Excerpt

Chapter 1:  I’m Going Where?

It was May of 1975. Maybe you remember what it was like. The US was evacuating its embassy in Saigon. Streaking had come and gone. The stock market was just beginning to recover from an extended downturn. Gerald Ford was our president. Most people had yet to hear of Bruce Jenner. Jack Nicholson and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest had just cleaned up at the Oscars. Nixon administration personnel were being sentenced to prison for their roles in Watergate. We were soon to reach two hundred years as a nation. The Cold War was going strong, but the “ping-pong diplomacy” of 1972 in China had initiated a thaw of sorts, even with the Soviet bloc. Eighteen was the legal age for drinking in many states. Simon and Garfunkel, Elton John, and the Eagles were among my personal favorites. The Pittsburgh Steelers had won their first Super Bowl in January. And I was driving a school bus twice a day to pay for tuition expenses at Grand View College before transferring to the University of Northern Iowa.

“You gotta be kidding me,” I said to no one in particular as I pulled the bus on to the shoulder, in response to the flashing red lights that were clearly intended for me. I was usually the first driver to depart every afternoon from the Norwoodville Elementary School parking lot because my route covered the greatest distance. As the rookie driver I didn’t select my route; it was assigned to me. I stood up to tell my kindergarten passengers to remain in their seats while I went back to the car with the flashing lights to talk with “Mr. Policeman.”

Little Rollie Kouski asked, “Are you mad? My daddy always gets mad when he talks to the policeman.”

I had to watch as every other driver slowed his bus to make certain he could believe what he was seeing. That’s right, one of their very own was being cited for speeding – while driving a school bus full of kindergartners – less than three blocks from the school! Between their wild hand gestures and guffaws I was confident they would be waiting en masse at the bus barn once I finished the route. They were.

“Son, I’ve been sitting here in this same spot, every day, for two weeks. I’ve been watching all of you drivers barrel down Broadway. I know it is downhill, and I know the limit changes from twenty-five to forty-five just up the street. But right here it is only twenty-five. Every one of you drivers has been over the limit. I just decided that today I was going to send a message to all of you. You just happened to be the first one out of the chute, so I am citing you for speeding. Sorry, you were the one to be the example. Now maybe all of you will slow down.”

And that is why I married a girl from Bydgoszcz, Poland.

I suppose that segue merits some explanation. My father always liked music. He was not a trained musician but he had a pleasant bass voice. He liked to sing and was in the church choir. But even when the choir wasn’t singing, Dad always sang the hymns with a little more gusto than the rest of the congregation. And he would harmonize. That always fascinated me, too. You know how sometimes people sing really loud – like they are trying to impress you? Well, that wasn’t Dad. If he had been like that I probably wouldn’t have liked music. He just enjoyed singing, and still does. I wasn’t particularly gifted in music, like my little sister was, but I was probably a little better than my older brother.

Dad found an outlet for his singing interests. He joined the Society for the Preservation and Encouragement of Barber Shop Quartet Singing in America Inc., or SPEBSQSA, for short. I was probably seven or eight years old when Mom and Dad took us to our first “Barbershop Show” at KRNT Theatre. I liked it. The music was OK, I guess, but I really liked those funny guys, “The Four Nubbins.” (The featured quartet).

And that is why I married a girl from Bydgoszcz, Poland.

My youth was a pretty typical middle-America, 1960s, blue collar experience. We were probably closer to poor than to rich, but we were far from either one. Dad was a truck driver who had grown up with six siblings. Mom was a nurse and had been raised on a farm along with three sisters and a brother. We weren’t exactly the Cleavers because Dad didn’t wear a suit to work and Mom always worked outside the home to make ends meet. But Mom and Dad did teach some of the same values as Ward and June. My brother took care of me, kind of like Wally took care of The Beav. My father liked to reference my two best friends as Gilbert and Whitey. He even pegged another buddy as Eddie Haskell.

Copyright 2010 Tim Pratt. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

“Pass the peas,” Lydia says, but I ignore her.

“Pass the peas to your sister,” my dad says.

“I’m not touching them,” I say.

“I thought you liked peas,” my dad says.

“Things change,” I say.

“You know, that’s enough of that. This is between your mother and me.”

My mother watches us both while she eats.

“Fine,” Lydia says. She leans over the table and snatches the peas.

“They’re going to build on the empty lot,” my father says.

That was Davey’s house, across the street and one house down. It blocked everyone’s view of the valley. That lot was steep, fell right into the woods. For those of us without a view, this was a place to stare into real blank space, not into someone else’s yard or window.

Elysian Fields. Paradise for good Romans. A squatty tower greeted visitors to our neighborhood. It said so right on the tower, in letters of wrought iron. The place began as a bunch of shoebox houses crowded between corn fields. It looked like a Roman army camp. Very precise. No curves. The Elysian Fields grew, and they ran out of farm fields and expanded into stray patches of woods, muddy ponds, and the Purley Creek valley.

It’s all Roman street names. The main road into Elysian Fields is Elysian Street. Very imaginative. Emperor streets connect to it, okay ones, like Augustus and Claudius. And crazy ones, like Caligula and Nero. Then are names of Roman places, like Ostia and Carthage. By the time they got to our area, someone was getting tired. We lived on Via Street, which means Street Street.

Our side of the Via Street is a row of split-levels. They are all the same. The west side of the street, with its woods, has houses for richer people. Most have four bedrooms; many have walk-out basements. One has bricks on the front. The east-siders and the west-siders didn’t talk much.

“That’s not a buildable lot,” my dad said. “Too steep.”

But Davey’s father, Marlin, is a builder, stores and offices and such. And one day in mid-summer, a huge pile of creosote timbers appeared, crushing the weeds and sending a tarry smell up and down the street. Over the next couple months, workers constructed a layer cake of terraces, filled them with dirt and rocks, and started building a house.

“These columns are real fiberglass,” said one dad. It was part of the daily inspection. This happened when all new houses went in. It had been a while, though, and Davey’s house was a real draw.

“This place must be 2500 square feet, it it’s an inch,” said another, “and look at this driveway. I didn’t know you could get green cement.”

Davey moved in later that winter, just after a soggy four-inch snowfall. Davey stood at the end of his driveway. I stood at the end of mine. I walked slowly up the sidewalk on my side of the street, made a snowball, and lobbed it at him. Davey watched it, caught it with one hand, and whipped it back, hitting me between the eyes. I wiped the snow off my face, shook it out of my jacket.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. I could see there was no point in escalating.

He shrugged, then smiled. “Do you like baseball?”

“No,” I said, “I’m a basketball man.”

“What grade are you in?”

“Seventh,” I said.

“Seventh,” he said then “See ya.”

“Yeah,” I said.

He joined our school the next week, Shifford A. Tarman Middle School. He joined 7A. I was in 7C. It was no secret what this meant. The smart kids were in 7A, the kids everyone ignored were in 7B. The artsy misfits, the aspiring criminals, the imbeciles, and everyone who wasn’t white – that was 7C. I felt there had been some mistake. I tried to explain that to my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Myx. I delivered an impassioned appeal and she banned me from art for the rest of the school year. I sat in the hallway reading a book while my classmates painted, glued, and stapled each other. So it didn’t matter to me. I liked reading.

Our science teacher was prepared for 7C. “See this jar?” he asked, holding up a one-quart canning jar. “See this fish?” With his other hand he displayed a dead, six-inch catfish. He placed the fish in the jar and screwed the lid on tightly. “If there’s noise, if there’s backtalk, if there’s any kind of trouble, the lid comes off.” He held up the jar for our inspection. “We’ll get aerobic decay first and then anaerobic. When I loosen this lid, after this little fellow turns to gray goo, the smell will be worse than you can imagine. Very penetrating. Eye-watering. I’m used to it. But you…” He paused, then continued, “Remember, it’s not me who opens this jar. It’s you. Cross the line in this class and retribution will be swift, extreme, and automatic. Any questions?”

Davey and I spent some time together during that year, but Davey’s mild interest in me wore thin when he discovered my social status. I’m not sure why it was so low. On the plus side, I was normal height, normal weight, and dressed inoffensively. On the minus side, I was shy, my parents were getting divorced, and I played the piccolo. I wasn’t the lowest, a pariah, untouchable. That came later.

Davey, on the other hand, had no minuses. He was tall, had curly blond hair, blue eyes, and extraordinarily white teeth. He smiled easily. And he was a natural athlete. He was great at math. And, though not particularly talkative, said the right things at the right times.

That spring was eventful. Here’s why. First, my mother went back to college during the divorce. In June, she moved in with her poetry teacher Anna Bella Wolcott. Second, Lydia, three years older than me, got her driver’s license. On her first trip by herself, she opened the garage door, started the car, and backed over our dog. It had been a dachshund named Milly. I’m not sure who I missed more, Mom or Milly. Third, my dad lost his job, found a new, better one, and then lost that one, too. Fourth, I got acne.

“You’ve got acne,” says Dr. Wendt. He wears a red vest with his white shirt and bow tie. He looks jolly enough, but his eyes give him away.

“There is a medical treatment for this,” Dr. Wendt says. “But it’s dangerous stuff. Causes suicides. Besides, maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I see this acne condition a bit differently. You see, acne is the result of lifestyle choices.” He grabs my chin and moves my head this way and that. “You need to stop shoveling chocolate and French fries into you.”

“I don’t like chocolate. I hardly ever eat French fries,” I lie.

“Don’t lie to me, son. Your face tells the story. You have to exercise some self control. And touching yourself. Masturbation. Acne has been linked to masturbation.”

My mother is sitting in the room with me. I look at my feet.

“Self control, my boy. I can’t do it for you. Your mother can’t do it for you. You have to do it all yourself. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now how are things going otherwise? You are going into 8th grade?” He pauses. I nod. “What section?” he asks.

“8C,” my mother says quietly.

Dr. Wendt frowns. “Not smart like your sister, eh? Well, you had better learn to do the best you can with what God gave you. Mind, body, and soul.”

“You heard Dr. Wendt,” says my mother, searching her purse for her keys. “Where are my car keys? I told you to remember where I put them.”

“I don’t remember,” I say.

“Yes, you do. You remember everything.”

“Coat pocket.”

“You heard Dr. Wendt,” she repeats. “It’s up to you, Jason.”

I nod, then say, “What about the medicine? Can I get a second opinion?”

“I think we can get along fine without a suicide,” my mother says.

I knew it was my fault. Davey’s mother had told me the same thing, early in the spring when we were still hanging out. I resolved to do better. For weeks, I ate no butter, no ice cream, no candy, no french fries, no snack food, nothing that had ever encountered a whiff of grease. To be safe I avoided all red meat and most starches. I lost 11 pounds and my acne became pathological, covering me with inflamed, festering lumps. Whenever self abuse entered my mind, I thought of my Great Grandma Penance, moldering in her grave.

When I went back to school in fall, students stared. A few asked “What happened to you?” I didn’t have a good answer, I just shrugged and tried to keep my head down, which, of course, invited closer scrutiny. Younger kids, particularly 6th graders, who are generally in humanity’s cruelest stage, taunted me as I walked home from school. I could have pounded them. I knew how.

My mother was adopted, to add a girl to a family of four boys. Four mannish boys. Most started shaving at 10. They all were wrestlers. Two were state champs. When other mothers got mad, they screamed at you or ran crying from the room. My mother put me in a chokehold and threw me to kitchen floor.

“That’s enough backtalk,” she’d say through gritted teeth. When I was eight, I got in a fight with a kid at school. I won, due to my knowledge of chokeholds. He had three older brothers who chased me for blocks after school, until they cornered me in my own front yard. I screamed for help. My mother came out the front door, took in the situation and said, “All right, that’s enough of that. One at a time!”

My mother’s brothers were broad-shouldered, beer-gutted, and oddly bow legged. They had a complex geometry, while my mother was simple and linear. Tall, wiry, pale—she had small ears, a high hairline, and a surprised look that gave no warnings and no information. Backed by her army of brothers, she was used to getting her way, particularly with men, who had to learn to interpret vague nods and vacant glances. My father never learned this. That’s why they divorced, I imagine. That, and the fact that they had nothing in common.

“We need to have a chat,” my father said to my sister and me. “As you know, your mother has decided to move out. Sometimes adults may seem to act in ways that you may find puzzling or inexplicable. Unexpected. You may feel blind-sided, hurt, betrayed, humiliated. Maybe guilty. These feelings are natural when your mother does something so completely bizarre.” He smiled weakly. “Throughout human history, we see a parade of costly decisions promulgated on flawed, frail imitations of reasoning.” In college, my father had been a double major in English and history until he switched to accounting and flunked out. “So try to keep this disaster in our own lives in perspective. Many, many have suffered, and now you join their ranks.”

“What are you babbling about?” asked Lydia. At this time, Lydia was between junior and senior year in high school. She shared my mother’s linear frame and my father’s frizzy Welsh hair. She looked like a white Angela Davis. She excelled in sarcasm and advanced placement classes. I think she despised my father and me.

“Your wife is leaving you, father,” Lydia said, “because it is the natural consequence of her growth as a person, as a female person.”

“So we are like innocent civilians killed by bombs?” I asked.

“That’s enough,” said my father. He rubbed his stubbly chin vigorously. “We have to pull together here.”

“You two can,” said Lydia. “I’m moving in with Mom.”

“I don’t think that’s a good environment-” my father began to say.

“Look,” Lydia said, “I’m out of here in a year. I’m seventeen. I’m an adult. I can certainly choose where I live. And Mom invited me.”

“When?” I asked.

“Yesterday,” she said. “Don’t tell me you didn’t receive an invitation?”

“You’re super, super skinny,” I said to Lydia. I knew she hated that.

“At least I’m not a gorilla like Dad,” she said. She knew she could get to me by insulting our father. I was immune to her direct insults. In truth, I rarely understood them.

“We’ll see about this moving business,” my father said.

Two days later, Lydia moved out.

Read more about The Skeleton Train and Craig Hansen HERE.

Copyright 2010 Craig Hansen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

ONE

Lindsay pulled into the lay-by and flicked her mobile open. ‘It’s me again. What’s wrong? I’m on my way down. See you.’

She eased the Hyundai back into the stream of traffic heading south. Her Dad thought she was overreacting; let’s hope Tracy doesn’t think so, too. In a way, driving to Cork was a little… daunting.

Breaking out of her comfort zone hadn’t been easy. She had to force herself to get behind the wheel for the long drive when she couldn’t get hold of her sister.

Her Dad had insisted she take his car, said her old Toyota wouldn’t last the trip. It needed replacing. It wasn’t the only thing that needed replacing, she reflected. Clothes were something else she hadn’t bothered with since Jon died. She only realised how shabby her clothes had become when she started to pack an overnight bag.

Why had Tracy opted for their holiday cottage when they could have gone to her in-law’s villa in the south of France? The summer was a complete washout. August was a little warmer and drier, but only just.

Dad’s instructions to Clonakilty were excellent, but Bay View Cottage was trickier to locate. After three stops for directions, she finally rounded a sharp bend to find it nestling in the cliff face.

Lindsay stopped behind Conor’s BMW. It was quiet. Where were the children? Were they on the beach? She looked down at the empty cove. The sandy beach below was still damp-looking from yesterday’s rain.

The hall door was locked. The back door opened when she pressed down on the handle. The kitchen was empty.

‘Tracy. Tracy!’

They couldn’t have gone far without the BMW. Unless they had taken off for the continent after all? But why didn’t Tracy answer her mobile and why was the back door unlocked.

One of the two doors off the kitchen led to a large sitting room with white walls, turquoise and brown couches, and matching easy chairs. It was empty. Nor was there any sign of life in the hall, which also had the same white walls and parquet flooring as the sitting room.

The silence was unnerving. ‘Tracy! Tracy!’

The first door was obviously the children’s bedroom with its pinks and blues. It was also deserted. She ran down the hall. The second bedroom looked untenanted.

The silence was eerie as she took the stairs two at a time, pushed the door of the master bedroom open.

‘Tracy!’ Her sister was huddled against the pillows on the unmade king size bed in crumpled jeans and top. Her navy blue eyes red rimmed and her blonde hair dull and lifeless.

‘My God, you look awful.’ She threw her arms around her and hugged her close. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Lindsay! Oh, Lindsay.’ ‘What on earth’s happened?’ ‘Something so terrible…’ ‘Jack! Gillian! Oh God, where are they?’ A deep sigh racked her body. ‘They’re with the babysitter.’ ‘The babysitter?’ ‘I was looking for Conor.’ ‘Where’s Conor?’ ‘I don’t know,’ cried Tracy. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘You poor thing. When did he leave?’ ‘Sunday… at five.’ That was precise. ‘Why didn’t you ring me? I’d have come down immediately. So would Dad.’

Tracy started to hiccup, a sure sign she had been on a mega crying spree. ‘And tell you what? That my husband left me? But I don’t know that he did. I mean, he did leave but not the way you think.’ She rubbed her forehead distractedly. ‘Or maybe he did.’

‘I’m so sorry, Tracy. Does he want a divorce?’

‘What are you talking about? Don’t you bloody understand anything, Conor’s disappeared.’

‘He’s disappeared? You’re not making any sense.’ ‘He went to buy ice cream.’ ‘Ice cream?’ Oh God, this was getting worse by the second. Tracy knuckled her eyes dry.

‘We ran out of ice cream on Sunday. Conor walked to the village to get some at around five. He never came back. I’ll bloody kill him… when he does.’

‘Never came back?’ repeated Lindsay. ‘He must have had an accident. He’s in hospital somewhere. Did you report it?’

A happily married man doesn’t just disappear. They were happily married, weren’t they?

‘Will you shut up and listen, you stupid idiot.’ Realising she had gone too far, Tracy took a deep breath before continuing, ‘I went to the garda station. They asked the usual bullshit-questions instead of going out to look for Conor. Had we marital problems; money problems; was the business in trouble? I told them it had nothing to do with anything like that. I begged them to search for Conor. Told them he must have had an accident. But all they said was he’ll turn up.’

‘And?’

‘They sent out Conor’s description locally. But so far… I’m going back to the station this afternoon. They said yesterday they’d check the CCTV footage in the supermarket today… if he’s still missing.’

Thinking aloud, Lindsay said, ‘So, they’ve sent out his details. Did they ask you what he was wearing? What money and credit cards he had on him when he disappeared.’

‘Yes. Yes.’ Tracy scrambled off the bed, hiccupping, and went into the on-suite bathroom. She sluiced her face with cold water and returned to the bedroom. While drying it, she mumbled through the white, fluffy towel, ‘They’ve also checked the hospitals.’

‘Could he have gone for a swim? Got cramp… got into difficulties?’

‘You’re not listening, Lindsay,’ she shouted before flinging the towel on the floor. ‘I told you, he went to the village for ice cream.’ She was touchy, snappy even. ‘If he’d gone swimming, I would have said so.’

But if he had taken an impulsive swim and got into difficulties, Tracy might have a long wait for Conor’s… body to wash up on the shore. His body! What was she thinking? It wouldn’t come to that.

‘Could he have committed…’ Lindsay couldn’t finish the sentence but Tracy guessed what she had been going to say

‘No, he couldn’t,’ she snapped. Grabbing a bundle of tissues from the box on the bedside table, she blew her nose. ‘I know he was worried about something, but take his own life? No. Conor’s too positive; hasn’t a negative bone in his body. Do you think he’d leave me and the children stranded in this bloody out-of-the-way place if he could help it? I don’t think so.’

Lindsay hesitated before asking, ‘But what if he wanted out of your marriage. What if he wasn’t happy?’

‘Happy?’ Tracy’s temper flared again. ‘I’ll bloody happy him if that’s the case.’ Her spurt of anger evaporated almost immediately. She said more calmly, ‘Conor was happy, I’m sure of it. But if he wanted out – if that’s what this is all about – the bastard could have waited until we were in Dublin. Not left us in an isolated holiday home. When he does turn up, I’ll boot him all the way to Dublin.’

‘And I’ll help you.’ Lindsay grinned for the first time. Anger was good, wasn’t it? ‘Why don’t you have a shower, do your hair? I’ll make us a strong cup of tea.’

While Tracy was showering, she went into the kitchen. The colour scheme was clever, she thought. The walls were a pale grey and the floor a dark slate grey. The white units and black granite worktop were also striking. A touch of red on the window wall and blind gave warmth to the room.

She opened the big American-style fridge. The salad looked ghastly, the meat dodgy, but the milk was within its use by date.

Tracy’s hair was still wet when she joined her in the kitchen in a fresh pair of blue jeans and matching shirt.

‘Here, have some tea, you poor thing.’ They sat on stools at one end of the island. Lindsay suggested, ‘Why don’t you close the cottage, head home.’ ‘No! Not without Conor.’ Her instinct had been right; something was wrong, but it was more serious than anything she had imagined. At worst, she thought Tracy might be sick, or the twins. But a missing husband? If she hadn’t followed her intuition and driven down, God knows what would have happened to them.

‘Let’s ring Dad. He’ll help.’

‘No, no! Let’s wait.’ Looking at her sister curiously, she asked. ‘Why did you come down? You’ve refused all our invitations.’

‘We were trying to get hold of you on your mobile and the landline. When we couldn’t, I thought something was wrong.’

‘Jack was playing with my mobile. Couldn’t remember where he left it. I only found it this morning. I don’t know why the landline isn’t working. I’ll ring Eircom when my mobile is charged.’

‘When did you involve the gardai?’

‘Monday morning.’ Tracy slipped off the stool and started to pace. ‘When Conor didn’t come home Sunday night, I thought he was sulking because I wouldn’t close the cottage and return to Dublin. I wanted to stay on. The weather had improved; the children were enjoying it.’ She sighed. ‘If only I had gone back Saturday, none of this would have happened.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. A man doesn’t vanish just because he has a disagreement with his wife.’

‘What else could it be?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m sure Conor didn’t disappear because you wouldn’t return to Dublin. I mean, that’s a ridiculous notion. Was he depressed?’

‘Not depressed… but he did become more security conscious when someone he used to know in the Sandycove Rowing Club was murdered. It was after his funeral Conor suggested holidaying at the villa. But the twins love it here and it’s safe for toddlers.

‘I often think about Madeleine McCann’s abduction last May. I was terrified that something similar could happen to Jack or Gillian. But for Conor to disappear; that never entered my head.

‘Clonakilty is close and Mrs Brennan babysits whenever we want to go out in the evening. She’s very experienced; has four grownup children.’

Tracy was trying to justify her decision to stay in Cork, but that was ridiculous. How could she have known her husband would disappear? Lindsay got her feet and replenished their mugs from the teapot.

She leaned against the black granite worktop, nursing her mug. ‘Did you tell the gardai?’

‘What?’ ‘About Conor’s friend being murdered.’ ‘No. I only remembered it myself yesterday. Why? Oh my

God! You think Conor’s been murdered?’ ‘Of course I don’t.’ But if Conor turns up dead, it might be very relevant. She daren’t voice that thought. It would upset Tracy more than she was already. ‘Was there anything wrong with the business?’

‘No. The half yearly figures were up 40% on the same period last year.’ She reflected for a moment. ‘Things were beginning to slow a little, Conor told me. But he wasn’t worried about it. No, it’s definitely not the business.’

‘Could there have been a problem with the staff or the premises? Something he mightn’t want to worry you with?’

‘I don’t think so. Conor thrived in the business world. Problems were a challenge to him, not a worry.’

‘Maybe he was tired. That he needed a break sooner?’

Tracy started to bite her nails. Something she hadn’t done since childhood. She looked her sister in the eye before voicing something which was obviously worrying her.

‘Could he be cheating on me, Lindsay?’

‘You mean another woman? It’s possible. Did you suspect an affair before he went missing?’

‘No. Never.’

‘If he was meeting a woman…’ When Tracey’s face turned paler, she hurried on, ‘And they had an accident…’

Agitated, Tracy shouted, ‘I told you, the gardai checked the hospitals.’

‘They could have used a different surname.’ People are always checking into hotels under names like Smith or Jones when they’re having illicit affairs, aren’t they?

‘No one with Conor’s description was in an accident! How many times do I have to tell you?’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just exploring possibilities.’

Tracy’s navy blue eyes – so like their mother’s – filled. Sniffling, Tracy shook her head. ‘No. It’s all right. You’re only saying out loud what I was thinking. I’ve been wracking my brains since Sunday, but nothing makes sense.’

‘Are any of his clothes missing?’ ‘No, but I’ll check again.’ Upstairs, she opened the wall-to-wall wardrobe. ‘It was one of the first things the gardai asked. But there’s nothing missing, not even his swimming trunks.’ She stared at his side of the wardrobe, clasping and unclasping her forearms, at the neatly arranged designer jackets and trousers, the polo shirts, jeans and swimshorts. His white running shoes, beach shoes and slip-ons were there, the only pair missing were the ones he was wearing on Sunday, his black trainers. ‘We keep clothes here so we don’t have to keep packing, as you know. I only bring the children’s clothes with us. You know how fast they grown out of everything.’ Near breaking point, she cried, ‘I’ve gone through all this with the gardai! I haven’t a clue where Conor is or why he’s disappeared.’

Lindsay put her arms around her and hugged her close. ‘Come on. Let’s go downstairs. I’ll make a fresh pot of tea.’

TWO

Who was the tall brunette? Family or friend? I picked up the binoculars and looked at the registration.

Dublin. What was she doing here? Did Osbourne’s wife send for her? But another adult wouldn’t deter me. Anyone who gets in the way will get the same treatment.

Where has the bastard skulked off to? Thinks he’s got away again. But his wife and kids are still here. He can’t stay away forever, has to come back sometime. What if he doesn’t come back?

Deal with Frank later. Touching him now would bring the gardai on me. It’s common knowledge I assaulted him. Thought he could live in Lisa’s house as if nothing had happened. She was proud of that house. Much more glamorous than the Ma’s; Lisa never said that, but I thought it on my first visit.

Stop drifting! Stay focused!

The bastard will escape justice if you don’t get on with it. Thinks he’s outsmarted me. Thought he could bury it forever. Money isn’t going to save him this time. The bastard hasn’t a clue what’s coming at him.

They’re on the move. I picked up my backpack, threw the binoculars in and scrambled through the bushes. I got to the Nissan Note and slipped inside, turned the engine on and was reversing out of the drive when the BMW drove past. Are they going to meet Osbourne?

I forced myself to keep a discreet distance behind the BMW, even though my adrenaline was pumping. If she’s picking up Osbourne, I’ll finish the job on the way back.

I thumped the steering wheel. Watched the two women go into the babysitter’s house. They were only picking up the kids.

THREE

The village nestled in a hollow. ‘No wonder you like it here, Tracy, it’s beautiful.’ The hanging baskets tied to the lampposts, with purple, pink and cerise petunias spilling over, gave the street a festive air. Next to the pub with its shiny black façade, a boutique displayed fashionable ladies clothes in the window. On the opposite side there was a supermarket and a café.

Main Street was thronged with tourists. Some stopped and looked at postcards displayed outside the newsagent.

A small ancient church stood on a hillock overlooking the village as if guarding the community.

Here she was admiring the scenery when her sister was in bits. The knuckles of Tracy’s hands were white from gripping the steering wheel too tightly. She stopped outside a bungalow, on a half acre of well tended garden, just outside the village. Lavender bushes bordered the path and small shrubs lined the walls. As they walked to the black hall door with its stained glass panels on either side, she noticed the window frames were also black and thought what a good contrast they made to the white-washed walls.

Rachel Brennan was a middle-aged woman with greying brown hair, chubby cheeks and twinkling blue eyes. Lindsay liked her on sight. She could understand Tracy’s complete confidence in her.

‘Come in. Have a cup a tea,’ she said, when Tracy introduced them.

‘No. Thank you, Rachel.’ The back door opened. Jack ran in. Gillian was behind him. ‘Aunty Lins!’ ‘Mummy.’

‘I’ve given them their lunch, Mrs Osbourne.’ Her twinkling blue eyes turned serious. ‘Any news?’ she whispered.

‘No. We’re going to call into the garda station on the way home.’ Tracy swallowed what sounded like a sob. ‘I’m hoping they’ll have some today.’

The twins weren’t identical but looked a lot like Tracy when she was young, except that Gillian had Conor’s brown eyes. Lindsay took hold of a small hand in each of her own.

‘Come on, you two, into the car.’

‘Thank you, Rachel,’ Tracy called over her shoulder as she hurried after them.

‘Let’s stop at the café and have a sandwich. I could do with some food and a strong coffee. So could you.’

‘I couldn’t eat anything, I’d be sick. But I’ll have a coffee.’

Tracy drove to the public car park behind the supermarket. They walked back to the café. It looked a fun place with pink wall and cups and saucers painted in different shades to give the impression the dishes were being thrown in the air.

Lindsay ordered apple juice for Gillian and orange for Jack, a sandwich for herself and two coffee lattes.

‘Here you are,’ the waitress said, as she unloaded her tray. ‘Any news, Mrs Osbourne?’

‘No, afraid not,’ Tracy replied.

Another woman stopped at their table a few minutes later. ‘Have you heard from Mr Osbourne yet?’

‘No, Joan.’

Tracy got to her feet when she moved away. ‘Let’s go before anyone else asks.’

They put the children in their buggy, left the BMW in the public car park, and walked the short distance to the garda station. The local station was a two story cream building with a blue front door and similar coloured window frames.

Before they went in, Lindsay asked, ‘Would you like me to talk to the duty sergeant?’

‘With your experience you might be a little more successful prising information out of him, than I was.’

The Duty Sergeant was standing behind the counter writing into a large book. He was a middle-aged, balding man, with a fringe of grey hair. His tired looking eyes shifted from Tracy to Lindsay and back to Tracy.

‘Has Mr Osbourne turned up?’ he asked, kindly. ‘No. Not yet.’ ‘Look, I’m Mrs Osbournes’s sister, Lindsay O’Loughlin.

Have you any news yet as to my brother-in-law’s whereabouts?’ ‘No, but I’m sure Mr Osbourne will turn up soon,’ he said, in a voice which was meant to reassure, but didn’t. ‘I’ve suggested to my sister we drive back to Dublin. It’s not necessary for us to stay, is it?’ ‘Take a seat.’ He pointed to the row of grey plastic seats opposite. ‘I’ll check with the investigating member.’ He returned a few minutes later. ‘That’ll be fine, but leave your Dublin address and telephone number. If anything turns up here, we’ll notify you.’

While Tracy bent over the buggy to put on Gillian’s shoes again, Lindsay leaned over the counter and whispered to the garda, ‘Do you think Conor’s dead?’

‘There’s nothing to indicate foul play,’ he replied gently. ‘He’s an adult. Lots of people leave home.’

‘Yes, but without saying anything to his wife? Surely that’s strange?’

‘Not so strange. Lots of spouses do it. Mr Osbourne’s only been missing three days. About ninety percent of missing persons turn up within a week. I’m sure Mr Osbourne will turn up soon with a satisfactory explanation.’

Tracy heard that. ‘You have to search for him! Something’s happened to Conor, I know it.’

‘Mrs Osbourne, we’re doing everything possible at this early stage.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘We checked the supermarket’s CCTV footage this morning. Your husband was in the supermarket. There was a bus into Clonakilty round that time. Someone fitting his description got on it.’ He looked from the children to Tracy. ‘But if Mr Osbourne doesn’t turn up in the next week, we’ll call in the helicopter and the dogs. Have them sweep the area. Don’t worry, I promise you, we’ll do all we can to find him’

‘Why can’t you do that now? Conor’s never done anything like this before.’ Her voice broke. ‘He wouldn’t,’ she insisted.

The twins, as if sensing their mother’s distress, start to cry. The sergeant shifted his feet, picked up the biro and twiddled with it.

‘Why don’t you believe me?’ she cried, her voice rising. ‘He’s had some sort of accident, I’m telling you.’

Jack sobbed, ‘Mummy, I want to pooh.’

Gillian, who always did everything Jack did, stopped whinging long enough to cry, ‘Me too, Mummy,’

He started to wriggle in the buggy. ‘Mummy, it’s coming. Mummy. Mummy.’

Oh God, what a place to pick? ‘Tracy, I’ll take them back to the cafe.’

Lindsay left the station and ran, pushing the buggy in front. When she returned, ice cream having dried up the twins’ tears, her sister was sitting in the BMW outside the garda station. ‘Come on kids, into the car.’ She strapped the twins into their car seats and put the buggy in the boot, then climbed into the passenger seat.

‘Did the sergeant say anything else?’

‘If Conor doesn’t turn up by Sunday, they’ll check if he’s made any withdrawals from an ATM or used his credit cards.’

‘At least we know he did go to the supermarket, and was spotted on the Clonakilty bus.’ But where the hell was he now?

‘I don’t want to go back to Dublin. Will you stay? Conor might have had a fall. He might be suffering from amnesia. The sergeant said that was a distinct possibility when I called on Monday. It wasn’t him on the bus, couldn’t have been. No way would he go off like that. And I want to be here when he comes back.’

‘I told the agency I was taking leave but I didn’t put a timeframe on it. I can stay as long as you like. But if we’re staying, we need to buy food.’

They went back to the supermarket and loaded the trolley with groceries. She was tempted to talk to the supermarket manager, to ask him if he could remember any detail, no matter how trivial, about Conor’s visit on Sunday. But one look at Tracy’s ashen face decided her against it. Anyway, the gardai had interviewed him thoroughly, she was sure. They left the supermarket and drove back to Bay View.

Inside the cottage, she suggested, ‘Why don’t you take the twins for a walk while I unpack the groceries.’

Jack implored, ‘Beach, Mummy, beach. Aunty Lins can see me swimming.’

They could both swim a little, she knew. Tracy took them to the swimming pool for the mother and toddler session every week.

‘Beach, Mummy,’ Gillian implored.

In a low voice, Tracy said, ‘It’s the last place I want to go. I thought once we packed the groceries away we might drive around looking for Conor.’

With a frozen pizza in her hand, Lindsay turned to face her sister. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. We can’t drive aimlessly around with two young children. Anyway, where would we start? Better to stay here and take the twins to the beach.’ She played her trump card. ‘If Conor turns up, he’ll see us there.’ Tracy looked so badly in need of sleep, she suggested, ‘Why don’t you lie down, take a nap? I can take the twins.’

‘I couldn’t sleep. And you’re right. We’ll be in full view.’ ‘And stop worrying. Conor’s alive.’

They got tired making sandcastles. Lindsay took them down to the water’s edge. They paddled in the shallows. She showed Jack how to kick his legs while doing the breaststroke. Next, it was Gillian’s turn. She adored splashing, but wasn’t too keen on instruction.

Eventually, she gave up all pretence of learning the breaststroke and pleaded, ‘Sandcastles, Aunty Lins. Want to make sandcastles.’

Taking her small hand, Lindsay walked to the water’s edge. ‘Go to Mummy. Tracy, here’s Gillian. I’m going for a swim.’

She struck out forcefully using the freestyle stroke and didn’t stop until she was a kilometre from shore. Turning on her back, she drifted. The water wasn’t cold, under different circumstances she would have revelled in it. Flipping onto her stomach, she stared at the beautiful coastline. It looked fabulous in the afternoon sunshine.

Read more about A Killing Reprisal and Adeline Bolton HERE.

Copyright 2010 Adeline Bolton. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

He was hungry…

Find your passion

Knick’s Story:

He could devour a bowl of cat food with lightning-quick speed. His appetite was endless. His hunger knew no bounds. He begged without ceasing for his next meal. He would gobble up nearly anything he could find. His name was Knick-and he was unlike any cat I had ever met.

I had wanted a cat for many years, but due to living in rental properties throughout our marriage, it was never possible. Then in April of 1992 we bought our first home. We were there about a month when it suddenly dawned on me-”I can get a cat!”

So on that warm Sunday afternoon in May, I announced it to my husband Doug. “I’m going to get a cat.”

“That’s nice,” he lazily replied, not wanting to be distracted from his television watching. Grabbing my purse and car keys, I headed for the door.

“Hey-where are you going?!”

“I told you-to get a cat.”

“Well yeah, but I didn’t know you meant right now.”

“Yes, right now. I’ve been playing long enough with strays on the sidewalk. I’m going to the Humane League.”

Out of a litter of 9, he and his brother were the only two left. One a darker gray tabby, one lighter. I considered taking them both, but given the encouraging send-off from my spouse, I decided I best stick with just one. I chose the darker one. Off we went, he riding contentedly in his little cardboard box, me gleeful with joy at my first adult-owned pet. My little bundle of fur was 2 months old and could fit in the palm of my hand.

After a brief look around at his new environment, my little kitty strode toward the living room, ringed-tail held ramrod straight, as if he owned the place. He quickly found a seat on the back of the sofa and curled up for a nap.

Doug, still engrossed in his TV viewing, said, “Well, my New York Knickerbockers are playing the Chicago Bulls in the 7th game of the Eastern conference semi-finals-we can name him Knickerbocker-Knick for short. Maybe it will bring them luck.” The Knicks lost 110-81.

Not knowing any better, I thought Knick could be one of those self-feeding cats. So I filled his little bowl with Kitten Chow(tm) and he ate from it. But when I began to prepare my own supper, suddenly I felt something crawling up the back of my pants, meowing its little head off. Upon being extricated from my leg, the little guy went up a few stairs near the stove, craning his neck high in the air to get a whiff of steam from the water I was boiling. “My gosh-what do you know about food?! You’re barely off mother’s milk!”

Doug made the unfortunate decision to take his dinner to the couch with him-within paw’s reach of a certain little cat. One foot in the grilled cheese sandwich and a loud human cry later, my spouse’s supper was in the trash.

“You didn’t need to throw away the ENTIRE sandwich,” I chastised.

“He stepped in it!”

“O relax, he’s a kitten-you’ll have this.”

We quickly learned that Knick lived to eat. He’d wake up from a nap-he’d eat.  He’d use the litter box-he’d eat. I’d go to the bathroom-he’d eat. I also learned that self-feeding (or more like continual-feeding in his case) was not going to work. So began our routine of regimented, portion-controlled meals.

As Knick grew in age, he also grew in stature. Thankfully he had a large frame with which to support his ever-growing bulk, but it was still quite evident that in spite of our regimented feeding schedule, our boy had a weight problem. This did not go unnoticed by his vet. Dr. Bill suggested that we start Knick on “light” cat food. He gained 4 pounds. Several years later, we moved to prescription diet food and our “Maxipuss” eventually slimmed down.

In his prime, Knick was quite the physical specimen. Standing at the dining room table, he could rest his large, round head on top of the surface with two massive gray paws framing his face. Tipping the scale at 18 pounds, his unending appetite never diminished.  Knick knew the routine-he got fed 3 times per day. When I got up at 6 AM, when I returned from work at 5 PM and before bed at 10 PM. But that did nothing to deter the furry fellow from asking for his bowl to be filled at any other time as well. I know cats spend much of their time sleeping, but with Knick it almost seemed more like something to do to pass the time while waiting for his next meal. When he woke up from his nap, he was certain that it would be feeding time again.

When it wasn’t, he voiced his displeasure quite vigorously-and continuously. Many evenings, once Doug and I were in our assigned places watching television, Knick would take his place at the end of our long living room. There he’d sit, plump body forming a perfect triangle, asking over and over again in full voice. “Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow…” He could literally keep that up for hours on end in spite of us never giving in. His persistence was admirable. I must admit, however, it was also highly annoying.

Mostly I just felt sorry for him. Those large gold eyes kept a constant vigil fixed on my every move. If I made even the slightest twitch that gave the appearance of leaving the recliner, he’d stand to his feet, ready to run towards his beloved rose-colored bowl. If I actually did get up, say to use the bathroom, or perhaps to get myself a snack, his reaction increased ten-fold. “MEOW, MEOW, MEOW…”

“No Knickie, it’s not time yet.”

After dutifully accompanying me to whatever task I might have completed, he’d once again assume the position-both in posture and voice.

Knick’s passion for food was unstoppable, no matter the circumstances. One time, after returning home from surgery to have a cyst removed from his leg, he immediately went to his dishes in spite of his post-anesthetic stupor. Of course we gave him a small snack-comfort food after his medical ordeal. In he went with his usual vigor-and more noise than I would have ever thought a cat could make, especially while eating. “MAU, MAU, MAU, MAU, MAU, MAU, MAU…” It was a combination of “Meow” and “Ow” rolled into one-at an unbelievable volume!

After finishing off the food, he dove into his water dish-almost literally. Still groggy, his head fell forward into his bowl and we seriously thought he might drown.  But he just needed to wash down his meal. After that, he began to take a few wobbly steps into the kitchen. Getting no further than the stove, he paused to look back. Eyes still glazed over, he gave his wanderings a second thought. “I better not stray too far from here.” Making it back successfully to his feeding area, our sweet Knickie curled up for the night, his precious dishes not more than 2 feet in front of him.

Our feline was checked medically for any sort of chemical imbalance or thyroid issue, but nothing was found. He was simply hungry-all the time. Poor Knick was so desperate he would eat anything he could find, including fuzzies and even his own shed toenails!

Knick also had quite a penchant for plastic grocery bags. We never figured out if it was the lingering smell of food, or what it was, but he absolutely loved crawling inside the bags-and LICKING the insides of them! Sitting with the bag entirely covering his body, he’d slurp away, round cat face pressed tight against the side of the bag, pink tongue licking madly at the plastic. (Knick enjoyed other activities with plastic bags as well, but that’s for another chapter.)

In addition to non-edibles, Knick also took advantage of every available opportunity to obtain any sort of “people” food, even though we were very diligent in never purposefully sharing our bounty with him. Doug had an unfortunate habit of leaving the table in the middle of his meal, and “you know who” never missed the chance at an unmanned plate.

One night I had made little mini-pizzas out of pita bread. Sure enough, Doug left his place for some reason, and upon return, there he was. Seated in the chair, his large, gray head resting just above the table-with a small rectangle of cheese pizza dangling from his lips. Although he never really had a full slice, pizza was definitely on our boy’s top ten food list.

One evening I made the mistake of placing an empty carry-out box next to our sturdy wooden trash can, the box wedged tightly between the wall and the can. A loud crash later, I arrived to find one large tabby standing in the middle of the folded cardboard, licking grease as quickly as his rough-edged tongue could carry him.

On another occasion, the boy swiped a piece of pork chop fat. I found him under the table, lips smacking, slobber flowing, as he tried in vain to get it chewed and swallowed before it was too late. Thankfully I was able to reach into his mouth and extract the piece before it had the chance to get lodged in his little kitty throat.

One of our favorite Knick stories involves his once in a lifetime opportunity to gorge himself with absolutely no end in sight. We kept some food in a plastic container in the kitchen closet to use day to day, but we always kept the bag of cat food on the basement steps, behind closed doors and out of kitty’s reach.

For some reason on that fateful day, I brought a brand new 20-lb. bag home and left it in the mud room, right inside the back door. Later, I went away for the evening, leaving Knick in my capable husband’s hands. Looking back on it, Doug says that he hadn’t seen much of him that evening, and assumed that he was sitting on his table in the back room, awaiting my return. To him, the only sign of Knick’s presence that night was the large pile of vomit that he left in the kitchen at one point.

Needless to say, I was taken aback when I walked through the back door a few hours later. There he was-in full glory-sitting in front of his bag of Heaven-large round hole chewed and clawed through at PERFECT feeding height-eating to his heart’s content!! Already gapping and swallowing as fast as possible, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the gig was up, Knick increased his pace, if it was even possible, the second he saw me coming.

Of course, my first instinct was to yell. “Doug!!!” “Do you know what he’s doing?”

“What? No-I know he threw up.”

“How could you not know he was doing this?!”

Meanwhile, Knick was continuing his inhaling.

Quickly I grabbed some tape and worked on sealing off his opening, all the while needing to fight against his furry face even more furiously trying to get some last morsels before his feeding frenzy was over.

That night convinced me that Knick truly had no satiation point. I honestly believe he would have ate and puked and ate and puked until he finished off the complete bag if I hadn’t returned home. It goes without saying that that was the last time I forgot to put the new bag of cat food away.

My Story:

So what can we learn from Knick’s insatiable appetite? Well certainly he shows us what passion looks like. His desire and drive for food was unstoppable.

I had never been a particularly passionate person. Doug would often ask me, “What are your hopes, your dreams? What’s your passion?”

And my response was usually, “I don’t know. I just kind of go with the flow. Yeah, I have some ideas of things I’d like, but overall I’m pretty content just seeing what each day brings.”

He would just sigh and shake his head.

Unfortunately, that blandness began to carry over into my spiritual life as well. I’d been a Christian since I was a child, and my faith really grew during my college years.  But after settling into marriage and a job, my relationship with Christ began to get stale.

If you had asked me, I certainly would have said that I loved God-and I did! But I thought the real spiritual way of living was kind of reserved for pastors or other church staff. I thought it was a little too much for regular people like me. Besides, I thought, they do that church stuff all week long-that’s their job-so of course they’re going to be closer to God than the rest of us.

That seemed like a good theory to me-until I saw Doug really starting to grow spiritually. Then I was kind of getting stuck. I found myself in this in-between place where I was feeling more and more uncomfortable. I thought, “I’m okay with how I’m living, aren’t I? Can I really get that excited about God? I’m not sure I want to go there; that just seems a bit too fanatical for me.”

But then God stepped in and gave me revelation and He changed my heart. He helped me to see that along with my husband, some of my friends were going on in a deeper relationship with Him and that our church was moving ahead as well. I thought, “Gosh, I do not want to be stuck in this wishy-washy, kind of halfway-there, lukewarm Christianity.” I knew that I could no longer sit on the fence.

So on July 6, 1997, I decided to give myself fully to Christ and seek Him with a hunger like never before. It was amazing! I understood in a way that I never had before that I was a sinner and that I really was not good enough on my own. For the first time in my life, I finally understood why I needed Christ. The road after that decision has not been easy by any means, but I’ve never looked back. God honored my choice and put me on a path of which I never would have dreamed.

Finally-I had some understanding of passion.

Your Story:

What is your passion? Do you even have one? Or are you like I was, living a blah, kind of day to day existence? If you do know your passion, how vigorously are you pursuing it? With the same fervor and drive that Knick desired food? What if you did? How would that decision impact your life as well as those around you?

One of the Beatitudes says, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” (Matthew 5:6, NIV)

What if you pursued God with the kind of passion that Knick had for food? What might our world look like if all of us had even a small portion of that kind of hunger for righteousness? The best part is that Scripture promises that if we do this, we will be filled, unlike poor Knick’s ever-present hunger. But his laser-focused drive and determination can give us a picture of what that type of “hunger” might look like.

God is looking for believers with passion. He wants followers who will love boldly, serve energetically and follow Him fully. Our Lord despises half-heartedness.

Revelation 3:15-16 (NIV) states, “I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm-neither hot nor cold-I am about to spit you out of my mouth.”

Those are strong words and we would do well to take them seriously. I greatly encourage you to take an honest look at your relationship with God. Are you leaving a bad taste in His mouth because of your tepid lifestyle?

You have no idea what far-reaching plans God may have in store for you. But in order to find out, you need to begin or continue the process of discerning and following your passion. If you’re content to continue in your bland existence, not understanding your purpose in life, you’ll never fully experience all that God has for you.

Our greatest desire should be the pursuit of our relationship with Christ. Then from that passion will flow our gifts, talents and opportunities to serve and bless others in the way that He is calling us. But in all of this, there needs to be a balance. As we discovered with Knick, his appetite for food was so strong that it was actually unhealthy for him. He became overweight and also proved that he would literally eat himself sick if given the opportunity.

As vital as it is to pursue your dreams and desires, there also needs to be some perspective. When the pursuit of something becomes all encompassing and the drive towards that goal, whatever it might be, becomes your only focus, it’s time to take a step back and reevaluate.

Are you pursuing your career with so much passion that you’re neglecting your relationship with your spouse and children? Is your desire for money greater than your longing for spiritual riches? In your fervor for giving and serving others, even through service in the church, are you inattentive to your health or your own family’s needs?

No matter what our passion or pursuit-if it’s out of balance-we’re not helping anyone. We need to constantly be checking our motives, desires and actions to insure that they remain pure and focused on the ultimate goal.

Jesus said that the greatest commandment is to “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.” Then to “Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Matthew 22:37-38, NIV)

Let those commandments be your guide.

If you’ve never entered into a relationship with Jesus, all you need to do is ask. One sincere “Meow” will do it. Acknowledging your sins and Christ’s death and resurrection in paying the penalty for them is all that’s needed. And you can begin the adventure of a lifetime!

If you’re already a believer, but have lost your passion somewhere along the way, it’s never too late to rekindle the flame. I can certainly testify to that. Let your lips water and your stomach yearn for food that will really satisfy. Hunger once again for your first Love with all the determination that your Knick-like soul can muster.

Read more about He Was Never a Cat: Knick’s Story, My Story, Your Story and Patti Tingen HERE.

Copyright 2010 Patti Tingen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Attitude of Gratitude

Who said life gets easier as you get older? As I was celebrating birthdays and maturing,it would have made sense for me to use all my skills to achieve an easier, more prosperous life. The truth is that life is tough, really tough. When I was in college, Mom would quite often say, “Life is tuff, T-U-F-F.” Dad said life has its ups and downs. No matter how you spell it, life is T-U-F-F.

Children are told to change their attitude, as though that was the magical way to solve problems. Children don’t know the meaning of such an abstract idea. Many adults don’t know what it means to change their attitude, let alone how to make those changes.

Attitude is perspective, so the purposeful changing of your point of view will change your attitude. As an only child, I went with the flow of life as it was delivered. Perhaps siblings would have made a difference. I don’t know. I thought my attitude was mature, just like the adults in my daily life.

Some adults told me I was too negative. I guess they thought it would help to change my attitude if they continued to criticize me. I took it as disapproval and reprimand, reinforcing my feelings of inferiority.

Now I wish I had asked them exactly what they wanted me to do. I thought it must be true, I must be extremely negative. Looking for the up side, the positive side, the happy side, became a fundamental goal. If only I could change my attitude, I would have the good life! I would be so grateful to be a happy, up-beat person. What is an attitude and how do I change mine? I wanted to be perfect — for others.

Problems are opportunities! That’s how we learn our greatest lessons, get on the course to make changes, and mature. When I look back at the opportunities my problems have handed to me, I can see how I developed into the person I am now.

Eventually, I came to understand the difference between being negative versus being positive. It’s an inside job, which gives feelings of satisfaction or discontent. Today is the most positive I’ve ever been in my life. I do look for the smiling approach to everything, from everyone. I’m grateful every time I recognize the optimism in my life.

Changing to a more optimistic attitude has led me along the path to improving my self-esteem, enhancing my confidence, appreciating the good things in life, along with complimenting others and myself. I’m letting others know the unique me by making a constant effort to be true to myself.

Sometimes, peers don’t like it, but as long as I’m being true to myself and not hurting anyone, I intend to stop worrying about what others think about me. How far along the path are you to gaining self-esteem? How do you feel about making changes?

Because of their many responsibilities, adults have worries with serious talks. Children have fun, play, giggle, and laugh. During my childhood, I was surrounded and influenced by adults with their hush, hush conversations, and serious talks about solving problems. I heard them talking, but I never involved myself in their discussions, unless they wanted me to do something for the family. I would stay with my grandmother, Little Bubbie, take her to the doctor, or do other things for the family. These experiences taught me to be a caring and giving person in an adult, responsible manner.

Silver sages know all about attitudes from the people in their lives. I’ve been on the receiving end of an inconsiderate attitude where I wanted to get physically violent with the offender. That is my polite way of saying I wanted to punch his lights out! When I was growing up in Pittsburgh, Pa. I learned to accept boundaries! No physical fighting!

Work was being done in my townhouse complex to tear down the thirty year old, wooden patio fences to replace them with a beige cement concoction. During the process, construction workers dug up half of my patio bricks, piling them in a corner. The bricks were never returned to their original positions. The property manager was insensitive to my plight until I lost patience with him. I insisted upon setting up a face-to-face meeting at my house. During the meeting on my patio, I held firm, relating how I had waited for the promised solution for six months. Will the patio be returned to its original condition this week or next? He took a deep breath, saying he would arrange for it to be fixed the next week. I asked if he was a man of his word. With head bowed, he softly said, “We will see.”

What a clear, obvious answer! The patio was finally restored after three more weeks of confrontations. The property manager never did change his attitude; he was not a man of his word. The townhouse management company was replaced the following year due to constant complaints from homeowners. I’m so grateful I don’t have to deal with that company anymore!

I was under-employed for years, working in an office where one of my co-workers was the obvious favorite. My resentment grew as I saw my high level of experiences and qualifications were not appreciated. I was torn between wanting to be friends with my co-worker and resenting her elevated approval by the head of the company. I’m grateful I maintained a cooperative attitude while keeping my patience. After several years, my persistence paid off. It did improve the daily routine in the office atmosphere. I’m thankful it worked out that my kindness succeeded; by the same token, I was able to be true to the real me.

Persistence is a tough struggle, however it can bring rewards. My life story unfolded with my being a giving person, but when I was out of step with the dynamics at work, fate took over to force me out, to go on my way to more and better opportunities. What does that mean? I was downsized out of the job!

Learning never ends. No matter how much we know, there is always more to learn, especially as our society and technology continue to make enormous progress. It is important to keep up with the modern times. Learning something new every day is exciting. When contemplating buying anything new, like a microwave or computer, I’m grateful to be able to search the Internet to compare styles with prices. The computer has made my life so much easier than when I shopped store to store for the best deal. Today, it would be too exhausting for me to go to several stores to shop.

If you don’t use a computer, be grateful you have the background and experiences that taught you how to get things done without a computer. If you can learn to use the computer, go for it! It’s the most rewarding brain exercise ever invented, especially to keep senior minds active and alive.

So much to learn, so little time! Take every opportunity to show an attitude of gratitude!

Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow!

A Gratitude Journal:

A gratitude journal is a problem-solving tool to clarify thoughts, to enable us to express feelings. A gratitude journal helps me feel more appreciative of my life. Some people like fancy, leather bound books, others, yellow legal pads or notebook paper. My favorite is the very convenient computer.

Similar to writing in a private diary as children do, every night I write down three to five positive happenings from the day that made me feel cheerful and appreciate the day. By ending the day on such a positive note, I wake up feeling optimistic to enable me to look forward to a bright new day.

Here are a couple of lines for you to practice for tonight’s gratitude experience. Create your own style with your own words. This is a starting place for your personal, private journal.

I am grateful for:

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Read more about Aging Is A Full Time Job and Marcia Casar Friedman HERE.

Copyright 2010 Marcia Casar Friedman. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

I suspected right away that I had stumbled upon an assassination plot.

Not sure I can explain how I came to suspect this. I don’t think I’m psychic, unless you would count the occasional ability when I was younger to start humming a tune an instant before it was played unannounced on the radio. It could have been because the disc jockey had been playing the same sequence of songs so often that I unconsciously memorized the order. Then again…

I wonder now if a related phenomenon was at work to prime me for my immediate recognition that the strange message I’d stumbled onto while snooping through White House email might well be a communication between conspirators in a plot to assassinate my boss, the President.

The President being the President of course was hated by multitudes. In her case the haters constituted right-wingers – both greedy economic giants and bitter proletarian ignoramuses – along with assorted misogynists, misoneists and misologists of all races, ages, income levels, genders and sexual proclivities. Many of them who might otherwise have tolerated her or even offered her grudging respect, were utterly turned off by her refusal to confirm or deny that she occasionally enjoyed a pharmaceutical compound proven clinically to induce female orgasm, which is sold to billions of women world-wide under the trade name Primrose Lane.

Assassination plots ranked a close third behind fund-raising activities and poll results in the President’s morning staff meetings. That is, until the President one morning waved an impatient hand at Warren Hendrian, her domestic affairs adviser, to halt his usual litany of plots against her life that were newly discovered, under investigation or recently thwarted by various law enforcement agencies, the primary one being the United States Secret Service, to which, among his many duties, Hendrian served as the President’s liaison.

“Warren, enough. Enough already,” she said in a tone hovering dangerously close to scold. “If they’re going to kill me, they’re going to kill me. I dearly hope our guys are smart enough and good enough to keep that from happening. But if it happens, it happens and I’m sick of hearing about all the sick and evil people out there who want to do me in. So…,” she smiled abruptly, showing a set of even teeth so white they looked like Jimmy Carter’s caps, “enough with the lists of all the plots and counter-plots and so forth at these little morning get-togethers. OK, darling? We have more important things to talk about, I hope. Adele, what’s happening in the jungle? Whose asses do I need to kiss today?”

This effectively ended the routine discussion of assassination plots in the morning meetings, although I as Chief of Staff had Hendrian deliver those reports to me so that if nothing else I could adjust the President’s schedule to avoid situations that could prove opportune to any of the plotters who had been identified and, I hoped, really were under investigation.

I decided at first not to tell Hendrian what I had discovered. I had several reasons for keeping this card face down. Perhaps most important among them was that he was a pompous ass who would have loved nothing more than to push my face into a pile of my own feces were I dumb enough to show him the pile and then bend over it and wait for him to strike. Which is what I would have been doing had I told him that something I’d stumbled upon while snooping in the purgatory file of the White House email network might be a note from one would-be assassin to another.

My first inclination was to bring in Tonga Cooke, who was chief of the White House technical support team, and a friend. And or possibly Joan Stonebraker, agent-in-charge of the White House Secret Service detail.

For the time being, I worried solo. I did keep a journal during this time, though, partly because I felt frustrated and outraged – not to say terribly vulnerable – that there are still and may ever be serious doubts about the government’s integrity in the JFK murder and its investigation. One journal kept by a player in that sad, sorry episode might have contained the key to obviate all of the myriad heavily and meticulously documented theories both proving and disproving the various intricate conspiracies credited for the crime that will haunt Americans for as long as there is an America.

Let us proceed to my journal.

Read more about Executive Pink and Mathew Paust HERE.

Copyright 2010 Mathew Paust. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter One

The incident occurred in the D.C. Metro station’s Farragut Place stop, as Martin Silkwood boarded the northbound train for his return commute to Maryland. It ended as quickly as it began, and no one – save the participants – seemed to notice or care. But it would forever change Martin’s life.

Martin had entered the subway car at the head of a surging crowd that heaved and pressed against him with the dumb force of an enormous beast. He was angrily pushing back and maneuvering toward an empty seat, when a tough-looking middle-aged man in a beige overcoat suddenly sprang up, lurched forward and rammed into him.  “Watch it!” the man barked, his steel-gray eyes seeming to penetrate Martin’s skull.

Martin recovered his balance and pushed back, forcefully. “No, you watch it, asshole!”

For an instant, the two squared off. Then, as a faint smile appeared on the stranger’s face, his right arm shot forward, palm out, catching Martin square in the solar plexus.  Martin doubled over in pain, gasping for air, while the stranger grabbed his arm and drew near. “I already have watched it, Martin,” he said under his breath.  “Now, it’s your turn.” Then, he slipped out the door, disappearing into the crowd.

Martin struggled to breathe as he dragged himself toward an empty seat. He swung his left arm wildly to clear a path and steadied himself by grabbing onto a nearby handrail with his right.  When he finally reached the seat, he turned around and gingerly dropped into place.  As he did, Martin felt something in his left pants pocket. Hand shaking, he dug in and retrieved a tiny video disk in a slim vinyl case. The disk was silver, unmarked and small – only half the diameter of the videos Martin normally played on his home entertainment system. “Huh,” he grunted to himself, in between steadily decreasing – but uneven – chest heaves.  He flipped the disk over in his hand several times. He had no idea what it was, why the stranger had given it to him or how he had come to know his first name.

After a few moments, Martin put the disk away. He decided he would deal with it later, when he got home, but try as he might, he couldn’t get this latest incident out of his mind.  Martin kept wondering if it somehow fit into the disturbing chain of events that began to unfold the previous Friday night, when he had returned home to an empty house – without Katie, the kids or the dog.  All he had found was a brief note, in Katie’s handwriting, lying on the kitchen table. “I tried, Marty. Really, I did,” it read. “I’ll contact you when we get settled.” That was the last time he had heard from any of them.

Martin had spent all night Friday calling around to Katie’s friends. (He used to consider them his friends, too, but now he knew better.) Had they seen her and the kids? Did they know anything about where she had gone or what was up?

Some of them, the nice ones, apologetically said they couldn’t discuss it. They had promised Katie to keep her whereabouts a secret, but, they said, everyone was safe, not to worry. Others, her “true sisters,” uttered startled, indignant gasps at the mere sound of his voice and then hung up the phone. The nastiest, most self-righteous ones said things like: “Really, Marty! Haven’t you caused enough trouble already? Leave her alone!” – or – “If you call here again, I’m going to report you to the police! Do you understand?” both of which were followed by a sudden resumption of the dial tone.

Martin couldn’t believe these were the same women who had welcomed him and Katie into their homes for years on end, the same women who had joked with him, occasionally flirted with him, and who once or twice seemed to forget themselves and send him signals he wisely chose to ignore. And, he wondered, where were their husbands – his supposed friends? Only one of them ever picked up the phone to say anything to him at all, and it went something like this: “Hey, man, I’m sorry about you and Katie. Let’s grab a beer sometime soon.” And then, when his wife discovered he was on the line, “Oops, got to go now,” and again the damn dial tone.

Martin wondered what Katie had been telling these people and how they could possibly believe her without first hearing his side of the story. But these thoughts quickly evaporated, as Martin grasped, for the first time, the full impact of Katie’s decision. Disillusion turned to anger, fear and finally desperation as Martin realized that, in leaving him, Katie had stolen nearly everything that gave his life meaning: his children, his marriage and his home life. Of the three roles Martin dutifully performed each day, those of husband, father and breadwinner, only the later remained. Katie had stripped away everything else.

Katie left the one thing she couldn’t take: Martin’s senior partner position at the accounting firm of Findley, Feldman and Santori. Martin had earned senior partner status through years of hard work, self-discipline and self-sacrifice. While he drew some personal satisfaction from this, he found accounting work, in general, to be rather dull and unfulfilling. Martin had long ago realized that he did his job, day-in and day-out, primarily to pay the bills. His partner’s salary made possible the life, and future, he had been building with Katie and the kids. Now that his marriage appeared to be unraveling, Martin felt the wind go out of his sails. He wondered where he would find the motivation to continue to put in the long hours and to suffer the painful deprivations that life on the road, as an auditing team leader, demanded.

Deep down, Martin sensed he only had one option. Somehow, someway, he would have to get his children back. He could not live with the harsh, new reality Katie had forced upon him.

Despite this realization – or perhaps because of it – Martin had a hard time accepting the fact that his marriage to Katie was over. In the first place, her timing made no sense to him. Yes, they hadn’t been getting along all that well lately, but only a few months earlier, when the trouble started, Katie had agreed to see a marriage counselor with him. They hadn’t even attended their first session yet! ‘Why would she ‘throw in the towel’ now?’ he wondered. ‘Could she really just walk away from our marriage — especially after starting a family and bringing two new lives into the world? Good parents, and he and Katie clearly were that, good parents didn’t just ‘bag it’ when the going got tough, did they?’

The next day, Martin gained further insight into the depths of his problems, when an ATM machine rejected his debit card. The joint household account that previously held $4,500, now claimed to have “insufficient funds” to cover his $100 cash withdraw.

As these thoughts once more flashed through his mind, Martin’s stomach began tying itself up in knots. He hated feeling this way, and, since all he could do for now was to spin mental wheels, he redoubled his efforts to put his troubles out of his mind. He decided to focus, exclusively, on his accounting work. That usually helped.

Martin began by taking stock of preparations for the upcoming Central Plains Company audit, and by mentally reviewing the members of his newly formed auditing team. Martin always handpicked his auditing crew. Thursday a week, they would all fly out of Dulles airport to Chicago for an extensive review and compilation of the food processing giant’s books.

There was so much to do. Gradually, ever so slowly, Martin slipped back into the endless sea of accounting management minutiae, and soon he found himself back in that numb, safe place his work often provided. Before he knew it, the train had reached his suburban Maryland stop, and he was crossing the parking lot to his car.

Copyright 2010 Jon Reisfeld. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Perhaps once upon a time it seemed foolishly idealistic to imagine a truly just and peaceable world. But we are a generation that knows it to be an absolute imperative if our species is to have a livable future.  We’ve learned that garbage dumped off the coast of New Jersey ends up polluting the North Sea, that injustice in the Middle East brings terrorism to new York City, that economic policy in China affects Wal-Mart prices in America, that you can’t stop AIDS in Chicago without stopping it in Uganda.  The planet Earth pays no attention to national boundaries; therefore, outmoded notions of sovereignty must give way to new mechanisms for common security and global well-being.

No group has seen the imperative for new ways of thinking more clearly than those who have seen the Earth from space.  They formed the Association of Space Explorers to alert humanity to what they learned by looking back at our small, blue and green planet floating against the black backdrop of space.  One of them, the American astronaut, Russell Schweickart, wrote: “You go around it in an hour and a half. …You look down there and you can’t imagine how many borders and boundaries you cross again and again and again, and you don’t even see them…hundreds of people killing each other over some imaginary line that you’re not even aware of, that you can’t see.  And from where you see it the thing is a whole and is so beautiful; and you wish you could take one in each hand and say, ‘Look!  Look at it from this perspective, look at that!’…From where you see it, the thing is a whole and is so beautiful….”

…

Humanity’s next great step forward is to cultivate a sense of planetary patriotism, in which we understand ourselves to be citizens not of one country alone, but of Earth.

Read more about TITLE and AUTHOR HERE.

Copyright 2010 Richard Watts. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Excerpt from Chapter Twelve

I’ll admit I was a bit frightened when the car behind me tapped the bumper of the BMW. I looked for a place to pull off and stop. Unfortunately, a rain filled drainage ditch ran along my side of the road. Reluctantly, I stepped on the gas and felt the tires skid as they reacted to the burst of speed. I had no intention of racing down the road with an obvious maniac in pursuit, but it seemed like a better idea than stopping in the rain and having him hit me.

He hit me anyway. One instant I was frantically looking for any safe place to pull into, and the next instant I heard the smack of metal against metal and felt the roadster being picked up by the back end and tossed into the drainage ditch.

I must have blacked out for a moment or two. When my eyes focused, I realized I had blood oozing from my head and someone with the whitest teeth and the blackest, sexiest eyes I’d ever seen was pulling the car door open and lifting me out.

“Do you think you can stand?” Fernando Garcia let go of my arm and I instantly sagged to the ground. My legs felt like they had lost all their bones. Within a few seconds, not only was I as limp as a noodle, I was also soaked. I licked my lips as water mixed with blood trickled in my mouth, and I tried to peel my hair off my face. Senor Garcia looked good wet. Impressive muscles bulged under his black turtleneck, and his hair was thick and shiny in the rain.

I took the towel he offered me and couldn’t help notice it smelled faintly of musk. “Are you the one who hit me?” I asked as I gingerly touched a sore bump on my head.

Read more about Neigh It Isn’t So and Linda Clayton HERE.

Copyright 2010 Linda Clayton. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter Eleven

A Marriage or a Merry-Go-Round?

A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.  –Mignon McLaughlin xi

“Dear God, I have a problem. Well, not exactly a problem . . . I’d call it a grave concern. It’s about my marriage. No, I’m not contemplating divorce, although several of my friends have encouraged me to consider it. I’m not there yet; just a little confused. You see, we were so excited on our wedding day…and for some time after. One of our friends told us this was normal because the fairy princess expects to marry the handsome prince and the handsome prince thinks he has married the queen, but after a while reality sets in.

“It took some time for reality to set in for Tom and me. After scrimping and saving for the down payment, we finally moved into our first home. And then, the children came. Two of them…as you know. Don’t misunderstand, we are thankful for all you’ve done for us.

“But then, after a few more years, the chore of daily living settled over us. Occasional squabbles turned hostile. Disagreements about money…vacations…in-laws, and well, you know…sex. We’d always make up. Some times that was the only alternative. But the problems were never completely resolved.

“Now I wonder if we are getting as much out of marriage as we should. I don’t know what more we can do. If it continues like this…feast and famine…hot and cold…war and peace…I’m confused and worried. Is this what marriage is supposed to be—a merry-go- round—or is there more? Anyway, thanks for listening, God.”

If you had to answer that prayer, what would you say? Would you mention that many become confused about marriage because if it doesn’t start out right, it’s got less chance of being right. In the beginning, they imagine days of meaningful activity and nights of togetherness and passion. Along come the kids, mortgage payments, career changes, personality clashes, and arguments over trivialities. Startled, they realize they are going round and round with no goals or objectives other than short term emotional thrills, soon forgotten in the drudgery of daily living.

God’s Attitude About Marriage

Is that what God had in mind when he presented Eve to Adam and pronounced them one flesh? Is he now willing to make concessions? “Whoops. I made a mistake. Those human beings aren’t behaving. I’m going to cut them out of my will. What was Plan B again?”

Nothing of the sort. Take off your shoes; marriage is holy ground. It’s a permanent and sacred union of two personalities who find a physical and spiritual satisfaction with each other which they could not find alone. With Jesus as guide, they navigate lofty mountains and steep valleys, the three of them locked together all the way. Two pilgrims, one leader.

Notice any compromise here? Any uncertainty? A concession, perhaps? God doesn’t compromise when it comes to marriage. He is just as serious about marriage as he is about sin and grace for dope addicts, about love and mercy for murderers, as well as for the thieves and liars who sit in the front row in church.

A Christian marriage is more than an experiment in Let’s-Make-a- Deal. Those locked in the one-flesh contract don’t get a free get-out- of-marriage token when words like thunder shake the house and dirty looks are daggers that cut pride into small pieces. Marriage is a union of a man and a woman founded on mutual respect, a determination to succeed, and a resiliency established through faith in Jesus. They have a rock to cling to, and guidance from someone who knows them better than they know themselves. That rock and guidance are based on a few simple words of Jesus: “Love each other as I have loved you” (l John 15:12).

Just a second! In his final instructions before his passion, wasn’t Jesus simply instructing his disciples how to behave toward one another after he was gone? Plugging that passage into the context of wedding bells and nuptial vows is pushing the envelope too far when it comes to arguments about who’s going to clean the basement, take out the garbage, pick the kids up from school, show up at school functions, or…well…you know the drill.

There’s no stretch here. Jesus sets the love-bar high when he uses the key phrase as I have loved you. Love each other as I have loved you from before you were born, from before the world was set in place, from eternity. Love each other as I have loved you as the apple of my eye. Love each other as I have loved you as the one who humbled himself for you, as the one who died for you, as the one who watches over you night and day.

The Cornerstone of Marriage

The cornerstone of a Christian marriage is neither difficult to describe nor tough to understand. God didn’t say, “Feel good about one another.” He said, “Love each other.” Love each other with a love that indulges itself in the happiness of the other; a love proud to serve and eager to forgive; a love that fulfils its own needs by satisfying the needs of another. Like peanut butter and jelly, a sheep and its wool, a stamp on an envelope, husband and wife come together to become something they could not be alone.

Read more about Talk to Me, God… I’m Confused and Wayne Bartelt HERE.

Copyright 2010 Wayne Bartelt. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.