Forgive Me, Father

This story came from a prompt to write about the interaction between a trusted religious figure and his parishioner. The content can be upsetting to some, so please read with that in mind.

My name is David. I am ten years old. I attend St. Katherine Drexel Middle School. I am an altar boy at St. John’s. I play Little League baseball. I have a beagle named Barney. I have a sister named Mary. And I want to die.

* One Week Earlier *

“David…David…DAVID!!! Get down here this minute!” Mother yelled up the stairs.

“Coming, mom.” Ten-year-old David pulled the navy polo shirt over his short blonde hair, running his fingers through the wild curls to smooth them slightly. He hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen. Skidding to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and almost knocking Barney, the flop-eared beagle over.

“It is about time you show up. We need to talk.” Mother had her serious face on, the one where you knew you were in trouble. “What do you see that is missing? Huh?”

“Well…” David stammered, “Huh…Mary isn’t here yet,” referring to his older sister.

“No, try again.”

“My breakfast plate.” David realized quickly, “My plate is missing.”

“That’s right, mister. And from now on, if you forget to feed Barney, I am not feeding you!” The mother put her hands on her hips and emphasized each word.

David hung his head. It was so hard to remember to feed Barney. He had wanted a dog, but it was so much work. He patted Barney’s head, “Sorry, Bud, I promise to try to do better.”

Grabbing his backpack off the laundry room counter, he knocked his mother’s purse to the floor. The tiny gun she carried for protection slipped out onto the bed beside him. It felt cool to his touch as he picked it up and dropped it back into her purse.

“BUS!” Mary shouted as she bolted out the front door with David following closely behind her.

* Later That Day *

“Mr. Johnson, yes, David you… did you even try to do your homework,” Sister Mary Margaret looked sternly down at him, a frown creasing her face in an almost scary way to him? “Well…what do you have to say for yourself.” Sister Mary Margaret demanded, tapping her ruler on the edge of his desk.

“I…I…I…tried. I really did. I just don’t get.” David stammered, his brown eyes tearing up.

“Well, that is obvious,” Sister harrumphed and quickly turned her back on him. “Class, what is a dollar broken into four?”

“4 Quarters, Sister,” they responded.

“If a pie is cut into six pieces, what fraction is a single piece of that pie?” Sister asked.

“1/6th, Sister,” the class responded.

“And see David, how hard can it be?” she directed her hard gaze at him as he squirmed at his desk.

David’s cheeks reddened as the class snickered and pointed.

“You are so stupid…I bet you get lost on the way home.” Dennis said behind David’s back. The classroom erupted in laughter.

“Class, class, that is enough.” Sister Mary Margaret snapped.

A single tear slipped from the corner of David’s eye as he packed his books into his backpack, preparing to escape the minute the bell rang.

As David bolted from the room, Dennis began to chant, “Cry Baby, Cry Baby…”.

* Wednesday Night *

Deacon Rick smiled at the boys lined up in front of him. They were all typical ten- to twelve-year-old boys with more energy than common sense. They pushed and bumped each other playfully, all but David, who stood solemnly to the side watching, waiting.

“Today, we will learn about the tasks of an altar boy. Each of you has volunteered to serve our Lord in this capacity, and there are very specific rules that you must follow.” Rick loved this part. Most of the boys loved being asked to serve, but there was always one that made it hard on the others. He was willing to bet Dennis was his problem child and David was the one that took the gravity of the role to heart. Both could be problematic if not managed correctly.

Deacon Rick began taking an alb into his right hand, “This is the alb. It is a liturgical vesture that you will wear while serving the priest. You will behave appropriately for the event whenever you wear the alb or serve in any capacity.” Rick looked around seriously, “Do you understand?”

The boys all eagerly nodded in agreement.

“David, please step forward,” Deacon Rick asked. “I would like you to model the proper way to wear the alb, please.”

David stared wide-eyed at the Deacon. He loved Deacon Rick, but he did not know how to wear the alb; he would fail again.

“Deacon…. I…. huh…um…I don’t know how to do it, sir. I… I’m so sorry.” David stammered.

“Of course, you don’t know how” Rick’s kind eyes shone brightly, and David understood the assignment; he wanted nothing more than to please the church. “Come here and let me help you.”

Deacon Rick slipped the robe over David’s head and adjusted the shoulders. David felt a sense of awe. The robe made him feel important and proud. This was one of the best feelings ever, he thought to himself.

“Look at that; David is wearing a dress,” Dennis snickered.

Thwack… Thwack… Thwack

Three sharp slaps fell rapidly across the top of Dennis’ hand as Sister Martha produced a ruler that had been hidden in the hem of her habit’s sleeve. Not a word was said, but the punishment was swift. Dennis quietly rubbed his hand as he immediately stopped laughing. But the damage was done, and David hung his head in shame.

Deacon Rick continued, “Another rule that you must adhere to is that you must be pure of heart to serve. Each of you will spend time in the confessional with the Priest. You must confess all your sins to him and then carry out any penance that he gives you to atone for your sins before you can partake in the Mass or the Host. Do you understand? This is incredibly important, boys.” The stern look Deacon Rick gave the boys made many of them step back slightly.

They nodded silently in agreement, but you could sense the fear there.

* Saturday Morning *

Saturday dawned bright. It was going to be a beautiful day. David slowly crawled out of bed and put on his baseball uniform. Today was going to be a good day. He was going to get to start the game in the right field. He sat on the bench most of the time and watched the other boys play, but Coach said today was his day.

David rushed down the stairs, “Morning, Barney, he said as he patted his friend on the head, let’s get some breakfast and go for a quick walk.” Barney wagged his tail emphatically in agreement. At least you love me, David smiled down at the beagle.

“Morning, Mom, taking Barney for a walk,” David called as he opened the back door.

“Well, you better hurry; you are late already. I swear I must stay on you all the time; when will you ever grow up.” Mother complained as David slipped out the back door.

“Come on, Barney, let’s get you walked,” David whispered. “Maybe I can get that right.”

* The Ball Game – Later Saturday *

David felt alive, standing in the outfield with the sun on his face. The smell of the freshly cut grass tickled his nose. He could smell the hot dogs and hamburgers on the snack bar grill if he thought about it. It was exciting to be a part of the team.

“Hey batta’ batta,’” David chattering to the batter with the rest of the team made him feel like he belonged. Life had never been better. It was a great game so far. No mistakes, no missed balls. And it was the last batter in the previous ending, and all Dennis had to do was strike them out for them to win.

The last ball was pitched, the final out on the way, and then…

Twack…the bat met the ball full force with a deafening thud.

The white orb flew between the first and second base. Just over the second baseman’s head and right at David.

Oh no, oh no, oh no…. David panicked. NO!

Time slowed to a crawl. The ball spun in slow motion through the air. David tried to get in front of where the ball was. He tripped over his untied shoelaces and fell flat on the ground as the ball landed quietly next to him on the grass. It was over, and he had failed again.

Dennis rushed to him from the pitcher’s mound. “You … stupid, stupid fool. I told coach you would screw it all up.” Dennis began kicking David violently. “Stupid, stupid, I wish you would die,” Dennis shouted.

David cowered with his baseball mitt covering his face as Dennis continued his barrage of kicks and punches to the crowd’s cheers. It sounded as though the crowd was cheering Dennis on to David, rooting for him to pummel David to oblivion. The group was cheering for the other team scoring the runs needed to win a game they thought was lost. But David only heard them cheer on Dennis; they all wanted him dead.

Coach pulled Dennis away and grabbed David by the collar to pull him to his feet. Coach stood Dennis up without a word, slapped him on the butt, and walked away. Not a word was said. Coach just shook his head as he walked away.

* Saturday Night *

Saturday evening David entered the little chapel at the side of the church where the confessional stalls were. He crossed himself as he kneeled to the host and took a seat before kneeling in front of the host. This was his favorite place. The silence was welcoming, the smell of incense soothing. Here David could think. He was safe. Only the weight in his pocket told him otherwise. A ray of red-tinted light made its way across the room to the stained-glass window at the side of the altar. It felt like a laser as it crossed David’s pocket.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” David continued to pray the rosary as tears streamed down his face. This past week had been unbearable. Each week was worse than the one before. Would it ever end? Would he ever be good enough?

After David finished reciting the Rosary Prayers, he silently entered the confessional chamber.

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned, oh how I have sinned,” David’s voice quivered with fear and apprehension. Wringing his hands around his rosary, David continued. “It has been over a week since my last confession.”

The priest’s calm voice rang loudly in the confessional, “Continue, my son.” Rolling his eyes, the priest thought, “Not another one; how a child could have sinned so egregiously that his fear is this palpable is just incomprehensible.” Sometimes people would come to him with so much guilt and fear that their sins were so small compared to theirs. Father Correnti was sure this was the case once more.

David’s stiff khaki pants rustled as he fidgeted anxiously on the kneeler, “Father, I am afraid. I will go straight to hell; I just know I am.” Rubbing the wrinkles forming on his thighs, moisture from his palms leaving damp marks as they moved.

“My child, God will forgive you any sin if you confess with a repentant heart. We will pray for your soul and the forgiveness you so desperately seek. I hear the repentance in your voice, child. Please tell me what is so heavy on your heart.” Father Correnti knew this was a serious conversation; he also knew that David was only ten years old and had just started acting as an altar boy during mass. Sometimes the gravity of the position was more than a young child could manage.

“David, I know that you have just started your journey as an altar boy. Remember, we talk a great deal about how we must be pure of heart to serve the Lord in such a capacity. Let’s start with what you consider the least of your sins, and then we can work up to the bigger sins. Sound like a deal?” Father Correnti bargained. He would never get out of here if they didn’t get started. The priest’s stomach growled at the thought of lunch waiting in his tiny kitchen.

“Ok, Father, but promise you won’t laugh, ok?” David begged. “So, my mom, you know her. She told me, Barney, that is my dog’s name, is my responsibility. Everyday Father, every single day. But you know I love to play my video games, too. I took the dog to the neighbor’s yard and let him run loose. He gets his exercise, and I can keep playing my game. I know that it is wrong to lie to my mom but is it really a lie if I take the dog somewhere he can exercise.”

“David, David, if you ask the question, you already know the answer. You are lying to your mother in your heart, you must tell her what you have done, and then you must do better in the future.” Father Correnti smiled a slight smile. “So, what else do you have to tell me, David?”

“Father, this is a big one. I am so afraid to tell you. I…I think you will… you will hate me, Father,” David stammered. “I am so afraid.”

“So, David, tell me, have you done anything good since your last confession?” Father Correnti decided to take this to a different place. Maybe he could alleviate some of David’s fears.

“Of course, Father. I work in the soup kitchen with the other altar boys every Saturday. I have cleaned my room every weekend, and I am doing all my schoolwork, maybe not very well, but I really try,” Father could hear David’s smile as he spoke.

“Good, good, those good works also count. Now tell me the real sin you are so afraid of.” Father added decidedly.

“I let down Sister Mary Margaret. I cannot understand fractions…I just can’t. No matter how hard I try. She thinks I am stupid and that I will never amount to anything. She is so disappointed in me, Father.” David admitted quietly.

“Now, David. Have you given your best? Have you asked Sister for help? She only wants you to reach your full potential. This is not a sin; it is simply a challenge to become better than you are today. Sister Mary Margaret is a friend of mine. I will ask her to help you after school. I know she believes in you, just like I do.” Father Correnti’s voice was soothing, and David believed that the priest truly loved him. It was a glimmer of light in a very dark world.

Father Correnti continued, “So was that all you wanted to tell me today?” Please let that be all. My stomach thinks I have forgotten all about it.

The silence was deafening. “Father, this is the big one that I know you can’t forgive.” David spluttered, then burst into sobs.

“Forgive me, Father… I no longer wish to live, Father” The words rang through the confessional as Father Correnti heard a distinct metallic click.

“David? David? Tell me what you mean? Only God can determine when our lives are done. Do you understand? David?”

“Yes, Father,” came a sob, then silence.

“David, you know that people love you, right? Everyone has dark days, David, but God will never give you more than you can handle,” Father Correnti was shaking. Dear Lord, how do I handle this?

The silence from the chamber next to the priest was deafening.

“David, I am going to come out now, ok? I need to see that you are ok,” the priest prayed for help.

Father Correnti then broke from his role as priest and left the confessional, grabbing the door and yanking it open.

On the kneeler was a small handgun, but David was gone; he had slipped from the confessional, leaving the instrument he had planned to use to commit an unforgivable sin only moments before.

“Oh Lord, Oh Lord,” Father Correnti gasped, falling to his knees; what had he done, where had David gone, how could a ten-year-old have gone this far?

Grabbing the phone from his pocket, he called the Johnson Family. While David had not acted yet, they would have to work soon to save that child.

“Hello, Mrs. Johnson, this is Father Correnti; we must talk immediately,”

* Not The End – David’s Beginning *

My name is David. I am ten years old. I attend St. Katherine Drexel Middle School. I am an altar boy at St. John’s. I play Little League baseball. I have a beagle named Barney. I have a sister named Mary. And I no longer want to die.

Canning Day

Mama, dressed in her new Jiffy Jump-in jumpsuit and white Keds, hurried around the kitchen gathering utensils. Her old sneakers squeaked as she hurried from table to countertop to stove and then sink. It made me giggle to see her little toes sticking out of one sneaker, the daring red polish shining against the dirty white canvas. Even on canning day, Mama was beautiful. Papa would always smile a little brighter when he watched her work in the kitchen. Mama said they had a rare kind of love.

Mama groaned a bit as she pulled open the storage drawer under the oven side of the stove. It was heavy with her butchering supplies. Glass jars and lids boiled noisily in a large cast iron pressure cooker on Rich’s cooktop stove. Boxes of Mason jars and lids lined the wall next to the sink. The wooden handle Lehman’s hacksaw glistened like new as Mama laid it out on the counter. Next, the aprons came out three of them. First out was the rubber apron that squeaked when Mama pulled it over her bouffant hairstyle, bouncing the curls ever so slightly as it fell into place. Next, there was the metallic clink of Mama’s metal apron. It was made of all kinds of tiny chains linked together. Mama said it protected her when she is was cutting tough meat with her very sharp knives. And finally, the pretty apron came out of the drawer. It was all red and white checks and had pockets everywhere. It tied in a huge bow at the small part of Mama’s back like it was resting on the top of her butt. Papa said it was like gift wrapping a special package he couldn’t wait to open.

Everything seemed like a butchering day. Mama had on all her butchering clothes, but the big pot just off the back porch did not have a fire burning under it or a pig hanging from the come-a-long in the tree. And nobody was here. Butchering day was always a party day. Grammy and PopPop would come early to help with breakfast. Then everyone else would come at few at a time. The kids would play tag in the backyard while the grown-ups watched the water boil. The men drinking beer and the women gossiping over mint infused iced tea, it was really a grand time. That is until Papa would start to laugh a little too loud or scream at Mama for reasons I could never understand.

“No, baby, Mama is just doing a little canning today. I can manage on my own.” Mama wiped her damp forehead with a dish towel. “You run along now and watch your programs.”

It was not strange; Mama never wanted me underfoot when she canned. I turned the channel on the console television to Batman and settled into the overstuffed sofa that was placed just the right distance away. I loved Batman. He always won even when it looked like he was beaten. The Joker scared me. He was too much like Papa on one of his black days. Those days when Papa would smell like beer when he crawled into bed next to me. Those were the days that made my nightmares real. But Batman always beat Joker. Maybe someday Batman would come to save me and mama too.

Mama stepped out the back door to the freezer in the larder. Clutching the Lehman’s hacksaw in her right-hand she pushed the left side lid up to expose the gleaming white tub of the old Philco chest freezer. There stuffed unceremoniously into the tight area was Papa, chilling perfectly.

Mama had brought this man into their lives and now she would take him out of it just as easily. Tomorrow Papa would be gone, and Mama would be looking for a new man, maybe one that always looked for the special package, never laughed too loud and never appeared in my nightmares. BAMN! POW! CRASH! WHACK!

The Fashion District

This story was the beginning of a historical novel. I was studying Fashion Journalism at Academy of Art University in San Francisco and felt that this was a creative non-fiction attempt at explaining how the Fashion District came about and how it has changed over the years. This is a very rudimentary beginning to something I hope to one day finish.

CHAPTER ONE

And so, I here I sit on a small bench at the corner of Waverly Place and Gay in Greenwich Village, sipping coffee and clutching a frail red leather journal. I am on a quest, a journey to discover myself. I must start with the owner of this red journal. It is worn and the writing is sometimes faded with time. The pages have yellowed with time and stains often obscure a word here and there. But this journal tells a story that will help me understand who I am and where I have come from.

Over one hundred years ago an immigrant family from Germany left the uncertainty of the only home they had ever known for the promise of a better life just beyond the docks of Ellis Island. Just up a few flights of steps from where I sit my great-grandmother Lavina had sat quietly writing in this journal on the black wrought iron fire escape that clings perilously to the face of this dark red brick building.

New York had been a place of optimism then. My great-grandmother Lavina’s family had taken the entire fourth floor of the building. Oma Minnie and Opa Frederick Rieken, Lavina’s parents, Rinner and Aalez and her younger sisters Emma and Gieselle lived in the front of the building. Tante Druscilla, Onkel Rieke, their daughters Elsie and Sarah and sons William, Clifford, and Frederick lived in the back.

The little apartment on the corner held memories from each generation of the Rieken family. The riots during the 1920s, the bank collapse during the 1930s, designer heydays, and mob control of the Garment District had all played out while our family found comfort in our little home.

The old button factory on the corner had recently been converted into high rent condos. The fashion business was no longer a part of our city or our lives. Slowly the factories had left, the designers moved on, and the trinket shops opened on every corner.

As I sit here now, waiting for my grandmother to join me I feel nervous and unsure of my decision. Would it break her heart? Was I defying my family? I was thinking of selling our home, this little apartment on Waverly Place that we had all loved for so long. It was an unbearable thought, but as the American economy continued to decline the fashion industry that had supported our family was leaving New York and moving overseas.

I had finished the program at Academy of Art University this past Spring and could now call myself a designer. I had interned with Nanette Lepore last summer and really wanted to stay in New York, but the Garment District was only a shadow of its former self. Even though Nanette is a strong supporter of the “Save the Garment District” drive I am afraid that her effort and the other die-hard New York designers are far too late. The area is all condos and coffee shops now.

I remember the journal in my hands. It had belonged to my great-grandmother, Lavina. It was her story, her life, and my history.

CHAPTER TWO

The clock above the teacher’s desk ticked loudly as Lavina stood there waiting, her heart beating loudly in her ears. She clasped her hands tightly behind her apron so the teacher would not them shake. Ms. Getty, the woman who had been both teacher and friend, silently reviewed the document in her hands. Lavina had worked hours, painstakingly printing each letter precisely and clearly. Her English had improved since her arrival two years before, yet she worried that it would never be good enough. Now as Ms. Getty looked up at her Lavina saw in her eyes that she had made a grave mistake. There was sadness, even disappointment in her teacher’s eyes. Lavina had let Ms. Getty down. But how could she continue school when her family needed her so desperately.

“Kaum ein, sind sie sicher, dass dies der richtige Weg für sie?” the teacher asked in Lavina’s native German,” Little one, are you sure?” The Manhattan Trade School for Girls application lay between them. The elementary school teacher and Lavina eyed each other wearily. The teacher was deeply saddened by the young girl’s insistence that she be allowed to apply. Most of the girls that applied were daughters of immigrants if not immigrants themselves. The school was a way for wealthy reformers to feel better about the sweatshops, child labor, and other social woes of their generation.

If Lavina could land the “Student’s Aid” scholarship, then her family would get $1.50 a week while she learned a trade. That much money would add to the 40 cents a night she made at home with her family making flowers or embroidering chiffon waists in the tiny rooms of their apartment.

How many times had the teacher seen young girls reach the age of 14 and leave school to help care for their families? The money they would make in the sweatshops would keep a roof over their family’s heads and food on their tables. Often the girls would nod off at school after working late into the night at home making flowers, hats, and trimming their mother’s sewing. The young women’s eyes grew weak from working in the dimly lit rooms of the tenements.

To encourage them, the teacher gave each girl a small leather journal when they left school. She promised each of them they would graduate if they brought it back full in a year. While many girls never completed their journals, Lavina would. She loved capturing the events of the day. Often while sitting in the moonlight on the fire escape of their apartment, Lavina would write until her eyes would close heavy with sleep.

Lavina’s journal began to fill with stories of the neighborhood and tenement life and her longing for work. Papa and Onkel Rieke had been working odd jobs trying to keep food on the table. Most of the men in our little tenement drank the days away, but Papa had never drunk. He believed in taking care of his family and his responsibilities.

Once Onkel Rieke came home reeking of drink, swaying from side to side as he climbed the stairs to our floor. He opened the door and swore. Papa grabbed him by the collar of his threadbare jacket and shoved him into the front rooms. No one ever knew what was said, but Onkel Rieke never came home in the condition again.

Pap had a plan. He found a way to the rooftop and together he, Onkel Rieke, and the boys worked through the cold winter days carrying up bits of wood and dirt. They planned to build a garden there. It would be small, but it would feed our family. We had to be very careful if the neighbors should discover it, we will have to guard it day and night to keep it safe. The days of hunger would at least be over.

The ladies from the National Child Labor Committee found Cousin Frederick selling papers late in the evening last night. Mama is sure that they will come soon to see how filthy our home is and how cruel fate has been to our children. We have been working nonstop to clean the apartments for days now, but no matter how many times you move something there is never enough space for it all. There are rumors that boys are taken to Randall Island Home of Refuge and educated. After they learn the American ways and words they are put on trains and sent west. In the West there are families who long to have children like our boys, healthy and strong. I must wonder if they are better off on the farms of the Midwest or here with their family. Mama and Tante Dru would never let the boys go. I wish we could hide the boys when the ladies come. But mama says it is no use, it will be as it was in Germany, if the government wishes to find someone they will.

 Lavina prayed to be accepted for the trade school, but she was not. It had been a devastating blow. She began looking for work immediately. A few days after Lavina received her letter declining admission into the Manhattan Trade school for Girls, Clara Lemich spoke at the Conner Union Center. The International Ladies Garment Workers Union voted to strike. On that bleak November night, the Uprising of 20,000 begins as shirtwaist workers walked off the job. The strike lasted for another six months, and it was three months more before Lavina found a job as a trimmer in one of the smaller factories. Now she would have a new story to tell. No more hunger and cold in depressingly dark apartments. Lavina’s new story would be the story of the working immigrant girl.

December 9, 1909 — Frederick has been working as a paperboy, waking as early as three in the morning to get to the corner to get just a few papers. Today a man left one on a bench and Frederick brought it home. The strike is starting to be settled piece by piece. Mr. Simon’s workers are returning to work. But there is violence in the streets. Yesterday during an uprising, a young woman was stabbed in the head with a pair of shears by another. If the workers are quarreling among themselves, how will we ever return to working together? There is to be a debate between Miss Leonora O’Reilly, speaking for the strikers and Mr. Eugene Solomon from the Associated Waist and Dress Manufacturers this evening at the Church of the Holy Trinity in Brooklyn. My family continues to pray that the strike will end soon. Our meager supplies are dwindling quickly, and I fear that we may soon have to resort to begging on the street.

February 1910 — Finally, I can go to work. The strike had closed so many of the factories; I thought we would starve before it ended. Tomorrow I will walk the few blocks to my first day of work. My cousin Sarah will walk with me to show me the way. She works at the Triangle. I wish I could work there. They pay $6 a week. Can you imagine that? They have a price committee that works out the pay with management. They get the best rates in town. My job isn’t there though. It is in the building across the street owned by Saul Singer. I have heard they are fair and will pay well for good piece work.

The crisp morning air was biting as the girls left the apartment building on Waverly long before the sun rose in the East. Work in the factories began at 7 A.M. and they did not dare be late. Since the strikes, there were many women who would gladly steal your job to feed their families. The girls walked along chatting quietly, Lavina’s nervous laughter punctuating the quiet tones. Her excitement was almost more than she could bear. The idea of helping momma with the rent and buying food for their table was overwhelming. It didn’t matter what the teacher had said there are more important things in life than school. Taking care of your family that is what really mattered.

Sarah and her friend Tessie were much more subdued. They knew what working in the sweatshops was really like. The days are long and hard. Your back will ache long before the end of the day. You will not know fresh air until the end of the day when you wearily will return to your home, eat, work on piece work until you can no longer hold up your head and return the next day for the same.

Today even they were excited. It was Saturday and that meant a shorter day. They were hoping to take a stroll in Washington Square Park after work. There were boys there and one that Sarah was especially fond of would be there. Yes, it was a fine day indeed. Sarah had tucked a clean blouse in her bag and planned to change when they left the building this afternoon. She would pinch her cheeks, comb her hair and act as if she had just come from a day of leisure instead of a being locked in a dark, hot room with cotton dust so thick you choked. She would smile and flirt, and for a brief period, she would be happy.

As they reached the Asch Building Sarah and Tessie said their goodbyes and Lavina continued to the next block and Singer’s Undergarment Company. It was one of Saul Singer’s factories and it was supposed to be a good place to work. Even though he was president of the Cloak, Suit, and Shirt Manufacturers’ Protective Association, he listened to his workers and paid them well. Mr. Singer’s factory was one of the first to reopen after the strike because he wasn’t afraid to negotiate.

The building had been built in 1855. It was eight stories tall, not that tall really compared to the Asch Building across the street. The floors were wooden, the walls were brick. As Lavina entered the building she could smell the grease and oil from the machinery. The odor was strong, but she moved forward in a tight line of women all moving down the narrow corridor to the single set of wooden stairs that would take them to the sixth-floor workroom. The elevator was reserved for the boss and supplies that needed to be moved to the upper floors.

Once she reached the workroom she was pushed aside as the women behind her rushed to their machines. The whirl of electric sewing machines ignited the air. The noise was deafening. A nudge at her arm caused her to twirl around and come face to face with Luther Mor, her boss. “You Lavina, the new trimmer” the gruffness of his voice was shocking considering he was not much bigger than she was. She was whisked to the side of a sewer and was handed a pair of shears. Trim the threads as closely as possible, do not damage the goods, or the cost comes from your pay. Those were the only instructions she was given. Nine hours later, her back weary and her hands numb Lavina left the factory tired but satisfied that she would do well.

After the first day, the others blended. Everyday Lavina would walk to the Singer building, pick up her shears, and clip threads, barely raising her eyes from her work. Often, she would nibble on bread from home as she worked, fearing if she left her station another would fill it quickly. She longed for the day when she would be promoted but until then she worked hard and brought her money home to her family.

The winter following the strike had been much better. The family had stayed warm, fed, and together. News from Germany told them of a war that would not seem to end. They lost family and friends in Europe, but they were safe in America.

March 4, 1911 — Sarah left work early today to meet Micah, her Washington Square Park boyfriend. If her mama finds her out it will be a terror at home. I think that she is boy crazy. At 17 she needs to be concentrating on her work, not on some boy that she can never marry. He is a Jew. Imagine a Roman Catholic and a Jew. It is ok to work with one but to play at love; her mama will tie her to the bed and keep safe. It is a sad, sad time in our family. Sarah has forgotten Germany. She has forgotten why we came here. Now she is willing to throw it all away on a fancy talking boy that she takes walks within the park.

The windows on the seventh floor were the old-fashioned kind. They were heavy and could not be opened without a lot of help. Several of the windows were nailed shut and the little door to the workroom floor was locked once all the operators arrived. Apparently one of the bosses said he caught one of the sewers stealing shirtwaists, as though that could happen. We never worked on the full shirt. Each of us sewed a piece of the finished garment, a sleeve here tucks for the front panels there, but never the full garment.

March 25, 1911 — I am still writing in my little journal though not as frequently as I once did. The long days leave me so tired that most days I fall into bed without taking time to eat my small dinner. It has been a little over a year since I started at Singer’s and today, I will begin a new job as a sewer. I get to move up to the seventh floor too. They have windows there that reach all the way to the ceiling, even though they do not open, the light will be a blessing as I try to sew perfectly straight.

Today Lavina would be promoted. The one piece of advice that Sarah had offered Lavina that morning was simple “a good piece worker must keep her eye on her work at all times to make out.” It is hard work but pays $5 a week, a true fortune for our family. They had laughed on the way to work today. Sarah and Tessie were both sure of proposals of marriage from their Washington Square Park boys. Once they were married, they would no longer work in the factories, but stay at home to care for their babies. Life would be so wonderful then.

The screams were heard above the din of the machinery on the seventh floor. The roar of the sewing machines ground to a halt as operators, trimmers, and all rushed to the windows to peer out at the Asch Building. The foreman shouted at the women to return to their machines. No one moved. The horror unfolding before their eyes was beyond comprehension. Young men and women were flying, flames dancing through their hair as they jumped from the building. Engine Company 72 arrived with their hose wagon but had difficulty getting close to the scene. Bodies were starting to line the streets as they continued to jump from the burning building. Firefighters stretched life nets out only to have four women jump almost at once. The life net tore apart instantly and the women continued bouncing to the pavement and death. Police tried using horse blankets that ripped into pieces as bodies continued to tumble from the building. The water from the hoses barely reached the 6th floor before falling to the pavement and an ever-increasing number of bodies lining the street.

Lavina stared first in hope then horror as a man broke a window on the ninth floor of the building across the street. He calmly stepped to the ledge and then offered his hand to a young girl standing just inside the broken glass. Black smoke billowed through the newly opened frame. The girl took his hand, stepped to the ledge as he lightly kissed her hand. She crossed herself in prayer and stepped off the ledge. Lavina’s gasp barely audible slipped from her lips as the girl’s broken body met the wet pavement below with a resounding thump. The gentleman on the ledge assisted three more ladies from the burning room in the same manner before buttoning his flaming jacket at the waist, slipping his hand over his head to smooth his flaming hair, and stepping from the ledge himself. You could almost hear him addressing each, “Good afternoon, Miss, may I please assist you. Watch your step there.”

The bells of the fires wagon sounded in the distance. Engine Company 33 arrived only to find that their ladders fell short reaching only as far as the 7th floor. The ninth-floor windows were lined with workers clinging to life at the edge of windows as flames jumped through them searching for the fresh air outside. The fire escape filled with people rushing to avoid the raging inferno of the workroom was poured onto the cobblestone street below. The weight of so many people escaping twisted the wrought iron railings into a mass of metal clinging to the side of the building.

Lavina found herself being pushed to the stairs leaving the workroom. People were rushing out to the streets below adding to the chaos of spectators already lining the streets. Firefighters, gawkers, and survivors all huddled together trying to make sense out of the growing number of crushed and crumpled bodies lying at their feet. Lavina stood shivering at the corner where she was to meet Sarah and Tessie for the walk home. All around her were piles of cloth and tangled masses of smoking hair. And somewhere close by dinner was burning. The smell of burning flesh sickened her.

Hopefully, Sara and Tessie would be here soon. Why were they tarrying? All Lavina wanted was to go home to the people she loved and put this all behind her. So many people had gathered behind the fire and police lines staring at the humanity lining the streets along Greene Street. All these people shouting and crying made her nervous. She was sweating through her threadbare jacket in the cold evening air. Darkness was starting to fall. Damp ringlets of blond hair clung to her neck, chilling her in the cool afternoon air.

The fire was finally out, and the firefighters began to lower bodies from the Asch building to the sidewalk in the light of massive searchlights. So many people, so much death, it was unimaginable and yet Sarah and Tessie still did not come to her. Surely, they had not gone home without her, why would they have left her here among the dead. No longer able to stand she sat at the edge of a giant red canvas lining the east side of Greene Street and silently fell over from exhaustion.

“I’ve got a live one.” Someone was shouting in her ears. A strange scent passed close to her nose, and she coughed and retched. “Girl, you are a miracle, why are you lying here with the dead, come little one, try to sit up just a bit. That’s it. Good, good.” Lavina stared almost unseeingly into the eyes of a man in a police uniform. He looked concerned, excited, and almost happy. Tears were streaming down his face as he hugged her close to his chest. Lavina struggled to push away from him, but she was overcome with a coughing fit.

And then Momma was there crying and screaming and shaking Lavina. What had happened, she could not remember. And when she tried, she became so very, very tired. “Please Momma, let me sleep. “Lavina mumbled as she slumped over again.

March 26, 1911 — Sarah did not come home last night. The fire at the Triangle raged for only a few minutes we are told, but it seems forever to me as I stood at the window watching the horrors unfold before my eyes. We heard the screams of the girls long before we heard the screams of the fire engines. I fear that Sarah and her friend Tessie did not survive. I waited at the corner way into the dark of night hoping they would meet me as they always did. They never came. Momma and her Tante Dru, Sarah’s momma, came to bring me home.

CHAPTER THREE

Tante Dru and Momma left as soon as Lavina was settled into her little cot in the apartment. Oma would watch over her. It would be a miracle if Lavina survived the shock. No one had told her that Sarah was gone. She had seen so much death and horror today. Her young mind would break, Momma was sure of it. Yet Momma prayed that Lavina would be strong. That she would survive the trauma of being found laid out with the dead.

Someone at the Asch Building had said that the Mercer Street Police Station would have news of the survivors. Maybe there they would find Sarah and her friend Tessie. It has been a blessing from God to have found Lavina. The girl was nearly frozen stiff and hysterical when they found her, beating the chest of the poor policeman that had found her there among the dead. He was barely a boy himself. The look on his face had told the story. The horror and pain that they all felt were etched there in the lines that seemed to appear on his face with the passing minutes.

When they arrived at the Police Station there stood the young officer that had saved little Lavina. Momma rushed to him, kissing his cheeks, and thanking God. His face was still worn and weary, but his bright blue eyes greeted Momma with recognition. She had to know, and she was sure he would be her angel once again.

“Please oh please officer, you brought me my baby Lavina have your news of her cousin Sarah?” she has begged him. “Please help us to find our wee little Sarah. But he could only shake his head sadly. He knew that if Sarah had not come home when she was lost, no one else had survived. If Sarah had been in the building, then her body now laid with the others at the pier where the medical examiner was feverishly working to identify the dead. They would try to make them presentable. Families would have to identify those who could no longer speak for themselves.

The doors to the station were closed and people were being turned away. A gruff policeman was shouting for them to go away, “There is nothing here for you, go home. Be with the ones you have the others are lost.”

The angel officer turned to Momma, “Please ma’am goes home to your girl. She needs you now and there is nothing here for you.” Gently he touched her shoulder and smiled slightly to Tanta Dru. “You will go to the East River Pier in the morning. There will be a morgue there. Perhaps your Sarah is there” he quietly said as tears touched the red rims of his deep blue eyes.

Tante Dru fainted. “Oh, my Sarah will not be found there.” Tante breathed. She was sure that her baby still breathed the air of the living. God would not take away her beautiful daughter.

Momma and Tante Dru returned to our little home on Waverly. They each took a thread worn blanket and wrapped it around their shoulders. The late-night air would be chill. Wrapping biscuits leftover from a dinner left untouched they began the long walk to the pier. Momma and Tante would wait through the night. They were sure that Sarah was not among the dead but unwilling to leave her there on that lonely pier alone with the death that the fire had brought to so many. As they neared the East River at Twenty-Sixth Street the crowds were already gathering. How had this many people got here so fast? Were they all family of the people who had died today? How could that be? Momma’s mind raced at the possibilities. So many people dressed in finery that no one she had known could have bought. Why would they be here? The entire place had the feel of a macabre circus with hawkers offering everything from a crate to sit on to cold coffee and biscuits.

As the women took their place in the forming lines there was the faint smell of burnt meat hanging in the air and a constant hammering. Oh, the hammering, Momma wondered if it was it inside her head. No, it came from inside the iron gates of the Pier. It sounded as though they were building something inside the dark, dank warehouse. But what would they be building at this time of night? Surely there was no need to build ships when such tragedy had visited them today.

And then an idea formed in the very deep recesses of her mind, “Oh” Momma sobbed, fit was coffins. She would learn later that there were not enough coffins in the entire city to hold the dead.

Uniformed police officers were scurrying to and from the sight, often carrying small unrecognizable bundles in their arms. Momma knew it was the dead, those who had not survived the fired and its aftermath, but she prayed that Dru would not make the connection. Dru seemed to have gone somewhere in her mind. She sat on the top of an empty apple crate, quietly humming a lullaby she once had sung to the girls, rocking ever so gently to and for. Momma knew that if they were to find Sarah inside that warehouse tomorrow Dru would not recover, she would never be right again.

Listening to Tante Dru’s sobbing through the night Momma knew that this day would change her life forever. They had been right to come straight here, throughout the night the lines grew and stretched all the way to First Avenue and beyond. So many people, she wanted to scream, “This is not a circus. These are my people, my friends. Why are you here?”

March 27, 1911 — Momma and Tante Dru stayed away all night. I woke as the sky was still pink in the East. Oma’s hand rested lightly on my shoulder. She had sat beside me through the night calming my nightmares. But I now know that my nightmares were not the product of the night and fitful sleep but of a reality that I am not ready to face. I had heard Tante Dru and Momma whispering. They found Sarah, there on the pier, lying in a roughhewn pine box. She was unrecognizable, all but the small locket that she never took off. That is how they knew it was her. We now know that we have lost her.

Momma told Oma stories from the pier. They said that over 50,000 people had pushed through the iron gates to see the devastation and horror. Momma said it was like being on display for the rich. One woman who was standing close to Momma and Tante Dru was dressed in a black silk dress with a huge, feathered hat. She was so haughty and ostentatious. She had ordered Momma to fetch her water. Momma told her no in no uncertain terms.

Momma said that she laughed so hard later in the day when the woman puked all over that fine gown, her feathered hat bouncing as she continued to retch from the stench of the dead bodies. Momma said it served her right, taking pleasure in other people’s pain like that, it served her right just.

And yet nothing had prepared Momma for finding Sarah. It had not taken long. Many of the women who found their daughters had thrown themselves on the pine coffins sobbing uncontrollably and were carried away by police officers. But not Tante Dru, she had looked at the little locket and quietly said, “My baby,” turned and walked away.

Tante has not spoken since. She is still sitting in the rocking chair by the window, quiet tears streaming down her face. She has refused to eat or drink since they returned home. Momma says that this is how she will grieve. The hollows of her cheeks scare me so. If she does not eat soon, I fear she tool will die.

The Buttercup Cafe

WARNING: Content may be disturbing to some.

Paul ran his fingers lightly over the edges of the faded white flower boxes lining the Buttercup Café. He loved the feeling as he counted each board, “1,2,3,4….” The purple flowers danced across the top of his hand, leaving yellow pollen kisses. The dew lay softly on the leaves this morning, making those kisses slightly wet.

“Morning, Paul. The usual?” Mary called out at the tall man as he entered the café, her smile reaching bright blue eyes as she greeted him. You could set your watch by Paul. At 6:30 AM every day, he would walk into the Buttercup Café and sit on the same stool at the counter. He would order black coffee, two eggs over easy, and bacon. While he waited for his food, he would rearrange the napkin holder, move the salt, and pepper shaker to align with a crack in the old Formica countertop. He had a routine, and he never missed it.

“Morning,” Paul mumbled. He didn’t like to talk at all. But he wanted Mary. When he did speak, it was always the one thing he was comfortable with, Space. “The sun is throwing another flare our way; better protect your electronics,” he added as he sat down. Mary understands that Paul is different. Not everyone understands that different is not always bad, crazy, or dumb. He is special, at least in Mary’s eyes. When he was in school, they diagnosed him as highly functioning autistic. Most of the time, it would manifest as obsessive-compulsive tendencies, so Mary overlooked his idiosyncrasies. Sometimes it was fun to play with them, like bumping the saltshaker slightly out of alignment. He would rush to place it back correctly every time.

“Thanks, Paul,” Mary responded with a smile as she poured his coffee into his favorite mug. Mary said, “I always wonder how those things will affect us”, placing the coffee where it belonged. “If it hurts electronics, the flares will hurt us too.”

“Uh-huh,” mumbled Paul as he sipped his coffee. Paul would not say much more to her, their morning conversation over. Mary turned back to helping the other customers at the counter.

The Buttercup Café was one of those long-forgotten roadside diners that most freeways had done away with. Years ago, it had bustled with excitement. The Greyhound buses would stop several times a day to exciting cities like Dallas, Oklahoma City, and far beyond.  It was still a bright yellow building if faded with age. The inside was what people would call retro now, but it was how it had always been. Black and White tile floors, a long counter on the back wall with a big window to the kitchen, and metal-legged, Formica topped tables with red vinyl-covered chairs. The walls were covered with memories. Pictures of celebrities like Walter Brennan, who had dined there when he was in town shooting a movie, and local heroes like Jay Tomlinson, who had died in the Vietnam War in 1969, lined the walls. A Wurlitzer Jukebox in the corner still had all the great hits from the sixties and seventies. Each of the booths around the outer walls of the diner had its jukebox, too.

Adam and Mae Reed had built the Buttercup Café their first year of marriage and ran it together for years until their son was born. Adam Junior was a sunset baby, born late in Reed’s life. And he was severely handicapped and non-verbal. Adam Junior lived from the front porch of their little clapboard house set a few yards behind the diner watching the world pass by from his wheelchair. Adam took care of their son, and Mae ran the restaurant until her legs finally gave out.  When Mary became a waitress and Russell, the dishwasher, turned cook. They at been there for almost ten years. Long enough to see most of the town fade away.

I remember when seven or eight buses a day come in here. My fried pies were all the rage. People would buy a dozen to take on their journey. I always wondered how long they lasted before they were eaten,” Mae said to the room around her. Mary learned long ago that Mae was not looking for an answer, she was traveling memory lane, and she didn’t need the company. Some days it felt like memories were all any of them had.

“Mary, plates are up,” shouted Russell from behind the kitchen window.

“Thanks, Russ,” Mary returned.

“Hey Paul, this looks about right to you?” Mary asked as she set his plate on the counter in front of him. Maybe today would be the day he made eye contact. Mary knew he wouldn’t. Lack of communication was another symptom of autism, but Mary could hope. Paul shook his head to answer her question before picking up the saltshaker.

Some people said that Paul’s elevator didn’t reach the top floor, but Mary knew different. Paul was smart. And he was a good man. Good men are hard to find. Mary learned that firsthand. She had been married to the other kind of man, a very bad man. She was lucky to have survived, but when she left him and moved here to this small spot on the road, she had found home and hope, even if she was still alone.

Paul knew people thought he was strange. Most people here didn’t understand that it could be so much worse. Gary Henson had been one of those that were worse off than him. They called it autism, and Gary had suffered from it bad. When he was eighteen, he finally killed himself by banging his head into a door until he knocked himself into a coma. He died a week later from severe brain trauma. Everyone in their small town treated Paul like he would do the same thing because he was autistic. Paul was not able to interpret facial and body clues like most people. He could not read people’s emotions and look directly at someone hurt. He couldn’t explain exactly how, but it hurt; it was physical pain.

Paul did want to talk to Mary. She was so nice, and she acted as if she cared about people. But he didn’t think she would understand his limitations, so he ate in silence. Sometimes he would stroke his forearm with his index finger. That soothed him and helped him concentrate. People thought that was strange too. The doctor called it stemming, a way to stimulate his mind without over-taxing. It was soothing and calmed his mind.

It was time to go. The first bus would be here in less than an hour, which Paul did not want to endure. Too many people and way too much noise.

“Bye, Mary, Russ, Miss Reed. See you tomorrow,” Paul called as he walked slowly out the front door; the bell rang loudly in his ears as he quickly exited the building.

“Russ, you got those pies frying, don’t you?” Mae called from her spot by the window.

“Yes, ma’am, I sure do. Just like you always made but not as good. No matter how I try, I just can’t make them taste the way you do.” Russ called back.

  “We only get the two buses now, so we must make the most. Mary, are you ready? Coffee brewed; tables set?” Mae continued her drill sergeant imitation. She knew that those two could handle it, but she still wanted to feel like she was a part of the Buttercup Cafe, even if she couldn’t wait tables anymore.

The old Greyhound careened off the road, spitting gravel as it came to an abrupt stop at the front door of the Buttercup Cafe.

“Here we are, folks, The Buttercup Café, established in the fifties by Adam and Mae Reed. That is their house back there and to the right just a bit. This café is full of history and the best-fried pies you ever did eat. This is a thirty-minute stop, so make sure you order your food before using the restroom, so you have plenty of time to enjoy a fantastic breakfast. We will be back on our tour to historic Artist’s Point before rolling into the Confederate Cemetery at Van Buren.” The driver and tour guide shouted into the microphone as he opened the doors.

The people hurried off. They had been on the road for a little over an hour, and this was their first chance to get out and walk around a bit. And they all knew the story of the fried apple pies. Most of the people rushed to grab a seat, and soon several of the table side jukeboxes were playing oldies as the people sat and talked. A few of the children ran around outside playing tag and looking for treasures. Everyone knew the area had fossils and, sometimes, if you were lucky, a gemstone. Russell made sure a few gems and fossils were tossed about in the yard to fuel the yarn.

Two of the older boys headed to the back of the café. They looked like they were up to no good. Adam watched from the front porch of his house, him in his rocking chair and Junior in his wheelchair. They had seen this happen hundreds of times over the years. Adam was willing to bet those boys would pull out a cigarette any minute now. And as if on cue, they did. He looked around guiltily as they lit the cigarette with a match from a paper matchbook. The flames burst up as all the matches lit at once. The taller boy threw the flaming matchbook on the ground as the other one punched him. They lost their chance to steal a smoke. Adam laughed out loud.

 “What you are laughing at, old man.” The taller boy yelled as they rounded the corner of the café and headed back inside. They wrestled as they walked, the two boys, best friends from the looks of things. Adam wished that Junior could have been a boy like that. It would have been nice for him to get in trouble too. Odd thing for a person to wish for, but what he wanted was for his son to be normal, just for a day. No one noticed the thin wisp of smoke rising from the pile of leaves against the back of the café.

Thirty minutes later, Mary cleaned off the last of the tables as the bus pulled back out on Highway 71 headed south. Later today, another would spend the night in Van Buren before making the trek back north.

 “Good tips today, Russ. We will each get about thirty bucks.” They must have appreciated the pies.

 “Nah, Mary, it is that awesome smile of yours; people just can’t help themselves when you smile like that.” Russ joked back.

 “I am going to go take a nap; you guys can handle it for now,” Mae said as she shuffled out the door. They knew she would not be back today. Time was catching up with her. Her body slowed down even if her mind was as sharp as ever.

The doors opened as the “old biddy brigade” came in. Of course, Mary would never call them that to their face. They belonged to four of the founding families of this little town, and they knew everything about everything, often before it happened.

 “Morning ladies, coffee?” Mary called from behind the counter.

 “Of course, we want coffee,” Mrs. Buck called back, “why else would we be here.”

Mary grabbed four cups and the hot pot of coffee and headed to the booth by the window. The group of ladies was here every day right after the bus. It gave them an excuse to get out and talk about the rest of the town.

Mrs. Robinson leaned over the table, and loudly fake whispered to the others, “Did you hear about that Melinda Rutledge? Pregnant again. What is that four, five? You would think she would figure out how to stop that or have more than one with the same man.”

“Well, I think she makes a living having those kids. I have heard that she makes more in child support than most people with a real job.” Mrs. Mugley stated firmly.

 “That might be, but having young and close kids is a real job. Don’t anybody try to tell me any different?” Mrs. McCoy chimed in. “Now the real shame is that, Paul Cunningham. Such a handsome young man. And not a brain one between those pretty ears.”

Mary jerked backward at the cruel comment about Paul spilling coffee on the table. How could they be so ruthless?

“Careful girl, you nearly got coffee on my new sweater. And I know you don’t make enough money here to replace it.” Mrs. Buck snapped.

“Sorry, ma’am. Let me get a towel to clean that up for you.” Mary stammered as she headed back to the kitchen. Mary swept her long blonde bangs off her forward with a tired flick of her hand as she turned her around on the old biddies; she only hoped the women did not hear the sigh escaping her lips.

“Russ, give me a couple of those pies cut in half and on four plates. I need to go make nice again.” Mary said as she pushed the doors open that went into the kitchen.

“Girl, you have got to quit messing with those women. They own this town, at least they think they do.” Russ commented. “Here are your pies.”

“Hey, do you smell something burning back here, Russ?” Mary asked as she wrinkled her nose. There was the smell of smoke coming from the back of the kitchen. Not burning food but for something familiar; she knew it but couldn’t name it.

“That is not even funny, girl. You know I never burn anything.” Russ snapped back.

“No, seriously, you might want to check it out,” Mary said as she walked back out the door. “I don’t think it is food that is burning. But I can smell something.”

Russ shook his head but moved towards the back door to check it out just in case.

Mary moved to the front of the café, balancing plates of fried pies, a towel, and a fresh pot of coffee.

“Ladies, here you go. Enjoy it on the house. Sorry about the coffee Mrs. Buck.” Mary smiled her sweetest smile and turned to head back to the kitchen.

Smoke was billowing from the kitchen, but it didn’t register in Mary’s mind like smoke. Just as she realized that the café was on fire, she turned to warn the women.

“GET OUT!” Paul screamed from the kitchen…just as a blast blew Mary across the booth where the old biddies sat, mouths gaping open as the rush of the explosion blew their hair and skin sideways. Mary felt herself lift off her feet, pushing her through the front door that somehow was wide open. Mary landed in the parking lot, stunned and unsure of what had happened. Another explosion rocked the building just as she was catching her breath.

“What happened,” she wondered aloud. The Buttercup’s yellow paint was curling up in vicious black curls, blistering with the heat from a fire shooting out of all the windows. The blast had broken them all. Mrs. McCoy and Mrs. Robinson were hanging out the same window next to the booth where they had sat just a few moments before. Neither of them moved even though flames licked at their bodies. Mary was sure they were dead. She was unsure where Mrs. Buck and Mrs. Mugley were, but she was sure it wasn’t good.

“Oh my gosh, where was Russ,” she thought. Mary tried to stand and couldn’t. Looking down, she realized that her leg was broken and bleeding. She needed help; she felt as she fainted.

BOOM…BOOM…BOOM came from the back of the café as the compressed air containers exploded one by one. The canisters in the back of the café began to shoot off like missiles. One landing on Reed’s front porch between Adam and Junior. Before they could react, it exploded, killing them both instantly.

The sirens wailed loudly as Mary woke up once again. She could not understand what she was seeing. There were people everywhere, and several tended to her, including Paul Cunningham. And he was making eye contact and telling her she would be ok. He was looking at her, really looking. She lost herself in the most beautiful brown eyes she had ever seen.

“What happened?” Mary stammered.

“Sssh, now,” Paul murmured, “you will be ok.”

The Widow’s Quandry

The recently widowed Ms. Merriweather was living a wonderfully comfortable life safely hidden away from decent society while publicly mourning the wartime death of her dear late Jonas. They had married just days before he shipped out to Europe, and only a few short days later, she found herself a widow.

“Evie Mae, you know I love you dearly. Should something happen and I cannot return to you, whatever would happen to you?” Jonas has asked sincerely, concern shadowing his handsome face.

“Jonas, please don’t be so serious. I know you will return; we have our whole lives to live together once this nasty business in Europe ends. We must plan for that life and look at this inconvenience for what it is…a pause in ordinariness.” Evie was flippant with her answer. This conversation was not how she wanted to spend their final days together. Jonas was never this serious. He had been a joyous companion all summer, but now he was so, so mature.

“Please, Evie Mae, make me the happiest man on earth, become my wife before I leave for war,” Jonas was pleading.

And that is how a few short hours later, they found themselves standing in front of the minister at the Middleton Baptist Church on Main Street, pledging their love until death do us part.

The following day Jonas had left for the front, and she found herself alone in a house she did not know but was now hers. The drawers of his dresser were open a little way, and a shirt, a buckle, and a few odds and ends that he had left behind in those last minutes were lying on the bedspread. Was she just another bit left behind as well?

Evie Mae went outdoors and sat on the front porch wrapped in a familiar quilt. After a while, the sun went down and then came up again. It brought a beautiful misty-clad morning; she heard a train whistling and a dove calling from somewhere nearby. It seemed impossible that there could be bombs falling and people dying on the other side of the country. And even more unbelievable that Jonas had left to join the fight just yesterday. Their car sat in the drive where she had left it yesterday – the windows misted over. She looked up and for a moment thought she saw him sitting in the seat he had left such a short time before.

As the days passed, Evie Mae’s dreams were haunted nightly. She saw Jonas burned and crushed so many times. Had it happened, she believed she would have “known,” yet she dreamed it every night. She saw him crippled and alone on the cold, desolate front. She felt an undeniable cold fear shaking her awake every night – the fear that he was crippled and alone or worse, dead. One can never know the helplessness and the horror of waiting and worrying and not knowing. Evie Mae knew she would not be whole again until Jonas was back.

A month later, a black car pulled up in front of Evie Mae and Jonas’ home. Evie Mae watched as two uniformed men approached her porch. Evie Mae knew that this was the time that she had dreaded. Jonas was dead. Her nightmares were now her reality.

“Mrs. Merriweather?” The tall younger man asked.

“Yes, I am Mrs. Jonas Merriweather.” Evie Mae’s voice cracked as she looked into his sad eyes. The older man wearing a minister’s collar had a friendly face, but the grimness of his duty was there as well.

“Mrs. Merriweather, I am Captain Michael Barrett. It is with great regret I must inform you of your husband’s death. The country is grateful for your sacrifice.”

Michael focused on the words and not the face in front of him. There had been so many faces. This job was not what he had signed up for. The grief of the widows was too much of a burden to wear. Sometimes he believed he would have been better off on the front with the others.

“Is there someone we can call for you?” Now the older man was speaking, but it came from somewhere dark, somewhere foreign, as Evie Mae slipped into a faint.

Evie Mae woke to female voices in the room next to hers.  She was lying in bed wrapped in a worn quilt. Her eyes felt stiff, crust lining her long lashes. How long had she been asleep?  Why were there voices in her home? Who did they belong to? She felt like her body was too tired to move.

“She is so young. I hope that she can recover from this shock. It could take years before she is ready to love again.” Mrs. Smith, yes, that is whose voice she heard in the next room, speaking quietly. “I am so thankful that my boy, Waller, was too old for the draft. He missed the cut-off by only a year or so. Can you imagine not having a body to bury? Awful, just awful.” Mrs. Smith continued. Evie Mae was still confused; why was that old busy body in her parlor, and who was she talking about now.

“My husband performed the marriage just the day before he left. They were so in love and so hopeful for a future. And now here she is a widow, all alone in the world.” Mrs. Prather spoke in equally hushed tones. The pastor’s wife’s word brought it back to Evie Mae, “Jonas, oh my Jonas,” she cried quietly.

Evie Mae rose from her bed as though someone had paralyzed the thinking half and left the other untouched to move automatically through the endless day. By the end of that first week, Evie Mae had found her footing. She had loved Jonas, true enough, but now she could consider her options and wait for the best opportunity. She was a woman of some means now, with a home bought and paid for by her late husband. There would be no pressure to remarry. There is no time limit for a widow to return to the world of the living. She may never have to marry again. As the months passed, Evie Mae realized that polite society would have expectations of a young, widowed woman, but for now, she could be on her own without too much pressure.

While Miss Jane Austen wrote that it is a universal truth that a single man must be in want of a wife, Mrs. Evie Mae Merriweather was a single woman who found she was in the absence of the perfect suitor. Consequently, not finding a single gentleman to fill that void, she found herself in possession of three admirers, the sum of which nearly making a whole.

A petite blonde with bright, cornflower blue eyes, Evie Mae, had captured the attention of the three gentlemen rather quickly. Each had approached her, offering condolences and assistance that only they could perhaps provide. The war had taken a heavy toll. Evie Mae could attest that that, however, she had earned the reputation of being without the need to marry. That single trait drew the men about her like bees to honey. Yes, indeed, her life was much more pleasant considering her circumstances. Yet not one of the three made her whole.

A few months after Jonas had passed, she found herself enjoying the brief sunlight of a warm late winter day. Walking along the main street going about her daily chores, she had to remember that she could not get caught up in the happiness of a beautiful day. “Slow down, little lady; you are still in mourning,” she reminded herself. If she mourned, societal demands remained at a distance. Evie Mae knew she would need to be cautious.

The Main Street of Middleton was quiet today, and Evie Mae quickly moved from shop to shop, chatting here and there along the way. The next stop was not her favorite, but she had to pretend it would be the highlight of her day. There were appearances to maintain. Entering Middleton Bank, she braced and smiled.

“Hi there, Mrs. Merriweather. It is so nice to see you today.” Smiling broadly, Waller Smith greeted her from his desk in the corner office. As the manager of the bank, no one would question his enthusiastic welcome. But Evie Mae knew the redness of his cheeks had intensified with the excitement of seeing her. He was suitor number one of three that she had secreted away.

“Mr. Smith, it is wonderful to see you again. How is your mother? I hope she is doing well,” Evie Mae responded. “Keep it together, girl,” she told her inner self. “Keep it together.”

“She is well, thank you for asking. You know how her arthritis flares up this time of year, but she is bearing up. How are you today?” Mr. Smith asked.

“Well, you know how hard it can be on your own, Mr. Smith. Some days are harder than others, but I think that just maybe the bad days are getting farther apart. I do dearly miss Jonas, however. He was my soulmate, as you know.” Evie Mae answered quietly, covering her eyes momentarily to feign genuine grief.

“Good day, Mr. Smith; I must finish my errands and return home before dark.” Evie Mae said as she walked to the teller nearest her.

“Hello Nancy, how are you today? I need to make a deposit, please, but I left my slips at home. Can you please look up my account for me?” Evie Mae asked.

“Of course, Mrs. Merriweather, anything to help you out. Have you been busy? I saw that dress that you made for Mrs. Prather, the pastor’s wife. It was stunning,” the teller said. Nancy was one of the older tellers and was often chatty.

Evie Mae had counted on her to pull the conversation away from Waller. The look in his eyes might give away the fact that they saw each other secretly. The man could not keep a secret. She would have to watch how much they interacted in public. Waller was her steady rock. A man searching for a wife that would care for him and his mother. He was slightly paunchy with a receding hairline. Not attractive but stable and respectable. Any woman would be happy to snag him, but maybe not his mother. Evie Mae knew she would never love Waller, but his attention was safe, and should she ever need the security, he was the safest bet.

“Why, thank you so very much, Nancy. I loved the fabric that Ms. Prather selected. It was a bit difficult to work with as it was a bit heavier than I normally would use.” Evie Mae said.

“There you go, Mrs. Merriweather; see you at church on Sunday?” Nancy asked.

“Of course, you know I love service. This week the choir has a special song we have been practicing for weeks now. I hope you enjoy it.” Evie Mae replied.

“Good day, Nancy. Mr. Smith, please tell your mother hello for me.” Evie Mae said as she walked towards the door. “Whew, that was over at least for one more week,” she thought.

Evie Mae reached for the door as it burst open, and Ford Ferguson exploded into the room. Wherever he went, it was with unbridled passion. Ford was suitor number two. A few years younger than Evie Mae and energetic Ford worked at his father’s hardware store. Though to say he worked might be an overstatement. Most of his days were spent playing checkers with the regulars and pointing in the general vicinity of where an item might be located.

“Oh, so sorry, Evie…huh, Mrs. Merriweather, how are you today?” He asked.

“I do apologize, but I must get back to the store with change as quickly as I can. Have a nice day, won’t you.” Ford blurted out as he rushed past.

Ford was Evie Mae’s excitement. He did not want anything more in return than a night at the speakeasy in the next town and a quiet interlude from time to time. For Evie Mae, it was a chance to feel beautiful and alive. God, he was fun.

“Well, there would be no confusing them for friends or anything more that was for sure, Evie Mae thought to herself. Why is it that it bothered her so? He was seriously just a play toy and nothing more.

And then there is Cade, who appeals to her need to be a part of a dashing couple. His dark good looks complement her petite blond beauty. But he is common, and Evie Mae cannot believe that she will settle for the ordinary. Cade has a steady job as a plumber/handyman. It is useless to think of him as a long-term solution since he never wants to go out, and he is all about the companionship she provides him over dinner and a night at home. He does not wait long for a commitment or family, so why is she so drawn to him?

Cade had loved deeply before. Young Sarah Jane Shields captured his heart while they were still in high school. They were the town’s talk, him the star football player and her the girl next door cheerleader. She was the love of his life, and he knew they would be together forever until they were not.

Coming home from a late game in the next county, the school bus had careened off the road and into a fast-moving stream. Sara Jane lost to the current; her body recovered days later, wearing Cade’s letter jacket. Cade lay in the local hospital recovering from his wounds, some that would never heal. Cade’s body was broken and would never be athletic again. He now walked with a limp that prevented him from joining the others during the war effort. His mind and heart were broken far worse. He carried a sadness with him that would never heal. He sought out women who were as broken as he for companionship, as he would never marry or even love deeply again.

Cade built a connection with Evie Mae Merriweather based on the belief that they both shared their massive grief. He trusts that she will never become an emotionally bound woman, begging for marriage. For him, she is the safe choice. He enjoys their dinners and conversation. They are both avid readers and enjoy spirited discussions about the books they read sitting in her living room. No one knows of their friendship, and that is fine by Cade. His personal life has spent way too much time on display. There is no passion between them, only a comfortable space where they can be safe without demands from the other.

Even with the warm sun shining on her face, there was a quick bite in the air. The weather was calling for late snow, and Evie Mae stocked up on a few extras at the market before returning to her home at the end of Second Street.

The following day it was an actual winter day, snowing and blowing; the road south of here was blocked, several cars stuck blocking the highway. The snowplow did not come until 8 P.M. to clear it. It was below zero this morning, and Evie Mae’s pipes froze last night, so no water today. She stoked the wood stove and wrapped herself in her favorite quilt. Trying to keep warm.

A knock at the door startled her. “Who in their right mind would be out on a day like this?” she wondered aloud.

“Ms. Merriweather, I wanted to check in on you before going to the bank this morning. I hope you do not mind. I brought you some water as I am sure you do not have any in the taps.” Waller Smith stood there awkwardly, a pail in his delicate leather-gloved hand, sloshing a bit of water on the trench coat that was much too light for the weather.

“Why Mr. Smith, such a thoughtful gesture. How can I ever thank you?” Evie Mae was blushing. This was much more than she ever expected from him.

“Never you mind, Ms. Merriweather, just stay warm, and I will check on you again later,” Waller said as he walked away briskly. Evie Mae secretly hoped that it would not be again today. Things might get complicated.

Evie Mae barely made it back to her rocker before there was another knock on the door. “Well, that is strange,” she thought, walking across the floor.

“Hey Evie Mae, I figured I might check in on you and make sure that your fuses are holding up. People have been buying up like crazy at the store.” Ford, sporting a lopsided grin and a brown paper bag, said. “This weather is horrible, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Ford, what a delight,” Evie Mae exclaimed, opening the door a bit wider so he could make his way in. “Please sit by the stove and warm up a bit.” Evie Mae calmly invited. Inside, however, she was thinking, “Oh my God, just a few minutes ago, Ford and Waller could have crossed each other’s path at her door. How on earth would she ever explain that one?”

At least Cade would be busy today. There were a lot of pipes frozen, and he would probably be swamped today. They had dinner plans tonight, but she was sure that he would call them off. So maybe the last of her surprises had happened today.

The day passed quietly. Evie Mae caught up on some sewing and even had time to read a bit before it was time to fix supper. Cade had not called her or come by yet today, and she was just thinking of what she might fix for herself when there was a knock on her door.

Tired and greasy, Cade stood there looking exhausted. “Hey Evie, mind if we just grab something quick tonight. I still have several more houses to get to tonight.”

“Of course, come on in Cade. I was just warming up some leftover soup. Will that be, ok?” Evie was surprised that he took the time to even stop by. Now things were really getting confusing. All three suitors had shown up today, showing genuine concern. Evie Mae was beginning to think she might just be in a real pickle here. 

            “So, Cade, has it been terribly busy today? I know my pipes did not thaw today, so I imagine that you have had several others in the same predicament?” Evie Mae chatted away as she ladled hot soup into the bowls. She almost fell over Cade as she turned towards the sink. He was on his knees warming the pipes under her sink.

            “You will need to keep the cabinet doors open and a slight trickle of water running overnight tonight, but I think I have you going.” Cade stood up, brushing his hands on his dirty jeans.

            Evie Mae’s heart melted. This was a good man. How had she ever considered him ordinary?

            They quickly ate in comfortable silence. Could this really be the rest of my like Evie Mae thought? She believed that yes, it could be. This was good. Not perfect, but good.

            Cade kissed her quickly on the cheek as he stood to leave. “I will check in on you tomorrow; sleep well.” He walked out the door into the freezing weather on his way to another house with frozen pipes.

            Evie Mae was putting the dishes in the sink when she heard another knock on the door, “Coming,” she shouted as she dried her hands on the linen towel attached to her apron. Wonder what Cade could have forgotten.

            She opened the door with a smile, knowing that Cade would be embarrassed to have to return so quickly.  As she opened the door, the porch light illuminated a familiar but unexpected face. “Jonas?” was all she could utter before the blackness of a dead faint overtook her.

The War Widow’s Madness

My darling Patrick,

How many times today my thoughts have turned to you and that morning three years ago. I can remember it as distinctly as though it were yesterday. Driving you to the draft board office. You are packing and getting ready at the house. Me standing there helpless and lost and scared. Saying our hurried goodbyes and driving back to the house alone.

Not seeing the road very clearly – either road – the one before the car or the one I must follow in the years to come. How very quiet the house was that morning when I got back – the sun had not quite come up. I sat in the red chair of mine and looked out the window at that maple tree you had wanted to cut down. I would not let you.  I wish now that I had.

Aalez was still asleep, and it was so quiet and so terribly empty. The drawers in your dresser were open a little way and a shirt, a buckle, and a few odds and ends you had decided against taking in those last minutes were lying on the bed.

I went outdoors and after a while and the sun came up. It was a beautiful misty-clad morning and I remember a train whistling and a dove calling from somewhere nearby. It seemed impossible that there could be bombs falling and people dying on either side of our country and that you had left to join our armed forces. The car was in the drive – the windows had misted, and I looked up and through I saw you sitting in the seat you had left such a short time before.

I went back to the house then and lay on the bed. I don’t remember anything more until Aalez came in. I don’t think I went to sleep – maybe I did – but it was hard moving all that day – as though someone had paralyzed the thinking half and left the other untouched to move automatically through the endless day.  It was almost as though someone had told me suddenly that you were dead.

I cannot tell you how many nights afterward I would wake and try to stay awake because I dreaded living through those ghostly dreams – all that summer while you were in the 702nd. I saw you burned and crushed so many times. Had it happened I believe I would have “known” it. I saw you crippled and alone on the cold front. I could not describe if I tried the cold fear, I felt shaking awake – the fear that was you crippled you would not want to come home – that you would hate the thought of yourself unwholly and unwanted – that you would come to hate Aalez and me and all that you had known and loved of living.

You will never know the helplessness and the horror of waiting and worrying and not knowing – sometimes darling I could see you standing before me – hardly recognizable from the dirt and beard – your eyes would not look at me – just stare and stare and stare – and then you were gone again, and it was so dammed quiet. I hated that time – I think it was the hardest of all the three years. Funny isn’t it – what tricks your mind plays and what pawns we are. In wartime moves like a bubble in an ocean. I hope I haven’t bored you with this – just don’t laugh at me for it was no laughing matter to me.

I’m feeling lonely and wishing I could squeeze the days together now and when you come home spread them back out again. I love you so terribly much darling – I won’t be whole again until you are back with me.

The Trail #609

“There were moments when the wind was so loud it sounded like a helicopter. There were moments the black flies threatened to eat me alive. And there were moments when the silence allowed the voice in my head to ring loud and clear. That voice I had suppressed most of my adult life. People will tell you that hiking the A.T. (Appalachian Trail) is life changing. But until you are there in that quietness surrounded by only yourself, you will never know the extent of that change.”

– K. N., November 25, 2020.

It has been my experience that everyone has a thing. That one thing that if only they had the time, energy, money, they would do it in an instant. For a lot of people, that opportunity came in the form of a worldwide pandemic. March of 2020, the entire world screeched to a stop. The COVID-19 pandemic brought full quarantines and a new way of working for home for those whose jobs would allow it. Naively many believed they would go untouched.

K N and I had worked together before, so this was like coming home just in a different house. K was assigned as my ambassador. The person was responsible for making sure I adjusted to my new role at **** ***** Retail Software. Being in retail software sales, we thought we would be okay, that we could still work from home using the technology that we sold. I joined the team on February 24 and honestly thought that I would be the first to go if there were layoffs.

K and I talked every day. I think that sometimes we live in a bubble. We go about our day-to-day as if it will always be that way. However, often, it is not always the case. K and I talked about what-ifs a lot, but I do not think we expected any of them to become a reality. I would write the great American novel if only I had the time. When he told me that he would hike the Appalachian Trail if he lost his job to COVID, I laughed it off as another what-if that would never meet reality.

Day one of K’s COVID sabbatical, an excellent way to say layoff, started with a simple internal conversation – were you serious? For twenty years, he had been living in Seattle, Washington, working from home as a solution expert. While he loved the outdoors, could he hike the notorious A.T.? Would the short hikes in the Cascade Mountains be enough training? K had one month to prepare. The trailhead for the southbound thru-hike opened on June 1, and he had a lot of work to do to get ready.

The experts say the Southbound Trail (SOBO for short) is the most challenging route to take. Of course, K had always thought of himself as the kind of guy who gets the tough stuff over with first. So, it made sense in his slightly perverted way of thinking to start in Maine and go south and get Maine’s rough terrain out of the way and finish in Georgia before winter struck. K reasoned with himself and his girlfriend, Elsa. They had been together all of six months, and in many ways, she appeared to be his opposite. He lived in a work of technology, and she was a working artist. Elsa agreed to go along, but she would not commit to the entire 2,000+ miles. Honestly, she believed they would fly to Maine and back home again. There was no way K would ever make that trek. Elsa knew that while K liked to hike Mt. Rainier, he was not the type to slow down for months and walk in the mountains.

Before K could hike the trail, he had to prepare. The first stop was REI Outfitters. Even though the store K would visit was in the Pacific Northwest, would they know what he needed to think about for the Appalachian Trail? Research indicated that he needed a solid pack, lightweight layers, including a waterproof coat, shelter, and good boots. Unfortunately, REI would not open their first store in Maine until 2021, so having the pack and supplies shipped there would not be possible. The first significant challenge would be getting all this stuff to Maine. K soon learned about the general delivery service offered by the US Postal Service. But he would have to plan his arrival when the local post office would be open.

Planning the resupply along the trail was a whole new challenge in and of itself. “How could I know the day I would arrive at any given location?” K had wondered aloud. Luckily The Appalachian Conservatory publishes The A.T. Thru-Hikers’ Companion to give hikers information about how to resupply during their trip. This book became K’s bible, guide, and in some instances, his saving grave. Some companies do nothing but help resupply hikers along the trail. K contacted a few along the route and set up drops. Once he knew how that worked out for him, he would schedule the rest.

Finally, the day arrived for K and Elsa’s 8:30 AM flight from Seattle’s Sea-Tac airport. Of course, the flight was complicated because they had to wear a mask for the entire fourteen-hour twenty-three-minute trip, including an hour and a half at Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C. Elsa drew in her sketch book most of the way, new ideas for work she needed to finish before Christmas. K realized then that she was not committed to this hike. In retrospect, this was the first indication that their relationship would not survive.

Finally, on the ground in Bangor, Maine, they had to wait two hours to catch the shuttle bus for the hour and a half drive to the Big Moose Inn, nine miles outside Baxter State Park. The Inn has been there for over a century. Big wraparound porches, suites with private baths, and even waterfront cabins awaited them.

A nice quiet dinner at Fredericka’s was on the agenda. K planned to surprise Elsa with a beautiful feed to start their journey into the wilderness. The colonial-style furniture and lacy crocheted table clothes made the whole atmosphere feel surreal. The modern style of their Seattle home was as far removed from this place as K thought from the world.

K had booked them a suite so they would have a private bath. When they checked in, the clerk gave them the key to Suite #1. The room was perfect New England charm, a narrow room with hard wood floors, a small wood stove, and wicker furniture. The following two nights would be the last civilized nights for weeks. They sank into soft beds and wrapped up in the handmade quilts. They instantly fell asleep.

———

Day one – Today, we take care of the paperwork. Everyone who hikes the A.T. is supposed to register as a thru-hiker with the park service.  The registration helps the park service manage the traffic on the popular trail. The camp areas are limited, and the Park Service needed to stage the people on the trail at any given time. Elsa was reluctant to register, it is voluntary, and she would not be a thru-hiker. Sign number two that she was not entirely in support of this journey. K chalked it up to nerves about the trip.

———

The following are excerpts from K’s journey and video log of his trip:

Day two – Standing at the trailhead at the end of the Katahdin Stream Campground, the morning is already muggy, and the mosquitoes are furiously buzzing in my ears. Here is where it starts, the first white blaze of the trail marking the way north. Yep, first, you must go north.  The summit Katahdin to reach the actual start of the SOBO journey. From there, you will hike, climb, and maybe crawl over the next 2,200-mile trail that runs through 14 states from here to Springer Mountain, Georgia. It is tradition to select a trail name, and I choose The Hard Way. Elsa has decided No Way in honor of her true feelings about this trip.

The journey to Katahdin seemed like a whim when I first threw it out into the universe. I know, however, that I have dreamed of this day for longer than I even realized. Strange to think that it took a global pandemic to get me here taking my first steps, but here I am. The mountain breezes were filled with the scent of pine. The sky was the deep blue of early morning.

He placed his right foot in front of his left and began the 4,200-foot climb up Mount Katahdin. My thru hike has commenced, I thought to myself.  At the end of 8 hours, I could proudly claim the 10.4 miles completed though only 5.2 of those were on the A.T.  since the trek did not officially begin until I reached the summit.

———

Day three – I hurt everywhere.  I stretch my muscles. I am so thankful that I only carried a day bag yesterday. It was a long and harrowing trip up the side of Maine’s tallest mountain. The trail was steep most of the way. My new boots rubbed in places I did not realize I had. Those places were now covered in blisters. I had exhausted my supply of bug spray before noon and miles from the summit. Seriously, this must be the pit of hell where man-eating bugs soared from in anticipation of their next meal. Today was a day to reevaluate my plan, my supplies, and my gear. And most importantly, my desire. We were headed to our campsite at Katahdin Stream campground for our first-night camping on the AT.

———

Day four – It is raining. Of course, it is. The mosquitos do not seem to mind. I pull the netting of my hat down over my face and neck, hoping to stop the onslaught. Today is our first actual trial day. We have seen several moose along the way by the time we reach the 8-mile marker. We stopped at the Abol Bridge and met several NOBO’s (Northbound hikers) at the end of their trek. We ate lunch, and they regaled us with stories of their travels.

After lunch, we stepped into the “100-mile wilderness”, considered the most remote section of the entire A.T. We finally stopped for the night at Hurd Brook Lean-To, sharing the area with a few new friends. It feels strange to sleep with strangers this close. Today we covered 13.4 miles. Elsa declared she was going to visit her family in Pennsylvania. I am to let her know when I am finished with this foolishness.

———

Day five – Elsa joined a couple of NOBO’s at daybreak. I was left alone, entirely, and utterly alone for the first time. One step at a time, one white blaze at a time. At Rainbow Stream Lean-To, I stopped and ate a small meal. The stream was inviting, so I took a quick swim. The cold water was refreshing, bringing life to my sore muscles. Unfortunately, the black flies saw my bare skin as a buffet. If you have never been bitten by one of these beasts, know that it is slightly less painful to be tasered at full strength than bitten.

Towards the late afternoon, the trail stretched out flat, dare I say level. I pushed on to the Wadleigh Stream Lean-To for the night. Almost twenty miles today, a personal best. I had stayed out of my head today, listening to music on my phone, a waste of precious battery life, but it quieted that voice in my head. There was a reason I was on this trip. I had realized that I was not happy, but I thought maybe it was just a phase. Now I was beginning to suspect it was something much more profound. I needed to focus on the trail, on finishing this journey, with no time for reflection. At least, that was what I was telling myself.

———

Day six – I am covered head to toe in welts from all the bug bites. My resolve is waning once again. I need a break but must keep going forward. Out of the deep forest, I find what I am sure is a hallucination—a dock on the edge of a beautiful lake, White House Landing. On the pier is a radio with instructions to call for transportation. A few minutes later, I am on a boat speeding towards a beautiful lake house. I drank my fill of soda and beer and ate an entire pizza by myself. I feel myself recovering. Sitting in an old Adirondack chair with my feet propped up on a matching stool, I soak in the sun, shimmering off the lake as it slowly sets. Tomorrow will be a new day, but I will settle for the 7.5 miles I have completed today and start fresh in the morning.

———

Day seven – I have a big goal for today, my first 20+ mile day if all goes well—my destination is the East Branch Lean-To. About ten miles in, I reach my first food drop point. The five-gallon bucket I had purchased from a trail supply company is safely cached off the trail and hidden exactly where Thomas, the owner, had said I would find it. When I first planned this drop, I was not sure what to include but found that somehow, I had managed to include a few treats that are especially good right now – candy bars and a Jiffy Pop popcorn. Awesomeness.

Today was the first day I had to listen to the voice in my head, the one that drove me to this trip in the first place. Walking along the relatively smooth and easy trail, I had time to think about stuff. The stuff that gets pushed to the back of our lives when there is too much noise. No grand epiphany, but I know there are things in my life that are about to change. As I walk into the East Branch Lean-To, I hear snoring; tonight, I will not be alone. After 22 miles, I am ready to kick back, enjoy my Snickers bar, and get a good night’s sleep. I can think about the changes I need to make on the trail later; I am now exhausted.

———

Day Eight – Whitecap, Haystack, and a mountain I can’t remember the name of were the first I have climbed since Katahdin. The weather has been good so far, sunny, and breezy for the most part. I even made it across Penobscot River without getting soaked. The sixteen plus miles today were easy. I have a feeling that something is just around the corner. I hate that sense of foreboding.  Whether it is the personal revelations that I am postponing or a real threat, I cannot say yet, but something is out there hovering.

———

Day Nine – The storm hit around 2 AM, lightning, thunder, and a downpour of rain. I swear the rain was coming down sideways. I left my boots outside the shelter, and now they are filled with water and soaked through. I eat a room temperature instant oatmeal and put my head in my hands. “Did I seriously think I could do this thing,” The voice that has always been there telling me I am not good enough shouts into the quiet morning air? “How stupid can you be? Your boots are soaked, you didn’t collect any wood for a fire, and now you are sitting here crying. Aren’t you about ready to pack it in?”

And this is the voice I thought I needed time to listen to. The one that tears me down when I am already at the bottom. I refuse to give in. I pack my bag and head over the Chairback range in the pouring rain.  I fall. I get back up. I fall again. My arms are bleeding; my legs are scratched; my pants are torn just below the knee. My trekking poles are not helping me stay upright on the rocky incline. I finally stop, build a small fire, and cook a warm lunch. I pull out the first aid kit and tend to my wounds. As I finish cleaning up my stuff, the skies part and the sun breaks through. I broke through too. Today was a victory. I am now ready to face my trail and trial. At the end of today’s fifteen miles, I reach Long Point Stream Lean-To and a total of 99.4 miles of my journey. Tomorrow I will join the 100-miler club.

———

Day Ten – Milestone Day. I have made it through the wilderness, something that over half the SOBO’s never make. Just fifteen miles to civilization, Shaw’s Hostel in Monson. My legs are covered in scratches and bug bites—my arms blood from falling. My feet are blistered from hiking in wet boots. But I am still here; I am still walking. I have beaten the voice that told me I am not worthwhile. Never again will I have a question if I can win; I already have. This part of the hike has been the hardest thing I have ever done.

Now I am ready to face the real-life challenges of not having a job for the first time in almost thirty years. I am divorced, my son is grown and on his own, and I am dating an artist that thinks I am slightly insane. I have no idea what I want to do next, but COVID has given me the chance to try it again. A do-over on the universe. What a fantastic gift.

———

Day Eleven – Today is a Zero Day. Zero hiking will take place. I will recover, resupply, and eat. I mean, seriously eat. Poet, the owner of Shaw’s Hostel, is helping me get more appropriate boots for the hike and a new insert. He is also helping me outfit my bounce box. A bounce box is a resupply tool that many thru-hikers use to stay supplied from this point south. You fill a box with everything you think you will need, batteries, food, snacks, town clothes. You then mail this box to general delivery to a post office down the line. Once you arrive, you can assess what you need from the crate and resupply when necessary. Then you send the box down the line to the next stop. My feet are healing, and so is my mind. I honestly thought that Monson’s would be my stopping place, the end of my journey. But my time here has changed me. I am stronger both mentally and emotionally. I am not going home. Tomorrow I will continue south.

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The rest of the A.T. was uneventful or at least as uneventful as a 2,000+ mile trek through some of the roughest terrains in America can be. The wildlife was unique. I learned that the bounce box had a lot of luxury items I didn’t need about halfway down the trail. I also knew that almost all I had in the world was the same as that bounce box, full of a lot of nice to haves and very few must-haves. I called a real estate agent and listed my condo in Seattle for sale. It was not home anymore. It was a bounce box full of unnecessary stuff.

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On November 23, 2020, Elsa met K in Fannin County, Georgia, on Springer Mountain. He was a quieter, more peaceful man than he had been in June. She noticed the right way that his appearance was not the only thing that had changed. His body was harder, his chin chiseled, but she sensed there was more. K told Elsa his plan on the flight home to Seattle, at least what he knew so far. She was sad that she would not be a part of his future. He was right; however, he needed a partner, someone that would be there no matter what, and she had let him down when he needed her most. She had not believed in him. They would part as friends.

K was changed in ways that would not manifest for months to come. Life would never be the same. He now knew his priorities. He removed himself from all social media. He changed careers to something more in keeping with his morals and ethics. He was finally able to work as a graphic artist. It had not been enough to date an artist; he wanted to be one. He treasures his time away with only himself, now. Using that quiet time to listen to the voice inside that he had pushed down way too long. He learned what many never take the time to learn – He is valuable and sufficient.