stops.

“For this special session of the city council, the standard weekly agenda has been tabled.”

“Objection!” shouted Wendy Sizemore, Axton Village’s most senior council member and recent loser to Cobbler for the chair position in a run-off election held at the Axton Village roller rink, “Skate, Bait, and Tackle.” Wendy’s animosity over the loss dripped in her words. “I move to strike the unlawful opening statement and resume regular business.”

“Councilwoman Sizemore, there is nothing to object to. I am simply explaining the purpose for tonight’s meeting,” Chairman Cobbler patiently explained.

“I object to the disrespectful tone the Chair is demonstrating, and I move for a vote of no confidence,” Sizemore retorted, straightening her puppy dog broach as she smiled widely.

Exasperated, Chairman Cobbler replied, “Councilwoman Sizemore, this is the fifth meeting in a row you have called for a vote of no confidence, and this will be the fifth meeting in a row that I remind you that we have no such parliamentary procedure in our bylaws.”

“I object to the bylaws, and, on behalf of the good people of Axton Village, on behalf of the good and decent people of Axton Village, I move for a vote of no confidence.”  Pausing as she finished, the Councilwoman held her chin high for dramatic effect, which when combined with her angular cheekbones and impossibly tall hair-do, somewhat diminished her air of complete incompetence. It was a bold move, sure to make the headlines of the newspaper and capture the imagination of Axton Village’s more gullible residents, which, all would admit, was most of them.

“Thank you, Councilwoman Sizemore,” Chairman Cobbler uttered, wondering why he needed a run-off election at a roller rink to defeat her. “Your objections will be noted in the record we are not making tonight.”  Wendy Sizemore smiled smugly, scribbling a note on her monogrammed puppy dog stationary.

“Members of the Council, Village residents, and guests, we hold this special meeting of the Axton Village City Council for an important reason. As you all know, next month we will celebrate the 75th annual Tool Days, Axton Village’s yearly celebration of all that is great about our town. Started three-quarters of a century ago by my great-grandfather, Paxton Cobbler III, to celebrate all the great tools in Axton Village, the celebration has grown from guys displaying their hammers and wrenches and screwdrivers in a park downtown, to the wonderful, family-friendly celebration it is today, with live music, games, races, and booth after booth of fantastic food and products from local vendors and charities.”

“And free massages. Don’t forget the massages,” interjected Councilman Craig Kuhlmann.  After flunking out of medical, physical therapy, nursing, and chiropractic schools, Craig Kuhlmann opened his own massage parlor, “Shakies.” With three locations around town, Shakies was the most popular spot in Axton Village to unwind, relax, and, possibly, talk to someone practicing medicine without a license. To increase business, Councilman Kuhlmann began giving free massages at the 70th annual Tool Days.

“That’s right, Councilman Kuhlmann, my apologies,” replied Chairman Cobbler.

Councilwoman Regina Flatz blushed, as she thought about Shakies. At the 71st Tool Days, she had received one of Councilman Kuhlmann’s patented reflexology massages for her feet. It was an intense emotional experience. She couldn’t walk for two days, but, two months later, divorced her husband.

“Last month, the Council approved all of the booth assignments for local vendors and charities,” Chairman Cobbler continued, “or so we thought. As it turns out, we left one booth spot unassigned.”

“Incompetence,” Councilwoman Sizemore uttered underneath her breath, but loud enough for local journalist Trevor Hoffman to hear and note in his article in the Axton Village Proclaimer the following day, “The Last Booth Down to the Last Vote”

“We are holding this special meeting tonight to assign the last booth. We have two competing residents. The Council will allow each resident five minutes to address the Council, explaining why their booth most comports with the values of Axton Village Tool Days: Friendship, Fun, and Flathead Screwdrivers. After each presentation, the Council will have up to five minutes to question the resident. After each presentation and question and answer session, the Council will vote, and the resident receiving the most votes will receive the last booth. No other business will be conducted. Are there any questions?”

Councilwoman Flatz was still blushing, fanning herself, and wondering if she had renewed her annual pass to Shakies.

“Seeing none,” Chairman Cobbler directed, “I invite the first resident to the podium, Mr. Blaine Blinzon.

Blinzon walked slowly and stiffly to the podium. A plastic surgery addict, his problem was plain for all to see. He had achieved his desired look of a living, breathing Ken doll. It was unclear, however, if the majority of Blaine’s body parts were original or “enhanced.” At any rate, he moved rigidly, but, as difficult as it was, he did not sweat. Well, could not sweat. He had his sweat glands removed years ago to allow for more taut facial skin. The result was a forehead you could carve vegetables on.

“Hewo, my nam is Blaine Blinzon. I am the presiden and CEO of Blaine’s Organic Foodz. We baleave that natural is always better than artafishal.”  Council members Cobbler, Sizemore, and Kuhlmann stared with not insignificant interest in the ability of Blaine’s facial skin to move enough to form words with a degree of accuracy. Councilwoman Flatz continued to stare at Councilman Kuhlmann. “We baleave nature does not make miststeaks. We want to spread this messidge (and our all natural jams and jellies) at Tewl Days. We have been a part of this khamunity for tin yurrs, and support many lokhal causes. We employ thurty lokhal residens, We wheel donate halve of our prophets from Tewl Days to the lokhal liberry. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blinzon. You’re looking as relaxed as ever,” Chairman Cobbler warmly noted. We will now entertain any questions from the Council. The Chair recognizes Councilwoman Sizemore.”

“Mr. Blinzon, I just happened to notice that the Axton Village Proclaimer is here. Two years ago, an exposé in that publication accused Blaine’s Organic Foodz of funneling profits to a Japanese whaling vessel and using whale blubber to make some of your organic shampoos and makeups.” Blaine Blinzon’s impossibly tight lips got impossibly tighter. He could not sweat, luckily. “So, Mr. Blinzon,” Councilwoman Sizemore pressed on, “what I and my constituents want to know,” darting glances at journalist Hoffman, “what I and my constituents need to know is…can we get that amazing lip gloss in a watermelon flavor?”

“Yuz! Next year, we are releaseen three new flavurz: watermelon, Snickers, and Kit Kat! All natural. 100 persent from nature. Nuthin but the bezt!” Blinzon answered, relieved he did not have to reveal that some of the blubber had been used to give him the ankles of his dreams.

Councilman Kuhlmann turned on his microphone, “Thank you Mr. Blinzon. I am impressed by your company’s promise to share half of the profits with the Axton Village Library, if you are selected for the last booth. As you know, last year, I donated an entire collection of books on massage to the library, and I am proud to announce tonight that library data proves that Axton Village teenagers check out and read more books on massage than any other teenagers in the tristate area.”

“Thank you, Councilman Kuhlmann.” Chairman Cobbler, seeing no other questions or comments, thanked Mr. Blinzon for his presentation and invited the second candidate for the last remaining Tool Days booth to come forward.

Trina Van Selbing strode to the podium with an other-worldly confidence. Not only confident, her stride was powerful — propelled by thick legs and a mighty, orbicular derrière. In order to offset the impressive gravitational forces at play, her bosom was equally bountiful, accentuated by a striped dress that, when in motion, sent lines of color exploding in myriad directions. “Praise Jesus,” she began, “I want to praise Jesus and Jehovah for bringing me here tonight. I know his hand and authority are guiding me right now, anointing me with the spirit. Bless all of you!” The Council was spellbound by her invocations, and, as for Councilman Kuhlmann, he was spellbound by Trina Van Selbing’s dress.

“That’s very kind,” Chairman Cobbler remarked, “tell us about your booth.”

“I come this evening as the appointed and anointed emissary from the Second Word of God Church. Praise be. After months of singing spiritual songs, talking in tongues, and making a joyful noise, hallelujah!!, I am here, here with Jesus, here and now, hear me be here, praise!, to tell this mighty Council, this triumphant group, this almighty assemblage, this keeper of the Peace, that the disciples of the Second Word of God Church are prepared to maintain a prayer booth at next month’s Axton Village Tool Days. Mmmmm, God is good! God is good! Whew! Jesus! Jesus Lord! Jesus down in my soul! Yes, sweet Jesus!”

Councilwoman Sizemore sat dumbfounded at Ms. Van Selbing’s obvious, clear, deep connection with the Almighty. Chairman Cobbler did not know what to say. Councilman Kuhlmann had heard some of his massage clients make similar noises, but the circumstances seemed very different. Councilwoman Flatz, feeling somewhat guilty at her earlier focus on her annual pass at Shakies, gathered herself long enough to ask, “So, how would this prayer booth work?”

“Thank you Jesus for this opportunity to witness. Praise be!” Trina Van Selbing began. “At the Second Word of God Church, we know the people of Axton Village are hurting. Not physically. Not mentally. But spiritually. There is an aching need in this town.” Councilwoman Flatz began to blush again. “There is a need for Jesus. Thank you Jesus! Blessed be all who follow you! The disciples of our church with the closest connection, the strongest connection, the most anointed connection to the Almighty will be on hand at Tool Days to help the needy, the poor, the sick, the wretched, the lonely, all of Axton Village. God is good! Good is God! Praise be! Anyone at Tool Days can come to our booth to pray with us, to sing with us, to be anointed by us.”

“So,” Chairman Cobbler began slowly, “at Tool Days, our values are Friendship, Fun, and Flathead Screwdrivers. Can you explain to the Council how your booth would best represent those values?”

“Praise be! A booth for the Second Word of God church would be all those things, Jesus is good! Mmmm, thank you Jesus! We are all those things because they are good, and all good things come from Jesus. Hallelujah! Praise be!”

“Okay. Well, I know I can speak for the Council when I say that your presentation was very energetic,” Chairman Cobbler said diplomatically. Does anyone on the Council have any other questions for Ms. Van Selbing?”

“Ms. Van Selbing,” Councilwoman Sizemore began, “there have been rumors for some years now that your church engages in the ritualistic handling of snakes. Is that true, and, if so, would you be handling snakes at your prayer booth at Tool Days?”

A hush fell over the room. The Council exchanged glances; the local residents gathered in the gallery were simultaneously shocked at Councilwoman Sizemore’s revelation and eager for the reply, and journalist Trevor Hoffman readied his pen and tape recorder, sensing the blockbuster news story of the year. For her part, Ms. Trina Van Selbing was taken aback and took a moment to compose herself, praying to Jesus softly underneath her breath.

“Councilwoman Sizemore, we are empowered, embraced, and emboldened with the love of Jesus. Jesus knows no limits, knows no fears, knows no boundaries. And his strength fills our entire bodies,” she responded, rubbing her hands gently over her generous striped dress in a subtle gesture of the Almighty’s power to fill even that body. “But to answer your question, the snakes are fake.”

An audible gasp went up from the crowd. Trevor Hoffman wrote furiously.

Sensing that the meeting was about to take a turn, if it had not already, Chairman Cobbler spoke up. “Thank you, mam. I see that our time for questions and answers has elapsed. You can take your seat.”

“Praise be.”

“This Council has heard two interesting, challenging, and, if I may say so, uniquely amazing presentations tonight. It is clear that either choice would make for an excellent final addition to Tool Days. As Chairman, I will begin the voting by announcing that I believe the final booth should be given to the Second Word of God Church.”

“Hallelujah!”

“Mam, please. As I was saying, while both booths would be wonderful, the Second Word of God Church would bring something different and never before seen at Tool Days. That’s why I think the booth should go to them. Councilwoman Sizemore?”

“My vote,” she broadcast triumphantly, pausing for dramatic effect, “goes to Blaine’s Organic Foodz. I believe in nature, in honesty, in wholeness. Our town needs more of that.” Councilwoman Sizemore cast her eyes in the direction of Chairman Cobbler. “Blaine’s Organic Foodz would be the best addition to Tool Days.” She could almost taste the watermelon lip gloss.

Chairman Cobbler looked to the next Council member, Craig Kuhlmann, “Councilman Kuhlmann, your vote?”

“Well, as you note Chair, we have two excellent options, but, at the end of the day, I agree with you that the Second Word of God provides some diversity to Tool Days. My vote is with them.” Councilman Kuhlmann turned off his microphone, leaned back, and began counting all the new memberships he’d enjoy at Shakies by virtue of his vote. Praise be.

“Chairwoman Flatz?”

“I vote for Blaine’s Organic Foodz,” she announced. She, too, had heard the loud, praiseful voices at Shakies. She new the real from the fake, and, thus, she voted for Blaine’s.

Trevor Hoffman looked up from his notepad, sensing more history was about to be made as Chairman Cobbler began.

“Ladies and gentleman, thus far, we have a 2-2 tie. Accordingly, the deciding vote will be cast by our fifth Council member.”

Everyone in the room turned in unison to the end of the Council table. There, smiling sweetly and swinging her legs in big loops inside her sun dress was Little Susie Prikster. As the Axton Village Youth Council Member, Susie had only taken over the post two meetings before when, for mysterious and unknown reasons, 16 year old Bennie McCusker had fallen off his bike, breaking both arms and a hip. The lone witness had been the ray of sunshine herself, Little Susie Prikster. Bennie was still in a coma. Selflessly, wonderfully, Little Susie volunteered to take his spot on the Council on a temporary basis. Seeing no harm in it, Chairman Cobbler had agreed, sensing a sweet photo-op.

“Susie, have you listened to the presentations? Do you understand why we have to pick someone to take the last booth spot for Tool Days?” Chairman Cobbler spoke slowly and softly, thinking how sorry he felt for this poor sweet girl. What a terrible pressure for such a young, innocent thing.

“Yes, Chairman Cobbler, I did listen. I listened really well. Super well,” Susie replied, still swinging her legs.

“That’s good, Susie. Now, who would you choose to be at Tool Days, Blaine’s Organic Foodz or the prayer booth from the church?”

“Well, my mommy is always talking about how good we are supposed to be, and I listen Chairman Cobbler. I listen really well. I pray every night, and I try to be a good little girl. But some people are mean, and, so, I think a prayer booth would be a good thing at Tool Days.”

Blaine Blinzon wanted to cry, but, of course, with his tear ducts removed to add volume to his cheek bones, he could not.

“Thank you Susie. I think you made a fair choice. Ladies and gentlemen, the vote is 3-2, and the last booth at Tool Days will be awarded to the Second Word of God Church. Thank you all for your time and attention. This meeting is now adjourned.”

And, with that, Chairman Cobbler and the other adult Council members rose to thank and congratulate Little Susie Prikster on her wonderful job and brave vote. Blaine Blinzon hobbled out of the room, and Trina Van Selbing sat in her chair, swayed slightly, palms turned up to heaven, praying a prayer of thanks. Trevor Hoffman wrote furiously, sensing multiple awards for writing about the Axton Village City Council meeting where the tie-breaking vote was cast by a little angel.

Little Susie Prikster sat, smiling, batting her big eyes as everyone told her what a smart, pretty, helpful, kind, and fair little girl she had been. The nine year old, with her hands buried deep in her sundress, clutched two plastic snakes.