Apr 01

Editor’s Log – April 2016 for Deadwood Writers

From the Chicago Botanic Garden’s Website www.chicagobotanic.org

With April comes Spring–a time of renewal and rebirth. It’s a time to seek inspiration and reflect on our past actions that may determine our future. Spring is an exciting time to try new paths along life’s journey. Many of the publications this month deal with choices and trying new experiences. Here is a sneak preview of what is to come this month. Come back to revisit these stories and be inspired to comment about your own.

  • Barbara Pattee’s Happy Anniversary, M & M’s®
    April 6
    This heart warming story shows that sterile rules can be followed and still show compassion for what children care about.
  • Karen Kittrell’s Little Free Libraries Deliver the Goods
    April 8
    Karen takes us on a journey of 3 must visit libraries. It’s amazing the character and personality that each library has. After reading about her experiences, I want to visit them myself.
  • Claire Murray’s Istanbul Passage: A Novel
    April 21
    “What makes this story so interesting is that the author, Joseph Kanon, makes Istanbul, the city, a character in his story. He’s constantly describing the neighborhoods, the streets, the mosques, the bazar and best of all the boats that go back and forth between the European and Asian sides.”
  • Sue Remi’s River Crossing
    April 24
    This Flash Fiction focuses on 18 year old girl, Jilly. What do we do when given a warning? What should determine if we listen?

Mar 18

Coffee Shop Chronicles: The Virtues of Public Transportation

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Ann Arbor, MI

“The niche is all yours,” the tall, lanky guy says, referring to this cluster of soft chairs he’s getting up from.

“I don’t need all this space.  I like to be self-contained,” I say with a thank-you nod as I put my bag on one table.  Then I smile at him.  “Besides, this is the only clean table.”

It’s true that I like to have room enough to spread out, but not so much as to intrude on others’ space.  Not so much the case for the previous coffee shop patrons.  There’s a candy wrapper on one table.  This coffee shop doesn’t even sell candy.  There’s a coat on another chair as a placeholder, a reserved sign made of fabric.

“That’s trusting,” I say to the guy, pointing to a woman’s purse hanging on the back of an empty chair.

“Anyone could walk off with that,” he says.

Ann Arbor is a walking town.  Most stores are close enough to each other that walking from your apartment to a restaurant and then the small, specialty grocery store before returning home is easier than driving.  A bus passes outside on State Street.  Even in the rain, public transportation is the better option.

“Yeah, or hop on a bus,” I say.

Growing up in the city limits of Pittsburgh, PA, public transportation was plentiful, much like Ann Arbor and its surrounding neighborhoods.  Pittsburgh is a bigger city, of course, much bigger, and we used it all the time after our family car died.  I remember Dad coming home after work with an armful of bus schedules.  He plopped himself on the floor in the middle of the living room, spread out the maps and began to figure out how the heck you traveled to downtown from our house.

Fortunately, we lived on a bus route.  It was a good bus route, one of the main ones, not far from a depot garage.  Buses had a frequent schedule in my neighborhood, even on Sundays.

A light rail system was constructed when I started high school.  That was my first exposure to “subways,” a misnomer I always thought because the T ran underground for only three stops.  It was an above-ground transportation outside downtown proper.

“My friend’s dad could read the entire New York Times in a tight space on the subway,” he says.

I’m impressed.  I could never stand and read on a bus.  My survival skills in tight spaces came from sitting down.  Maybe this is why I can be self-contained sitting down in a coffee shop.

Riders learn to multitask early.  You eat a sandwich in your seat without spilling any on the passenger next to you; the tantalizing smell throughout the bus was out of your control.  You sleep with your head against the window and intuitive feel when it’s time to wake up to get off at your stop.  You learn how to place paper grocery store bags on the floor so that passengers won’t step on or trip over them.

I did develop strong legs and a sense of balance to stand upright and not tip over as the bus bounced and jerked and turned corners.  You learned to politely shove your way through a smash of people to exit at your stop.  You talked with the people you saw every day, creatures of habit you all were, work and school schedules always the same.  You gave up your seat for people with packages, women with children, and the gentle older folks.

This guy must be a rider of sorts because he continues to discuss public systems.  He says the John P. Getty Museum in Los Angeles is located at the top of a mountain.  The area has a great system in its three-car train that goes up the mountain.  The ride is smooth and the flow of traffic is easy.

This reminds me of the Duquesne and Monongahela Inclines in Pittsburgh.  It’s a unique experience to be pulled up a mountain.  I guess it’s like what a ski lift is like, except the inclines are big boxes that hold about 50 people.  They’re fun to ride, especially when seasoned riders scare the first-timers by saying, “Oh, I hope this doesn’t fall and plummet down.”

I smile and nod with the guy, saying. “The lessons you learn on public transportation will help you through your lifetime.”

 

 

Mar 16

Stories from the Grave

You drive by an intersection and take notice of a weathered and worn wooden cross poking up from the ground. Around it are faded silk flowers, some tattered stuffed animals, burnt candles, and remnants of hand-written notes that resisted being carried away by the wind. You know someone died in that spot and someone else has been grieving there.

During a vacation to Chile a couple years ago, I saw elaborate memorial structures placed alongside many of that beautiful country’s roads. The shoulders were sporadically adorned with what looked like tiny, dollhouse-sized churches. Some were wooden, but most were little concrete buildings built upon concrete foundations. Inside, there were framed photographs, crucifixes, printed prayers, figurines, and candles. Flowers flanked the outsides. One display was remarkably huge—about six-feet square, with a foot-high iron gate enclosing the entire display. That one was further from the road than others I’d viewed, and I’m guessing it was on private property. Each miniature building I drove past, however, seemed to be permanently affixed to the ground.

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In Chile, an animita is a place where people mourn the deceased, petition for help, and give thanks for answered prayers.

I remember that as a teenager I watched old western movies. Whenever one of the good cowboys was shot to death, his comrades did all they could to bury him. If they were on the run and in a hurry, they quickly covered him in rocks. If given a little more time, they dug a shallow grave, covered the body in dirt, and marked the site with a makeshift cross.

People have been memorializing the dead for centuries. Egyptian kings have their pyramids. In India, the Taj Mahal houses the body of an emperor’s beloved wife. Here in the United States, the wealthy erect mausoleums too, although they are admittedly much smaller. All of us will die, but only some of us will plan for our inevitable demise.

In the 1980s, a popular advertisement encouraged people to select the ingredients they wanted on their pizzas by answering: “What do you want on your Tombstone?” It made a normally serious topic light and fun . . . and, in particular, tasty. It was genius. The Tombstone Pizza Company name wasn’t easily forgotten, even all these years later. The ad worked in part because it made us face our own mortality for just a moment while we pondered how we wanted to be remembered. What would people say about us after our deaths?

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Built in 1846, William Eddings Baynard’s mausoleum is the oldest standing structure on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.

Frankly, if we don’t convey careful instructions or plan ahead of time, we aren’t the ones who decide what goes on our pizza or what gets written on our own granite tombstones. Let’s hope that the immortalizing words associated with us end up being written by someone who abides by our wishes or at least likes us enough to say nice things.

You can learn a lot about a person by visiting his or her gravesite. For some reason, that fun isn’t high on the list of any of my friends and family. Rarely does anyone ever want to join me in a stroll through a graveyard. Yes, I’ve actually asked family and friends to do that, especially during travel to foreign countries. Most often, the closest I come to walking hallowed ground turns out to be nothing more than a chance drive-by encounter on the way to some other point of interest.

The one time my husband, his sister and her husband humored me, we delicately tip-toed around the fresh, loose soil of above-ground graves in a church cemetery on the Leeward Island of St. Kitts. We visited long enough for me to take several photos.

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An eternal resting place on St. Kitts overlooks the Atlantic Ocean.

When I noticed that my companions weren’t walking alongside or trailing behind me, I realized that they didn’t share my curiosity over the differences in Kittitian burial customs from those in the United States. I saw that my family was lingering near our rental car and I figured it was time to go. We hopped back into the new Honda CRV. Then we accidentally drove over a metal industrial anchor of some sort. After incurring over two thousand dollars in repair costs to the rental car, certain relatives don’t want to stop at cemeteries with me anymore.

That’s one explanation for why I, more cautiously, poked around the internet this month and found a variety of interesting memorials to share with you.

Elijah Jefferson Bond, the patentee of the Ouija board, was buried in an unmarked grave at Maryland’s Green Mount Cemetery in 1921. Eighty-seven years later, a Ouija board collector, enthusiast, and expert, Robert Murch, successfully located Bond’s grave.

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Games can’t be played forever, or can they? (Photo, courtesy of Ryan Schweitzer, via findagrave.com)

Murch obtained all the necessary permissions and funds needed to erect a memorial headstone. He commissioned a clever and befitting design to honor the deceased Mr. Bond. Bond’s once unmarked gravesite could have been permanently forgotten, but that’s unlikely to happen now that he has an intriguing monument.

Yet, I wonder: would Bond have chosen to rest beneath a granite version of a game that encourages conversations with dead people?

Someone is bound to ask him, via a Ouija board, although it won’t be me. I don’t want to open that creepy door to the spirit world.

Princess Diana is buried on a private island on her Spencer family’s property. A temple inscribed with her name faces the island. Her brother’s words memorialize her this way:

We give thanks for the life of a woman I am so proud to be able to call my sister. The unique, the complex, the extraordinary & irreplaceable Diana whose beauty both internal and external will never be extinguished from our minds.

I think all those complimentary words would be well-received by Diana. The temple, in my opinion, is a bit much, but she was a princess. Most people wouldn’t expect anything less than extravagance like that for a woman loved throughout the world.

Another ideal tribute honors author Walter Lord. His gravesite is identified by a stone bench, inscribed with the names of his best-selling books, one of which was A Night to Remember, about the sinking of the Titanic. The welcoming setting invites visitors to rest for a little while, maybe even with one of Lord’s popular books in hand.

President Richard Nixon began his presidency with words that were later placed on his tombstone. It’s intriguing that his grave is absent a lofty title or noteworthy achievement. Instead, there’s simply a humble quote: “The greatest honor history can bestow is the title of peacemaker.”

That’s a nice thought for us mere mortals to aspire to.

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The land beneath the dome in Jerusalem is revered by Christians, Jews and Muslims, although for different religious reasons.

Covering a rock where Muslims believe Muhammad ascended to heaven is a shrine known as The Dome of the Rock. In Jerusalem, it stands out from all other buildings. There’s no mistaking the ornate memorial, topped in gold. During a trip I took to Israel in 2014 with my church-family, Christians were not welcome within the shrine’s doors, so we appreciated the splendor from afar.

That was okay with me. I had another, personally more meaningful, tomb to visit. This other one, known as the Garden Tomb, was literally fit for a king. Not because it was extravagant or ornate or covered in gold. It was none of those things. There was nothing fancy about this other tomb. It was simply a cold, barren cave with a hard, stone floor. It was a tomb that long ago may have been customized to accommodate Jesus’s body. Some people believe that the King of Kings was too tall for His borrowed burial space and it had to be chiselled and lengthened to accommodate His height. Others more simply acknowledge that the Garden Tomb’s characteristics match historical records of Jesus’s burial.

Either way, this place in Jerusalem is where people come to pay homage to Jesus and to pray. I entered the solemn tomb and stood with my pastor and his wife. My pastor was weeping. In that moment, I recalled the torture Jesus endured before His death. I cried too. If anyone deserved a shrine or a temple, it was God incarnate Who sacrificed His life for the redemption of my sin.

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The Garden Tomb. (Photo, courtesy of Chris Bixby)

The grounds surrounding Jesus’s burial tomb are full of flowers and plants, and there are many sitting areas that inspire personal reflection and prayer. Nature’s beauty helps comfort us in our grief. But the stark reality is that we mere mortals die. Those left behind visit gravesites, leave flowers, tenderly care for the little plots of earth where our loved ones rest. We continue in conversation with those departed. Our greatest comfort, however, comes from knowing we’ll see them again.

Before His own death, Jesus predicted, “We are going up to Jerusalem, and everything that is written by the prophets about the Son of Man will be fulfilled. He will be handed over to the Gentiles. They will mock him, insult him, spit on him, flog him and kill him. On the third day he will rise again.” (Luke 18:31)

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“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!” (Luke 24:5-6)

Jesus has no tombstone that screams accolades. The most obvious hint of His importance, royalty, and divinity was added years after His burial place was discovered. Where a stone once blocked His tomb’s entrance is now a wooden door with an inscription: “He is Risen.”

Indeed. Conquering death is worth celebrating. “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (Jesus’s words from John 20:29.)

Happy Easter!

Mar 15

Lucy

I was raking leaves from our oak trees into the street, and it occurred to me I should be burying them in the garden where they would become rich humus the following spring. The farthest corner of the garden, where the fences intersect, seemed the best place to start. When the first hole was three feet deep, the sand became cool and compacted. With a last shovelful, something at the bottom scraped. Whatever it was, it was solid and thoroughly imbedded.  I lowered myself into the hole and dug around until the end of a strange object became visible. It was tan-white in color and very hard, the end of a very large ugly bone. I jumped out, startled and un-nerved, landing in the leaf pile. 

What was a huge bone doing, buried in my garden? Could it be human? Was there a person actually buried in my garden? Thoughts of English who-done-its and bodies buried in gardens wouldn’t be silent. I remembered Jimmy Stewart thinking he saw a neighbor disposing of a wife’s body in a garden in the movie Rear Window. What would Agatha Christie, Sam Spade, or Charlie Chan do about this? If I called our city police department, they’d probably just laugh it off. Is there such a thing as a Missing Persons Department? 

I went back to the house for a glass of lemonade and a long think. A neighbor across the street, Mark, was a police officer. Perhaps he would know what to do. My wife returned and I began explaining the mysterious find. She was less than sympathetic. “Serves you right. You shouldn’t be digging that deep, anyway.” So much for spousal support. 

I crossed the street and found Mark finishing lunch. There was no way to avoid blurting, “Mark, there might be a dead body in my backyard. I was burying leaves in my garden and found what looks like a bone. Want to come over and take a look? I’m not sure what I have, and I don’t want to mess around with a potential crime scene.” 

Mark assumed his dead-pan, officer-of-the-law face and, for a moment, I questioned the sanity of telling him I might have a dead body in my garden. Then he fixed his official cop-eyes on me and asked, “So, whattaya burying leaves in your garden for?” Not quite the reaction I expected. Apparently more interested in leaves than dead people, he continued, “All right, let me finish this sandwich and I’ll come over. You want a cookie? How about a turkey sandwich?” 

“Um, no. I was burying leaves ‘cause they’ll compost over the winter, since our garden is mostly sand. I thought burying leaves would help make better soil. So … I’ll see you in a little while.” I went back to the garden to ponder where this was going. 

Mark ambled over a half-hour later with his nine-year-old son. I thought he’d be in a uniform for the occasion but he was still in shorts and flip-flops. “Nice day, huh?” Peering into the hole, he asked, “So, whattaya got in here? He sounded like a garage mechanic inspecting a faulty transmission while the owner stands around clueless. After a minute, he said, “Well, I don’t know what it is, but it sure isn’t human. Nick, what do you think?” Maybe he was training his son to join a criminal investigation team, or he thought Nick might become an expert on mysterious large bones, but the kid inspected the hole as requested. 

“I don’t know, dad. Can I help dig?” This was like the Tom Sawyer story where he tries convincing his friends to whitewash a picket fence so he wouldn’t have to do the work himself. 

“Nah, Nick. Let Mr. Reed keep diggin’. We’re playin’ ball this afternoon.” He paused. “You know, the University of Michigan finds lots of wooly mammoth bones around here. Why don’t you call ‘em and see if you got a dinosaur or something? That afternoon, I pulled out a large fossilized bone and a couple of baseball-sized vertebrae. 

I could hardly believe I was now an archeologist and might have a Stegosaurus in our garden. On Monday, I described my find to a real University archeologist but he said, “Fossilization means bones have become mineralized and won’t burn. If you hold a match under it and it doesn’t char, it’s a true fossil and we would be interested. But if it chars, it isn’t fossilized and we’re not interested.” After work, I lit a match under a piece and it began charring. My hopes fell. It would take thousands of years to fossilize and I didn’t think the University of Michigan would wait that long. 

My wife and I left for a two day vacation the next weekend to Indiana’s Amish country. I came across a large picture of a horse skeleton on the wall of a feed and hardware store, startled to recognize a few of the bones in my garden. So that was it; someone had buried a horse near the Rouge River in what became my garden, years before a subdivision had been created. Had Native Americans or some other ancient tribe buried my horse? 

The horse became Lucy, and the mystery of how it got there remains. Should I dig her up or leave it for a high school science-fair project? Nobody’s volunteered so far, because either they’ve read Tom Sawyer or there are no budding archeologists around these days. I’ve avoided digging too deep in the garden since then; one can never tell, I might find an old rider sitting on the back of Lucy the forgotten horse.

Mar 10

Hot Blacktop Ch. 9 – Sharp Corners

Mature content. Saint’s mind moved at warp speed when he woke, then he recalled the night before, the body wrapped around him warm and silky, Sienna gave him a peace he’d never felt before now.

He remembered how she turned her back to him before she’d fallen asleep, something dark entering her eyes. Now she was wrapped around him, skin to skin from head to toe. He smiled. Saint had made Sienna come several times before he had taken his own pleasure. But he worried. Would she tell him what haunted her sleep? Was their relationship too new?

He closed his eyes and held her close for a second more. Saint was falling hard for this woman. But just when he wedged his foot between the door that she finally had opened, Sienna seemed ready to close it. After all the flowers and small notes, the phone calls and romantic words to show her how he felt, she still was reluctant to commit to a relationship. Maybe he was going too fast. Or, maybe he had to push harder. Did her ex’s betrayal destroy what trust she had left? He’d be damned if he would allow her to get swallowed up by that kind of thinking.

Inhaling deeply the sweet, musky scent of Sienna filled Saint’s nose. His need for her rose again, but he wasn’t going to disappoint the kids scheduled for their first lesson. He had to get moving otherwise he would be late.

Saint snuck out somehow without disrupting her. It made him smile. Her body told him what he needed to know, that he wasn’t making a mistake starting something with Sienna. But was she scared? He thought her reactions to what he wanted to give her was more than just a bad break-up with that jackass on her front lawn. No. There was something deeper under all that gorgeous skin. And Saint would figure it out.

At Paulson’s, Saint moved into his routine. He checked and double-checked all the equipment that his mechanics had laid out for his inspection and they moved out as a team to inspect the bikes themselves.

He smiled when the first students showed up with tired eyes. Smiles were joined by yawns as their excitement grew and they joined the fray. So, his focus turned to the riders, and how to get Sienna to understand that his interest in her was for the long haul. The thought lurked in the shadows of his mind. It was something he never wanted before her.

Saint lined up the students. As they got on their equipment, he noticed Danny. He wasn’t in the grandstand this time; he was at the fence adjacent to the starting line. Saint made an on the spot decision. He wouldn’t let Danny hang back. Saint walked over to have a word.

“Danny,” Saint said and nodded. He put his hands in his pocket.

“Saint,” Danny said, and Saint tried to hide his smile just in time to see Danny look up at him.

Danny wore a black eye.

Several choice words went through Saint’s mind for whoever had given it to him, but Saint wasn’t going to mention it. He didn’t want Danny to run again.

“You want to learn how to ride?” Saint asked through clenched teeth and pointed over his shoulders to the other kids waiting. “You’re what…about eleven?”

“No! I’m thirteen!” Saint couldn’t believe it. Thirteen? What the hell was his family feeding him? Did they feed him? Christ! He ran fingers through his hair. Saint needed to get the boy away from whoever was hurting him, and soon.

“Okay, Danny. Let’s get you some leathers and a helmet and you can join the class. We’ll get you up riding in no time,” Saint rolled his shoulders and neck to release the tension that squeezed his muscles tight after Danny’s approach. Saint relaxed his closed fists, finger by finger, feeling the crescent nail marks left behind on his palms.

Danny looked up at him. Saint ignored the fact that the boy’s lips trembled. “Really?”

“Yeah. You’ve been watching from the grand stand for a while now, maybe it’s time to get you in the classroom. It’s just a beginners’ class today. We won’t be riding, but you’re welcome to join us.” Saint would get them accustomed to a motorcycle, how it felt under them, and start teaching about all the parts and pieces. They would be in the classroom the second half of the day, which Saint knew they would groan about, but the riders needed to watch a few videos and go over some things in the textbook that they couldn’t learn on the blacktop. He waited for Danny’s answer.

“Okay,” Danny said and used his long sleeved shirt to wipe the wetness from his eyes, which Saint also ignored.

“Come on then.” They turned toward the garage. Saint would make sure the kid had a meal before he left. He said over his shoulder, “Alright guys, and girl,” he smirked at the lone girl whose eyes narrowed on him, reminding him of his sister when she was little. “Here’s your equipment list. Make sure you’ve got everything on, and it fits snug, especially your boots. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Danny was eager to get started, Saint could tell, and neither one spoke as he got ready.

“Stand beside Tina, Danny, and we’ll get started.” Saint got right to it when he returned with Danny. Saint looked to all the eager faces–those faces he could see, since some had their helmets on, even Danny–in leather tops and bottoms. He wanted to laugh, but kept it in.

Danny looked up at Saint and crossed his arms, but dropped them just as quickly. When he got close to Tina and gave her a wide birth, Saint frowned. He watched her say hi, and Danny looked like he said something back, but it was tough to tell.

“Let’s get started.”

*****

“I think I’m falling in love with him, Megs” Sienna told her best friend over a lunch of sushi and lotus blossom martinis. “And I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been.”

Megan gave her a wink and lifted her glass. “Now that’s a problem worth toasting.” The two women were on their second drink and, after last night, Sienna was already feeling light headed.

With another sip Sienna laughed along with Megs, at first, but then her smile faded and she said, “What if I give him my heart and he throws it away?” Sienna shook her head and tried to hold back her tears. “I’ll go straight off the rails.” She took a healthy sip and shuddered, thinking about what they’d shared last night. “I know I will.” She never got shivers thinking about Layton, or the other two before him.

“You’re talking like it’s already happened. Why? What did that bastard say to you? Did he tell you he loves you?”

“No.” She turned the martini glass around watching the flower slowly be consumed by the vodka. “But the way he looks at me, touches me…I know there’s something deeper between us than I’ve ever experienced.” Sienna tried to hold her breath but the subtle shiver would not subside. The thought of being with him again made her insides go all fluttery.

“Look, baby cakes, you need to find out if this guy is for real, and you need to find out fast. You’re not a goodtime girl, and I’m not going to let some bastard that you just met hurt my best friend.” She turned to the waiter and said, “Two more, please.” Then she turned back. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”

*****

Saint was pleased with everyone in the class by the time the sun started to fade for the day. Danny, whom he was worried would feel uncomfortable around all the other kids, some from his school that stared at him more than not, got through the class like it was second nature. He couldn’t wait to get Danny riding a bike of his own.

Saint walked into the equipment room and saw Danny putting some gear away. Some of the other students left right after they put the bikes away. Saint watched him work. He was meticulous, almost compulsive. Saint ran his fingers through his hair and eased out a silent breath. Danny looked even skinnier from behind. It would be to his advantage on a bike though, his small size, and if the kid’s coordination was tight… But Saint worried Danny wasn’t healthy. “You hungry,” he asked a couple feet behind Danny.

Danny hunched his shoulders and turned fast with his fists at the ready, but dropped them just as quickly.

“Hold up champ.” Danny’s whole body seemed to deflate. “You okay?” Saint asked. He wasn’t going to stay quiet this time. But he wouldn’t start by asking him who hit him. Danny nodded once. “Come on.” Saint moved to another door. Danny hadn’t moved. “You coming?” Saint turned around and faced him, waited, his hands in his pockets. He looked right into the boy’s eyes and said, “I would never hurt you, Danny.” Saint waited never taking his eyes off Danny.

Danny must have seen something in his stare because the boy moved and stopped right next to him. When he looked up at Saint, Danny’s chin was up, and his lips pinched together, and he showed his pride through the directness of his eyes, and managed to say, “Okay.”

“Okay.” Saint opened the door next to his office where stairs of metal and wood led up to his flat. He’d converted it just like everything else at the Speedway, but getting to this part took a bit longer, and he needed to be in the black longer than he’d been in the red, so it had taken some time. “I hope you like sandwiches, cause that’s all I’ve got.”

“Yeah, I like sandwiches.”

They reached the kitchen, and Saint smiled as Danny’s mouth fell open. His flat was big, opening up in the kitchen and spreading out across the entirety of the garage and offices below. The surfaces were all distressed recycled wood, metal, and glass, plus a man could sink into his sofa and sleep for days.

“Wow!”

“What do you like on your sandwich?” Saint pulled out ham, beef, Swiss cheese, salami and started to pull together a sub that could solve world hunger it was so big. He grabbed some bread for Danny. “You want to make your own?”

“Yeah, sure.”

When he looked down at Danny’s sandwich he said, “You sure you got enough there?” and laughed. The sandwich was bigger than his. But when he saw Danny’s shoulders slump and his arms fall he wished he’d held the words back.

“Let me get a knife and cut it in half.” When he plated it and put on the burnished metal island, Saint had to tell Danny to sit down. “Sit. Eat.” The kid didn’t move. “Go ahead and sit down. You want a pop?” He went to the refrigerator. “I got Coke, Pepsi, and Sprite.”

“Pepsi, please,” he said into his plate as he sat.

Damn he looked small compared to the other boys in class today. Danny needed to eat, but he didn’t pick up his sandwich. Saint went and sat next to him and started to eat his own. Finally, after Saint was already halfway through his, Danny picked up his sandwich and took a bite. He inhaled it, for the most part after that, starved as Saint came to understand.

“You have enough?”

Danny answered by nodding as he gulped down the rest of his drink. When they finished, Saint cleaned up and turned toward his new charge. And he would be his new charge. The more he could get him to hang around, the safer he would be, plus the more he would learn. Because one thing he knew, Danny was starved for attention that wasn’t followed by a fist, and he was hungry to know about racing. Saint was anxious to resolve both issues. He was just about to tell him that when a knock came at his door. Thinking it was one of his mechanics he told Danny to go clean up, and he would take him home. The kids face fell, but Saint knew it was too soon to ask him to stick around longer. There was nothing else he could do. Legally. Yet. Saint rubbed his hands over his face. He would figure some way to help. He just needed to apply a little creative thinking.

Saint opened his door, and his arms were comfortably filled with a warm and soft… “Sienna!”

Sienna’s lips slammed against his, her aggression surprising him. When she nipped his lips and pressed in hard with her tongue he couldn’t help but open up to her. Her arms came around his neck, her hips became flush with his rising arousal, and she ground her hips against his. What was going on here? He enjoyed her, but this just felt all wrong.

Saint watched her eyes lock closed and her brows draw down like she was in pain. His mind reeled. He pulled her off him holding her at arm’s length to figure out what the hell was going on with her. Her lips came away puffy, parted, and red as she tried to press against him again. Her eyes flickered open and blinked.

She blinked again, “Why’d you stop? I thought you wanted this.” She tried to press into him again. He gripped her harder, and she pushed back with enough force that his feet shifted backward. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he held her arms with a firm grip, not letting her move away which she now tried to do.

“Sienna. Stop!” he said a little louder than he wanted to.

“It was good last night,” she snapped. “Don’t you want more of that, more of me.”

“Yes,” he said and was once again moved. His back hit the wall, and he grunted in pain. He was caught off guard. “Sienna, stop!”

“Ahhh!”

Saint’s entire body jerked, as small hands tore Sienna from his grip. He watched her body slam up against the door. “He said stop! Leave him alone.”

“Danny! Stop!” Saint yelled, stunned at what he witnessed.

Saint tried to jump into the fray and pry Danny off Sienna, but Danny wouldn’t respond. Saint didn’t want to hurt him either. He reached for him again.

His small fists were a blur of fury. Sienna’s hands blocked her face. They moved a second later, but to slowly, and a blow darted across her ribs. She moaned. Saint grabbed Danny. The kid wriggled like a cornered wildcat with more strength than a boy twice his size. He pulled him off Sienna just as his hand passed an inch away from her face. She fell into the door and sank to the ground. Danny screamed and raged at Sienna. Saint wrapped his arms around the boy and locked him in his grip, not enough to hurt. He looked up to see if Sienna was okay.

Sienna’s shook her head. Her hand covered her mouth as tears streamed down her face. She caught Saint’s look and then looked back to Danny. She went to reach out as if to tell Danny it would be okay, but Danny started to shake as soon as her hand started to move.

Danny’s limbs quaked like he’d never been still before, violent tremors like his body was about to crack apart.

Saint had had enough and picked the kid up. It was awkward. He had to get Danny to calm down.

Sienna followed, but she was smart enough to stay out of Danny’s sight.

Saint eased him down on the couch and moved to sit next to him, but didn’t let go. Some of the shakes lessened, and he finally let him go but stayed close with one hand clamped down on his ankle.

“Danny,” he sighed and closed his eyes for patience. Looking back at the boy he said, “Can you look at me please.” Minutes passed. Saint waited. Danny eventually did what Saint asked, but it took everything in Saint to stay calm after the kid attacked Sienna. He looked up at her and then back at Danny. “Want to tell me what the hell just happened?”

He said nothing and curled into a protective ball into the cushions in the corner of the couch.

“Danny, listen to me. Look at me,” he snapped. Danny’s eyes came to his. “Sienna wasn’t hurting me. We just had a misunderstanding.”

“No. No. She was hurting you. She pushed you and…and…” His voice died, and he looked down.

“Danny, please look at me.” When Danny looked up, his stare was haunted, and made worse by the tears that spilled from his swollen eye, now more prominent than ever, Saint had to ask, “Who hit you, Danny?” If the boy could have gotten even smaller, he would have. “Danny, please tell me who hit you.”

Dread filled the room, it an oozing darkness that lingered around everything that had been said. Sainted waited. He wasn’t going to let Danny leave his place until he knew.

“My mother.”

“No!” Whispered across the floor like a physical blow from where Sienna sat. Danny’s body jerked to the sound. Saint turned. Sienna’s eyes focused on something only she could see as mascara stained her cheeks.