Pictures Don't Lie

Everyone has their secrets. Some don't reveal themselves until tragedy strikes.

My father always swore he wasn't there when it happened, but pictures don't lie.

Unfortunately, he would never be able to explain himself. The robber had seen to that. The robber and Dad's pigheadedness. If he had just let the guy have his money...

But that was the past. The present held only the mountain of debt he had left behind, debt that forced us to sell the store. This was the last business day, and I was cleaning out his office. I remembered playing here as kid while Dad did the books. I recalled working summers here in high school selling hammers and nails. So many memories, yet what kept running through my mind was, “Who’s going to get that giant ‘HARDWARE’ sign off the roof?” Each plywood letter was six feet tall. Dad was so proud of it - wouldn’t let anyone else maintain it. Once again, cleaning up after him was left to me.

To change the direction of my brooding, I opened the safe. It was a family joke that he never kept anything inside. He claimed it was a decoy for burglars. Sure enough, inside lay a pile of worthless old cancelled checks. For no reason, I plowed my hands through them like a pile of old leaves, and that’s when I found the faded manila envelope sealed with duct tape.

Curious, I slit the envelope open, and poured out an old photogragh. Ice ran through my veins. Two smiling young men in the middle pointed to a giant V at the right edge. One man was my father. I looked at the other and began to shake. “You lying bastard.”

Downstairs, the bell tinkled indicating a customer. Must have forgotten to lock the door.

"We're closed," I called down. Nobody answered, but heavy footsteps made their way up the stairs.

"I said we're cl--"

"Good evening, Mr. Wilson," came the voice of the one man I did not want to see. Before Detective Mason reached the top, I crammed the photo and envelope into the safe and locked it.

"Thought I'd find you here," said Mason sounding casual. After two months of dealing with him, I knew one thing about Detective Robert Mason. He was casual. Florida casual from his pastel polo shirt to his brown boat shoes. Too bad we were in Poughkeepsie.

Tonight, though, his insouciance looked forced. Maybe it was the sweat staining his armpits, the pallor behind his tan, or the wideness in his eyes. Mason shoved the ancient rotary phone to the middle of the desk and claimed one corner for a seat. He shot a glance at the safe. "I've been thinking about our last conversation--"

"Hold it right there, Mason. You've been pestering me about my father’s past associations ever since he died." With more bravado than I felt, I leaned my fullback frame over the smaller man, casting him in shadow. "Like you think he was the criminal. What are you after?"

He turned to the wall. "Nice safe. Wonder what's inside."

"Keep wondering."

Even when he stood, he had to look up to me. Shaking his head, he said, "Usually people cooperate when a loved one has been murdered."

"Usually detectives try to catch the killer instead of digging into their past."

"Did you ever think they might be related?"

"Wh-- What?"

Mason gave a harsh laugh. “Are you that stupid? Do you think your father just said, ‘Hey robber, let’s fight so you can shoot me.’?” The detective glared, his face red like it had never been since he began investigating my father. How did he know there was more to Dad than I had known until today? All I wanted was for this jerk to go away so I could take in the bombshell that photo had dropped just minutes before.

“Show me what’s in the safe,” he demanded.

“Screw you,” I spat, shaking.

“Open the damned safe!” he screamed, grabbing my collar. The little guy was stronger than he looked.

“If you don’t have a search warrant--”

Next instant, I felt the barrel of a Glock semiautomatic jammed under my chin. “This is my search warrant! Now open the safe.” I couldn’t tell who was shaking more, but at that moment I began to understand my father’s stubbornness. If this creep thought he was going intimidate me, he had another thing coming.

“You’re a cop!”

“Not tonight I’m not.” That sentence, filled with resignation and anger, frightened me more than the pistol. But it also seemed to take the air out of his balloon. Mason lowered his gun and sank into the desk’s wooden chair. He stared into distance, brooding. “You’re just like your father.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t.”

This evening had gone all over the place. I didn’t know if Mason was a cop or a kook, and with that Glock dangling from his right hand, I didn’t want to press my luck. On the other hand, the silence that had fallen was suffocating.

“What’s going on?”

He looked up at me with sad eyes and gave a big shrug that led to a sigh.

“Did you know my mom died last week? Shot herself. Know what she used? The gun that killed your father.” He paused to let the gravity of his words sink in. Then it hit me.

“Your mother?” He nodded. “But--”

In response, he handed me an envelope. Inside was an exact copy of the photograph I had discovered that evening. Not exact; it was the mirror image.

“There’s your father,” he said, pointing to Dad. “And there’s mine.” My knees grew weak, and I had to sit on the desk to keep from collapsing.

“Your father was…”

“Benny Harcliff, international jewel thief and mastermind of the infamous Ferris heist. See that bag?” He pointed the sack my father held. “Ferris diamonds.”

The room started to spin. “Dad always said he had met Harcliff in prison but never had anything to do with him afterwards and was nowhere near the Ferris job.”

“He lied.”

“So I see.”

Mason joined me on the desk. “My father fled to Rio when things got hot. Mom never saw him again. But a few months ago she got a letter saying he was dying and wanted her cared for. He told her your father had the Ferris loot and would give her half if she showed him this photo.”

“Is that why you harrassed me so much?” He shook his head.

“Everyone knew your father had a past. I just wanted to see if there was any connection. Little did I know it was my own mother.”

"So, why'd she kill him?"

"Apparently, she showed him the picture, and he laughed. Said they already split the loot, and he’d spent his half. Mom didn’t believe him and pulled the gun, but he just kept laughing. Something snapped inside her, and she shot. Mom searched but found nothing. Last week she confessed everything to me -- just before putting the gun in her mouth."

"So, your mom killed my dad for diamonds that don’t exist."

"Yup." He holstered the Glock and folded his arms.

“Now what?”

He shrugged. “I just want to know more.”

“Like if the jewels are really gone?

“Maybe.”

“Well, I didn’t even know Dad worked with Benny Harcliff.”

“It’s only, if there was something left…”

“It’d be blood money. It killed my father.”

“And my mother. But still.” Mason seemed so pathetic, so sad. I wanted to throw him a bone, something to cling to. But what? Then it hit me. I jumped from the desk nearly knocking Mason over. "Hey," he started but stopped when he saw me head for the safe.

A few twists of the dial, and a satisfying click sounded. There was the photo. I reached out my hand to Mason.

"Give it here," I commanded. He obeyed. Instinctively, I knew what to do, laying both photos on the desk side-by-side with the V at the left side of the frame of one meeting the V at the right side of the other. Together, they formed a giant W with two men on either side pointing to it. Why did it look familiar?

“HARDWARE,” breathed Mason. I smacked my head. Of course, the sign on the roof. But what did it mean? Surely they didn’t park the diamonds on the roof. And if they did, if there were still diamonds up there, what would we do? Take them? Stolen goods that killed our parents? Turn them in for a reward? Rewarded for their crimes?

“You could save the store,” Mason said, with no joy.

“And you?”

“Don’t know. I just want to know the truth.”

The truth. What was that? After a lifetime of being lied to by my own father, I had no idea. Perhaps only those old photographs held my truth. After all, unlike people, pictures don’t lie.

Work From Home

Wouldn't it be nice if people who lose everything could have a second chance? Only the second chance might lead to something new. New life sounds almost like a miracle.

The man, rumpled and disoriented, staggered off the bus and into a lamppost. Hugging the post, he saw a weathered flier dangling from it. Through gray morning mist he read the words, “Work from home.” A lone information tab with a phone number clung to the paper, a forsaken invitation to some better life too good to be true.

“Home,” Paul spat and pushed away from the post. Talk about too good to be true. He stumbled backward into the street where the M50 bus had just pulled away. A horn blared, and he turned to see the M55 inches from his face, its angry driver gesticulating at him through the enormous windshield.

A bear paw hand clapped down on his shoulder and hoisted Paul to the sidewalk.

“Hiya, Buddy.” Markus beamed down at him.

“What’re you doing here?” Paul asked, straightening his soiled tie in a reflexive nod to his former dignity.

“You didn’t come back to the SA last night. I got worried. Thought you’d do something stupid.”

“Not yet,” muttered Paul.

Markus nodded toward the M55 as its door hissed shut and it rumbled away. “Thought you couldn’t handle a bus. It ain’t no limo after all.”

Paul snorted. “Those days are over. Bastards threw me out like an old Kleenex.”

“Yeah,” agreed Markus. “Like me and the Bengals.”

“Damn concussions, eh Markus?”

“Damn straight.” Together, they walked to the Salvation Army, Paul’s hands buried in his trench coat pockets. He felt a piece of paper in the left and fished it out. It was the information tab. “Work from home” it insisted. Funny, he didn’t remember pulling it off.

***

They shared a fetid room at the SA where the stank of ancient urine clung to everything. Sitting opposite each other on their cots, knees nearly touching, the men gazed at the scrap of paper. Paul wadded it up, then unfolded it.

“Maybe I’ll call just for fun,” he said. “Thirty-five cents isn’t too much to waste.”

“Work from home is good,” Markus said.

“Have to have a home first.”

Markus spread his massive arms wide. “This is it, Buddy.”

“Well,” Paul countered, “if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.”

“Probably. But if you got nothing, can’t nobody steal it from you.”

Paul shrugged. Markus pressed a quarter and a dime into his hand. Paul shrugged again then headed down the dim corridor to the lone pay phone. The metal buttons felt large and clunky compared to his old Blackberry.

One ring. Two. Three, then a voice at the other end, male, gentle, soothing. “You were wandering the streets all night, weren’t you?”

“What?”

“Deciding whether to kill yourself or give it one last chance.”

“How did you...?”

“Experience. Usually, it takes a desperate person to call me.”

“Who are you?”

“Your last chance.”

Markus appeared out of nowhere. He crowded next to Paul so he could listen in. “How’s it going, Buddy?” he asked in a failed whisper.

A pause at the other end. Then, businesslike, “If you want a job, come to the Westend Warehouse. 3:00 pm.”

“Can I come?” begged Markus.

“Bring your friend.”

“Too good to be true,” Paul warned himself, unaware he had spoken out loud.

“That depends on you,” said the voice and hung up.

***

They sat on the worn linoleum floor scooping tiny plastic beads into tall glass jars. After each scoop, Paul dropped in a trinket. A toy airplane, a star, a tiny telephone. Last of all, he placed a plastic tab bearing some message like “This is it,” or “Look within,” or “What do you seek?” Then he glued a lid onto the jar and attached a tag reading, “Magic Treasure Hunt. Find the treasures listed below, then read the message just for you.”

Paul and Markus had found Westend Warehouse empty except for two boxes of empty jars and three boxes of beads and trinkets. A note promised a dollar per jar when they brought them back filled. Markus found an old shopping cart to bring them home.

There was a rhythm to their work. Scoop, drop, scoop, drop. He liked the feel of the beads, like soft sand. It relaxed him. The messages spoke hope to him. He wondered if they did the same for the children who received these treaure jars.

They took eight timeless hours for the first batch. When they wheeled the jars back to the warehouse, it was empty except for an envelope with two one-hundred dollar bills and more boxes of jars.

Every day for the next month, they repeated the pattern. Scoop, drop, scoop, drop. “This is it,” “Yes,” “Here it is.” Wheel to the warehouse. Bring jars home.

With his earnings, Paul bought a suit and a razor. He began visiting the library and searching job listings online. Nothing. Still, he felt hopeful that the right thing would come along.

Then one day he picked up a plastic message tag that read, “Today is your day.” Paul sniffed. Fear and excitement raced down his spine. He turned the tag over in his hands and read a phone number. He stared at it a long time.

“What is it, Buddy?” asked Markus, concerned. Paul handed him the tag. A shadow passed over Markus’ eyes, as if something had died.

“You got to move on,” he said.

Paul furrowed his brow. “What about you?”

Markus gave a rueful smile and held up his own tag that read, “Soon. Not Yet.”

“Go on, call,” he insisted. Paul snatched up some change and marched down the dark hall. Markus did not follow. Paul dropped in the coins and dialed.

“Ready to get going?” asked the voice. They spoke.

Paul straightened his tie as he left the Salvation Army, suitcase rolling behind him. Out on the street he passed the M55, then stopped at the lampost and waited. When his bus arrived, he climbed aboard unsure where he was going but certain it was good -- and true.

The Cup

Divorce needs its symbols. Sometimes they don't have to be children or a house.

Cool morning sun filtered down 20^th Street, poking rays into dark corners not yet awake.  A Royal Carting truck rumbled past the gleaming glass entry of a renovated brownstone bearing the number 175.  Traffic on Ninth Avenue sounded distant and foreign.

Outside 175 stood a U-Haul with Indiana plates, its gangplank sticking out the back like a silver tongue.  Paul backed a box-laden dolly up the ramp.  When he reached the bay, he paused to wipe his brow.  Physical labor was not his forte.  “Son of a bitch,” he swore, noting a blister on his hand as he stuffed his handkerchief into his back pocket.  “Why am I killing myself for her?”

Still, he turned to stack the boxes with the rest.  Nearly done.  Inside the truck lay half of everything he owned -- used to own.  Detritus of an experiment gone wrong, a dream turned nightmare, a life upended.

In the back of the truck Paul thought he saw a Dali clock draped over the boxes.  He looked again and realized it was just the Persian rug they had bought at the Chelsea Flea Market two years ago.  Next to it stood a monstrosity of tarnished brass and Victorian filigree she had dragged home last summer.  She called it a floor lamp though it had never worked.  Good riddance.

A shadow blocked the morning sun streaming into the truck.  He turned and saw Kelly’s simpering face halfway up the ramp.  “I really really really appreciate this,” she said.  He grunted.  A box above him shifted as she climbed in and faced him.

“You know,” she started in her sweetest voice, wiping a red curl from her eyes.  “We don’t have to be enemies just because it didn’t work out.”  Didn’t work out, he repeated in his mind.  Seems like it worked out fine for her with what, five affairs?  Those were just the ones he knew about.  Then she had the gaul to turn around and file for divorce -- in Indiana -- for “irreconcilable differences.”

Paul spun away before he said something vile.

“It’s not like you had nothing to do with it,” Kelly snipped, both hands on the hips of her gray wool skirt.  “You and your cold shoulder every time I wanted to make love.”  He spun back to face her.

“At 3:00 p.m.  I was working.”

“You were at home.”

“I work at home.”

“Your problem is you’re never spontaneous.  You could never just walk away from your precious computer.”

“It’s called responsibility.  Somebody had to make a living.  Weather I worked at home or at an office, it was still work.  Why couldn’t you ever get that through your thick skull?”

She stuck out her lower lip.  “Now you’re being rude.  Maybe I should go.”  She turned with that little swing in her hips, a tease that in earlier times often did make him forget everything and join her in the bedroom.  

“Want to come?” 

He couldn’t believe it.  She was coming on to him, always her favorite way of sidestepping their arguments.  What bothered him was that he was considering it.  No matter how much they fought, she knew how to please him in bed.  And that red hair of hers.  And that tight body and creamy skin.  He cupped his chin in one hand and leaned back against the stack of boxes to watch her sashay through the glass doors, wondering what it would be like one more time.  He misjudged and hit the wall of boxes harder than he expected.  The box that had shifted earlier worked its way loose and tumbled down, first hitting his shoulder then the truck bed, spilling half its contents onto the metal floor.

“Damn,” he swore, rubbing his shoulder before leaning down to examine the damage.  When he saw, he chuckled.  “Will she never have enough?”  It was panties, dozens of pairs of Victoria’s Secret, Frederick’s, Chantelle and who knew what else.  He picked up a red lace thong he had never seen before and snorted at the thought of who had.  

Banishing the image from his mind, Paul started stuffing lingerie back into its container when he hit something hard.  It wasn’t large but it certainly didn’t belong among the silk and lace.  Curiosity urged his hand forward, and with only a little guilt he reached in and plucked out a cup by its handle.

Paul drew in his breath.  This was not just any cup.  Drawing it to face level he examined delicate blue vines as they wove their way around the white porcelain teacup, blue leaves shooting out at odd angles.  Two bluebirds faced each other on the vine, their beaks straining to touch.  “That bitch,” he spat.  This was the last straw.  With all visions of “one last time” wiped from his mind, he set the cup down then plowed his arm deep into the box probing for more contraband.  He came up empty-handed, but that changed nothing.  She had violated him for the last time.

Paul stormed into the apartment waving the teacup like an evangelist’s bible.  When he entered the living room, she lay draped over the sofa like a cat, leaning against an oversized pillow and playing with the button on her white blouse.  

“What is this?” Paul demanded, shoving the cup in her face.  For a split second surprise flashed across her face, then anger tinged with fear, then finally that disarming smile.  

“It’s a cup of course.”

“Know where I found it?”  Kelly cocked her head in polite confusion.  “In one of your boxes, hidden among your panties.”

She smirked.  “What were you doing in my panties?”

“You know what I mean,” he snapped.  “The question is, why was it there?  You got all the rest of the cups and plates and just about everything else.  You could set up two households.  Why’d you have to steal this?”

Kelly’s smile faded, and she sat up, crossing her legs.  “Steal?  It was a wedding present.  I have just as much right to it as you.”

“My sister made it,” he shouted, still waving the cup around by its handle.  “It’s part of a set.”

Kelly slowly rose to her feet, patting the wrinkles from her skirt before facing him.  Without a word of resistance, he allowed her to remove the cup from his hands and examine it.  He could tell she was weighing her options, considering how to take control of the situation.  She always had to be in control.  Not this time.

He snatched it back, leaving her startled.  “What else did you steal?”  She scowled but said nothing.

Would she fight for the cup, he wondered turning his back on her and heading for the kitchen.  What could she gain other than humiliating him further?  Why else would she take it?  

And why had he always made it so easy for her?

Why, he thought, opening the cabinet and placing the cup with its mates, then counting them to make sure the set was complete, why had he forgiven her every time?  Why had he convinced himself that her cheating was really not so bad, and that if he just spent more time with her it would stop?  Why had he not realized that there was not enough time in the day to give this insatiable woman?

He spun around, certain she had followed him, certain she would fight for the cup if only out of a need to inflict more pain.  Kelly remained in the living room watching but immobile.  Why, he chided himself, had he agreed to help her move her things, agreed to help her complete the job of destroying his life?  He would have been happier with himself if he could honestly say it was just to get her out of his life all the faster, but he knew that was a lie.  It was because he didn’t know how to say, “No.”  Not to her.

Now, finally, it was different.  Paul opened the cabinet again, looked at the cup, drank courage from it.  He returned to her, holding the cup close and examining it as an archeologist might a relic.  “This cup was made with love,” he mused.  “My sister spent months just designing it.  She used the most expensive porcelain and turned it by hand.  After that, she dug out those birds and vines with a stick before lining them with blue clay.”

He tossed the cup in the air and caught it.

“There are only eight of these in the world,” he continued.  “They were made to honor a love which, it turns out, never existed.  Art’s funny, isn’t it?  So beautiful and ageless even when it glorifies a charade.  If only life could imitate art.”

She took a step forward but stopped when he held up his hand.  “My sister will never make another set like this.  Even if I marry again some day, even if it’s the woman I will live out the rest of my days with, the woman I should have married in the first place, my sister won’t trust that love.  It can never be the same.  This cup is a reminder that life doesn’t imitate art.  Life breaks you.”  He tossed the cup again, so hard that it nearly hit the ceiling.  When it came down, he snatched it from the air one-handed.

Kelly clasped her hands behind her back and looked around the room, her eyes revealing dismay.  Now, he knew, she would not try to get the cup back.  Whatever else she had taken did not matter.  “Get out,” he said in the quietest voice possible.  Pointing to the three last boxes in the hallway, he added, “Take those and leave.”

When she had shoved the boxes out the door he closed it and turned the knob on the new deadbolt.  He strolled to the cupboard to return the recovered cup but hesitated before opening.  The impulse nearly overtook him to smash it against the ceramic floor.  Instead, he turned to the coffee maker and poured a cup.  When he blew on the hot liquid, a tiny cloud enveloped the blue and white birds.  

He smiled and drank.

Dominique

In 1994, we had a daughter who died at birth.  We were told ten weeks before her birth that she would not survive.  This story came to me one very early morning and became for me a way to survive.  If you want to see more of the powerful and mystical ink illustrations -- by my sister Shirley -- go to www.charleskramerwrites.com 

Among all the souls in heaven, there was Dominique.  Like all the rest, she was beautiful and ever-changing.  One minute she became a dark-haired lass leaping in joy, the next a golden young woman dancing through the heavenly fields.  Sometimes she turned into a gray grandmother or appeared as all three at the same time.   Ageless, race-less, classless, Dominique knew that in heaven, what defined a soul’s beauty was the glow of love. 

Dominique sat one day at the feet of a cluster of newly returned souls.  Three of them had just come back – died as they call it on earth – and Dominique sat among the fascinated souls who wanted to hear their stories.  “Oh, it’s hard,” said a man in mid transition to a freckle-faced boy.   He had scars all along his left arm.  His faced aged in a moment to an ancient and worn man.  “There’s pain and worry.  Many times I cried to Heaven for mercy, for relief, for some way to escape.  It never came, but at last, here I am.” 

A male soul sitting next to Dominique stared wide-eyed at him.  “Was it worth it?”  All 

three returnees laughed.  “It was but a momentary inconvenience,” said a female soul whose 

laughing eyes outshone the burn marks across her face.  “Compared to what we learned about 

loving others – ” 

   “ – And being loved,” inserted the third, a woman in the process of growing younger.  “Especially in a place like earth where so many things make love hard.  Yes, it is worth it now.” 

As they spoke, the heavenly air began to tingle.  The souls all looked up, excited.  

Warmth flowed through the gathering and angels sang.  They all knew.  The Creator was 

coming.  The Creator came.  All souls stared in adoration and joy. 

“Dominique,” came the sonorous voice.  All eyes turned to her.  She felt her face burn 

with embarrassment and ecstasy.  “I need you.”  She looked at the other souls, but they began to 

fade away, all certain without having to be told that this was not their conversation to hear.  The 

Creator made no move to stop them. 

“My — my help?  What can I do?” 

“I’ll explain.”  She could only stare in wonder.  “You know the souls who return, don’t 

you?” 

“Oh yes!” she said.  “How I long to know the depths of love they know.” 

“That is good to hear.  Yet there are others.” 

“Others?” 

“Others who made the trip, who are no longer on earth but haven’t been able to return 

either.” 

“Where are they?” 

“Lost.”  A shiver ran through her.  How could souls not return?  Weren’t they in the 

Creators’ care? 

“Many cannot return so easily because they have not known love.  The earth can be so 

hard.  Some die unmourned before they are born, others are killed young through neglect or indifference.  Some suffer long years without knowing what it is like to be loved or to love in return.  And others still have the love ripped out of them.”  Dominique looked at the Creator with wide-eyed horror.   

“Horrible, isn’t it?” asked the Creator.  “Immeasurably sad, too.  Their suffering is mine.” 

“They suffer still?” 

“How can they not?  This place is love.  They no longer have it within them so 

cannot return.  To exist without love is to suffer.  All they know is mistrust and the fear that 

they do not deserve to be loved.” 

“But everyone knows they’re worthy of your love.” 

The Creator gave a short, sad chuckle.  “By accepting the risk of becoming human, each soul gives up that knowledge.  They must depend on others to help them regain it.  That’s why 

there’s such a depth to the love of the returnees.” 

Dominique sat down, forgetting whose presence she was in.  The Creator said nothing but 

waited for her to speak.  She rested her head in her hand, confused.  “What would you like me to 

do?” 

“Help them.”  The words rang through the divine mountains though no other soul seemed 

to notice.  “Help them move beyond their mistrust and fear so they can once again understand 

my love.” 

“How?” 

“Make the journey to earth just as they did.  Offer little reason for anyone to love you – 

yet find love and acceptance anyway.” 

“Me?” 

“You.” 

Dominique’s mind raced, a sensation she had never known.  “But, how will my going to 

earth and finding love help them?” 

The Creator smiled.  “The suffering souls will watch you.  Yes, I know it’s unusual, but 

they will watch your life, feel what you feel, both fear and joy.  In short, they are going to 

experience love through you.” 

The two stared at each other in silence.  No one but the Creator could say how long, but 

much happened in heaven before Dominique spoke again. 

“Suppose,” she began slowly, “suppose my parents choose not to love me?  Suppose they 

don’t want me?  Do I join all those suffering souls?” 

“It is a risk you must take.  I can’t make anyone love another.  But I have chosen parents 

who I think will love you no matter what.” 

More silence. 

“And then?  What do I do after I am born?” 

“I can’t tell you.”   

Dominique closed her eyes.  “This is a hard journey you asked me to make.  Not what I 

envisioned at all.” 

“I do not require that you make it.” 

Dominique knew.  The Creator would never force anything.  But what should she 

do?  She had long wanted to go, but now it sounded like a more dangerous journey than the other 

returnees had known.  But the Creator trusted her, was depending on her.  How could she refuse? 

“I’ll do it,” she said after an age.  The Creator beamed. 

*  *  * 

 

When Dominique entered her body, it was already formed, tiny fingers and toes wiggling about.  At first she felt the weight of her duty to the other souls, of the importance of her task, but then she became aware of her surroundings.It was dark and warm with distant, echoey sounds coming from somewhere she could not define.  She moved around freely but noticed that there was a limit to how far she could go.  Already, everything here was so very different from heaven.

Time passed, she could not say how long, and Dominique noticed the space where she lived shrinking.  After that came a series of sensations she had no words for.  Pushing and rubbing eminating from the top of the dome which was her world.  A series of pushes came that swept over her dome from end to end, and with each came a new sensation, some sort of energy she could not describe.  Then came a voice she had heard in the past, a kind and loving voice, one she trusted though she could not quite place it.  “They are taking pictures of you,” it said.

What is a picture? she wondered, but could only imagine she would know in time.

After the picture, Dominique continued to grow.  Now she could push against the dome which had shrunk so much that it was always  within reach.  Yet she felt good, confident. happy.

Then one day, the picture taking began again.  Only this time whatever pushed against her world did so much harder than before and much more often.  Over and over the sensation came.  When it stopped, Dominique felt relief, but then it started again, and she became worried.  Dominique did not like the sensations eminating from the pictures, but worse yet, she got the impression that it did not please her world, either.  The word, “mother” drifted into her mind, and she remembered her mission involved a mother.  At one point, the mother’s body began convulsing, and it frightened Dominique.  

The word “father” emerged as an image in her mind, and though she did not know how, Dominique could tell when the father and the mother hugged.  After this last session of picture taking, they hugged a very long time.  The mother shook horribly, producing an eerie wailing sound that frightened Dominique.  It rose to high pitches then dove into unbreathing silence in rhythm with the shaking.  At times she could feel them hug and knew that both were making the wailing sounds she wished would stop.

It was hard to tell what was going on outside -- the idea of there being an outside meant little to Dominique but she knew it was where the mother and father lived.  And she knew that at first there was a flurry of activity which included sharp probes sticking through the dome and inching their way toward her.  One probe touched her, and recoiled in pain.  After that, there seemed to be very little motion from her mother and father -- “parents,” said that vaguely familiar voice -- for a long time.

Thoughts raced through her head that became increasingly morose.  Not only was it becoming increasingly tight in this world of hers, but things did not seem to be going well outside in the world of her parents.  She felt an air of sadness about them that confused her.  She felt fine, so what was the problem?  Or, am I the problem?  Do they not love me?  Will they reject me?  What have I done?

* * *

Dominique had no word for birth defects.  She could not know that she would never be healthy or that her survival was in question.  She could not know that her parents faced each other day after day unsure what to do next.

* * *

All Dominique knew was that things no longer felt right.  She knew that the mother was not happy but did not know if she was still a friend or now an enemy.  Uncertain of where she stood, she waited.

Then one day, for voice recognition had been added to her connection with the outside, she heard her mother sing.  Dominique remembered singing from her heaven days, and although those days were but a distant memory, she felt certain that this was different.  The love in the mother’s songs held a different kind of love than those in heaven.  It sounded sad and filled with pain.  But it was love, and that gave her hope.  

Some time later, she heard the father’s voice.  It spoke in long, uninterrupted streams in which the mother said nothing.  Sometimes his voice came fast and excited but then slowed down to soft and slow murmurs.  Occasionally, his voice became low and thundering.  

The vaguely familiar voice from heaven said, “He’s reading stories,” but did not explain what a story was.  Dominique thought she remembered hearing of them before, but she gave up trying to figure out when.  All she knew now was that she liked it.

Every day now, the parents read and sang th her.  And always, always, one or the other touched the dome that was her world.  Dominique could feel the gentle pressure and felt certain they were trying to touch her.  That’s nice, she thought.  They will be good parents after all.

And still there were times when the strange object passed over the ever-shrinking dome sending its unpleasant sensation through her.  Each time one of these picture taking times happened, her parents became quiet; they neither sang nor read but only took up the horrible shaking and wailing again.  Why do they do it? she wondered.  Even so, it was not long before her mother and father began singing and reading, and Dominique decided as long as she had her parents, she could live with the pictures.

One day, Dominique felt the urge to move in a new way.  She twisted and turned, shoving against the dome until she had done flip.  Now, she felt her head move into a snug place which was not particularly comfortable but felt right.

* * *

Something happened.

A squeezing sensation pressed down on her, not hard but definite and worrying.  After a moment, it passed and Dominique forgot about it.  Then it happened again.  Every now and then the squeezing forced her out of the sleep she was trying to enjoy.  One contraction came hard and now she was wide awake.  

Still her parents sang and read.  Other voices seemed to calm the mother, or at least that is what it felt like to Dominique.  How strange, she thought, I can almost feel what the mother feels.  It’s sad, but I think it is also love.

* * *

At so it was.  Her parents had discovered that their baby was missing kidneys and that there was no hope.  At its birth, it would die.  They cried horribly and wanted to get rid of this thing which suddenly could not be their child.  They were angry at the Creastor for giving them the joy of a child only to take it away.  They were angry at the child for not being perfect.

But as the weeks passed, they realized that Dominique was their child, their little girl as the doctors had told them, to love as long as she -- and they -- lived.  If they could not be with her after her birth, they would make the most of their time with her now.  It didn’t stop them from feeling sad, nor did it take away the hope that the doctors might be wrong, but it did help them know how much they loved the little girl who was their daughter.

And there was a hint -- just a hint -- that her parents understood the importance of her work.  They had no words for it, but they knew she was a special girl.

* * *

Only, as their understanding of her importance grew, Dominique’s shrank like the ever-tighter space that was her world.  Her memory of heaven dwindled until she had no thoughts of the Creator, no thoughts of the other souls, no thoughts of those who depended on her to help them feel love for the first time.  She felt her parents’ love, though she lost the words for it.  She felt that, even though things were becoming less comfortable, all was right with the world.

One day, everything went wrong.  the squeezing that had been sporadic and gentle before now came in frequent and sharp waves.  Dominique retreated from the pressure by burrowing down deeper.  With each mounting spasm, she worked her way down away from it like a frightened rabbit.  After a long time, she could tell her mother didn’t like it, either.

Hours went by until an unaccountable rush of energy swept over Dominique.  Giant waves of pressure picked her up from behind and shoved her out of her tight home into a bright, cold, raw place where the noises were loud and harsh.

In that first instant, her overwhelming feeling was disorientation.  As second later someone grabbed her and placed her in a blanket.  Then she moved to a soft, warm surface she had never known before but which felt familiar.  Voices came at her, louder than before but equally familiar.  She recognized her mother and father.

It felt good.  She gained a glimpse of her parents, but only for a moment.  Next instant a change inside her ripped her attention away from her parents.  The long, narrow tube that had always been part of her, that now dangled between her and her mother, seemed to stop working.  Its familiar pulsing ceased, and Dominique felt other unfamiliar parts of her body stirring.  She experienced uncomfortable sharp pressure, and the tube which she had assumed would always be part of her was suddenly gone.

Two things happened at the same time.  Her insides ground to a halt.  Things felt wrong, and she struggled to breathe.  It frightened Dominique, and she threw her eyes open as wide as she could.  It was not much.

But the blury faces she gazed into looked back at her with unmistakable love so strong no spirit could make it for anything else.  She found comfort looking tin their eyes and knew they were forever linked after only a few moments.

Then sleep overwhelmed her.  Dominique took one last look at her parents and closed her eyes.

* * *

A brilliant light greeted Dominique.  She sensed the Creator’s great joy at her return.

“Welcome home, dear one,” said the Creator.  “You have done well.”

She replied with a combination of anger and bewilderment so powerful that she wished the words back the second she spoke them.  “I didn’t do anything.  I only had a moment in the world before you called me back.  You didn’t tell me I wouldn’t have a life!”

The Creator smiled.  “You bear the marks of one who has made the journey.  But you have much to learn from your experience.  Tell me about your parents.”

“I think they were good people.  They loved me.”

“They cried over me,” she said, “and they sang to me.  They read me stories and, for those few moments when I was with them, I looked into their eyes and they looked into mine, and I could see the mixture of love and agony that you just can’t imitate.”

“So you knew your parents’ love?”

“Yes,” she said, “I knew my parents’ love.”

“Despite your inability even to live for a day?  Despite your inability to return their love in any tangible way?”

“Despite all that, I knew their love.”

The Creator smiled.  “Then, my child, you have experienced life to its fullest.”

Then she knew.  In and instant, Dominique understood that in the depths of her heart she had experienced the truest essence of life, the fullest measure of life, the entire point of life.  She knew how wonderful it was only when there was love.

“I see it, I see it!” she cried.  “My life was complete.”

“Like I said,” said the Creator, “you’ve done well.  All that’s left is to meet the souls you’ve been helping.  They’ve been watching you, trying to learn about love and acceptance from your experience. but that sort of vicarious living can only go so far.  They need to see you, to hear you tell them how your life was complete.  Com now, you loving sould, and share your heart so they can be free.”

And there was rejoicing in heaven that day.

A Pinch To Grow An Inch

School is a hard place with the fear of failure ever present, compounded by the fear of being unpopular.  Worse still, is the fear of being invisible.  Common student wisdom is, it's better to be noticed for being bad than to not be noticed at all.  This story explores what it means to be noticed, and whether that's a good thing or not.

Joey Carter hated school.  Not that he was a bad student, just invisible.   He was average height, average weight, had average brownish hair, and got average grades.   

Children at school never made fun of him, but they never invited him over to their houses either.  When he stood in a group of kids, everyone else talked, while he stayed invisible.  The one time he tried to speak up, the other children kept talking as if he wasn’t there.

Which is why he dreaded his birthday.  At Expansion Elementary School, children gave their friends a pinch to grow an inch on their birthdays.  It never hurt, and everyone laughed when the birthday boy or girl squealed in pretend pain.  There was even a pinch party every spring for all the students who had birthdays in the summer.  

Joey knew how many pinches he would get.  Zero.  Even when his mom brought in cupcakes the year before, kids sang a half-hearted happy birthday only when prodded by the teacher and gobbled the cupcakes with barely a thank you.  The second his mom left, everyone went back to their work without a glance at Joey.

To make it worse, this year his birthday was a Monday.  Joey spent the entire weekend devising ways to skip school.  He prayed for snow, which was rare in April.  He invented a new holiday called First Mow of the Year, but he gave it up.  If his parents believed him, he’d probably spend his birthday pushing the lawn mower.  Finally, he settled on the old standby.

MONDAY:  “Mom,” he called down the stairs early in the morning.  He moaned and held his stomach when his mother entered his room.

“What’s the matter, Birthday Boy?” she said with a smile, but frowned when she saw him.  

“I feel sick.”  Mom eyed him for a full ten seconds before breaking into a smile again.  

“Well, my sick boy, let me get the thermometer.  But I warn you; if there’s no fever, you go to school.  Birthdays are no excuse for skipping.”

She doesn’t understand, Joey thought.  His mom simply thought that he wanted his birthday off.  She had no idea how humiliating it was to have people look right through you when they were supposed to be giving you pinches to grow an inch.  If people really depended on those pinches, Joey would be about four inches tall.

Mom stuck the thermometer in his mouth, but her smile told him everything he needed to know.  “98.6,” she said and kissed him on the forehead.  “Nice try.” 

Slowly, Joey rolled out of bed to get dressed.  He put on his underwear and was just reaching for a pair of jeans when his bedroom door flew open.  His eight-year-old sister filled the doorway, a broad smile spread across the horizon of her face. 

Joey clutched the jeans to his body and crouched down.  “Ginny!” he shouted.  “I’m getting dressed!”

“Happy Birthday, Joe!” she cried with a little hop that made her red curls bob up and down.  Then, without warning, Ginny darted forward and pinched his thigh.

“Ow!” he squealed, rubbing the blooming welt.

“Pinch to grow an inch!” Ginny called and raced out of the room before he could catch her.  Joey slammed the door but smiled.  

“Well,” he told himself, “There’s one at least.”

When Joey got to school, he slunk in like every other day.   Nobody wished him Happy Birthday.  Nobody talked to him.  Nobody looked at him.  At Expansion Elementary, fifth graders did not take cupcakes on their birthday -- Mr. Baker did not like it.  So, as far as anybody knew, Joey did not have a birthday today.  As far as anybody, Joey did not exist.

When the lunch bell rang, all the children hurried to the cafeteria.  Joey brought up the rear, carrying his brown paper bag.  He sat down near a few other kids but not with them.  He sat at the “regular” boys’ table, the one for boys who were neither popular nor unpopular.  The popular girls led by Kelly Burns sat at the table behind him.  The popular boys sat at a table next to theirs.  The most unpopular kids sat at a table in the corner.

As the regular boys unpacked their lunch boxes or poked at their hot lunch trays, Joey pulled out a peanut butter sandwhich and, to his surprise, a cupcake with a little “11” written in icing on top.  Frankie Butler looked over and said, “What you got a cupcake for?”

Joey felt a twinge of excitement.  Maybe someone would notice him.  “Birthday,” he said, looking Frankie in the eye.  Frankie took one last look at the cupcake, said, “Oh,” and went back to his conversation.  Joey’s face burned.  He looked around at all the other kids enjoying themselves while he sat alone, wishing himself what nobody else would:  A Happy Birthday.

That was when something snapped inside Joey.  I don’t have to sit here and be ignored, he told himself.  After all, I’m eleven years old.  I can make them notice.  Before he knew what he was doing, Joey leapt onto the bench of his table and called out, “Today is my elelventh birthday!  Would somebody just give me one pinch?”  As soon as he said it, he sank down, his face burning, and wished he could disappear.  Why had he done such a stupid thing?  The other students stared at him a moment, some whispered and others sniggered, but soon they all went back to their meals.

Then something happened that stopped the entire cafeteria cold.  Kelly Burns stood up, walked over to Joey, and gave him a pinch on the arm.  Without a word, and with the entire school staring, she walked away.  

Alec Mally, the most popular boy, stared after her, then a nasty grin formed on his lips.  “If she can, why can’t I?” he said to his buddies.  Only, when Alec pinched, it hurt.  His friends lined up to pinch Joey, all competing to give him the hardest pinch until he wailed in pain and his arm looked like he had chicken pox. Then the popular girls jumped in, not as hard, but just as mean.  Where are the monitors? Joey thought as even the third and fourth graders ganged up on him and gave him pinches.

Joey did not take the bus home that day.  He walked by himself rather than face the humiliation of all those kids who pinched him.  All those kids whom he now hated.  As he walked, Joey thought, I wish each of those pinches really would make me grow an inch because then I’d be able to do anything I wanted to them.

That night, when his family sang Happy Birthday and his mother told him to make a wish, Joey closed his eyes and thought, Let each pinch make me grown an inch.  Then he blew out the candles.

TUESDAY:  The next morning, Joey woke up, his wish forgotten.   But when he sat up and put his feet on the floor he noticed that his knees came up to his chin.  That’s strange, he thought and stood up.  His head smacked the ceiling, and Joey cried, “Ow!”  A second later, Ginny pounded on his door and called, “What’s the matter, big brother?  Arms still hurt?”  She pushed the door open, stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at him, then let out a long, blood curdling scream before bolting down the stairs.

Joey could not stand up in his room even though it had a ten-foot ceiling.  He sat down on the bed again and rubbed his head, wondering what was going on.  A voice from downstairs broke his thoughts.  “Joey!” called his father.  “Please come down here.”  Joey tried to stand again, slowly, but gave up and crawled down to the kitchen where he knew his father was making breakfast.  

When he got there, he saw his father facing him, a spatula in one hand and a frying pan in the other.  Ginny stood behind their dad, trembling.  “Look at you,” his father said with a tut.  “You must be thirteen feet tall if you’re an inch.”  He did not seem frightened or even surprised.  “What did you wish for last night?” 

Joey looked at his long thin arms and legs waving around like tenticles, his elongated body, and his pajamas which had somehow grown with him.  He told his father about his bad day and his wish.

“You really do have to be careful what you wish for, my son,” said Dad.  “Wishes are powerful things.  Now you’ll have an uncomfortable day or two before finding out if your wish will stick -- but in the meantime you’ll have to go to school.”  Just then his mother walked in and joined them.  “Being a giant is no excuse for skipping,” she said with her sympathetic smile.  

“I’m not going to school in pajamas,” Joey insisted, but in reply, his mother simply reached into a bag she was holding and pulled out a set of clothes that looked more like tents.  

“Where did you get those?” Joey asked, forgetting his problem for a moment.

She smiled.  “Mothers are always prepared.”  Dad put a hand to Joey’s ear and said, “They used to be mine.  I - uh - had a giant problem of my own when I was your age.”

Even Ginny knew that Joey could not ride the bus in his condition.  She offered to walk with him, but he wanted to go by himself.  He had never been a giant before, and he wanted to think about it.  He walked slowly, and after a while the bus passed him.  Joey looked up and saw all the students staring out the window at him.  Joey’s heart sank.  Yesterday was bad enough, he thought.  Now I’m a freak.

When he arrived at school, he was met by two hundred children and all the teachers.  The children looked frightened, but the teachers never let on what was going through their minds.  After a minute, the bell rang, and Ms. Piston the principal jumped as if startled from a dream.  “All right, children,” she called, clapping her hands.  “To your classrooms!”  She started toward the school but stopped and turned back.  “You too, Joey.  You don’t want to be late.”  

That day, Joey had to sit cross-legged on the floor because none of the desks could hold him.  Even so, he towered over the other children who kept staring at him.  He did not like the feeling of their eyes boring into the back of his head.  When it was time for band, he shuffled to the auditorium and for the first time could stand upright inside.  When he tried to play his trumpet, however, he found it was far too small.  Mr. Adagio, the band director gave him a tuba, but even that was too little.  Joey ended up tapping on the bass drum until he accidentally hit too hard and broke it.

When he went to gym class, they played dodgeball.  Alec Mally was captain of the other team, and he told his players to aim at Joey because he was such a big target.  Joey’s team lost miserably.

At lunch, Ginny sold tickets to her second-grade classmates who stood in line to touch the giant boy.  Joey sighed.  He handed the tiny lunch sack he had been trying to open to a second grade girl and left the cafeteria.  He decided the tiny sandwhich his mother made probably would not have helped much anyway.  He was way too hungry for that.

After school, he trudged home alone, tired of all the staring.  The school bus drove past him, and the bus driver honked in greeting.  Once again, all the kids gaped at him out the school bus windows.  Oh well, he sighed, at least people noticed me today. 

That night at supper, Joey’s family ate outside so he could sit upright.  His favorite part of the evening was when Ginny got in trouble for selling tickets, and his parents made her give him all of the money.  But then, Ginny got her ball stuck in a tree, and his parents made him reach up and get it for her.  

By the end of the day, Joey was ready to be small again.

WEDNESDAY:  When he woke up the next morning he was not small.  He bumped his head on the ceiling again, squatted his way downstairs, and complained to his mother and father.  “Why haven’t I shrunk?”  His father looked up at him and waved the spatula in his face.  “I told you this could take a day or two -- if you shrink, that is.  You might be stuck as a giant.”  Joey crawled away from breakfast thinking about how it would feel being a giant for the rest of his life.

When the schoolbus came, he watched Ginny climb on.  On a sudden inspiration he yelled to the busdriver, “I’ll race you!”  The busdriver did not speed, but buses still go pretty fast.  Fortunately, Joey’s extra long legs made him even faster.  He skidded to a halt in front of the school five seconds before the bus pulled up.  The children piling out of the bus cheered and gave him high fives (which were low fives for him).  

As they marched toward school, Joey heard Ginny say, “You should have seen him get my ball from the tree.”  For the first time in forever, Joey felt special.  

Class was much the same as the day before, except Joey sat on the floor in the back.  “I can always see you,” his teacher joked.  

At recess, Alec Mally threw a ball onto the roof of the playground shed.  “Hey, Joey,” ordered Alec, “get the ball.”  Joey scowled down at him.  “Say please,” he commanded.  Children looked nervously from Alec to Joey.  Nobody ever told Alec Mally what to do.  After a few moments, however, Alec blushed and said, “Please.”  Joey reach up and tossed the ball into the crowd of cheering boys.

Five minutes later, one of the teachers hustled over to him.  “Uh, Joey,” she said, “the flag seems to have gotten wrapped around the flagpole.  Could you please unravel it?”

At gym class, they played dodgeball again, and once again Alec Mally was captain of the other team.  Joey had thought about this, and he had a plan.  Instead of trying to dodge the balls, which he could never do, he caught them with his giant hands.  Joey discovered that he could catch two balls at once and use them to block shots while his teammates picked off the other team.  That day, Alec Mally’s team lost, and Joey was a hero. 

When Joey went to bed that night, he felt a warm glow he barely knew.  But he also felt troubled.  What if the kids liked him just because of all the things he could do now?  Could they ever like him just for being Joey?

THURSDAY:  On his third as a giant, the kids hardly stared at Joey, even when he raised his hand to answer a question.  Maybe because his hands were so big now, the teacher finally called on him, and Joey gave a good answer.  He answered three questions in a row, and the teacher said, “Where have you been all year, Joey?”  He answered, “Right here.”

At lunch, he sat on the floor at the end of the table with the regular boys.  Alec Mally still wanted nothing to do with him, but Joey didn’t care.  He pulled a giant peanut butter sandwhich out of his bag  (filled with two full jars of peanut butter and two full jars of jelly) then cracked a joke.  He had told it before, but nobody had listened back then.  This time, everybody laughed.

That night when he kissed his mom and dad goodnight, he lay down on the floor with three pillows and five blankets and said, “This has been a great day.  People liked me, and not just because I was big.  For the first time, I felt like a regular kid.”  He fell asleep with a smile on his face. 

FRIDAY:   Joey woke up still smiling.  He rubbed his eyes, yawned a toothy yawn, and without thinking stood up.  His head did not hit the ceiling.  Wide awake now, Joey twirled around.  He looked at his arms and legs.  They were normal.  “Ginny!” he called with excitement.  “Come here!”  His sister burst through the door and stopped short.  Her mouth dropped open.  She took a step backward, then ran down the stairs screaming, “Mom!”

A second later he heard heavy footsteps racing up the stairs.  When they reached his door,  Mom smiled, and Dad gave a little laugh.  “Looks like your giant days are over, Son,” said Dad, waving the spatula around.  “And I just made you five dozen pancakes, too.”

“That’s no excuse for not going to school, though,” warned Mom.

“Don’t worry,” said Joey, “I’m ready.”

Alec Mally was most interested in Joey being small again.  He said, “Not so special now, are you Joey?”  Nobody listened to Alec.  They wanted to know how Joey had gotten small again.  He just shrugged.  But in class he raised his hand and answered correctly.  In gym, he caught several balls during dodgeball and even hit Alec Mally.  And at lunch, he told a new joke he had heard on the radio that made the regular boys laugh so hard Mike Stellman snorted milk through his nose.  

Joey rode the bus home that day with all the other kids, and when he got off with Ginny, they all called, “Have a great weekend, Joey!”

The next morning Joey jumped out of bed and threw on his clothes.  He raced downstairs but was surprised to find the kitchen was empty.  He packed his backpack and called upstairs, “Come on, Ginny!  Time for school!”

Dad and Mom crept down the stairs still in their pajamas.  They smiled.  “I’m glad you like school now,” said Mom.  “But it’s the weekend -- Being happy is no excuse for going to school.  But don’t worry, Monday will come soon.”

The Parlous Pastors Mud-Wrestling Match

Being a minister in a small town has its rewards, but there are challenges, too.  Everyone knows you and somehow sees the ministers as interchangeable.  More than once, I've found myself providing pastoral care for parishioners of different denominations because I happened to be handy.  Another challenge is the freedom with which people from all over town share their opinions of what you and your colleagues ought to do.  Mud-wrestling is just one of those ideas shared over time.

In the end, nobody would admit to dreaming up the The Parlous Pastors’ Mud-Wrestling Match, but everyone liked it at the time.  Everyone except the pastors. 

Or at least two of them.  The Reverend Kevin Baker, rector of St. Claire’s Episcopal Church and the Reverend Dirk Wibrant, pastor at the Parlous Reformed Church hated the idea. 

“Come on, Father,” insisted Parlous town supervisor Fred Warner when he cornered the Episcopalian, “it’ll be fun.  Besides, it’s for the poor.”  As newest pastor in town, Kevin felt he could not refuse to at least entertain the supervisor’s pleas.  Still, he frowned throughout the conversation.  

Kevin Baker stood barely five foot five, but he had wrestled in college and worked out daily.  He knew that Dirk Wibrant’s idea of exercise was standing in the middle of a river and casting a fly rod, but the Reformed pastor was tall and beefy and outweighed Kevin by at least sixty pounds.  Kevin would be squished.  

When he expressed this concern to the town supervisor, Fred brushed it off.  “Roll around a bit, get some mud on your face, make everyone laugh.  When it’s over, we’ll go get a beer.”  Kevin did not laugh.  

Dirk Wibrant also felt he had little choice.  After all, as the supervisor reminded him over coffee at Catherine’s Cafe, “You need a good will gesture, Dirk.  You’ve got the whole town riled up with that ‘Stop the War' banner you hung up on the steeple.  And that sermon last month.  I mean, ‘Perhaps God can forgive the evil our government has perpetuated, but I can't.’  What were you thinking?”  

“Oh, I don’t know, Fred.  Maybe, Thou shalt not kill, or, They will beat their swords into plowshares, or possibly, Turn the other cheek.  Take your pick.”  Dirk smiled, but his breathing was shallow and rapid.  Fred Warner patted him on the shoulder.

“You preach what you need to, Dirk, but I’m telling you, do the mud-wrestling, and all of Parlous will forgive every word of it.”

Kevin and Dirk met at Catherine’s the day after the supervisor’s assault.   “Let’s just let them talk it out of their systems,” Kevin suggested.  

“I agree,” said Dirk.   He turned to Catherine, who was offering coffee refills, and held out his cup for a warmer upper.  “I mean, nobody at PRC or St. Claires’ would be stupid enough to let us mud-wrestle in front of the entire town.  And that PAPA endorsement was a joke.  After all, I didn’t see any other pastors volunteering to jump into the ring.”

Kevin laughed at the memory of the last Parlous Area Pastors Associaltion meeting when Fred Warner presented the idea.  “Danny Ferguson almost made me wet my pants with his, ‘No, no, no, no.  I’m too old to have fun.’”

Dirk smiled but said, “Now don’t make fun of him.  He’s been at Parlous Presbyterian for twenty-five years.  Same with Pat ‘if-I-were-just-a-wee-bit-younger’ Kearny over at Our Lady of Fatigue.  They’ve paid their dues.”  

They stared at their paper coffee cups until Kevin chuckled.  “I don’t think I'll ever forget the daggers Kate Dempsy's eyes shot at Fred when he turned to her.  I didn’t know Methodists could be so fierce.”

Dirk laughed.  “What was Fred thinking?  ‘Your participation will be good for women’s rights.’”

Kevin took a thoughtful sip of his coffee, then broke off a piece of his chocolate chip cookie and popped it into his mouth.  “I guess we were the obvious choices for human sacrifice.  We’re the only ones still in our thirties.  Still, since this thing will never happen, I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.”  

“Here, here,” said Dirk.  They clicked paper cups in a toast to a mud-free future. Why worry about an event that church leadership would never go along with?

* * *

They went along with it.  St. Claire’s Senior Warden Amy Jones spent much of the next Vestry meeting taking bets on the winner.  “I gave very good odds to Mary Sweet at the Reformed Church,” she told the rector at the end of the meeting.

“Gambling is a sin,” Kevin started, but Amy waved off the objection with a loud snort.

“You’re funny, Kevin, you know?”  She took his hand, her wrinkled claw giving a squeeze.

“Well, anyway, there won’t be a winner,” said Kevin, “because it’s not going to happen.  This whole stupid idea will just go away if we keep our mouths shut.”

“Are you scared?” teased the Senior Warden.  She sat down and motioned for Kevin to do the same while the rest of the room cleared out, Vestry members wishing him good luck as they went.  “Listen,” said Amy, fixing him with a steely gaze.  “I’ve attended St. Claire’s for fifty-five years.  Most of the time, it’s been adequate but that’s all.  Most of our rectors have been dignified, kind, and old.  Just like this town.  Now we have some new blood, and someone suggests something a little different, and I say why not?  Make an old lady happy and play in the mud.” 

Kevin looked at his hands resting on the table.  He heaved a sigh and said, “I’ll think about it.  But why take bets?  Even if it happens -- and I’m not saying it will -- it’s not real.  It’s just a show.  Just for fun.”

“Yeah, right,” snorted Amy.  “And if Pastor Dirk flattens you, what do you think the Reformed Church is going to be doing?  Singing hymns?  They’re going to rub that mud in all our faces.  Good thing you’re in good shape and know how to throw bodies around, because we’re all counting on you.”

Kevin stepped out the door into the night’s enveloping darkness, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.  Paul Ringer, a former tight end for the Buffalo Bills, smiled down at the priest.  “I’ve got your back, Father,” he said.  “We’ll get a training program going that will send those Reformers back to Calvin.”

* * *

That night Kevin Baker tossed and turned.  Visions of mud mixed with jeering Reformed Christians and scoffing Catholics, Methodists and Presbyterians.  “Our pastors would never get involved in anything so ridiculous,” they called.

He awoke with a start and found himself staring at the red numbers of an alarm clock.  3:15 a.m.  “It’s not my idea,” he said.  “Hmmm?” Marilyn asked through closed eyes.  He grunted and rolled over.

Two miles away, Dirk Wibrant fidgeted in his sleep until his wife poked him in the ribs.  “What are you doing?” she asked.

“What?  Oh, it’s this damned mud-wrestling thing,” he said.  “It’s like, everyone wants us to do it but us.”

“So just say no.”

Dirk gave her a pitying look.  “It’s not that easy, Dot.  I’m on shaky ground as it is, and with the kids getting older, we need the job.”  Dot’s silence admitted the truth of his words.  

“It’s worse than that,” he added.  “You know Mary on the Consistory?  She’s suggested that my annual review might be affected by the outcome.  And, she said the Consistory has hired me a trainer because Kevin already has one.  Can you believe this?”  

Dot turned on the light.  “Kevin has a trainer?  That doesn’t sound like him.”

“He’s new.  How do we know what sounds like him?  Besides, he’s in good shape -- wrestled in college.  He works out every day.  Maybe he’ll just revert to default mode and go for the kill.”

“I thought there wasn’t going to be a winner or a loser.”

“Yeah, but how will it look if that little shrimp beats up a big guy like me?”  Dot rolled over, turned out the l

night and said, “Good night, Dear.”

* * *

The next morning, Kevin’s doorbell rang at 6:00 a.m.  Marilyn pushed Kevin out of bed with a disgruntled, “If it’s this early, it’s for you.”  He found Paul Ringer in shorts, tee-shirt and running shoes.  “Wakey wakey.  Time to get in shapey.”

Kevin groaned.  “Paul, it’s not even certain we’re going to have this thing.”  Paul’s eyes grew wide.  

“Not certain?  Father, it’s in the Village View.”  He unfolded the weekly paper and pointed to a small article on the front page of the Life section.  Paul read out loud.

“Churches Try Mud-wrestling for Charity.  Parlous Reformed and St. Claire’s Episcopal Churches have agreed to get down and dirty for charity.  In a joint effort with the town board, Fr. Kevin Baker and Rev. Dirk Wibrant will wrestle in a mud pit on the town hall lawn to raise money for the food pantry.

“The pastors were unavailable for comment, but Town Supervisor Fred Warner said, ‘It was an inspired idea, that’s for sure, and our food pantry certainly needs the donations.  This will help bring the plight of the poor in our community to the public’s attention.’

“Parish leaders worked with the town council to find a suitable date --”

“Date?” interrupted Kevin.  “What date?”

“You didn’t know?  June 9.”

Kevin slapped his forehead.  “That’s a month-and-a-half!”

“Then we don’t have time to waste, Father.  Let’s get out there.”

Dirk Wibrant met his trainer that same morning.  Archie Ortega, a small stocky man with shaved head and gorilla shoulders gave him a crushing handshake at the door of Global Gym. Walking to a private workout room in the back, he turned to Dirk and said, “Let’s rev up with some pushups, okay?  Get it, Rev up?”  He laughed at his own joke, wiped his shining head, and showed Dirk the small room.  “How many can you give me, Rev.?  Forty?  Twenty?”

Dirk glared at him.  Archie coughed and shuffled his feet.  “Maybe we’ll start with five.”

* * *

The sun peeked through the bedroom window on Sunday morning, and Kevin sprang out of bed.  “Damn!” he shouted.  Marilyn looked up at him through squinting eyes.  “What’s up?”

“Look at the time!” he shrieked.  “I’ve got a service in fifteen minutes, and I was so tired last night that I forgot to finish my sermon.”

Marilyn rolled over.  “Tell them they get the day off.  They’ll be pleased.”  Kevin bolted out the door and down the stairs of the rectory still buckling his pants.  He neglected to shave and  realized halfway through his impromptu sermon that he had not even brushed his teeth.

“I was going to talk about wrestling with demons,” he started, pacing the aisle in his usual preaching style.  “But I think I’d just better talk about mud-wrestling.”  The early service crowd was made up of older parishioners who disliked the noise and disorder of children.  Kevin felt sure they would appreciate his hesitation in going forward with the match, but when he mentioned mud-wrestling, eighty-year-old Jim Burris stood up and cheered.  The rest of the congregation, all thirty of them, raised their arms in a premature victory celebration.  Even the oldest member of St. Claire’s, ninety-nine-year-old Beatrice Carter brandished her cane.

“That’s not exactly what I was hoping for,” he said, slumping against one of the pews.  He glanced down in Beatrice’s direction and let out of a cry of exasperation.  In her lap she held a notebook with neat columns marking the bets she was taking and the odds she was giving.

Ten o’clock service was no better.  Twelve-year-old Matt DeVry announced that he had gotten into a fight at school with Dennis Peltz from the Reformed Church.  “I wasn’t gonna let him can’t talk trash about you like that, Father Kevin,” he insisted.  “You kick that pastor’s--”

“Thanks but let’s just drop it,” interrupted Kevin, looking to surrounding adults for help.  Rather than reprimand Matt, they nodded encouragement. 

* * *

At the PAPA meeting the next morning, Kevin and Dirk sat opposite each other and said little.  In fact, the entire group stuck to business and avoided their usual small talk or gripes about their parishioners.  Finally, after less than a half hour, a haggard looking Dirk Wibrand stood up with a groan, held his back and said, “This is ridiculous.  We’re all dancing around this stupid mud-wrestling thing, and I’m sick of it.  If you guys would just tell our people this is a bad idea, we could finally get back to what we’re supposed to do.”

“You don’t want to wrestle?” asked Danny Ferguson.  “Quit whining and just say no.”

“You know it’s not that simple,” said Dirk.  “We aren’t in a position to refuse.  But if you all stood up for us--”

“Don't be wimps,” sniffed Pat Kearny.  “If I was a wee bit younger, I’d jump at the opportunity myself.”

“Yes, we know, Pat,” Kevin replied.  “But we’re the ones who got stuck with it, and it’s starting to wear on me.”

“Well, you can’t really expect us to do anything about it,” said a thin-lipped Kate Dempsy. 

“Why not?” asked Dirk.  “Wasn’t it PAPA that let Fred think this was a good idea?”

“Are you suggesting this is our fault?” demanded Pat.

“You didn’t exactly come to our rescue.”

Kevin stood up, too.  “Look, I don’t want to do this anymore than you--”

“Don't you?” asked Dirk, in a high-pitched voice nearling hysteria.  He stopped himself and looked around at the startled pastors, then took a deep breath.  “You Episcopalians have life tenure.  We don’t.  I can get dumped without any notice, and they’re already after me for my anti-war stance.”

“Well, what do you expect with such unpatriotic talk,” jumped in Danny, but one look from Dirk stopped him cold.  

“You all can just shrug this off.  I need this job.  I have a wife and kids.”  He quit speaking and looked from one pastor to another before throwing his hands up in disgust.  “You just don’t get it.”  He gathered up his bible and notepad and left.

* * * 

They sat across the table from each other Catherine’s Cafe, Kevin swirling a plastic stirrer in his black, unsweetened coffee.  Dirk poured two packets of sugar into his paper cup and drank without stirring.  He pulled a face, and both men laughed.

"Matt DeVry actually hit Dennis Peltz," Kevin said.

"Yeah, I know," said Dirk.  "His mom was ready to press charges until she found out what Dennis had said about you.  The she washed out his mouth with soap."

"Middle school," replied Kevin.  They gave a weak laugh again but soon stopped to stare at their coffee cups.  "So, how're the kids?"

"Molly thinks it's a hoot, and so far none of the kids at Parlous Elementary are giving her a hard time.  One of her friends asked if I was going to be on TV with WWE."  Kevin chuckled.  "Fred's too young to know what's going on."

"That's something, I suppose," said Kevin.  "He won't have to worry about his dad being made a spectacle."

Dirk bristled.  "What do you mean, 'a spectacle'?"  Kevin looked at him in surprise and alarm.

"I - I just meant that this whole thing is bizarre, isn't it?  We're both going to look ridiculous, rolling around in the mud."

"Then why did you hire a trainer?"  Dirk's voice was no longer conversational but held an edge danger.

Kevin stood up and began gathering his things.  "Why are you so huffy all the sudden?  And I didn't hire a trainer."

"Come on, Kev," said Dirk with a cruel laugh.  "Everyone knows you hired Paul Ringer.  Trying to get a little jump on the competition, eh?  I don't mind, but at least you could have let me know.  Now the consistory has gone out and hired me a trainer."

"They what?"

"Little more even now, isn't it?"

"This is ludicrous," snapped Kevin.  "Listen, if you want to get a trainer, go ahead.  If you want to fight in the mud, fine.   I don't have time for this."  Kevin made for the door and slammed it behind him.  Dirk stared after him then picked up his bible and shuffled out.

Catherine called to the empty entrance, "Hey, you forgot to pay."

* * *

At 11:00 a.m. on May 28, Marilyn Baker stood in the back yard, cell phone pressed resolutely to her ear.  "Hi, Dot?" she said,  "Can you hear me?  Good.  Listen, I was hoping we could get together for a few minutes?  You were, too?  Great.  No, not at Catherine's, somebody'll see us.  The Grease Bucket?  Well, nobody we know will be there, that's for sure.  Half an hour?  See you then."

The Grease Bucket stood next to the freight tracks in the village of Starfield just north of Parlous.  With pealing paint, dirty windows, and a faded sign dangling outside, a casual observer would think it was closed down.  Inside, it sported an array of mismatched stuffed chairs, rickety stools and restaurant seats, rough wood floors, and a deli case that predated the Second World War.  Though it was a favorite with the locals, Parlous folk usually steered clear.

Marilyn sat down on an uneven steel tube chair with torn naugahyde cushion.  The linoleum topped table wobbled when she leaned on it.  The bell dinged, and Marilyn looked up to see Dot Wibrand scurry in.  Dot settled into an old Shaker rocking chair across from Marilyn and brushed her long golden hair out of her eyes.  "The wind out there is terrible.  But I swear Dirk is worse.  For the last month, he has been downright nasty.  I can't get him to shut up about this match."

"Kevin, too.  He paces the floor late at night and can't concentrate on anything.  His sermons have really stunk lately."

Dot looked around the empty store then over at the counter.  The clerk glared at them.  "I suppose we should buy a drink or something.  They went to the soda case and picked out Diet Cokes, the only sodas left.  Marilyn took a tissue out of her pocketbook and wiped off the cap before unscrewing it.

"I am so sick of mud-wrestling," said Dot.  "They have Dirk practicing over at the church now -- in mud!"

The large woman behind the counter stood up from the stool she'd been sitting on.  "You say mud wrestling?  You don't know them pastors, do you?  Boy, I can't wait for that fight -- whole village is going to be there to watch.  Pastors mud-wrestling, what a hoot."

Dot and Marilyn smiled at the woman and assured her they knew nothing.  When they spoke next, it was in hushed voices.  "I tell you." Marilyn leaned across the table to Dot.  "We have to do something."

"I know," said Dot, leaning too far forward and nearly falling out of the rocker.  "It's going to make them enemies or even destroy the relationship between our churches."

"You heard about that fight between Matt and Dennis?  And now our parish leaders are sniping at each other."

"It's got to be us," said Dot.  "Neither Kevin nor Dirk can get out of this.  They'll get into too much trouble.  Any ideas?"

Marilyn glanced over at the clerk who appeared to have lost interest in them and was washing dishes.  Marilyn made a mental note never to eat here.  "I have a thought," she whispered.  "It won't stop the spectacle from happening, and it's kind of crazy, but if it works, we'll take the focus off of our husbands and place it where it belongs -- on everyone else.  But we're going to have to involve those boys."

Dot allowed a slow smile to spread across her face.  "Let's hear it."

* * *

The sun burst over the horizon with a ferocious light as if to say, "This will be a day to remember."  Kevin Baker lay on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling, eyes red from lack of sleep.  Marilyn rolled over and wrapped her arm around him.  "If nothing else, all those workouts have turned you into one buff guy."  He rolled off the bed and shuffled out of the room without a word.

"Well, no matter what happens, it'll all be over with today," she called after him.  

Kevin reappeared in the doorway.  "You mean I'll be over with in this town."  Marylin smiled.

"It'll be all right."

When they emerged from the house, a small band of parishioners waited for them.  One held a hand-painted sign that said, "Go Fr. Kevin."  Another hoisted a placard that read, "Kev the Rev!"  Kevin gave a faint wave and climbed into the car.  Despite the sense of impending doom, he had to admit feeling glad to see so many supporters.  The procession of cars that followed him slowed down only long enough to let a similar procession pass, this one led by the Wibrand car.    

At precisely eleven o'clock, both pastors climbed into the mud pit set up for the occasion.  Ropes marked off the pit, but anyone who wanted to could have jumped in.  That was what Marilyn and Dot were counting on.  

Everyone present was asked to pay $10.  Some people groused about it being public space, but when the chief of police walked through the crowd shaking a basket for the "donations," most coughed up.  

Kevin wore his old gray wrestling singlet from college days.  He still fit pretty well, and risking a glance at his stomach he had to smile.  The little paunch that had started to form in recent years was gone.  He really was buff.

When he looked over at Dirk, however, Kevin's smile evaporated.  The trainer had done his work well.  Dirk wore a tight t-shirt and, already more than half a foot taller than Kevin, bulged with muscles that had not been there two months earlier.  True, he still had a noticable belly, but Kevin knew that in a fight, that wouldn't matter.  He would have to depend on his experience and instincts to stay alive.

Fred Warner acted as referee, but all he wore was a pair of blue Docker shorts and a tattered white polo shirt.  A whistle dangled from his neck.  

"Okay, gentlemen," said the superviser so that only Dirk and Kevin could hear.  "The newspapers are here, and oh, look, there's a television news truck.  So, I want you to smile and at least pretend to be good sports about this."

Dirk and Kevin shook hands.  "Ready to be a good sport?" Dirk said, looking down at Kevin.  Kevin laughed.  "I was about to throw up this morning, but look at this."  He motioned to the crowd which cheered.  "This thing is so ridiculous it's funny."  He started giggling.  Dirk gave him a questioning look but Kevin waved it off.  "It's -- just -- so…"

The corners of Dirk's mouth twitched.  He snorted, then let a giggle escape.  Another giggle followed, and then another.  Before long, both ministers were doubled up with laughter, leaning on each other for support.  

"Fight already!" shouted someone in the crowd.  It was the lady from the Grease Bucket.

"Fight!  Fight!  Fight!" chanted the spectators.  Fred Warner looked nervous.  "Come on, guys," he urged.  "Let's get going."  He never got another word out.  At that moment, a wad of mud soared through the air and hit him in the back of the head.  Kevin and Dirk stared at him in shock.  Kevin noticed Matt DeVry slip into the crowd.  Dirk pointed at the supervisor's head and errupted into laughter again, bringing Kevin along with him.  Another mudball sailed over their heads from the opposite direction, and Kevin saw Dennis Peltz wipe his hands.  He heard someone scream and turned to see Mary Sweet wipe mud off her face.

Uh-oh, thought Kevin.  Mary Sweet is not someone to mess around with.  Sure enough, Mary reached inside the ring and hurled a bunch of mud in Dennis' direction.  It hit Amy Jones in the shoulder, nearly knocking her down.  Several nearby members of St. Claire's Vestry leaped into the ring and grabbed handfulls of mud.  "What's the idea of hitting a little old lady?" they shouted and let loose.

Another volley came from the right of the Vestry members, aimed at nobody in particular.  One hit Fr. Kearny a glancing blow across the nose.  He pulled out a handkercheif, wiped his face, then reached down and threw a fastball that caught Rev. Ferguson square in the chest.  Presbyterians sprang into the ring and started firing mud at the Catholics.  In moments, mud filled the sky while Kevin Baker and Dirk Wibrand stood untouched, mouths agape.  A newscaster from WHAT-TV smirked before the camera until a mud grenade filled his mouth.  

In the distance, leaning against the Town Hall, Dot Wibrand and Marilyn Baker high-fived each other.

* * *

The Parlous Pastors' Mud-Wrestling Match made TV evening news to the amusement of nearly everyone not from Parlous.  In the end, Dirk Wibrand kept his position as PRC's pastor, and Kevin Baker stayed at St. Claire's.  Fred Warner lost his bid for re-election as supervisor that Fall and retired from politics.  The Town of Parlous gave up on crazy on fundraisers like mud-wrestling... until the formation of the Parlous Pastors Hockey Club.

THE END

A Good Death

Waiting with a dying person in the hospital is often an exercise it watching machines.  Families stare at heart and oxygen monitors as if they held secret messages.  In truth, they give the watchers something to focus on that is not the dying person -- or their issues that have been suppressed and now come to the surface.  This story is about those issues.

Shallow hills and valleys crawled across the heart monitor’s screen, each one smaller than the last.  Oxygen hissed softly, a fine mist drifting from the clear plastic mask covering Melvin Randal’s grizzled face.  Melvin breathed in, breathed out, barely.

            

Sarah Randal held his hand and gazed into her father’s dimming eyes.  “Joe’s here,” she whispered through a teary smile.

            

A man stepped forward, leaned over Melvin, lips forming a fine line.  “Hello, Dad,” he said.  Behind him stood a petit woman wearing jeans, a loose blouse, and a blue hijab.

            

Melvin’s eyes grew wide, but he said nothing.  “This is Salma,” Joe said.  “I’m sorry you only get to meet her now at the end.  Your loss.”

            

Melvin cleared his throat.  It sounded like the oxygen’s hiss.  “No… kids… huh?”

            

“It was Salma’s idea.  Didn’t want kids if their grandpa couldn’t love them.”  Melvin shuddered and raised his hand, palm up, nearly pulling out the IV.

            

“I’m… an… asshole.”  Joe, Sarah and Salma laughed despite themselves.  “Might’ve… loved ’em.  Never… know.”  His breath turned into little hiccups but evened out.

            

Joe turned serious.  “Why’d you ask Sarah to bring me, Dad?  It’s been five years.”

            

“Didn’t… want to… die… without you.”

            

Joe turned away then turned back, grim.  “It’s not that simple.  You shunned me and my wife.  I’m dead to you, remember?  How do I forget that?” 

            

Silence.

            

Tears etched tracks down Sarah’s face.  Joe shook his head.

            

“Why do you hate her, Dad?”

            

“No,” wheezed Melvin.  “Not her.  It’s… just…”  He seemed to be considering his next words carefully.  “Our people.”  He stopped, considered a while longer.  “Her people.”  A look of suppressed anger overshadowed his face.  It was clear he was fighting with himself over a response to the outrage his son had committed and the ridiculousness of his own situation.  He took as deep a breath as he could, which was not much, then released it.  “Always… enemies.  Forever… enemies.”

            

“There you go again,” said Joe, furious.  “I shouldn’t have even come.  What’d you do, save up all your venom so you could spit it at me and then die?  That way you don’t have to listen to me, right, Dad?”

            

Melvin let his hand drop and closed his eyes with a slow release of air.  They stared at him, wondering if it was over.  The little hills and valleys became shallower but did not even out just yet.  Then the eyes flew open, and Melvin grabbed Joe's hand with surprising strength.

            

“It’s… a… lucky man… who can… say… he’s… sorry… before… he dies.  I… was… wrong.  I’m sorry.”  The effort exhausted Melvin. 

            

Joe, too.  He breathed out hard and tried to pull away, but Melvin’s grip was iron.  He gave his wife a look that said, “Can you believe this guy?” 

            

But Salma stepped forward and took Melvin and Joe’s hands in hers.  “It is a wise man who can confess his faults,” she said, her voice gentle as a lullaby.  “And a wiser man who can forgive.”

            

Joe gaped at her, all words fleeing from his lips to his eyes where they struggled to escape.  When they came, it was in convulsive sobs.  He hugged Salma.  He bent down and embraced his father.  All four hugged even as the monitor’s little hills were made flat and the valleys filled in.  Melvin pushed back weakly, signaling his wish to speak.

            

“Have… kids,” he mouthed. “Tell them… Grandpa… loves… them.” 

            

“What religion should we raise them?” asked Joe, now with honest desire to know.  Melvin attempted a shrug but gave up, pointed to the ceiling.  They thought he might have said “God knows.” 

            

The obituary reported that Melvin Randal died peacefully surrounded by his family.  It said he had a good life and a good death, and that he would be sorely missed by his loving daughter, son, and daughter-in-law.