The Birthday Uncle

The Birthday Uncle

     The only time I met Uncle Arthur was when he showed up unannounced to my 7-year-old birthday party. In less than five minutes, I understood why my mom didn’t invite him.

            My party that year was construction themed. I’d gotten several of the smaller Lego sets before, but for my birthday, mom bought me the entire Lego Metropolis collection, and I invited six of my best friends to come over to put it together. Even looking back, I have to admit it was pretty cool. There were five skyscrapers, a hospital, a stadium, and lots of little houses with tiny Lego people. We were starting to build the football field when the car door slammed.

            “Stanley, can you see who that is?” I asked. “I didn’t invite anyone else.”

            Stanley leaned back in his chair and craned his neck to look out the window.

            “Woah, Andrew, it’s a red and white striped car with stars on the hood. It’s painted like an American flag.”

            I’d never heard of a car like that before, so I walked to the window to see for myself, but before I got there, my front door swung open and a man stepped inside.

            “There’s the birthday boy!” he shouted.

            The man was shorter than five feet, but he had a wild beard that stretched to his knees and teeth the color of a rotten banana. He was wearing a hard hat and a reflective vest with a tool belt around his waist. In one hand was a hammer, and in the other he held a wrapped present.

            My mom burst in the room and yelled, “Arthur, what’re you doing here?”

            “Celebrating my favorite nephew’s birthday! The event popped up on my Facebook feed, and when I saw little Andrew was having a construction party, I almost shed a tear. He’s following in his uncle’s footsteps!”

            “Oh no,” muttered my mother, scrolling through her phone. “I didn’t make the event private.”

            My friends just sat in their chairs and stared until Stanley mustered the courage to ask, “Who are you? Some kind of super hero?”

            “That’s right, little boy. I’m Arthur Diddles, Licensed General Contractor, the First of My Name, Cutter of the Great Grass Yards, the Often-Burnt, Fixer of Chains…”

            “Wasn’t your license revoked?” my mother asked.

            “Um, temporarily,” Uncle Arthur sputtered, “but it was reinstated.”

            He reached into his pocket and showed my mother a laminated card.

            “It looks like you made this yourself,” she said. “Did you do some of this in crayon?”

            “What are you? An art critic?”

            Arthur snatched his card back then tossed me the present so hard it nearly knocked me over.

            “Open it!” he said. “I’ve just made your wildest dreams come true.”

            My friends crowded round as I ripped the paper off the package.

            “What… what is it?” I asked.

            “That, young nephew, is the Festool 574761. It has a brushless ec-tec motor and a fully electronic torque setting. It’s compact, lightweight, and perfectly balanced. In my expert opinion, it is the perfect drill.”

            “I think you just used some words I’m not allowed to hear,” said Stanley.

            “Welcome to the construction world, kiddo,” said Arthur, rubbing Stanley’s head with a grease-covered hand. “This is how real men talk. Just keep breathing asbestos and building things and someday you’ll sound like me.”

            “Arthur, let’s talk in the kitchen,” my mom said. “You really shouldn’t be here.”

            “Nonsense,” Uncle Arthur said as he took a seat at the table. “I know my time’s valuable, but I need to teach these boys a thing or two about construction. Now what’re you building here?”

            “It’s the Lego Metropolis set,” I said. “It’s a whole city full of people, houses, roads, and buildings. Mom got it for me for my birthday!”

            “This is a disaster!” Arthur shrieked. “There are all sorts of zoning violations. This building is too tall! It’s a plane crash waiting to happen!”

            He took his hammer and swung at one of the skyscrapers, sending Legos flying across the room.

            “But that was a skyscraper!” Stanley said. “It’s supposed to be tall.”

            “We have to do something to make Lego Metropolis safer,” said Arthur. “You don’t want all the Lego people dying in explosions and car wrecks do you?”

            Arthur set down his hammer and whipped two cannisters from his utility belt.

            “We need to make the tall buildings brighter and add some lanes to these streets!”

            Arthur began to delicately spray bright yellow paint on the tops of buildings while he whispered, “For the safety of all.”

            I watched as a smile crept onto his face and his eyes started to dart back and forth.

            “Are you OK, Uncle Arthur?” I asked.

            He continued to stare at the Lego city and said louder, “For the safety of all. For the safety of all.”

            His hands began to twitch as he sprayed more aggressively.

            “Arthur, you should leave,” my mom said.

            “For the safety of all!” he screamed. He climbed onto the table and began coating entire buildings in bright yellow. His cans went dry and he reached to his belt for two more.

            “Arthur!” my mom yelled. “The neighbor across the street is polluting his back yard in violation of city ordinance number 2019-39b. You have to stop him!”

            Arthur’s head snapped up and he looked at her wild-eyed. He sprang from the table and ran back outside, shouting “For the safety off all! For the safety of all!”

            Mom slammed the door and locked it with the deadbolt.

            “Boys, I’m so sorry. I thought Arthur was still in jail for trying to fix all the new washing machines in Best Buy. He ruined the Lego set, but don’t worry. I’ll go get Andrew a new one first thing tomorrow, and we’ll have you over again next weekend.”

            “No, mom, that’s OK,” I said. “Let’s just go to the movies. I don’t want to build anything ever again.”

Roses

Roses

A terrible sickness can be beautiful.

            The priest sits opposite of me in basket below the hot air balloon and mutters prayers under his breath.

            “It’s too late for us, Father,” I say as I reach to scratch my neck. “I know that now.”

            “The Lord may yet show mercy on your village. He is a God of healing.”

            He is also a God of death, I think. I’ve seen it.

            I stand and squint to look beyond the mountains to the east. The night sky is beginning to give way to the day, but my village is still shrouded in darkness. I open the blast valve to lift the balloon higher in the air where a wind current catches us and sweeps us along.

            “This sickness…” the priest says. “You told me the afflicted want flowers…”

            “Roses, Father. They ask for roses.”

            “But why roses?”

            “I don’t know, Father. I prayed for answers, but the Lord was silent.”

            When it started, I couldn’t smell the roses, but I do now, even though they’re far away. Old man Fogarty was the first to change. I remember when he stepped out of his cottage two weeks ago, with the black eschar running down his arm. “Roses,” he said as he hobbled toward Bunyan’s farm. “The roses are near.”

            It wasn’t until the next morning when they found him covered in blood in the hen house eating the chickens raw. He clawed at us with his wiry limbs when we pulled him away. The eschar had now taken his right cheek and crept toward his eye. “Roses!” he screamed. “Give them to me!”

            There was no doctor for miles, so we locked him in his cottage and argued about what to do. Two of the strong men held him down as Bunyan’s wife applied a salve to his skin, but Fogarty broke free and scratched her face. They locked him inside the cottage again, and for the next three days he pounded on the door and the walls and cried out for roses until suddenly he was silent.

            “Child, you look unwell.”

            The priest is huddled in the corner of the basket, wrapped tightly in a blanket to protect himself from the cool spring night. He holds the vial of olive oil tightly in his hand. I scratch my neck then look away into the darkness.

            “Father, you would not be well either if you’d seen what I’ve seen.”

            “I’ve known many illnesses in my time, and no matter how horrible they seem, they all pass. The Lord is greater than any sickness. He has conquered death.”

            Yes, but death still conquers us.

            Our balloon is now drifting over the mountains, and I know my village is not far away. As we’ve gotten closer, the current has caught us and is not letting go. It’s almost as if we’re being pulled there by some incredible force, as if we’re being sucked into a vortex from which there is no escape.

            And the roses are near.

           

            Bunyan’s wife grew ill next then two more soon followed. When Bunyan himself changed, we watched him stumble into the woods, his neck and chin covered in a scaly black. We found him two days later feasting on the carcass of a deer.

            “Roses,” he croaked as he slurped blood from creature’s chest. “I’ve found the roses.”

            The mayor called me into his house that night.

            “We need help,” he said.

            “There’s no doctor near,” I told him. “And who would risk treating an illness like this.”

            “Do not seek a doctor,” he said. “This is no natural disease. We need a priest. This is something evil that only the power of God can overcome.”

            “The nearest priest is beyond the mountains,” I said. “The snows haven’t melted, and the ride will take more than a week.”

            “Our only hope is through the air,” the mayor said. “Take the balloon, and I will pray for the winds to be true.”

            “Son, we grow close,” the priest says. “The mountains are behind us.”

            “Yes, Father.”

            I scratch my neck again. The roses are overwhelming. I can smell them, their beautiful scent rising from the earth and filling the air in its entirety. The priest looks up at me and his eyes grow wide as he sees me in the early morning light.

            “Son… your skin… it’s…”

            “Yes, Father. I told you it was too late.”

            “No, I pray that it is not.”

            The priest fumbles for his vial of olive oil then uncorks the lid. He struggles to his feet and pours the oil over my head.

            “Through this holy anointing, may the Lord pardon you whatever sins you have committed by sight…”

            “I have not sinned, Father.”

            The roses are all around me.

            “Through this holy anointing, may the Lord pardon you whatever sins you have committed by hearing, by smell….”

            “I am blameless, Father.”

            They are so close now. Their voices are calling to me, their smell is intoxicating.

            “May the Lord pardon whatever sins you have committed by taste and touch….”

            I grab him by his arms. I can feel the roses crawling over me, their thorns piercing my neck and their petals reaching for my mouth. “Let us in,” they whisper. “We are yours.”

            The priest is screaming, but I cannot make out his words. His mouth opens and all I hear is the voices of roses. I hold him tighter and I can feel them growing within him, tunneling inside his body with their sweet smells and their thorns and their beauty. “He is not a priest,” they whisper. “He is only our vessel. He served only to bring us to you.”

            I hold him closer, and I can almost taste them. They are all I want, they are all I’ve ever wanted. I know that now. Somewhere far away, there is a voice crying, pleading, but the voice is changing along with the rest of the world. Transforming into a new and better world.

            A world of roses.

           

After the Masquerade

AFTER THE MASQUERADE

A soldier returns from war, but the war follows him home.

The flashbacks began less than a month after Iraq.

I couldn’t drive half a mile without losing my mind. I avoided narrow streets and never parked in any lot without a clear exit. Snipers crouched behind every parapet. Whenever a car honked, I was suddenly there again, where everything was smoke and blood.

I went to a psychiatrist because that’s what a good soldier does. I told him what was going on, more or less.

“You have PTSD,” he said. “Combat-related. I’ll start you on Paxil. It’ll take a few weeks to work, but it should help with your symptoms. Have you been having any suicidal thoughts?”

“No,” I lied. “Nothing like that.”

“Good. Let me know if that changes.”

I filled the Paxil on the way home and took it dutifully. I wasn’t expecting it to do any good, but after a few weeks it actually started to help. I was able to drive again without shitting my pants every time I heard a siren.

But then came the nightmares.

###

            Every night I dreamt of a desert landscape, though there were no shouts or explosions or gunfire. It was not the war but its aftermath that haunted me.

            Thousands of bodies lay scattered across the sand, their faces fixed in expressions of terror. I had a shovel and I’d dig for hours, carefully placing one person after another in the grave.

            No matter how long I dug, the bodies never ended.

###

  A few days after the dreams began there was a knock at my door. I tensed then crept to the window and peeked outside where a young man with dark hair was standing on my porch. He saw me looking and waved. I started to panic, but I knew it was too late to not open the door, so I did. 

            “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “I’m Asif. Just moved in across the street.”

“I’m Matt.”

“I’m having some of the neighbors over on Saturday for a barbecue. You should join if you’re free.”

“OK.”

“Great,” he said. “Starts at three. See you there.”

I shut the door and raced into my bedroom, my head spinning. The entire world felt distant and unreal. I turned the dial on my gun safe then unlocked the handle. My pistol rested on a rack near the top and just as I reached for it I regained control.

I slammed the safe shut and collapsed on the bed and just started weeping, wondering what the fuck was wrong with me.

I didn’t come up with any answers.

###

            I called the psychiatrist the next day and told him about the dreams.

            “Sound like trauma-related nightmares,” he said. “But bad dreams are also a common side effect of Paxil. We could stop it.”

            “The Paxil’s been working pretty good,” I told him.

            “In that case, let’s add Minipress. I hate to treat a potential side effect with another medication, but Minipress targets nightmares specifically. I’ll call it in.”

            “That’s fine.”

            But the dreams didn’t stop.

###

            On Saturday, I walked across the street just before three, hoping to beat the crowd. I was so anxious I didn’t sleep the night before, and I spent most of the night staring at my pistol, wondering if it had come to that. I didn’t want to go to the barbecue, but my shame overwhelmed me.

            “You’re not a bad person,” I told myself. “What happened the other day was ridiculous. You’re not racist. You can do this. It’s just a barbecue.”

            Asif answered almost immediately when I knocked.

            “Hey, you’re early. I was about to fire up the grill. Can I get you anything?”

            “No, thanks.”

            “Cool. If you change your mind, there’s drinks on the porch.”

            As I watched him grill, I struggled to make small talk. It was a relief when the other neighbors started to arrive. They chatted about their kids and their jobs, and I smiled and nodded, like a normal human being.

            The barbecue wasn’t fun because nothing was anymore, but it was going alright.

            Then came the explosion.

            I spun and saw Asif standing in a cloud of smoke. I tackled him into the ground and yanked his arms behind his back.

            “I’ve got him,” I shouted. “I’ve got the fucking Arab.”

            A woman screamed behind me.

It took two men to wrestle me off of him, and by the time they did, I’d started to regain control.

            “What the hell’s wrong with you?” one of them shouted.

            “The bomb…” I stammered as I looked around. “I heard it…”

            “It was just a kid with his bang snaps,” said the other. He grabbed one of the toys and popped it against the driveway. “I’m calling the police.”

            “No,” Asif said as he looked at me in disgust. “Just get out of here.”

###

            I ran back into my house and grabbed my pistol from the nightstand. Tears were rushing down my cheeks, and my breaths couldn’t come fast enough. I paced in the living room for an hour, trying to figure out what to do and how to kill whatever I’d become, but I could only think of one solution.

I sat on the couch and stuck the pistol in my mouth and screamed. I cried until my face was red and snot poured out my nose. I hated myself for my brokenness and my weakness and my lack of control. But most of all, in that moment, I hated myself for not having the strength to pull the trigger.

            Through the window I could see Asif alone in his yard, cleaning up from the barbecue.

            “I have to do this first,” I whispered.

            I tucked the pistol into the back of my waistband then tightened my belt and crossed the street.

###

            Asif was walking into his house when I reached his porch.

            “Asif, can we talk?”

            He looked down at me and frowned.

            “I don’t think so.”

            He started to shut the door, but I stuck out my hand to stop him.

            “Please.”

            “Look, asshole. I’ve dealt with this shit my whole life. I’ve never even been to the Middle East. I was born in Boston.”

            “I know,” I said. “I mean, I didn’t know you were from Boston, but I know the war doesn’t have anything to do with you. My mind knows it, but sometimes my mind goes blank and…”

            My voice started to crack, but I kept going.

            “I’m not racist, but, shit, look at what happened today. Maybe I am. But after the war I don’t know how to control it, and when I start doing things I can’t control, I hate myself and there’s so much goddam guilt that follows…”

            Asif put his hand on my shoulder.

            “Hey, you want to come inside? I have beer.”

            “If I start drinking feeling like this I’m worried I’ll never stop.”

            “How about coffee? Decaf?”

            “OK.”

            We walked into his house and sat at the kitchen table for the next three hours, just two men talking honestly about our feelings. In this modern world that almost sounds absurd, though perhaps it shouldn’t.

I told him about my guilt and my anger. When I said I’ve felt like a misfit since I’ve returned, he nodded and said he understood because he’s been a misfit for most of his life. I cried then he cried then we both laughed and cried some more. I begged for his forgiveness, though he said there was nothing to forgive. He told me forgiveness is a decision, but it’s also a process, and we must forgive ourselves anew each day.

“How do I forgive myself?” I asked.

“Even when your heart condemns you, remember that there are truths greater than your heart.”

            When I got home that night, I put the gun back in my safe and turned the combination dial past zero before using the key to lock the handle. I walked back across the street and knocked on Asif’s door.

            “Could you hang onto this for a while?” I said, handing him the key.

            He looked down and frowned for a moment but then slowly nodded his head.

            “Sure,” he said. “I can do that. If you need anything, please let me know.”

            “I will,” I said, and I meant it.           

###

            It’s been three months since then, and the dreams haven’t stopped, but they’ve changed because now I’m not alone. There are others digging with me. Politicians and pastors and neighbors and misfits. There are so many graves left to dig. We are all responsible for everything that has happened, but in my dreams we’re making our penance together.

            Not far away there are children watching our every move. I’m ashamed for them to see what we’ve done, but they are also a blessing. They are our hope.  

            “You can be better than we were,” I tell them. “I believe in you. Pay attention and learn from our mistakes, so someday you won’t have to dig.”

Unsportsmanlike Conduct

UNSPORTSMANLIKE CONDUCT

When a football-obsessed town ignores justice, a ghost spurs her grieving father to action.

  

            Cotton had just poured my third bourbon of the night when the fat man at the end of the bar decided to talk to me.

            “We’re winning state this year,” he said, pointing to his Huntington Falcons hat.

            “We’ll see.”

            “No doubt in my mind. Josh Minshew is starting at QB. There’s no stopping a Minshew.”

            I winced at that but didn’t respond.

            “Hey, you look familiar,” the man said. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

            “Doubt it. I’m not very social.”

            “Suit yourself,” the man drawled. “All I was doing was trying to make a little conversation.”

            He took a sip of his beer and looked around the empty bar before turning back to me. Some people just can’t help themselves.

            “You are a fan, right?” he asked.

            “Can’t be a fan. I’m a ref.”

            The guy almost spit out his beer mid-swig.

            “That’s it!” he said, pointing at me. “That’s how I know you. You’re that ref who fucked us over in playoffs last fall.”

            “You did a pretty good job of fucking yourselves over. Charlie Parker threw five interceptions.”

            The man waddled toward me and hovered over my shoulder.

            “Bullshit,” he growled. “It was tied in the fourth quarter, and we were driving. Would’ve kicked a field goal to win it if you hadn’t called that fumble.”

            “You want to know the truth about why I called that fumble?”

            “Yeah,” he said, leaning in close. “Let’s hear it.”

            “Because it was a fucking fumble.”

            “Bullshit! The runner’s knee was down. How much did those boosters at Central pay you to fix the game?”

            “Not enough to put up with water buffalos like you.”

            “You think you’re real smart, don’t you?” he shouted. “Well, I don’t care how shitty of a ref you are. Not you or anyone else is stopping us this year. Minshew’s taking us all the way.”

            “I don’t ref Falcons games anymore, so I guess I’m allowed to say it. Fuck Josh Minshew.”

            “Fuck Josh Minshew?! He and his family made this town! They’re Huntington royalty.”

            “Josh hasn’t even played a game yet,” chimed in Cotton. “Sure you’re ready to crown him?”

            “Damn sure,” said the man. “You’ll see tomorrow night. He’s gonna be a star here. Then he’ll go to college and the pros like his brother.”

            “Kind of weird how excited you’re getting about a teenage boy,” I said.

“What’re you implying?” the man sneered. “Bartender, get me another beer so I can explain a thing or two to this sumbitch!”

            “No,” said Cotton. “You’ve had enough. I think you’d better get out of here.”[JP1] 

            “Well, fine. I don’t care to associate with Falcon haters anyway. I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

            The man tossed his empty bottle behind the bar where it crashed to the floor. He lurched out into the parking lot, slamming the door behind him.

            “Asshole,” said Cotton, bending over to pick up the broken glass. “Guys like him need to just swallow some buckshot and be done with it.”

            I finished off my drink.

            “Could’ve worded that differently, Cotton.”

            Cotton stood up and shook his head.

            “Oh god, Jerry. I’m sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”

            “Just pour me another. I don’t want to think either.”

            I downed it and tapped my glass for refill.

The liquor’s tasted pretty good since Cassie died.

###

After a few more, I stumbled out the bar and into the parking lot where my ’03 Camry waited under a streetlight.

            “Shit.”

            There were only three cars left, but all of them had their headlights bashed in. Guess the asshole wasn’t sure which was mine and decided to ruin everyone’s night. 

            Josh Minshew stared down mockingly from a Huntington Falcons billboard across the street. Real sorry about your lights, he seemed to say. But I didn’t do it. I’ve got people who can vouch.”

            I reached into my pocket for my keys but pulled out a napkin instead. I drew a sharp breath when I read the four words written in pink.

            “Daddy, I’m still here.”

###

            Sometimes you have trouble driving because you’re drunk. Other times it’s because your headlights are out. Other times still, it’s because some sick bastard slipped a note in your pocket pretending to be your dead daughter.

            I had all three working against me, so I guess I should’ve expected the blue lights. The cop pulled me over, and I cracked the window.

            “License and registration.”

I slipped them through. The kid looked like he was new on the job – no older than 25 – and I was guessing he still took his work seriously.

            “Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?”

            “Headlights, I guess. Been meaning to get them fixed,” I said, trying not to slur.

            “You were also swerving. Have you been drinking?”

            “No, not really.”

            The cop sighed.

            “I need you step out of the car.”

            I opened the door and struggled to my feet and looked him in the face. When he made eye contact with me, he took a step back then glanced down at his shoes and I knew he felt ashamed.

            “Sir, I didn’t realize it was you.”

            “We haven’t met, have we?”

            “No, sir,” the cop said, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s just… I’m sorry about…”

            I lifted my hand.

            “No need for that, son. Go ahead and take me in if you need to.”

            “I don’t want to take you in, sir,” the cop sighed. “You close to your place?”

            “Less than a mile.”

            “Then just go on home and be safe about it. And make sure to get those headlights fixed.”

###

            At home I found a newspaper on the porch and took it inside. I poured another drink and turned to the sports section where a headline said “THE MINSHEW DEBUT” with a picture of Josh standing smugly with his arms crossed.

            “God damn it,” I said, tossing the paper into the trash.

            I took my drink to the couch and passed out before I could finish it.

###

            I woke to a crash, then groaned and struggled to my feet, trying to ignore my throbbing head.  When I got to the kitchen, trash was scattered across the floor.

            “Shit.”

            I set the can upright and starting refilling it. I reached for the newspaper but dropped it when I saw the picture of Josh Minshew.  There were holes poked where his eyes had been, and his face was scratched out in pink ink.

            “Cassie?” I called, before realizing how stupid that was. “Who’s there?”

            I grabbed my pistol and searched the whole house twice without luck.

            I was still pretty shaken up but I was even more drunk, so I plopped down in bed and closed my eyes. I may have dozed off – I don’t know – but it wasn’t long before I heard her.

            “Don’t open your eyes,” she said. “Or I’ll be gone.”

            “Baby?” I said. “Is that really you?”

            “It’s me, daddy.”

            I just started crying. Didn’t know what else to do. She ran her soft hand through my hair then stole some of the wetness from my cheeks.

            “I want to kill him,” I whispered. “I want to kill the boy who raped my girl.”

            “I know, daddy,” she said. “I know.”

###

            I’m not sure how long she stayed, but in the morning I woke alone.

            There was a voicemail on my phone from a number I didn’t recognize.

            “This is Harvey with McClintock and Associates. Wanted to reach out again about the Minshew case. It hurts that the police wouldn’t make an arrest, but we may be able to go after him civilly. Assault and battery. Intentional infliction of emotional distress. They may be willing to settle if…”

            I deleted it halfway through.

            I went to the kitchen and put a Pop-Tart in the toaster, hoping it’d soak up my hangover. Through the window I could see someone standing in my yard, near the mailbox. Wondered who the fuck it was, but then she turned around.

            I left my Pop-Tart and ran outside.

            “Cassie!” I yelled, searching the yard. “Where are you?”

            There was no sign of her, but I noticed a tiny bit of white peeking out of the mailbox. I reached in and pulled out another napkin with pink writing.

            “Parson’s Bridge. 4pm. He dies.”

###

            I drove to Parson’s about an hour before and waited near the spots where the kids like to go. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone with the opening game tonight, but if she used whatever weird, mystical ghost powers she had to tell me to come, I wasn’t going to let her down.

            I want to kill the boy who raped my daughter.

            I was sober now, but I still meant it.

            Near four, I left my truck and eased down the embankment with my pistol in my hand. I stayed as quiet as I could, which wasn’t easy with all the leaves and branches and broken beer bottles scattered across the ground. When I got to the bottom, I didn’t see Cassie or Minshew or anyone else yet, so I settled down near one of the abutments and waited in the shadows.

            Before long, I heard her voice.

            “Put the gun away, daddy.”

            “Where are you?” I asked, looking around but seeing nothing. “Where’s the boy?”

            “He’s not here.”

            “What about the note? You know I’ll kill him for you.”

            “You’re not going to kill that boy, daddy. It’s almost my time to go.”

            “But, baby, I don’t want you to go,” I whispered, fighting back the tears. “I need you here with me.”

            “I can’t stay, daddy. I’m sorry. Sorry about what I did. I shouldn’t have taken those pills. Wasn’t thinking straight. Wasn’t sure if I’d ever think straight again.”

            “You know I don’t blame you,” I said. “I love you so much. I’m not able to get on without you.”

            “You’re going to be OK, daddy.”

            “I won’t.”

            “I need you to keep living. Do it for me.”

            “I can’t.”

            “You can.”

            “I’ll try,” I whispered.

            “I have to go now, daddy, but I have something for you.”

            I watched as a loose brick in one of the piers slowly slipped out of its crevice and fell to the ground.

            “Reach inside.”

            I pulled out a small book and opened it up.

            “Is this your diary?”

            “Journal, dad,” she laughed. “When you miss me, you can read this and maybe I’ll feel a little closer.”

            “I’ll read it every day,” I said. “I’ll read it over and over. I’ll read it forever.”

            I felt her lips kiss my forehead.

            “I love you, daddy,” she said.

            Then she was gone.

###

            I sat down and read the journal from beginning to end then started back at the beginning. I missed her so much. I sat there reading until the sun disappeared into night.

            When I got back to my car, Cotton had texted me.

            “Figured you might have heard, but Minshew is dead. Hung himself in the locker room three hours before his big debut. Left a note confessing to everything.”

###

            A few days later, I sat at the bar and mostly listened as Cotton talked.

            “It’s funny he wrote the note the way he did” said Cotton. “Well, not funny. But strange.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “It was all in pink. Can you imagine a big football player like that sitting down to write a suicide note with a pink pen? Just doesn’t seem to fit.”

            My glass nearly fell out of my hand.

            “Hadn’t heard that.”

            “Yeah, they mentioned it on the radio this morning. But what do I know about these things? I guess there’s nothing typical about them. Sick people are sick, and there’s no rhyme or reason to how their minds work.” He eyed my glass and grabbed the Maker’s. “Looks like you’re running low. Let me fill you up.”

            “No, that’s OK,” I said. “I’d better get on home. I’ve had enough for a while.”

           

        

The Gnome of  the Rose            

             In the Kingdom of Floss, there was a young peasant named Cecil who tended the private garden of Crown Prince Alexandruff. Cecil lived in a tiny cottage outside the palace walls under the shade of a sturdy oak. Late one afternoon as he was preparing for dinner, a sharp rap came at his door.

            “Gardener! Open at once! This is most urgent!”

            Cecil stopped skinning the squirrel for his stew and hurried to the door. When he opened it, Prince Alexandruff himself was standing at the entrance. The Prince was a mighty four feet tall, and his face was squinched up as if he’d just sniffed a head of rotten lettuce dipped in vinegar.

            “Gardener!” the Prince squeaked. “I need a rose!”

            “Your Grace,” Cecil said with a bow. “I have many fine roses in your garden.”

            “Not those embarrassing weeds,” sneered the Prince. “I’ve just received word that the fair Princess Florantine of Rivera and her father King Umbert will be arriving to see if I am worthy of her hand in marriage. I need a rose to impress her! A giant rose! The greatest rose this land has ever seen!”

            “I…I can try, Your Grace,” Cecil stammered. “When will they be arriving?”

            “Tomorrow! Find your rose by then! And make it at least the size of maple!”

            “But, Your Grace, that’s impossible!” Cecil said. “Roses take much longer than a day to grow, and no rose can ever be that large.”

            “Make it possible,” the Prince growled, “or I’ll have your head on a spike!”

            The Prince spun around and stormed out Cecil’s door, his cape dragging on the ground behind him.

###

            Throughout dinner, Cecil scoured his mind for a way out of this mess. He knew the Prince was a man of his word, especially when it came to putting heads on spikes. He wondered if he could perhaps paint the leaves on a giant tree red, but he doubted that would fool anyone and he didn’t know where he could find that much paint. Every new idea continued to fail him, and, before too long, he realized his only hope was to steal away in the night and escape the Kingdom of Floss forever.

             When he finished eating, he took his shovel and began to dig a hole under the mighty oak next to his cottage. His only prized possession was his mother’s wedding ring, which he’d hidden after her death for safe keeping.  It had been years since he’d last seen it, but he remembered the exact spot where it was buried.

            After only a few digs, he heard a terrible moan.

            “Owwwwwwww, what are you doing?”

            “What? Who said that?” Cecil gasped, looking down at the hole.

            Staring back at him was the tiniest, ugliest face he’d ever seen.

            “You really ruined my sleep,” the creature grunted, crawling out from the dirt and climbing up next to Cecil’s boot. It was only a few inches tall, but it gave Cecil’s foot a sharp kick.

            “What… I mean, who… are you?” asked Cecil.

            “Haven’t you ever seen a gnome before?” the creature asked. “They call me Spontagnomeous. I used to go by Wilbur, but my mother changed it because I always live in the moment!”

            Spontagnomeous took off his shirt and began scratching his back against the tree.

            “I…I’m sorry,” Cecil stammered. “I wasn’t trying to wake you. I was just looking for mother’s old wedding ring. I buried years ago.”

            “Well, why’d you decide to dig it up now and ruin a perfectly good nap?”

            “I would have left it buried until I found a wife, but the Crown Prince is going to kill me tomorrow, so I need to escape tonight.”

            “I know where your ring is,” Spontagnomeous said. “When you stuck it underground, you plopped it in the middle of my dining room. But who are you? Some kind of criminal?”

            “No!” said Cecil. “The Prince of Floss wants to impress the Princess Florantine tomorrow with a rose the size a tree, and if I don’t give him one, he’s going to put my head on a spike!”

            “Royals,” muttered Spontagnomeous. “Never could stand them. I’ll tell you what. I’ve been napping for far too long, ever since that darned ring came into my life. I’ll give it back to you, but only if you let me hide under your hat for the next day, so I can see the world. I haven’t gone on a proper walk-about in ages. As a bonus, I’ll give you a vial of magic water I have laying around that’ll solve your rose problem in a jiffy.”

            “What do you mean?” asked Cecil.

            “Are you that dense?” asked Spontagnomeous. “Let me ride on your head under your hat for the next day, and I’ll give you magic water that’ll help you grow a rose to the size of a tree overnight.”

            “You have something like that?”

            “Hold on,” said Spontagnomeous. “I’m feeling like a workout.”

He dropped to the ground and started doing push-ups until he was winded.

            “You have something like that?” Cecil repeated.

            “What?” Spontagnomeous asked.

            “The water?”

            “The water? Oh, yes!” he squealed. “Yes, I do.”

            The gnome scampered back into the hole for a few minutes before crawling out with a glass vial filled with liquid. It was clamped shut with a cork that had a small piece of parchment strung through the middle.

            “Here you are,” said Spontagnomeous proudly. “Let’s go sprinkle this on the roses. But first… do we have a deal?”

            Cecil didn’t know if he trusted this strange creature from the underworld, but he wanted his mother’s wedding ring more than anything. He also wondered if he could present the creature to the princess instead of a rose if push came to shove – gnomes these days were almost as rare as giant roses.

            “Deal,” said Cecil, offering his pinky to the tiny creature.

            Spongtagnomeous shook Cecil’s finger emphatically before scampering up his arm, crawling up his head, and slipping under his hat.

###

            “Hurry up,” said Spontagnomeous. “I’m already getting drowsy again.”

            “We’re here,” hissed Cecil, the Prince’s garden laying before them in the moonlight.

            “Great,” said Spontagnomeous. “Take out the vial and pour it on the first rose you see.”

            Cecil removed the vial and noticed the parchment on it. He squinted his eyes and read closely.

            “Wait,” he said. “These are instructions. It says only to allow one drop per flower. It could be dangerous to add more.”

            “Rules schmules,” said Spontagnomeous. “Pour all of it. Do you want a rose the size of a house or don’t you?”

            Cecil shrugged and dumped out the vial.

            “Are we done here?” asked Spontagnomeous. “I’m ready for bed.”

            “You’re sure this is going to work?” asked Cecil.

            “Not at all, but let’s at least get a good night’s sleep before you die.”

###

            Early the next morning, Cecil woke up to a pounding on his door. He groaned and rolled out of bed, then gasped as he remembered everything that happened the day before. He glanced back at his bed and saw Spontagnomeous was still sleeping soundly.

            “Gardener, open this instant!” a voice beyond the door squeaked.

            Cecil swung wide the door and, once again, Prince Alexandruff was grimacing on his porch.

            “This is a disaster!” the Prince roared. “What have you done?”

            “I… I don’t know,” stammered Cecil. “Did… did the rose grow? Is it satisfactory?”

            “No!” shrieked the Prince. “Well, yes! It grew! But, no! It’s not satisfactory!”

            “Why… why not?”

            “It’s huge! Too big!” shouted the Prince. “My very best knights are doing their best to fend it off, but it’s attacking my castle as we speak. And, to make matters worse, it kidnapped Princess Florantine the moment she arrived!”

            “What?!” shouted Cecil.

            “That’s right,” sneered Prince Alexandruff. “And you caused all this trouble, so you’re going to fix it.”

            “But… but how would I stop a giant rose if your best knights can’t?”

            “Figure it out!” shouted Alexandruff. “I’ll see you at the castle.”

            Cecil sat on his stool and put his head in his hands.

            “Don’t worry,” Spontagnomeous yawned, finally wakening from his nap. “Sounds pretty dangerous, but we’ll just figure it out as we go along.”

###

            As soon as Cecil and Spontagnomeous arrived at the garden, they watched the giant rose toss a knight on horseback at least a hundred yards.

            “Impressive,” said Spontagnomeous from under Cecil’s hat.

            The rose was least ten times as tall as the castle. Cecil saw a frightened young woman cowering at the base of the stem who he knew could only be Princess Florantine. Another knight rode bravely toward the princess, and he was immediately and unceremoniously hurled into the moat by an enormous rose leaf.

            “You call this a cavalry?” shouted a bearded man, who Cecil thought must be King Umbert. “Save my daughter at once!”

            “You!” shrieked Alexandruff pointing at Cecil. “You! Fix this or else!”

            A cluster of mounted knights pointed their lances toward Cecil and inched forward menacingly.

            “What do we do?” whispered Cecil to Spontagnomeous, as he slowly trod toward the rose. “How do we save Princess Florantine?”

            “No idea,” said the gnome. “I could really go for a good conversation. It’s been ages since I’ve heard anything interesting. Let’s try talking to it.”

            “Talking to it?” Cecil asked. “Roses don’t talk.”

            “Have you ever tried? They might,” said Spontagnomeous. “Especially ones nourished with magic water. Given how angry this one seems, it may be a good idea to start with an apology.”

            “An apology?”

            “Just do it. I’m feeling it right now. Live in the moment.”

            “H…hello, Mr. Rose, sir,” stammered Cecil. “Sorry to bother you, but I noticed you seem to be angry.”
            The rose quit thrashing around and stood upright.

            “ANGRY,” the rose roared. “OF COURSE, I’M ANGRY.”

            “Ask it why,” hissed Spontagnomeous.

            “Why?” asked Cecil.

            “I SPEND MY WHOLE LIFE SITTING OUT A PILE OF DIRT, GETTING WATER POURED ON ME BY HUMANS, ONLY TO HAVE MY STEM CLIPPED ONCE I’M FULLY GROWN! TALK ABOUT A RAW DEAL!”

            “I’m sorry!” said Cecil.

            “NOT AS SORRY AS YOU’RE GOING TO BE!” shouted the rose.

            “Spontagnomeous, what do I say now?” asked Cecil.

            “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” said the gnome. “Try not to say anything stupid. How about a drink? I haven’t had a good drink in a while.”

            “Rose, may I offer you a drink of wine?” asked Cecil

            “THAT’D BE A UPGRADE FROM FILTHY WATER!” shouted the rose.

            “Spontagnomeous, how do I give the rose a drink?”

            “Ask the Prince,” yawned Spontagnomeous. “I’m sure he has plenty of wine to spare. Get me some while you’re at it.”

            “Prince Alexandrus!” shouted Cecil. “Could you bring us some wine.”

            The Prince waved his hand and within minutes his knights marched out barrels of wine from his cellar.

            “Here you are, rose,” said Cecil, opening one of the barrels and pouring it into the ground at the base of its stem, careful not to spill any on Princess Florantine. “Drink to your heart’s…err, roots…content.”

            “THAT’S MORE LIKE IT,” the flower sighed. “I’M FINALLY GETTING TREATED WITH A LITTLE RESPECT. MY LIFE HAS BEEN ONE MISFORTUNE AFTER ANOTHER. LET ME TELL YOU WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE A FLOWER. WHEN I WAS JUST A SEEDLING…”

            Cecil took a seat next to Princess Florantine as the rose went on and on about all its hardships.

            “Keep the wine flowing,” whispered Spontagnomeous. “He’s got a lot to get off his petals.”

            As Cecil fed barrel after barrel to the rose, its words began to slur and, before long, its stem drooped and the flower crashed to the ground.

            “Wouldn’t be a bad idea to get the princess out of here and make a new life for yourself,” said Spontagnomeous. “And might want to do that before the rose wakes back up.”

            Cecil offered Princess Florantine his hand, and the two of them scampered away from the sleeping flower where Prince Alexandruff and King Umbert awaited.

            “Very good, gardener,” chortled the Prince. “Princess, may I escort you back inside the castle, and, perhaps, offer my hand in marriage?”

            “Out of the question! I’d never let a coward like you marry my daughter!” shouted King Umbert. “We’ve seen enough here. We are returning to our castle in Rivera at once!”

            “But…but what about her marriage?” squealed the Prince. “She requires a royal suitor!”

            “And that won’t be you, you pimpsqueak.” muttered King Umbert. “You almost got her killed in this crazy kingdom of yours.”

            “You!” shouted the Prince, pointing a finger at Cecil. “You are responsible for this. Guards! Put his head on a spike!”

            “ABSOLUTELY NOT!” thundered Umbert. “The gardener saved my daughter’s life. He’ll be returning to Rivera with us where he’ll serve as my royal gardener.”

            “I will not allow it!” the Prince shrieked.

            King Umbert lifted his hand in a fist, and the Prince dropped quivering to the ground.

            “Fine, fine,” the Prince stammered. “Just get out of here. But what do I do about this rose when it wakes up?”

            “No idea,” said King Umbert. “I’m sure you with all your princely wisdom will come up with something.”

            With that, Umbert, Florantine, and Cecil – with Spontagnomeous under his hat – marched out of the garden.

###

            “Not too bad of an outcome,” whispered Spontagnomeous to Cecil as he mounted one of King Umbert’s royal steeds outside the castle gate. “Could’ve done worse. That princess is pretty cute too.”

            “She’s a princess, and I’m a gardener,” Cecil whispered back. “She won’t want anything to do with me.”

            “You never know,” said Spontagnomeous. “It’s a long ride back to Rivera, and that’ll give you plenty of time to charm her. Play your cards right and by the end of the trip you may even be needing this.”

            Spontagnomeous scampered down Cecil’s arm and placed the wedding ring in his palm.

            “Thanks, Spontagnomeous,” smiled Cecil. “Will you be coming with us to Rivera?”

            “No idea,” said the gnome. “It’s a long journey. I don’t even know where I’ll be five minutes from now.”

            Soon Cecil was riding with the king and the princess toward his new home in Rivera. The gnome was snoring under his hat but woke suddenly when he heard a shout.

            “YOU TRICKED ME! YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ME BECAUSE I’M A LOWLY FLOWER. WELL, NOW I’M HUNGOVER AND TWICE AS ANGRY! I WON’T REST UNTIL THIS CASTLE IS IN RUINS!”

            “Glad we got out of there,” muttered Spontagnomeous.

            “Me too,” said Cecil. “I could learn a thing or two from you about living in the moment, but next time we try to grow magic flowers, let’s pay attention to the instructions.”