pupusas

Keekeeyo, the rooster, was crowing in the front courtyard, sounding like bacon frying in a pan.  Amanda rose, wondering if she had remembered to water the chickens the night before.  She nudged her husband, Juan as she lifted little Pepito from the bed.

“Get up,” she said, gently.  “Keekeeyo is already awake!”  Juan opened his eyes, but turned his back toward her.  The night before the couple had fought and Juan left her to drink beer with Alejandro.  Amanda remembered him crawling over her to get to his side of the bed sometime during the night.  She pretended to be asleep, even when Juan stroked her hair and apologized. 

Now she stared at his back and sighed.  She knew it would be difficult to rouse him with the hangover, so she tied Pepito to her back and went to the outhouse.  The air was already warm and Keekeeyo was crowing madly.  The hens saw her and followed her like children as she walked over the broken pebbled pathway, white with lime wash to keep the scorpions away.

She took the stick and opened the door, making careful circles with the wood around the seat.  The air was stiff and ripe already.  As she sat down, Amanda knew it would be another hot day.  She heard Pepito yawn, then mutter something.

“Yes, it is hot already,” she said, playfully.  Amanda thought of how the child would be bathed in the yellow enamel  tub, fresh water washing luxuriously over his tiny body.  She wished she could be a child again, even if it meant she would be incontinent and dependent on someone, if only she could experience the thrill of a fresh water bath each morning.

She closed the door to the outhouse and was surprised to see Juan walking toward her.  She was careful to look down and avert his gaze.  He would accuse her of wicked things if he was still angry.  Instead of an unsteady walk, Juan took careful steps along the pathway, reaching her and stepping to the side so that she could pass.  She turned back to watch him complete his walk to the outhouse, which he did unceremoniously, leaving the stick outside.  It wasn’t necessary that he sweep the seat, since she had just been sitting down and proven the absence of a scorpion or spider.  Being the second one to the outhouse had its advantages.

Amanda could not escape the chickens, who clucked anxiously at her ankles, reminding her to tip a tin can of seed for them in the courtyard.  She reached across the wood column that supported the east side of their simple adobe home, clutching the top of a large rubber garbage barrel.  Inside was a rusted can and a smattering of seeds on the bottom of the barrel that could not be scooped up.  

Because of its position, Amanda could not lift the barrel easily.  She had to step down to the garbage area and move the  pieces of wood and aluminum away from it in order to grip it in her hands and lift it to the courtyard.  She managed, since the barrel was not heavy, to tip it over and let the dregs of the food fall across the courtyard, in full sun.  The chickens madly pecked at the seed, as if they knew it was the last of it.  The fat red hen got most of it.  The little grey one, a gift from her father for Pepito’s birth, got barely any.

“Why aren’t you faster?” Amanda scolded him, walking back to the garbage area and setting the barrel back in place.  “You will die in no time if you let that Mama bully you!” She looked up to see Juan smiling at her; she steeled herself.

“Are you working today?” she placed the wood and aluminum pieces  gently in place againt the barrel.  “If the family manages to pay you today we might be able to buy more feed so that they can continue laying.” 

Juan looked at her steadily.  “I am working.” 

He went into the house and Amanda heard him getting dressed.  She walked into the darkened home, a simple square of twenty by twenty feet.  A bright yellow curtain hung near the center, dividing their bedroom from the living area, an orderly arrangement of a lamp, couch and chair with a small table used for eating.  There was a long table against the South wall that was their kitchen.  A small grey gas stove sat next to a clay base that dispensed fresh water from a plastic five liter bottle.  The writing on the clay base said “Yosemite” and had a great mountain with a man overlooking a valley.  

Sometimes Amanda wondered where the mountain of Yosemite was.  

For now, she brought a red plastic washing basin from under the table and filled it with two cups of water from the dispenser. 

Soon Juan came from behind the curtain and walked to the basin to wash his hands and face. 

Amanda watched him from the corner of her eye.  He was a tall man, strong and lean like his father.  He had the curse of being handsome, and an even greater curse of a curled moustache.  He reached for the rag that hung next to the door and dried his hands and face.  When they were dry, he turned toward Amanda, his eyes round and brown.  She handed him his white straw hat, but did not smile.  Amanda knew that he was sorry, but she would not look at him.  Instead of speaking, Juan left quietly, his footsteps crunching against the pebbles.  Keekeeyo crowed at him, his voice weak and crackling like a dying fire. 

“Daddy is off to work,” Amanda said quietly to Pepito.  “Now it is time for you!”  She was untying the cloth that tightly held him against her back and reached around to cradle her five-month-old son in her arms.  His large brown eyes (just like his father’s) took a moment to focus, but soon saw his mother’s face and a great smile broke out over his face.  The child contracted his arms and legs and stretched them out as if to celebrate her presence.  The action made Amanda laugh in gratitude.

“Yes,” she said, softly.  “It is the bath time.”  The child was dimpled and fat and filled with joy as Amanda washed him in the same basin Juan had just used.  She poured out two more cups on her son’s brown belly and Pepito inhaled deeply before urinating in volcanic fashion. 

There was a cracked mirror in their tiny kitchen, hanging above the washing basin.  In between bathing her son, Amanda caught glimpses of herself, hair still neatly braided on each side; face pale against her black hair.  She smiled and her dimples appeared, the ones that her Papa loved.  She always knew she was his favorite daughter and therefore bore the happiness of a dearly loved child.  Today, she would have to go to him and ask for money.  If he granted it to her, she would buy the seed that her husband wouldn’t.  She would be the one who would be responsible for a harvest.

“Hola! Amanda!”  A voice called to her from the courtyard.  Amanda reached for the rag to dry her son, but could not find it. 

“Si, yo soy aqui!”  She called, steadying her son with one hand and searching for it with the other.  She finally found it, placed carelessly next to the basin instead of the hook by the door.  Juan had left it on the counter in his way out.

“Good Morning!”  Abita stepped into her home, freshly bathed and looking smart in a white blouse and red skirt with a yellow belt.  “Are you coming to the pupusaria with me today?”

Amanda looked at her friend and exhaled, with great regret.  She had forgotten her promise to her friend, made only two days ago.  Abita ran a local pupusaria, where she would cook the stuffed tortillas for the villagers for lunch and evenings.  Lately, business was good and Abita had asked Amanda to help just to ease the workload during the lunchtime.  Amanda had agreed, knowing she and Juan could use extra money.

“I’m sorry, Abita,” Amanda said.  “I have to go see my father today!”  Pepito squirmed as she dried him.  Amanda walked to the bed and laid him down to dress him in the soft cloth diapers and wool soakers she had made him.  There was a cotton shirt she was planning on making him wear, but she couldn’t find it in his drawer.

Abita had followed her behind the curtain.  “Why not visit your Papa tomorrow?  My sister will be back home by then and I will not need any help at all.  Are you able to postpone one day?”

Amanda located the shirt behind one of her own.  The family had only one chest of drawers and so far things were manageable, but crowded. 

“I need to see him today,” Amanda looked up at her friend, a thin woman with a long face.  Abita had glasses, but wore them only at night.  The bridge of her nose had two oval marks where her glasses rested normally.  Amanda thought the marks made her friend  look clever.  “I need to buy the seed to plant corn today.  It is the last week I will have to plant.  I’ve made the rows in the field but Juan will not buy them.”

Abita shifted on her feet, looking at her friend with a small scowl.  “Didn't you say that Juan is not going to plant the American seeds?”

“He has refused to use them,” Amanda shook her head, angrily.  “Even though the American seed is cheaper... and grows faster.  He wants to buy the seed that his father got from Honduras.  He says that seed will do better in our soil.”

“And the farmers are not annoyed by the Honduran seed,” Abita said, quietly.  Amanda looked up at her and raised her eyebrows.  

“While some farmers can have the luxury of being annoyed by the American seed, my field is waiting to be planted!  I have a baby and I have no money!  I have to borrow the money as it is to buy the cheap seed!”

Abida knew to be silent.  Pepito’s round body bounced as Amanda tightened the soaker in place.  He looked at the ceiling as his mother unfolded his shirt and pulled it over his head.   “Now I am forced to buy the seed that I myself will sow into the ground so it will not go fallow?  I choose the promise of life and I am the rebel?  I am the traitor to my people?”

Abita exhaled and sat down on the bed.  “I need you today, Amanda.  I need you to help me make the pupusas.  You love helping me.  Please come and take your mind off of this.  You can postpone this trip for one day, can’t you?”

Amanda shook her head, straightening Pepito’s clothes.  “We fought last night,” she said, motioning for Abita to help her make the bed.  The friends stood and made the bed carefully, like sisters used to working around Pepito.  “Last night he called me a traitor and a disobedient wife.”

Abita nodded, looking up at her friend to see  if the emotion in her voice was actually tears.  She could see a red-eyed Amanda straightening the pillows. 

“You know he is under great pressure,” Abida said, softly.  “The farmers he works with don’t like the American seeds.  They’re unnatural and forced upon us…”

“The farmers he works with don’t put food on our table!”

“They help, don’t they?” Abida  shook her head.  “It is a small town and I promise you that if you plant that field with the yellow seed…”

“What?” Amanda straightened herself and placed her hands on her small hips.  “They will know?  They will find out and treat Juan harshly?”

“You know they will!” Abita looked at her friend, still unbending in her stance before her.  In a moment, she shrugged her shoulders.  “Look, I respect your desire to grow a crop.  God knows that you are one brave soul for not caring about the farmers’ position… but take one more day to think about it.”  Amanda was thinking deeply; Abita continued.  “I need you today, conchita bonita!”  She saw a flash of hope in her friend’s eyes as she stroked the child’s arms lovingly.   Almost intentionally, Amanda became stoic.

“I need to do this…” she said and picked up her son.  She hoisted him on her hip and walked back out to the kitchen.  Reaching under the narrow kitchen table, Amanda took out a clean, blue cloth and tied Pepito to her back, securing him deftly.  The child made a small squeal as his mother tightened the knot, but soon Amanda heard him cooing.   

Abida followed her friend out to the courtyard, where the chickens chased her down the path, hungry and ready to eat again. 

*    *    *    *

It was noon and the oil in her pan was smoking, causing Abida to step away from her cooktop.  There were three hungry customers in line and each of them wanted the pupusas with cheese and cabbage slaw.  She had just run out of cabbage slaw, using the last of it on the customers before these. 

“It will be five minutes, at least,” she told the men, breathlessly.  They looked at the sun to see if they could wait, which panicked Abida.  “I will hurry!  You will be more than satisfied!”  The men looked at each other, but walked back and forth with familiar impatience that Abida had grown accustomed to. 

She pulled a ball of masa from the bowl, rolling it around her palms quickly and snapping it back and forth between her hands.  The “slap slap slap slap” of dough both comforted and tempted the men, who watched the process with mouths watering.  The dough became a bowl between her fingers and then Abida filled the bowl with cheese.  She reached for a fingerful of dough and then covered the pupusa over again.  She reached for her wooden dowel to roll the stuffed tortilla flat, just as she heard a rhythmic chopping behind her.  She turned to see Amanda, chopping the cabbage slaw with care and speed.  She reached for carrots and onion, gently moving around her friend.  The two women considered each other with faint smiles as they sped through the process to feed the three men before they would walk off. 

“So you did not go see your Papa?” Abita asked Amanda.  The question hung in the air and for awhile Abita thought that perhaps her friend had not heard her.

“I need to think about it one more day,” she finally heard her say. The onions were being sliced with accuracy, her friend could tell.  She began to smell the combination of the slaw ingredients, even as the dough was being fried.

“If we sell twenty pupusas today,” Abita said, smiling.  “You will have enough money to go buy a sack of seed to feed your hens.”

“The hens are not as important as this child in my house,” Amanda said as she mixed the slaw ingredients together and placed a portion on top of each grilled tortilla.  The pupusas’ corners were brown, dripping with cheese and fragrant with savory seasoning.  The men smiled eagerly at the creations, nodding their thanks to the women as they paid and took their food away from the counter. 

“Those hens lay eggs,” Abita said, quickly.  “Eggs are for the humans; seed is for the hens.”

The next two customers came to the stand, asking how fresh the chorizo was.  As Abita told them it was purchased last night, Amanda considered her son, asleep on her back.  The greatest joy of motherhood, she thought, was knowing that her son was always with her, content with the world around him and unconcerned about the politics of seeds. 

For a good pupusa recipe check this out!

In July of this year farmers across El Salvador united to block the purchase of Monsanto genetically modified seeds.  They chose, instead to plant local seeds that have caused a greatly reduced harvest, but one they can have confidence in.  Today family farms in El Salvador are fighting to keep enough of the food they grow to feed their families.  To help them, you can sign a petition here.

Callie

Callie (in striped shirt) and I (in white shirt) with the women at one of the churches in Mozambique
(Ingreja Alianca de Mocambique)

I remember the day I met her.  

Her reputation preceded her: a prophetic woman who was married to Keir, a graceful lady that bore a no-nonsense approach to evangelism.  She believed that if a Christian testified what God had done for them it would be easy for others to listen - I believed the same thing. 

Her name was Callie and I called her Snow White behind her back.  It wasn’t just because she looked like the Disney princess, with shocking black hair, creamy white skin and red lips that were always smiling.  It was also because she was such a supportive force for her husband, gently supporting him as he went to claim the pearls of great price in the mission field.  Callie had a dreamy grace that made me want to be like her.  She also liked me, which makes it easy to be friends with someone.

We met on a trip into Mozambique, in a village just north of Maputo.  The local pastors were organizing a big tent revival and asked Keir and his team to come and host an “outreach”.  We visited the churches on the Sunday before the weekend, our team meeting the pastors and their wives before we started working together.  I was surprised that Keir and Callie asked Mario and I to accompany them to the church we went to, but we gladly went.

“We may be asked to go fetch bread,” Callie whispered to me just outside the church building.  It must have been a thousand degrees Fahrenheit and I was already dripping in sweat. 

“Where is the bakery?” I asked, crystals of perspiration already sliding off my face. 

“I hope it is not far,” Callie said, smiling mischievously.  We both giggled, like sisters.  Was I that obvious?  I didn't want to walk far in that heat and I knew it fall to the women to schlep the whole load of bread back to the church for the after-service.

We found the bakery, mercifully only a few hundred meters down the road.  The baker was expecting us and already had a few plastic bags ready for us to take away.  I was grateful, but sticky when we arrived back at the church. 

“Why aren’t you sweating?” I finally asked Callie, who seemed embarrassed by the question. 

“Believe me, I am,” she answered. 

“I can’t tell,” I said.  The observation made Callie laugh.  “I’m sure not used to this heat.”  I would have fanned myself if I had a free hand.  I was still used to being in Africa.

The trip was groundbreaking for Mario and I.  It was the first trip we had with Keir and Callie and we were greatly impressed by their marriage and their desire to serve God together.  They seemed inseparable, but I l later found out that Callie and Keir were no strangers to separation.  During a time of conversation that evening, Keir and Callie told us their story.  Their words spilled out like diamonds as we listened.  They had spent the early years of their marriage with Keir in the army and then later years with him on the road and Callie home with the kids.  Keir was a man that was famous for his crusades, evangelizing tirelessly with teams, going in and out of Sub-Saharan Africa.

“You seem so close,” I confessed to her later.  “You don’t seem bitter about all the separation you had to go through…”  I wanted my marriage to Mario be selfless, but I didn’t think we could be the kind of couple that still filled with intimacy and tenderness, like theirs seemed to be. 

“We are close,” she told me.  “But it is because God has caused that.   I’ve supported Keir in this ministry and God has given me the grace to be without him when he’s gone.”

“I don’t know if I could do it,” I said. 

Callie only smiled.  “Well, has God asked you to?”

I thought about the question long and hard.  I was a little relieved that the answer was no.  God never asked me to surrender Mario to long, solitary trips or be on long trips without me.  I was glad that He hadn’t,  I hated separation. 

The Mozambique trip was not our only trip together; it wasn’t our only ministry together.  I loved ministry with Keir and Callie – it was so honest, so refreshing. 

One of the reasons I love it is because Callie is one of the most unique mentors I have in my life.  She doesn’t try to teach, she just naturally imparts love and wisdom just by being herself.  I love who she is because of the love she has for others, and for me.  I also love the way she teaches me.  

The Bible says “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.” (Proverbs 25:11).  For our mentors, this is true.  They have a way of teaching that doesn't feel like we’re being taught, only that we are being befriended.

sleepers

Photo Credit

MONTREAL

The rail tickets were good for a one-way trip from Montreal to New Brunswick in Comfort Class. Lillian heard the train was pleasant with exquisite views and she was determined to see a bit of Canada by train before Phillip would take them all back home to London.  

As they boarded, Lillian tried to persuade Philip to let the twins take the seats directly in front of them, leaving the two behind for them to hold hands.  She had never been in a rail car before and was excited about the idea of a romantic voyage with her husband.  Instead of acquiescing, Phillip told her he’d be more comfortable with Ida being with her in the front and Dean being with him directly behind them. 

“They are only thirteen, darling,” he said, offering his version of perfect British logic.  “They may quarrel once they become bored.”

“You’re right dear,” Lillian took her seat in the tall, grey upholstered chair and Ida flopped down next to her with a sigh. 

“Why do I have to sit here with you?” Ida peeked through the space between the seats to see her father and brother.  “I wish I were born a boy, so I wouldn’t have to sit with my mum and do my homework.  You know they’ll be playing a game, don’t you?  The minute we move Dad will start his game and Dean will get to play with him.”

Ida’s deep blonde ringlets were too perfect for a girl of thirteen; they belonged on a five year old, Lillian thought.  She glanced out the window at the dreary landscape.  The train heaved to a start and began to sway back and forth and move forward at the same time.  A grey cement wall was next to the rusted, lonely rails just outside her window; the view wasn't impressive and Lillian wished for water or flowers. 

“Get out your books, son.”  Lillian heard Phillip direct Dean and she glanced at Ida and raised her eyebrows, but her daughter pretended not to hear.  Instead, she was plugging her ears with the ear buds that connected to her phone.  After she was comfortable – and after Lillian could hear some music coming from them – she retrieved a large history text and a simple spiral notebook from her back pack. 

Lillian tried to smile at her daughter, communicating that she was proud of her, but Ida didn’t look up. Lillian returned to the window and the train picked up speed.  She thought of holding  her husband’s hand, finally squeezing her arm through the small opening between the seat and the window.  She wiggled her fingers, hoping he would take them into his own.  Instead she heard his voice:

“Something you need, dear?”

“No, darling,” she answered, bringing her arm back to her side.  “Just saying hello!”

SAINT-HYACINTHE STATION

Lillian had to use the ladies’ room and stood up as soon as the train came to a stop.  She looked over her seat  to see Phillip sleeping, his head back and his mouth slightly open.  It was only during sleep that her husband seemed especially young to her.  He was normally stoic and preserved, but in sleep he seemed to be only a lad of eighteen.   Dean, upright next to him, had  his ear buds in, and his tray table down, scribbling out a report of some kind. 

“Dean!”

He looked up, and Lillian smiled.  Her son’s hair needed a trim and she tried to brush his fringe back, but he moved his head to the side before she could touch him.

“Mom!  What?”

“I’m going to the Ladies’ room.  Do you want to come with me?”

Dean gave her a look mixed with incredulity and disdain.  “No.”

“Alright.  Ida?  Coming?”

Her daughter didn’t look up, so Lillian touched her shoulder.  Ida moved forward, agitated.  “No!”

“Alright, then,” Lillian squeezed her slim frame through the small space in front of her daughter and walked down the aisle.  “I’m off to find it myself.”

The rows of seats were neat and Lillian marveled at how many people could fit on the train.  

Passengers were in assorted positions of relaxation; many had unfolded their tray tables.  Some had reclined their chairs and were sleeping, like Phillip. 

She came to a sealed doorway, a blue button where the handle should be caught her attention: “PUSH”.  Lillian pushed it, but nothing happened.  When she pushed it again, the door made a hissing sound and opened, its glass doors disappearing into a pocketed wall.

“Proper!” Lillian walked through it, mindful of the polished stainless steel floors that soon gave way to blue carpet.   The walls were covered in matching pale blue upholstery and Lillian wondered if they were padded for safety.  Every wall she saw had a display of the official flag of Quebec; the fleurs-de-lis were worked into every inch of décor everywhere else. 

Here and there were display cases with model trains, a plaque underneath each one described its model, year of origin and purpose on the rails.  Once she had seen enough glass-covered memorabilia, Lillian proceeded to the next car where the toilet was located.  The same pocket doors allowed her passage; the same hissing noises welcomed her.  The Ladies’ room was grand, its lights encased in beautifully ornate wooden fleurs-de-lis and beautifully reproduced silk orchids were everywhere. 

Lillian loved each detail of the loo, nearly taking a picture of the marble sinks just so she could show Ida once she returned to her seat.  She thought better of it as she washed her hands and laughed to herself.  She straightened upon seeing her reflection.  She was a beautiful woman of forty, slim and impeccably dressed.  There was no shame in what she wore, although her children frequently accused her of looking like someone’s Gran.  She wondered when she became such an embarrassment to her children.  She wondered if it was the hound’s-tooth prints she loved wearing; maybe it was the accessories (mostly pearls) or the sensible shoes.  Her hairstyle was simple, parted in the middle and worn tied back.  For picnics or outings she would sometimes let her blonde hair down and she never once felt proud, even when strangers admired it.  To them she was beautiful. 

Upon returning to her seat, Lillian saw that Ida and Dean had taken the seats next to the windows.  Phillip was on the aisle seat, awake and reading a Canadian newspaper, written in French. 

“Oh,” he acknowledged her as she approached.  “I’ve allowed the children to take the windows for the second half of the journey.  I do hope this is agreeable to you, darling.”

Both children were looking at her; she nodded after a moment. 

“We are not yet halfway,” she said, making herself comfortable in the aisle seat.  “We will arrive in Charny soon and when we do, we can switch back again.”

Both children sighed.  The train started again, swaying side to side as it moved forward.  Ida had been glaring at her, but Lillian pretended not to notice.

CHARNY, QUEBEC

The air was biting when Lillian went to the observation deck.  Ida and Dean lagged behind her; Phillip had gone to the bar car to procure some drinks for the family.  The train had stopped and the conductors were encouraging passengers who needed a smoking break to proceed to the open area at platform A.  All other passengers were free to walk about and explore.  The observation deck was little more than two cars -flattened on top - with a handrail all the way around them.

“This is it?” Dean moaned at the top of the stairs.  Ida gave a half-hearted laugh and made a noise with her throat.

“Big fun up here!” she lifted her arms to the sky and then let them drop to her sides with a clap.

“Look there!” Lillian pointed over the tops of trees to a tall flag pole, flying the maple leaf flag – the first she had seen since she boarded the train.  “I knew there was one around!”  She turned toward her children, who grimaced at the flag.  “Have you noticed the absence of the maple leaf flag in Quebec?  Like it really isn’t their flag at all?”

Ida and Dean looked at each other and shrugged.  “Not really, Mum,” Dean said slowly.  Ida looked at her nails. 

“So here we are, then!”  Phillip was ascending the stairs with a drink carrier.  Four paper cups steamed with promise and Lillian felt encouragement and hope that one may be Earl Grey Tea.  Ida and Dean lunged forward, grabbing the cups closest to them.  “Hold on, you two!” Philip took a step back, nearly missing the steps that he just climbed.

“Look out!” Lillian shouted.  It caused everyone on the observation deck to look at them; the kids backed up, but Phillip glared at Lillian.  “I’m sorry I shrieked, darling, “ she led him by the elbow until he was safely away from the staircase. 

“Yes, I nearly dropped the tray,” Phillip was rigid; Lillian knew he was embarrassed.

“Yes, Mum,” Ida whispered loudly.  “He nearly dropped our drinks, then where would be be?”

Lillian looked carefully at the cups, removing the one with a tea tab hanging out.  “I believe this one is mine,” she said.  She smelled the cup through its plastic top, even the sweet aroma of her tea brought comfort. 

“This is my coffee,” Phillip pointed at the one closes to him.  “The other two are hot chocolate.  Go ahead, take them.”

Ida had her arms firmly crossed in front of her.  “I don’t want mine now!”

“Alright if I have it, then?” Dean started to remove both cups; Ida reached over and retrieved the one closest to him.  They elbowed each other briefly, then pulled their paper cups free, splashing some of the contents on the floor.  Before Phillip could correct them, they walked to the rail that overlooked the flag.

“Goodness,” he exhaled, removing his own cup from the holder.  “I get the drinks and this is the thanks I get!  My wife shouting at me, my kids quarreling  What next?  Am I to endure ridicule from the passengers?”

Lillian looked over her cup at him.  “The milk and sugar are perfect, darling.”

Phillip softened.  “Good.  I’ve been your husband for fifteen years and I’m just now getting it right?

”

“I thought you were going to fall down the stairs,” she said, gently.  She tried to stroke his arm, but he pretended to drink his coffee just to break free from her touch.

“Well, I almost did, didn’t I? Ungrateful, that lot.”

“Now, Phillip,” Lillian half-heartedly corrected him.  A man carrying a guitar ascended the stairs.  He began to walk among the passengers, singing.  Lillian knew he would come to them eventually and decided to go back to the bar car before he had time to reach them.  The public serenading was fine for Americans and Canadians, but the British shied away from that kind of thing.

“Phillip, let’s go into the bar car,” she whispered.  He was busy drinking his coffee, but he turned toward the minstrel and agreed.  His attempts to wave the children over were unsuccessful, so he walked to where they stood;  Lillian headed for the stairs.  Before she could reach them, the man with the guitar stepped in front of her.  It made her stop suddenly, and she felt cornered especially when he made eye contact and smiled.  The other passengers who had seen this were smiling; some applauded.  Lillian felt her face grow warm and looked over her shoulder for Phillip.  He was talking to Ida, who was pointing at something in the trees.

“I have often walked down this street before,

But I’ve always felt the ground beneath my feet before,

All at once am I

Several stories high

Knowing I’m on the street where you live…”

 Lillian turned back to the musician.  He was dressed in a simple white shirt and black pants.  She wondered if he was employed by the train; she couldn't imagine why he was singing to her.  There was a small packet of sugar on the ground and she stooped to pick it up.  She looked for a rubbish bin, just as she heard Phillip behind her.

“Yes, yes,” he said, leaning over his wife to stuff a five dollar note in the minstrel’s pocket.  “Well done.  Thank you.”

Lillian tried to walk past the singing man, who had moved on to another verse.  As she went down the stairs, she could tell he was still singing to her, facing her as he sang.  People in the bar car looked up the stairs and then back at her.  She tried to avert their gaze, but it was no use.  By the time she sat on the couch, her tea had gone cold and the passengers were all staring at her. 

“I want to go back to my seat,” she said. Her voice sounded high and unnatural; her ears rang.  Lillian stood and walked back through the hallway with the fleurs-de-lis and memorabilia and finally into the comfort cabin.  The passengers looked up at her as she walked in; she was embarrassed, thinking they all thought she was beautiful and there was nothing she could do about it.

In ten minutes Phillip came back into the comfort cab, carrying a paper cup of tea.  She looked up at him, filled with gratitude. 

“Oh, thank you, darling.”

He sat next to her after she had cleared Ida’s books away and placed them on the floor.  “The first had gone terribly cold and you hardly got to drink it.”

“Yes,” she said.  She tried a sip and realized it was plain China black tea, not Earl Grey. “This is nice, the milk and sugar are perfect.”

“There was no more Earl Grey, I’m afraid.”

“No?”

“Canadian train, you know.”

Lillian laughed quietly. 

“I suppose you’ve recovered from your serenade?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Charming chap, actually.”

“You think?”

“I think he fancies you, that’s what.”

Lillian waved her hand at him.

She heard a hissing sound and then the voices of her children.  They appeared next to Phillip, giggling uncontrollably.  Lillian hadn’t seen them this happy their whole holiday.

“Mum, Dad,” Ida tried to speak without laughing.  “You must come and see these Varsity students.  They are playing a game in the other sleeping car.  Come and see!”

“They each take turns sitting next to someone who is asleep,” Dean whispered.  “Then they pretend they are also asleep.  They….”  The twins broke into violent laughter, covering their mouths.  “They lay their heads on the shoulders of the sleeping ones.  Then they place their arms about their necks, almost as if they are snuggling…”  Again the laughter overtook them, and brother and sister were doubled over, guffawing.

“Until the other wakes up, completely startled!”

Lillian and Phillip, smiling, tried to see why this made the twins so giddy. 

“Is there more to this game that we’re not understanding?”  Phillip blinked his eyes.

“The last chap woke up just as the student  was putting his legs on his seat,” Ida giggled, regaining her composure.  “Here was this chap almost crawling over to his side and the man was so polite!  He told the student to wake up, and he was smiling.  It was hilarious!”

“Do sit down now,”  Lillian said.  Ida let her shoulders drop and exhaled long. 

“Please, Mum. Let us go see the strangers sleeping side by side just to get us laughing again!”

“The train is about to start,” Lillian began.  Phillip interrupted her, addressing both of his kids. 

“Be back here in five minutes, you two,” he said, waving a finger at them.

“We will,” Ida said before walking quickly down the aisle, Dean close behind her.  There was the hiss of the door opening and then silence. 

“They won’t be back in five minutes,” Lillian said over her tea. 

“I’m willing to go get them,” Phillip faced her and smiled.  She  felt safer, suddenly.  The tea was sweetened just perfectly and had the right amount of milk.  It wasn’t Earl Grey, like she had hoped.  Few things on the train were perfect, but they would soon be in New Brunswick and it would all be over. 

nightmares

The recurring nightmare that caused Alexander’s sleeping phobia – even his dread of  bedtime – took place in a car.  He never could remember how he got in the car, only that he’d be in the back seat of a moving vehicle, careening down a street at a speed of forty miles per hour, weaving in and out of traffic.  His dream became a nightmare the moment he realized that no one was driving.

Each time the car was different.  Sometimes it would be a large Cadillac, other times it would be an old Ford truck -once it was a school bus.  It would be different cities, all unidentifiable – but always filled with people walking here and there.  Alexander would be panicked as he looked out the windshield, watching the near misses of pedestrians as they dove out of the way; the headlights of oncoming traffic swerving out of the way to avoid collision.   

He would try to climb into the front seat, hoisting a sweaty and limp leg over the unreasonably high bench that kept him from the steering wheel.  The other leg would follow and Alexander would then try to reach the foot pedals with his uncooperative feet, always bending at the ankles or getting caught on tissue boxes or old coffee mugs on the floor.  In the chaos, he could see other cars on the periphery, all obeying traffic laws as his runaway car threatened the otherwise peaceful road. There would be swearing and heavy breathing as he tried with all his might to situate himself in the driver’s seat.  As he felt the bumpy red steering wheel in his hand, there was always the feeling that it was all his fault. 

He would awake with a start, usually bolting up - right before he hit a tree or ran off a bridge or hit another car, causing great bodily injury.  He would be breathless in the dark, trembling and sweating as if it all had happened – there in his room.  Filled with fear, then relief and finally guilt, he only had one question:  How could he have let this happen again? 

Being a man of research, Alexander Ewald Gross had researched the field of recurring dreams and nightmares and even watched films on how to stop the recurrence.  None of the touted methods worked.  The mind control techniques were for the weak minded or newly haunted subjects, not for him – someone who had been plagued by the same nightmare since he was a boy.

He had tried everything.  Alexander had even become an expert on the wide array of available sleep medications, both prescribed and over-the-counter.  That tea?  Yes, it was good, but it was very light and didn’t take away the active mind in sleep.  That pill?  It was successful to knock the subject out, but the dreams continued in a surreal fashion, with the car becoming a melted mass of steel and the steering wheel resembling a Remo drumhead.   Alcohol only worked if it had to be the very fine or expensive stuff, like Tanqueray Gin or Bowmore whiskey.  Both had been distilled so beautifully that Alexander hoped they would be the cure; they only caused more of the same. 

Doctors he consulted as an adult were a confederacy of dunces.  As a teen, his mother mentioned his nightmares to his pediatrician, which made Alexander blush deep scarlet, but the doctor proved to have the wisest solution:  lots of reading and plenty of football.  Alexander found a home in both books and sport but the hellish repetition continued each night as REM sleep set in.

“You look weary, Gross,” his boss told him one morning at the coffee machine. “How are you sleeping?”

“I don’t really sleep,” Alexander answered without thinking.

“Really?” His boss leaned forward and tapped him on the elbow.  “Why not?”

Alexander explained weakly about his dream life keeping him awake.  Before he could finish his boss announced, “I’ve got just the thing!”

Alexander looked at him through his sore, dry eyes.  Could this little round man who did nothing for him other than check his reports actually have an answer? He decided to ask him.

“What do you have?”

“Serena!” His boss raised his eyebrows up and down, suggestively.  The thought of his boss entertaining a woman made Alexander nauseous. He had to be sixty years old – ugly as sin and woefully out of shape.  “A young guy like you?  You should have no problem at all sleeping!  I’ll bring her to your desk by the end of the day.”

Alexander returned to his desk with a steaming brown mug, careful not to trip and lay himself flat between the impersonal grey cubicles that constituted the hallway. He wondered if he looked well enough to meet a woman that would “help him sleep”.  The thought made him nervous and for the rest of the day, he could barely concentrate.  He made simple mistakes in sentence structure, printed reports to the mainframe printer (he had to descend two flights of stairs to retrieve them) and spilled coffee all over his beige tie.

At four fifteen, his boss appeared in his cubicle, suddenly.  “Gross!”

Alexander was startled and spun around quickly, hearing a small air bubble pop in his neck.  “Yes?” 

His boss put a small, square-bottomed, brown paper bag with twisted paper handles in front of him.  It looked like nothing – Alexander peered inside.  It was a small stainless steel radio box, resembling  an old alarm clock with a black cord that plugged into the wall.  He looked up, wearily, at his boss.

“May I present Serena.” His boss waved his hands at the bag.  “The woman I told you will help you sleep.”

“I’ve tried white noise, sir…”

“Oh, she’s not white noise!” His boss shook his head and reflected in quiet homage.  “She will whisper your name and chase those dreams away.  Now take her, read the directions and use her tonight.”  His boss looked over his shoulder and then leaned forward, speaking in a hushed voice.  “I expect an update tomorrow.  If she is who I think she is, you’ll soon be sleeping like a baby.”

Alexander watched the small man waddle down the hall, waving goodbye to some of his co-workers.  Looking inside the bag once more, Alexander saw the worn set of instructions – a pamphlet typed in English and Japanese.  He decided to give her a try. 

After a dinner of ham and eggs, Alexander pulled out the stainless steel box and read the instructions, desperate to achieve rest.  Through the fog of listless distraction, he managed to concentrate enough to bring the box into his bedroom and plug it into the outlet closest to his nightstand.  He read how the unit must be programmed by first clearing the memory. 

Whispering the instructions aloud to himself, Alexander murmured: “Press start button until red light stops flashing.”

He pressed the only button he could see, a nickel-sized button on top of the box.  A red light suddenly flashed in the digital display, blinking for fifteen seconds before it stayed on.  Alexander nervously returned to the instructions.

“When red light stays on, say your full name into speaker.”

There was no visible speaker, so Alexander leaned close to the unit and spoke clearly: “Alexander Ewald Gross.”

The red light shut off suddenly.  Did he do something wrong?  The instructions continued: “As soon as the name has been recorded, the light will go off and you are ready to sleep serenely.”

Alexander read the entire set of directions again.  He looked at the box and wondered if he had programmed it properly.  He wasn’t sure if it was an electric placebo meant to influence his subconscious or if it was a cheap rip-off unit manufactured by new age nuts.  Either way, he decided to unplug it. 

As he bent over to do so, he changed his mind.  If his boss asked about it tomorrow, he needed to be able to honestly say that he had tried the box and that it hadn’t worked. If by some miracle he didn’t have the nightmare, he could tell his boss he was right.  Either way, he’d need to answer in a way that would foster good relations or perhaps enhance his chance for promotion.

Pajamas and toothbrush routines successfully completed, Alexander climbed into bed and began reading his latest mystery novel, now and then glancing at the box.  It wasn’t until he was in the car, careening down a road with oncoming headlights did he realize he was sleeping and dreaming.  

Alexander breathed heavily in the back seat, his green pin-striped pajamas were sticking to him he was sweating so much.  Suddenly, in the middle of his panic, he saw her.  There, in the driver’s seat was a woman – a real woman with red long hair and milky white skin.  From his vantage point in the back seat, Alexander could tell she was beautiful, even though he couldn’t see her face.

“Hello,” he said.

She turned to him, glancing carefully and then returning her gaze to the road.  “Hello!”

Instead of climbing over the seat, Alexander decided to sit where he was.  He realized he wasn’t wearing a seat belt and reached for it. 

“You don’t need a seat belt, Alexander,” Serena said softly.  “This is a dream.”

He sat back and let go of the buckle, placing his hands on his lap.  He watched the road for a short while and then stared at the back of her head.  “I guess you know my name because I told you, huh?”

She laughed a little.  When she did, Alexander realized she was supporting him, not making fun of him.  “I love your name,” she looked back at him again.  Her thickly lashed eyes were a pale green, just like his own.  “I was wondering if you could tell me how you got your middle name.”

“Ewald?” Alexander realized there was no hiding; she knew everything about him.  He didn’t know how or why, but he knew she knew everything.  “You know that Ewald was my mother’s father, remember?”

Serena didn’t answer him.  Instead, she continued to drive and Alexander could see that the road was changing; it became sparsely populated.  They were leaving the city and going into the country, he could see apple orchards in his periphery.   Serena gently spoke, he voice like a cloud of feathers over his body. 

“You called your mother’s father Grandpa.   I didn’t know his name was Ewald.”

Alexander felt five years old again.  He looked at his hands, folded in his lap and realized that he actually had become five years old in his dream.  Was Serena taking him to Grandpa’s house?  His grandparents’ house used to be out behind the apple orchards, where the old farmer’s market was held.  A canning plant and a packing station used to be in full swing during the autumn.  Alexander remembered going there….

“Are we going to Grandpa’s?” Alexander heard his voice and was moved with emotion.  He was a young boy, at the mercy of the driver, going to a familiar place.  Why was his heart beating so fast?

“No, we’re not.” Serena was quiet for a moment and Alexander breathed deeply.  She spoke again, this time looking over at him for a long time.  Alexander was not frightened as she took her eyes off the road for an extended period.  Instead, he looked deeply into them and listened to her.  “You don’t ever have to go to that place again.  There is never a need for you to feel guilty about what happened there.”

Alexander nodded at her.  His eyes clouded with tears.  “What if Grandpa comes looking for me?”

Serena continued to look into him and reassure him.  “There will be no way he can find you.  

Besides, he can’t find you because he’s dead.  He’s in another world now.”

Before he could digest this fact, he realized that they were there – at the packing plant.  The big wooden boxes that held the apples were stacked up to the roof of the hangar, giants against the small car they had driven to get there.

Standing outside the car, Serena held his tiny hand in hers.   Alexander’s pajamas were now covered in trains. He remembered the slippers he wore with them as a boy, but when he looked down his feet were bare.  The ground was dirt, hard and compacted by years of wear.  All around him was the dark glow of the orchards, the packing plant was closed, but the smell of red delicious apples was in the air. 

“You see this place?” Serena was asking him.  “This place can’t hurt you.  This memory can’t hurt you.  You are now safe and you have no need to worry.”  He felt her hand squeeze his and he leaned against her, hoping to hug her legs.  Instead, the roar of a tractor woke him suddenly and he sat up in his bed, bolting upright.  Instead of sweat, Alexander was covered in wonder.  His eyes, opening to the morning light turned toward the box, buzzing like a tractor in the distance.  The digital display was blinking: “6:30”.

At work, Alexander served himself coffee, still taking in the events of the night before.  He felt remarkably rested, even though the dream was still very clear in his mind. 

His boss entered the break room, whistling.  “Gross!  Good Morning!”

Alexander turned to him and unwittingly smiled.  “Good morning, sir.”

His boss’ expression was fast and perfect, as if he knew that something had transpired.  “How was your night with Serena?”

Alexander feigned confusion, blinking as he tried to maintain a dim expression.  “Oh, yeah…  I forgot to use that thing you gave me.”  His deceit was plain, but for some reason, Alexander’s boss decided to play along.

“Oh, really?  I was just about to tell you that you look rested.”

“Well,” Alexander stirred his coffee.  Two ladies from shipping and receiving came in, talking about a show they had both seen on television the night before.

His boss poured himself a cup of coffee, ignoring the women and continuing with Alexander.  “If you decide to use her tonight, say a different name into the speaker.”  He poured carefully into his mug and then turned to Alexander. “It will be even more magnificent.”

For a moment Alexander wanted to confess, but decided to continue his charade of ignorance.  “I don’t know what you mean, but I’ll try that.”

Both men walked out of the break room and down the row of cubicles in awkward silence.  It was finally no use.

“Where did you get it?” Alexander suddenly asked. 

His boss continued to walk, not even looking at him.  “It was given to me by my boss after I told him I had problems sleeping.”

Alexander stopped walking as soon as he got to his cubicle.  He watched his boss keep walking, eventually turning the corner that led to his office.  Alexander sat  in his chair and turned on his computer.  Rested and fit, he now realized he might eventually have to part with the box.  He intended to find another one just like it somewhere.  Somewhere there was sure to be one.  One that could be his to keep.  Keep forever.  Without worry of parting with her.  Without her, his Grandpa Ewald might raise from the dead and find him somewhere in his REM sleep.

Barney

There is a tree outside my window that has leaves that are orange and red and yellow.  The tree is called Barney because when me and Daddy planted it he said we had to give it a name.  I said what about Barney and he said that sounds good.  It was right before he left us.

Barney was a green tree at first and had to be supported by big stakes, just like broom handles.  Daddy dug a big hole in the front yard and he was sweating.  I asked him if I could help and he said just hold that tree son and I did.  When it was time we put Barney into the hole and then covered him back up with dirt.  Mama came out of the house and said that the tree was planted too close to my window and not to be scared if the branches hit my window when the wind blew.  Daddy asked her how do you like the tree otherwise and Mama said its fine.  Then she went back into the house.

That was just before Arnie was born, my little sister.  I think she is cute and shiny but she poos a lot and Mommy is the only one who changes her.  I can’t change her because I can’t stand the smell of poo, even my own poo.  Daddy used to hold her until she pooed and then he’d hand her to Mommy.  She would say I sure would like some support around here she’s your baby too but Daddy said the smell made him gag.  I laughed at the face he made and I said it reeked to high heaven, which is what he usually said.   When I said that both Mommy and Daddy laughed and looked at each other, which was nice.  Then Daddy said you got that right son that diaper sure stinks but I love your sister. Arnie wiggled around while Mommy changed her and I went to find my tricycle.

Later Arnie learned to crawl and Mommie took me to a place called preschool where I met Ted and Tyler and we started a club that climbed on the monkey bars.  We are the climbing rangers, that’s the name of our club.  We like each other and we will not let girls join, which makes me a little sad because there is a girl Sarah who climbs the jungle gym all by herself when we are done.  I wish she could join our club but Tyler says no. 

One day I came home from preschool and Mommie said we need to talk Ben.  She only said that to me one time before and that’s when Rodent my pet hamster died because I didn’t feed him.  I thought I was in trouble but then I saw she had my snack on the table like usual so I walked over there and sat down.  She made me chocolate chip cookies without wall nuts that day and there was a glass of real milk not almond milk for me to drink.  All of a sudden I realized I did something good.  Boy I thought she was gonna tell me something good.

Then Mommy told me that Daddy had moved out and he was going to live with Pop Pop and Grandma for awhile until they figured some things out.  I thought she was joking, so I put down my cookie and went to the closet and all his work boots were gone.  I looked back at her and she was crying which I hate. When she cries it makes everyone in the house sad.  Arnie was wiggling around in Mommie’s lap and trying to reach for my cookies, so I ran back to my place and took a bite of one and pushed my face close to hers, just to show her that it was mine.  Mommie said don’t do that Ben she’s just a baby and so I said sorry and sat back down.  Mommie stood up and blew her nose in the bathroom.  When she came back she sat down and she wasn’t crying anymore so I asked her who was going to mow the lawn.  Mommie said Daddy is still, which made me feel better because Mommie never has the energy to mow the lawn and I don’t know how to.  Besides, I get to help Daddy mow the lawn and Mommie brings us iced tea and its pretty fun.  We stand up and drink it together and say cheers and clink our glasses.  After a few sips of iced tea Daddy says are we ready to get back to work, son? And I say I guess and he starts mowing the lawn again and I look for rocks in front of the lawn mower.  It’s pretty fun to work with Daddy  and I think it would be bad if we couldn’t do it together.

Now at dinner time we eat without him and Mommie cooks spaghetti like normal or sometimes she makes masanya which is really good.  I feel bad for Mommie because she has to watch the news all by herself and say things like how about that to me instead of Daddy.  I’m hoping that she doesn’t want me to start watching the news with her - I can’t because it’s just like poo.  I can’t stand it.

Baby Arnie is starting to take her first steps and Mommie called Daddy three times and said if you want to see her first steps you better get over here but he didn’t come.  Daddy lives far away at Pop Pops and he drinks beer with him and Mommie says Daddy is busy too busy to see his kids.  I know she’s mad at Daddy but she’s nice to me and Arnie so that’s the way it has to be.

Last night Mommie came into my room and said it was supposed to storm and howl and the tree might hit my window.  I looked at Barney and all his leaves were so pretty but they were falling off.  I asked Mommy if Barney’s leaves were losing their coloring fill and she laughed.  She said where did you hear such a thing and I told her that Miss Jenny told us at school.  The leaves on trees turn orange and yellow because their coloring fill goes away.  Without coloring fill they cannot be green and make the air nice and they will fall off the tree.  Miss Jenny said this is called FO TO SIN THE SIS and in autumn we see the leaves change color because they are already dead.

Mommie was smiling at me and she shook her head and said my smart boy are you paying attention in class like you are sposed to and I said yes and she kissed me.  Then she got tears in her eyes and said -everything changes Ben everything changes.  I didn’t know what to say so I said that a square has four equal sides just to see if she would smile again but she didn’t.  She said if you get scared just come into my room and tell me.  I said I would but I wanted to tell her that I’m pretty big now and I don’t get scared anymore.   

When she left my room I looked out at Barney and thought about how he lost his coloring fill and his leaves were already dead they were just hanging on.  They were good leaves but they had no choice – they had to die because trees have seasons and one day they’ll be back. 

There’s been so much change this year for me and Barney.  I think about Daddy and how he and Mommie are living in different houses now but that’s the way it has to be.  Mommie gets sad when she talks about it and Daddy says there’s nothing I can do about it son Mommie just asked me to leave and I had to.  I think I notice that he’s gone the most on Saturdays because that’s when he was a Daddy, not every other day.

I wonder if I’m like Barney, losing my leaves and not knowing it because they were dead already. Day by day I’m changing and now it’s almost winter and I better get a coat soon or else I’ll be cold.  I’m glad I’m not a tree like Barney because soon he’ll be naked like all the other trees on the street.

Wanda

Saturday is the day that we get paid to read to the patients, at least the ones who don’t have family.  While some patients have the privilege of family members that live nearby and take the time to visit them, others are stranded without much human contact from the outside world.  Because all of the nursing assistants are usually saddled with all of the work of the maintenance staff, Saturdays we are relieved of basic housecleaning duties in exchange for visiting with the residents who are alert enough to know they have no family visiting and wish they would.

I try to choose one patient a week that I haven’t met before; I’m relatively new here so I haven’t met all of the patients.

“I’m Sophie,” I introduced myself to Wanda, a woman dressed in a dark blue dress and seated in her wheelchair.  As I held out my hand to shake, she placed hers lightly in mine, as if I were supposed to kiss it.  I wiggled the weak offering, her papery white skin shifting in my fingers.

“I’m Wanda,” she said softly.  Something told me that Wanda knew I was her compulsory reader; she wasn’t impressed.  “I am actually fine today, dear.  You can move on to someone else who needs a visitor more than I do.”

I sat down on the orange straight backed chair next to the bed, neatly made up with its harvest gold bedspread in place.  “Actually, I’m trying to meet everyone.  I’m new here.”

Wanda managed a little smile.  “Oh, well…”

“Do you mind if I stay?  I was hoping I could just get to know you.”

Wanda nodded, carefully examining my face for a motive.  She was a thin woman, probably in her mid-eighties, with pale skin and a shock of white hair, combed straight back.  That day she was wearing a pearl brooch, which looked carefully placed on the blue chiffon dress. 

“Is that a dove or an angel?” I asked, pointing to it. 

Wanda followed my eyes down to her brooch; she shrugged and looked up again.  It was then I noticed her eyes were blue.  “One of the nurses brought it back for me from her vacation.  I didn’t have the heart to ask her what it was.”  Her odd confession made us both laugh.

“Yeah, it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Exactly.”  Wanda was eyeing the book I held in my hand.  “Is that what you’re reading?  Is that why you wanted to get to know me?”

I looked down at the brown hardcover I had chosen from the shelf in the main dining room:  “Murder at Glass River.”  It seemed as good a book as any and had a decent sized font.  “This seemed like an interesting title, do you like mysteries?  I think it’s a mystery.”

“It’s a murder mystery,” she said.

“Yeah, a murder mystery.  Have you read it?”

Wanda waited before she answered. “Yes.”  She was looking at me suspiciously, and it made me nervous. 

“I could go choose another one.”

At this point, Wanda put her frail hands on the wheels of her chair.  She looked like she was trying to turn toward me or maybe leave the room.  I started to stand up to help her when She pointed at the cover. 

“I wrote that book,” she said, wiggling her finger at the title.  “Is this why you wanted to read it to me?”

I looked down at the cover and saw the title again, then looked at the binding to see the author’s name: Wanda Ferris.  My face grew warm and I looked up at her again.

“You’re Wanda Ferris?”

She smiled again.  “Yes, I am.”

“This is you?”

She laughed a little.  “Yes.”

“Why are you here?” I blurted out, maybe a little too loud.  I regretted saying anything as soon as the words left my mouth. 

For some reason, the question didn’t surprise Wanda.  She smiled and put her hands back in her lap, straightening her dress as she did.  “Why am I here in this convalescent hospital, or why am I here in a Medicaid room with two other patients?  Why am I here on visiting day with no one around me?  Why what?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, my face reddening even more.  “I didn’t mean anything by that.  I just meant…” I shifted in my seat, which suddenly felt stiff and unforgiving.  “I ... I’ve never met an author before, and this is quite a coincidence.”

Wanda shook her head.  “I thought that maybe one of the other nurses told you I wrote that book and that’s why you came over here to read to me.  Most of them know that’s one of my books.”

I shook my head.  “Really, I didn’t know.”

“Oh, then it really is a coincidence.”  There was an awkward silence and I felt embarrassed for both of us.  The room that Wanda was in was a low-cost shared room, one where the Medicaid and social security were taken as payment.  It wasn’t like the nicer rooms in the east wing: private rooms where there was actually real furniture.  I also wondered where Wanda’s friends and family were; was she all alone?  How could I ask her?

“How many have you written?”  I finally got the nerve to ask her.

Wanda put her hand next to her ear.  “What was that?”

“How many books have you written?” I said, louder.

She smiled.  “Oh, about ten or so.  I’ve only had eight published, though.  That series there sold the most.  Everyone seemed to love that murder mystery series.”

“Well, should I read it aloud to you?” I was now curious to read it myself.

“Are you a student working here part-time?”  Wanda asked, out of the blue. 

I smiled.  “Yes, how did you know?”

Her eyes sparkled and she nodded.  “You’re young, like most college students.  This is a college town and jobs are scarce sao a lot of them work here.  I’ve never seen you before and it is October; you must have just started your fall semester.  Also, you seemed relatively impressed that I wrote a book, a lot of people wouldn’t care but students do.”

I couldn’t help but be impressed.  “Yeah, that’s about right.”

Wanda shrugged again.  Maybe it was a habit of hers; I didn’t know her well enough yet to know for sure.  “Why don’t you take the book home and read it and then when you work next we can discuss it.”

I nodded.  “I’d really like that.”

“For now, tell me more about yourself,” She put her elbow on the armrest and then her chin in her hand.  “What are you studying?”

I sat back in the chair, wondering if I was allowed to talk and not read.  For the moment, I didn’t care.  I was wondering if all of the patients were this interesting.  I doubted it; it was impossible to know for sure.

“Music,” I said, finally.  “In fact, I can play three different instruments.” 

And we sat there and talked for an hour or so before the sun made the long shadows that told me it was almost time to go home.