The Angelus

  The Angelus - A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

 

“In the Lord I’ll be ever thankful, In the Lord I will rejoice,

Look to God, do not be afraid.

Lift up your voices the Lord is near,

Lift up your voices, the Lord is near.”

 

     The woman looked at her husband pleadingly as he prepared to go out the door for the day’s work. “Couldn’t we just keep saying it only in the morning and at day’s end, as we have been?”

     “Alison, we’ve talked about this. It’s time. We can’t hide in fear any longer. You know we are to speak boldly.”

     “But they will hurt you, maybe take you away. Maybe I’ll never see you again. Maybe they will come for me.”

     Daniel came back from the door and put his canteen on the table. He took his wife into his arms. “You know what to do. Go to your cousin Joseph’s house after lunch. They will keep you safe until we see what happens. There’s plenty of room there for you—we have no children to protect. Yet.” And he smiled at her.

     She clung to him. “If they take you away, there never WILL be any children.”

     His smile broadened and he put his hand gently on her belly. “We have this one.”

     She pulled back and stared at him. “How could you know that? I’m not even sure myself!”

     “God told me,” he said simply, as he looked at her.

     “But,” she stammered, “isn’t that more reason for you to be careful, then? For you not to do this? How can I raise a child without you?”

     “How can we raise a child without God?” he countered sternly. His wife had no reply but leaned her forehead on his chest as she held him tightly. “You know I have to do this, Alison. I hope I will not be alone, but even if no one else speaks out, that won’t matter. I must.”

     “I love you so,” her words came out muffled as she pressed closer to him. “God watch over you and keep you safe--every hour, every minute.”

     “Alison,” he whispered. “Dear heart…” and he kissed the top of her head. “Get everything ready to take to Joseph’s. I want to know that you will be safe.”

     She pulled back and looked up at his face, searchingly. He leaned over and kissed her. “I will see you at dinner. Deo volente,” he added.

     The woman reached up to touch his cheek. “I will get everything ready for dinner before I go. I will make something special for you, Daniel!” and she tried to smile at him. “It will be a surprise,” then she turned away abruptly, in order not to see him leave. After she heard the door close behind him, however, she put her hands over her face and allowed the tears to fall.

…………

     Daniel worked steadily that morning, his mind only half on what he was doing. It was largely unskilled labor but did require some concentration on his part. Nevertheless, in the back of his mind he was keeping track of the time left before everyone stopped for lunch.

     All the workers ate together in a large dining hall, watched by the ever-present guards. The midday meal was provided by the state and was filling, if uninspiring. The menu was designed merely to keep all the men healthy and fit, not to entertain them. The workers sat at long tables, which had been set with full plates. Everyone was expected to eat what was served to them; afterwards, they all returned to their duties.

     Today was no exception to the usual procedure. The men filed into the dining hall, sat at their assigned seats for that week, and began to eat. Daniel barely glanced at his food; he had something else on his mind.

………

     Alison finished her preparations for dinner, keeping one eye on the clock. She had managed to remain calm all morning as she cleaned the house, prepared for dinner, and packed a small bag to take to her cousin’s house. But now it was almost noon…. She stopped everything she was doing while watching the minute hand move forward slowly. Fear and apprehension flooded through her as the hour approached.

     Finally it was twelve o’clock. She stood still for a moment, trembling, and then closed her eyes. Folding her hands together tightly, she took a deep breath and began to speak, saying both verse and response because she was alone. As word followed word, suddenly all fears were gone. Her voice stopped shaking and a sense of peace filled her soul.

     “The Angel of the Lord declared to Mary/And she conceived of the Holy Ghost/Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…” 

…………………….

     Daniel had stood up from the table to begin his reciting. He continued through the loud murmuring of voices all around him.

     …blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.”

     As Daniel’s steady voice gradually fell on their ears, the men at his table stopped eating and looked up at him. Recognition flashed in the eyes of a few.

     “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

     Across from him, one man put down his fork and stood up in respectful silence. Others at the table looked from him to the speaker, bewildered.

     “Behold the handmaiden of the of the Lord/Be it done unto me according to thy word.”

     Another man stood up quietly, with bowed head. The noise at nearby tables diminished as more men looked to see what was happening. Silence rippled away from the first table, moving through the room like a wave across water.

     “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…” and a second voice joined Daniel’s, from two tables away. “Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.”

     As a growing hush filled the room, the guards looked around and at each other, uncertainty on their faces. The guard at Daniel’s table left the room quickly. Daniel noted that, even as he continued speaking. He quelled the fear that went through him and went on reciting the prayer.

     “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

     By this time, several voices had joined in, and additional men were standing quietly. “And the Word was made flesh. And dwelt among us.” 

……

     At almost the same moment, Alison whispered the response: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus…”

……………..

     “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

     Some of the guards remained frozen in their places, but a few began moving toward the several speakers.

     “Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ. Let us pray…”

     Suddenly, the brazen sound of an alarm ripped through the room. All the guards stopped what they were doing and ran for the doors. Daniel continued the prayer. “Pour forth, we beseech thee, O Lord, thy grace into our hearts…”

     By this time, men all around the room were on their feet, and several voices continued the prayer through to its conclusion: “…that we, to whom the Incarnation of Christ, Thy Son, was made known by the message of an angel, may by His Passion and Cross be brought to the glory of His Resurrection. Through the same Christ our Lord. Amen.” The room was rapidly emptied of guards as the alarm continued to blare out. None of the men at the tables paid any attention to it.

     When the prayer came to an end, Daniel raised his voice slightly: “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.” In his mind, he thought he could hear Alison’s voice, echoing the “Amen”.

     There was utter silence after the last word was spoken. Then, almost simultaneously, the men sat back down and resumed eating their meal and starting quiet conversations, as if nothing unusual had taken place. Daniel sat, too, while exchanging a look with the man across the table, who had been the first to stand with him.

     “Amen,” said the other man, with the shadow of a smile; then he looked back down to his plate and continued eating.

     Daniel felt a little dizzy, but also exalted—until he saw their table guard re-enter the room and walk determinedly toward him. All the men around him fell silent, still eating slowly as their eyes watched the guard come near. He stopped beside Daniel and looked at him with an expressionless face. There was a short silence.

     “I set off the alarm,” he said finally.

     Daniel looked at him in surprise. “Why?” was all he could say.

     The guard shrugged slightly. “You weren’t finished with your prayer, and they were going to stop you.” He paused. “I won’t be able to set it off every day, though.”

     “I know,” Daniel said.

     “So what are you going to do?”

     “Get arrested eventually, I imagine.”

     “Is it that important?” the guard asked, puzzled.

     Daniel answered, “Yes, it is. That important.”

     The guard continued to look at him speculatively. “Well, I’ll see what I can do.” He made a sketchy half-salute, then turned and started to walk away.

     Daniel called after him quietly, “God bless you.”

     The guard stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Thank you,” he said, and then returned to his place, as the other guards started straggling back into the room, talking loudly amongst themselves.

………….

      Daniel walked home at the end of the workday, not looking forward to going into a dark and empty house. A few of the men had thanked him privately during the afternoon, which heartened him, but actually having taken this step made him think about it differently. Was continuing to do this really worth endangering Alison and their child? What would they do without him? How could she cope alone if he was arrested and taken away? Doubts crept into his thoughts.

     He reached his house and opened the door but stopped abruptly when he saw Alison setting the table. She put down the plate she had been holding and ran to him, calling his name. Dropping his empty canteen on the floor, he received her into a strong embrace. They held each other in silence until Daniel released her slightly and said, “Alison…I’m glad you’re here. But why didn’t you go to your cousin’s house?”

     She looked up at him intently. “Something unusual happened at noon today, didn’t it, Daniel? What was it?”

     He smiled at her. “I’m not completely sure, but…I think God sent an angel.”

     She nodded in agreement. “I knew there must have been something because all my fears ended right then. Completely. That’s why I never went to Joseph’s house. I knew you’d be coming home today.” She tipped her head, her face asking the question. “So, what about tomorrow?”

     He looked at her closely and could see that she had spoken the truth: there was no trace of fear or worry in her expression. There was only a settled peace. Her trust challenged his doubts.

     “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow. I wasn’t the only one who prayed”--she whispered “amen” at that--“and I don’t know what God has in mind. But what do you say--shall I do it again tomorrow?”

     “Could you keep silent now, after today?” she asked.

     He paused for a moment. “No,” he said simply.

     Alison smiled and reached up to cradle his face, then pulled his head down to kiss him. “I love you, Daniel.”

“In the Lord I’ll be ever thankful, in the Lord I will rejoice,

Look to God, do not be afraid.

Lift up your voices, the Lord is near,

Lift up your voices, the Lord is near.”

 _________________________________________________________

“In the Lord I’ll Be Ever Thankful”, by the Taize Community.

Mary M. Isaacs, copyright 2020

From the collection  "Lux Umbra Dei"

Lux Umbra Dei

   She knew the way; she’d been doing this for years. Decades, maybe? She couldn’t remember when she first started being responsible for this particular task. A long time ago, that’s when.

   Today she had a canvas carry-bag with her. The church had been running low on votive candles, although there had been very few coins in the money box on the votive stand for quite a while now. People were burning the candles without donating? That never used to happen… But she didn’t bother the priest about it. She just paid the difference out of her own pocket when she reordered more candles.

   The most recent order had just arrived, so she was taking them to the church. At one time, she been able to pick them up easily at a local church supply store, but it had closed a few years back and there were no others nearby. She missed going there and seeing all the church items and religious statues and paintings. They also had very nice little greeting cards with Bible verses on them, which she bought—thankfully in bulk--to send to friends, most of whom lived far away now. For quite a long time, she had also been sending them to the invalids and shut-ins in her church. She smiled wryly at the thought that she might be joining those ranks soon. And who would send cards to her when she could no longer get about? She didn’t know—the congregation had steadily dwindled over the years. But as her age advanced, her energy and mobility retreated. Thank goodness she could still do these tasks for her beloved church. She just walked more slowly, due to her unsteady legs.

    As she turned a corner near to the church building, she saw a group of young teenage boys across the street, doing nothing. Why aren’t they in school? she wondered. She tried to schedule her trips to the church when the nearby school was in session; she preferred negotiating quiet streets, when her slowness wasn’t a problem. It was very busy and noisy after school let out; she avoided being there at that time of day. It wasn’t a holiday either, so she didn’t know why the boys weren’t in class. Seemed like a lot of them to have played hooky all at the same time—then her mind caught her up briefly, as so often happened: did people use that term anymore? “Hooky”? Language changed, but she wasn’t always aware of the changes…actually, she was seldom if ever aware of them. Probably no one said “hooky” any more…

   Anyway, was it an early dismissal day? No---if it was, there would be a lot more young people walking home, going into the shops, standing around and talking with each other. Today there was only this small group of teenage boys.

   All this went through her mind in a flash as she kept walking. She barely glanced in their direction. She had discovered that looking too long might cause a reaction. She hoped they would ignore her as she walked down the street toward the church. Maybe she could reach it, and disappear inside in time…

   No such luck. They started talking and pointing at her, and even laughing.

   “Hey, old lady, can’t you move any faster?”

   “What’s up, lady? Goin’ to visit your boyfriend?” This was followed by howls of laughter, as the speaker was slapped on the back for this gem of wittiness.

   “Get out of our neighborhood! You don’t belong here!”

   It was true that the neighborhood around the church had changed dramatically since she started attending the church, when she was much younger. She used to know almost all the people who lived there. Now she knew no one.

   The church then had been filled with people: families with children, speaking many languages and celebrating many traditions, but brought together in their love of God and their dedication to his church. Where had all those families gone? she wondered. Where were those children now? They were completely different from the young people standing across the street from her.

   She continued walking towards the church, hoping that they’d get bored with teasing her and leave her alone. But it got worse. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a couple of them start across the street towards her. She tried to walk a bit faster, but knew that if she went too fast, she could fall. Her doctor had told her, “No more falls, or you’ll have to use a walker!” She hated the thought. She might be getting old, but she wasn’t elderly—yet. No matter what her doctor said.

   If she pretended not to see them, maybe the boys would let her alone. She faced forward and kept on walking, but suddenly she felt a jerk which almost caused her to fall backwards. One of the boys had grabbed at her canvas carry-bag.

   “Hey, what’s in here, grandma? Something for me? Did you bring a present for me?” The whole group laughed at that, from both sides of the street.

   “Please,” she said, “I’m just going to the church. There’s nothing in there, just something for the church.”

   The boys laughed again, as most of the group drifted over to where she stood, trembling a little. The first speaker yanked the bag again and this time it slipped off her arm. She tried to grab it back but nearly lost her balance again. The boy who had taken the bag opened it and looked inside. He stopped and his face went blank, then he threw it back at her quickly. As she tried to catch it, to prevent the candles from hitting the ground and maybe breaking, she fell heavily, awkwardly, crying out when she landed. Her cries were drowned out by sneering laughter. She felt sharp pains in various places and looked at him in fear.

   “This is boring,” the first speaker said to the others, as he gave her an inscrutable look. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

   From the ground, she watched them saunter away, laughing. Despite the pain from hitting the sidewalk, she was immensely relieved that they were leaving her so soon. Thank you, God…

***************

   Her doctor scolded her; she’d been seeing him for years, and he treated her a little like an elderly aunt.

   “Thank goodness you didn’t break anything, although I have no idea why not! But you are badly bruised and will be in a lot of pain for some time. Bed rest for a while until the bruises go away—no extended trips outside your home!” He was adamant about that and sent her home with some mild pain killers. A kind neighbor volunteered to do her grocery shopping for a while and also bring in her mail.

   While she was recuperating, her priest came to visit her. He was shocked to hear what had happened and suggested that someone else take over the candle and votive stand responsibilities. But at this, her natural stubbornness asserted itself. She’d been doing this for years and intended to continue until she couldn’t manage it any longer! He reluctantly gave in, but insisted that she confine her trips to Saturdays, when school was not in session. She was struck by the simple solution and readily agreed. He’d then asked her if she had recognized her assailant, but she shook her head. The boy was completely unfamiliar to her; she had never seen him before. The priest expressed disappointment; he said that his experience had been that, when a young person was caught in wrongdoing and made to suffer the consequences, there was a good chance that they might change their ways. He left on this note, giving her something to think about. She could only visualize the boy vaguely, but she knew she’d never forget the expression on his face after he’d tossed the bag back at her.

***********

   A few weeks later she made her first trip back to the church. It was threatening rain that Saturday; she should have stayed home, but knew it was past time to check the votive stand. If they ran out of candles, people coming to pray would be disappointed. She felt well enough to go and had hoped the rain would hold off until she was finished and back home. Unfortunately, it started while she was on her way there; she just made it into the narthex before it began to come down heavily. I’ll be here a while, she thought. No need to hurry now!

   She made her usual prediction as she neared the stand: the upper right-hand corner candle insert would definitely need replacing. Yep, she was right—burned empty as always. Someone must really like that spot, she noted. Can’t blame ‘em—I always use the one in the opposite corner, don’t I? Guess I’m not the only obsessive one. She’d have to remember that example for the next time she and her doctor argued about her behavior.

   She finished refilling the candle holders and put the empty inserts into her bag, to throw away later. After unlocking and looking in the money box, she decided there wasn’t enough to remove; it was only a few dollars in coins. No need to take out that small of an amount. She’d wait another couple of Saturdays.

   It was still raining hard--she could actually hear the faint sound of raindrops hitting the church roof and very little light came through the stained glass windows. She decided to wait a while before going home; perhaps it would clear up, or at least subside into only a drizzle. Her umbrella could keep her fairly dry, but steady rain made it hard to see to walk safely. At times like this, she wondered if maybe she should get a walker…she made a face at the thought.

   She picked up her carry-bag and went to her usual pew, on the other side of the church from the votive stand. She kept a couple of small pillows there, to ease the occasional pains in her legs and back; they were helpful now, to cushion the fading bruised places, which were still a bit sore. She settled herself, with the bag on her lap, and said a few prayers. “When in Rome,” she thought, and then laughed at herself. Really, the things that flit through my mind…

   The quietness and dimness of the church and the light, regular sound of the raindrops soon lulled her to sleep.

   Something caused her to waken all at once. She didn’t move for a moment, trying to recall where she was, and then the uncertainty sharpened into focus. She was in church, it was still dark inside because of the rain clouds, and someone was walking towards the votive stand. She stayed still and watched, not wanting to disturb someone else’s prayer time. They wouldn’t be able to see her in the cloud-caused dim light—she could only make them out because of the little wall sconces near the stand.

   The person paused in front of the stand for a moment, and then started to do something. Instead of lighting one of the candles, however, they leaned over, fumbling with something below the stand. From the clinking sounds, she guessed that they were doing something with the money box--putting coins in? No, it sounded like the little door at the back of the money box being opened. But she and the priest had the only keys! This certainly wasn’t the priest—was someone picking the lock? Then she heard the familiar slithering sound of coins being poured out. Someone was taking the candle money! Someone was stealing from the church! She was angered and indignant but didn’t move. She’d heard too many horror stories about what happened to people who tried to stop robbers; she’d seen too many violent altercations on the city streets. But she was disappointed that it was too dark in the church to make out any details about the thief, so that she could report it to the priest and the police.

   There were more sounds: the back of the money box closing, the box being returned to its place. The thief would leave quickly now, she expected, but that did not happen. Instead, there was silence for a bit, and then she heard the sound of a match being struck. She watched as the upper right-hand corner candle flamed into life. The figure then bowed its head and stood still. Without thinking about what she was doing, she clutched the carry-bag to her chest, got to her feet, and moved quietly down the pew until she came to the center aisle. She started to hear different sounds, bits of softly spoken words. She crossed the aisle to get closer; the words became distinguishable.

   “…sorry, so sorry…not for me, for my mom…I’m sorry…” The figure bowed again and then turned away from the votive stand toward the front entrance. As she walked closer, the sound of her steps made the person turn in her direction and freeze in a half crouch, fists clenched.

   At that moment, the light came streaming in through the rose window. She thought of several things at once: the clouds breaking up, letting the light go through; the breathtaking beauty of so many colors falling across the stone floor, the pews, the votive stand; and a young man’s face. A very young man—actually a boy, with a very familiar-looking face. She suddenly realized that she was looking at the boy who had yanked away her carry-bag a few weeks ago. An intense fear washed over her as she noted his defensive stance, and then vanished as quickly as it had come. Why is that? she wondered. Why am I not afraid any more? And then she saw what had caught her eye, unconsciously—the glimmer of tears on his face, and an expression of guilt and shame.

   The light coming through the window widened as the clouds broke up more and more—widened further until the bright colors fell on her, too. The boy squinted, blinked, and then focused on where she was standing; he straightened up, and she saw instant recognition in his eyes. They both stood silently, staring at each other. We’re inside a rainbow, she thought obliquely. God’s rainbow. God’s promise. Why?

   She moved closer, half-expecting him to run away, but he didn’t. The clouds shifted again and the area of colored light shrunk, but still surrounded the two of them.

   There was a short silence. “You took the candle money,” she finally said, matter-of-factly. “You’ve been taking it for a while, haven’t you?”

   He looked at her in fear. “Yes,” he said, “but not for me! It’s for my mom, for her medicine. She’s sick, and the medicine costs a lot of money. More than we have…”

   “Is she going to get better?”

   The boy’s face crumpled and he looked down. “I don’t know. She’s been sick a long time.”

   There was more silence as she watched tears roll down the boy’s face. His fists clenched again, but she ignored it this time. Dear Lord, what should I do? she thought dispassionately—and then she knew. The colored lights coming through the window intensified briefly and then dimmed.

   She leaned forward and spoke quietly. “May I come and see your mother?” He looked up apprehensively. “No, not to tell on you. Just for a visit, to see how she’s doing?” She hesitated for a moment and then took some money out of her carry-bag and put it into his hand. “This is for you, for your mother’s medicine.”

   He stared at the money in his hand, and then said, “No! Take it back!” He dug the coins from the votive stand out of his pocket and tried to hand everything back to her. “I’ve taken that money lots of times---and I hurt you….” He collapsed onto his knees, sobbing.

   She carefully lowered herself to the floor, while holding on to the arm of a pew, and put her hand on his shoulder.

   “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept crying; his hands opened up and the money fell to the floor. She moved her own hand and gently touched his cheek. He looked at her. “How can you be nice to me? I steal from God and I hurt you!”

   “You are sorry. God forgives you—I forgive you.”

   He took a breath and spoke again. “How can you forgive me? I was mean—I laughed at you and I threw that bag at you. You fell over and cried out. I did that.”

   She picked up the money and handed it back to him, folding his hand tightly over it. “I’m all right. And you will be, too. Go home to your mother and take care of her. Come back here and pray any time you like. God sees your candle and hears your prayers. He heard you say that you’re sorry.”

   The boy reached out his other hand tentatively and put it on hers; all their hands were clasped together now. “I’m so sorry, so sorry,” he repeated in a whisper.

   For a while, neither of them moved. Around them, the colors from the windows shone even brighter.

Copyright 2020 by Mary M. Isaacs, from the book, "Lux Umbra Dei"

On LA Freeways

 

   She didn’t like driving through L.A. It was said (apocryphally, she was certain, as she’d never experienced it herself) that there were times when traffic was light. Oh, sure. She always found herself crawling as she passed familiar Los Angeles landmarks, no matter what time of day or night it was. But going completely around greater L.A.—via Bakersfield, Barstow, and San Bernardino—was only possible if you didn’t mind feeling that you were never going to get anywhere again for the rest of your life. Which was the same feeling she got when traveling through L.A. 

   So that alternate route wouldn’t help at all. 

   She was familiar with distance traveling, days-long traveling. As a child and a teenager, her father’s job transferred him every couple of years, which meant move after move. Before she went off to college, they’d lived in California (several locations), New Mexico, Arizona, and back to California again, burning through two grade schools, two middle schools, and three high schools, in her case. What she mainly remembered from all those moves, though, were the road trips. 

   Going back to Southern California to visit old friends and relatives meant days and days of driving, over long stretches of lonely Arizona and California desert highways, punctuated by stops at roadside motels. Fortunately, she was able to read in moving cars without getting sick, so that helped pass the time. But even that palled after a while, so there were hours of imagination, growing remembrances of and comparisons with road trips past, and absently watching the landscape go by while daydreaming. The license plate game helped, too, when her younger siblings got restless, or endless repeats of the alphabet game (one of her favorites—because, being the oldest, she always won). 

   Now grown up, she lived and worked as a teacher in Northern California, but some family members still lived in the south of the state. Every so often a trip to see them was necessary or required or desired. The current trip was one of those. Time was tight, as it needed to be shoehorned into a short break between summer school and the new school year. Some teachers were able to take the whole summer off, which would be ideal for her long-distance visiting, but she couldn’t afford to do that. QED, a lightning trip down south was in order—and that meant the L.A. freeways. Once again. 

   No longer a child in the back seat, but now the solo driver in the car, she was a little less able to completely daydream her way through traversing the gigantic urban sprawl, but practice had enabled some adeptness at this. Today’s trip brought some odd things to mind. While drifting along a packed freeway, averaging 0-5 mph, she looked speculatively at the repetitive exits, overpasses, and industrial buildings she was driving by. It occurred to her that if there were no street exit signs or mileage signs, she would have no idea where she was; it all looked the same, across nearly the whole of the city. Maybe it WAS all the same…maybe it wasn’t REAL…maybe she had left her usual reality for a California dreamin’ Twilight Zone. Her imagination clicked on, in high gear. 

  

   I drive and drive and drive and drive. I see nothing but acres of roadway, flyovers, entrances, exits, and interchanges, as far as the eye can see. And traffic. Traffic. TRAFFIC. More cars than I could ever imagine existing in my entire multiple decades of life. Is this really a road, or am I stuck in a slightly-mobile used car parking lot? If this gets any worse, we’ll be going backwards. 

   She peered into the cars on either side of her. Who were these people? Where were they going? Why were they jammed onto the freeway alongside her? What were they thinking as they stopped and started, stopped and started, etc.? When did they get on the road, and how far were they going? Did they wonder, as she always did, if they would ever get to their destinations? Her imagination sped on, unchecked. 

   These people must spend great chunks of their lives on these roads. In fact—she fantasized--what if they really spent their ENTIRE lives on these roads? The buildings I see off in the distance--what if they're not real constructions, but just false fronts (a la Disney) attached to overhead signs on the next freeway over? False fronts, suggesting a vast, (pseudo-) metropolis, masking the constant flow of traffic from one end to the other and back again. Circling endlessly, as people are born, grow, mature, and die while traveling in their cars... Slabs of apartment building false fronts, scrims of ticky-tacky houses, promising the constant commuters that there is settled, residential life available. Someday. For some people. 

    Just not them. 

   Maybe she would never stop driving. Maybe NONE of them were ever going to stop driving. Maybe they were just going to go creeping down those freeways forever… What she wouldn’t give right now for an open, barren stretch of Arizona highway. So what if it was hundreds of empty miles long? She’d at least be MOVING. 

   Passing countless faux-botanical cell phone towers ("Telecommute WHILE you commute!") augmented by matching faux-botanical foliage to line the freeways and decorate the median strips. Which is needed to replace actual, genuine foliage which withered and perished long ago, from the 10-lane-wide gulf stream of inexhaustible exhaust fumes. 

   Freeway exits to other freeways or to nowhere (essentially the same thing). Fast food places and gas stations along the sides of the freeways are pit stops (literally, recalling some gas station bathrooms). Electronics stores, for periodically upgrading cell phones. Targets, for replacing shoes worn out by constant accelerating and braking; replacing hats and sunglasses lost out the open windows; replacing clothes which have been ruined by disintegrating tacos, nacho cheese dip, chicken nugget grease, and hamburger sauce—or which have simply been outgrown; for stocking the cases of energy drinks needed to keep on driving. 

   She suddenly remembered a favorite Ashleigh Brilliant post card from the past (now, alas, lost). It had a line drawing of a cloverleaf interchange, with the following quote: It's really quite a simple choice: life, death, or Los Angeles. With Los Angeles ranking below death? 

   She glanced out both side windows and checked the rear-view mirror, as traffic ground to a complete halt. 

   Yep, seems legit.

_____________________________________________

Story by Mary M, Isaacs, copyright 2021. In her book, Hair of the Dog (see sidebar for link). 

   

The Sketch

A new short story by Mary M. Isaacs

   She set up her easel and chair not far from the corner and put her tackle box of charcoal and chalk pastels on a small table beside them. Then she manhandled the portable screen out of the back of her car and set it up close to the blank side wall of the building. She made sure to post the vendor’s permit from the city in a prominent place before displaying any of her artwork.

    God worked in such amazing ways, she told herself for the umpteenth time. Looking at the building across the street, she read the familiar words: “Planned Parenthood”. She had driven down this street innumerable times, as it was on the route between her home and where she worked. She could never pass by the clinic without feeling a touch of evil; she also felt sadness when she saw women going in or coming out. She wished it wasn’t there; she wished that one day she would drive by and it would have mysteriously disappeared and have been replaced by a bakery or a shoe repair shop or a small office building. Even a weedy empty lot would be preferable.

    There were better days, certainly, days when she saw people with pro-life signs standing outside the building. She knew they were there praying. With all her heart she wished she could stand there, too, with them—but even as the thought crossed her mind, fear clamped down and she felt a cold sweat starting. She wished she weren’t so afraid, she wished she had more personal courage, but she knew herself too well. It had always been like that for her. She prayed for God to take away her negative reactions, to give her courage so she could participate, but the fears remained. Until that day, a few weeks ago…

-------------------------

    It was pure coincidence (right!) which led her to read that week’s online message from city hall. Amongst boring notices about committee meetings, the predictable police log, and the regular civic cheerleading post from the mayor, was an interesting announcement—about street artists wanted. The city council had voted to try an experiment to encourage weekend foot traffic downtown. It was announced that any local artist could apply for a vendor’s permit by submitting examples of their work; if accepted, they could set up to display and sell their work downtown on weekends, in locations to be chosen in order of application.

    She had read and reread the announcement. She was not a professional artist, not even a prolific one! But she had taken a couple of introductory sketching classes at the community college. Her classmates—and more importantly, the instructor—had liked her work, simple as it was. She hoped the city council would agree, because she had JUST the right site picked out: across the street from Planned Parenthood! She would then have a perfectly good reason for being there. She could sit and sketch—and no one would ever guess the real reason she was there.

    The portfolio she eventually submitted to the city council committee was pretty thin, but she had included her best work. While she waited, she bought a better easel, invested in new charcoals and pastels, and searched online for a portable display screen. When the acceptance information was emailed to her, she was jubilant. She emailed her thanks and her desired location; she received an immediate okay. Everything was working out as she had planned--and as God had directed.

    For several weeks, she spent most of her Saturdays sketching across the street from the clinic. A couple of people stopped to look at her artwork, but no one bought anything. That didn’t matter, because her most important task was being accomplished: prayer. She angled her chair so she could watch the entrance to the clinic while she was sketching. Women—and some men—walked in and out most of the day. Some were inside for a long time….. She prayed for them all, and for the unborn children who soon would be no more.

----------------------

    One Saturday, while she was sketching from a photograph, she noticed a young woman come around the corner across the street. The woman walked slowly up to the clinic door and stood there; she seemed to be reading the hours sign. She then walked back and forth in front of the building several times, occasionally stopping at the door, and finally sat down on the edge of one of the sidewalk planters that dotted the street on both sides. She clasped her hands in front of her and looked down.

    After watching the woman’s movements closely, the artist prayed, Lord, please stop her from entering. She then made herself as obvious as possible, by rising and rearranging the display of her sketches on the screens, adjusting the position of her easel, and repositioning her chair. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that the young woman across the street had noticed and was watching her. The artist then sat back down and started setting up her chalks, while continuing to pray: Send her over here, Lord—take her away from that place.

    The young woman stood up, crossed the street, and took her time looking at the pictures on the portable screen. “These are nice,” she said finally. “I really like the flower pictures, all the pretty colors. I wish I could draw.”

    “Thank you,” said the artist with a smile, as she continued to pray silently. All of a sudden, she stopped abruptly, as if listening to something. Then she looked at the young woman and said, “I…I hope you don’t mind my asking, but may I sketch you? It won’t take long and it’s good practice for me. You have an interesting face.” At that, the young woman blushed a bit and started to shake her head. “Oh, you can have the sketch afterwards! Or we’ll throw it away if you don’t like it. No one will ever see it but you and me. It’s just for practice…” she pleaded.

    The young woman thought for a moment and then agreed shyly; she sat down on the edge of the sidewalk planter. “Does my hair look okay?” she asked as she poked at it. “How should I sit? What do you want me to do?”

    “You don’t have to do anything particular,” the artist replied. “Just relax and smile.”

    The artist began right away with black charcoal; a little later she started to add in colors here and there. She worked quickly, the image blossoming on the paper as if it were being transmitted rapidly through her fingers--as indeed it was, she realized later.

    After a short while, the artist put down her charcoal and chalks and said, “Done!” She unfastened the paper from the easel and handed it to the young woman, who took it eagerly, with an air of mixed anticipation and skepticism—until she saw the picture for the first time.

    The young woman took a quick breath and turned pale, then sat as if turned to stone. She looked up at the artist quickly, and then back down at the picture. A range of emotions passed over her face—enough to have kept the artist busy for days, if sketching had been on her mind. Instead, she focused entirely on her internal prayers. There was a long silence.

    “We can throw the picture away if you don’t like it,” the artist repeated.

    The young woman frowned slightly and started to hand the paper back, but then brought it closer, with her eyes fixed on it. “How did you know?” she whispered, looking up again. The artist gestured across the street with her hand but said nothing. There was more silence while the young woman looked back down at the picture, hands slightly trembling.

    Finally, the artist spoke quietly. “I wasn’t being entirely truthful when I said you had an interesting face. You can see that you have a beautiful face. Your baby’s face will be beautiful, too—that part was easy to draw.” She tipped her head sideways and looked at the young woman. “So, shall we throw it away?”

    The young woman said nothing for a long time. Then she stood up slowly, holding the sketch. “No,” she said, with the beginning of a smile. “I’m not going to throw it away. Thank you.” Then she turned and walked to the corner and crossed the street—away from the artist and away from the clinic. Maybe also away from her doubts? The artist hoped so, fervently.

    There was complete silence afterwards. No cars drove past, no people walked along either street. The artist sat back in her chair and dusted her hands off. In her mind she could still see the simple sketch she had done of the mother and the child; she knew it was one of the best pictures she had ever drawn. For a few seconds she was sorry it was gone, that she would never see it again—but then she closed her eyes and gave humble thanks. She was certain that God wouldn’t take that image away forever. No sketch would be needed after she saw the young woman again because she wouldn’t be alone—the artist would see both mother and child. She was certain of that.

    Her sketch of the young woman and the baby had been beautiful. She knew that the reality would be even more so.

_________________________________________________________________________ 

 Copyright 2023 by Mary M. Isaacs, from a forthcoming book

Realm

A new short story 

    It was a plain little building with a small yard in front. She had discovered it one day as she was walking in the woods near her home. It looked like it had been unoccupied for some time, as the path to it was overgrown with grass and there were decaying leaves covering the front step. The walls were weathered but looked intact. Curious, she walked up to it and tried the door; it was unlocked. She opened it carefully and looked inside.

   It was just one room, with a window in the center of the other three walls. There was no furniture, no rug, no curtains, nothing at all except the door and the windows. She stepped in slowly, in case the wooden floor wasn’t safe--but as it felt quite solid underfoot, she crossed to the window opposite the door and looked out.

   A meadow lay behind and a bit below the little house. It was deserted. Grasses bent and swayed in the wind and myriads of brightly colored wildflowers trembled as the breezes passed over them. The branches of the encircling fir trees moved endlessly. That’s strange, she thought. The air had been quite still when she walked into the building. But the wind was undoubtedly blowing now; it caused long ripples to roll across a pond which was in the middle of the meadow. The wind must have come up quickly.

   She wanted to get a better look at the pretty wildflowers, so she went outside and walked around the side of the house toward the back—and then stopped dead in her tracks. Behind the building there was nothing but a small, weed-covered yard, surrounded by a hedge of bramble bushes in front of some scraggly trees. The air was completely still, as it had been before she entered the little house. There was no grassy meadow, no flowers, no pond, no wind. She looked back at the house—there wasn’t even a window to be seen; nothing but a blank wooden wall covered with peeling paint. She slowly circled the entire structure and realized that although there were windows in the side walls, there was no opening in the back wall at all.

   She re-entered the house and looked through the side windows; all she saw was what she had just walked through. But the back window—which seemed not to exist in external reality!—still looked out over a meadow with a pond in the middle.

   How could this be? She didn’t know what to think. As she stood, completely mystified, her thoughts were interrupted by something unexpected. Emerging from the trees was a person carrying a bucket. This person—it was a man—walked around the pond, filled his bucket, and then turned to water a small sapling she hadn’t noticed at first, which was planted to the right of the pond. It seemed to be a different sort of tree than the others around the clearing; she supposed that the man had planted it there himself, perhaps.

   After giving the small tree a few bucketsful of water, he stood for a while, looking at it, and then started to walk back the way he came. She rushed out of the little house to see if, by chance, there was anyone behind it—but she saw only the yard with weeds, as before. She turned and ran back around the house and through the front door to the far window, to catch only a glimpse of the man as he disappeared into the forest the way he came.

   She stood at the window for a long time, thinking. After a while, she examined it closely to see how it opened. It was an old-fashioned, sash-type window—the kind where the lower pane slides up and stays up until it is pulled down again. She raised the lower pane and was instantly struck in the face by fresh air blowing into the room, filled with all kinds of forest meadow scents. And there was something else, too: a subtle sound, just over the edge of her hearing, as of music barely heard. Soothing music, beautiful music. She tried to quiet her thoughts in order to hear it better, but too many questions and speculations were circling around in her mind.

   She put her arm out the window and touched the outside walls. They felt normal to her, just as she would have expected the little house’s ordinary wooden walls to feel. Leaning out the window slightly, she looked straight down. From that vantage point, she could see that there was no backyard at all. The house was at the edge of a rise and a slope led down towards the meadow; a faint path led to and around the pond.

   She wondered, could the man see the house when he was in the meadow, or was it as invisible to him as the clearing was to her when she was outside the house in its tiny backyard? It was too complex a question for her to pursue.

   Quite some time passed as she waited by the window, looking out over the pond and the meadow and the trees. Would the man come back? But the only movements she saw were those of a few birds flying low, and the wind-caused ripples on the pond.

   The light began to fade; reluctantly she pulled down the sash and left the little house. She had a lot to think about on her way home….

-----------------

   Although the mysterious little house had puzzled her quite a bit, she was too busy to visit it again until several days had passed. She had her job and other tasks and responsibilities which occupied her time. Still, she found herself thinking about it, and about the man, at odd moments; it was certainly too strange to forget. Finally, she found the time to return.

   It was a very warm day. As she approached the house, she hoped it would be cooler inside. I should have worn a hat, she thought, Then I wouldn’t be sweating so much.

   She walked up to the door. But instead of entering right away, she veered off to the side to take a quick look around the back. It looked exactly as before—a weedy yard with a brambly hedge. And it was even hotter there, due to the sun’s heat reflecting off the blank wooden wall. She looked at the unbroken expanse. “Where are you, window?” she asked out loud, with amusement. Because of the heat, however, she hurried to retrace her steps and go into the house.

   She walked straight across the room to the back window and threw it open—only to be hit in the face by a few windblown raindrops. She was startled for a moment and then laughed out loud. I should have guessed that it wouldn’t be the same weather! she thought to herself. I wonder if it is ever the same? I’ll bet not.

   There was no sign of the man. Maybe the rain was keeping him at home--wherever that home was. She leaned on the windowsill, enjoying the cool, damp air and the occasional raindrops. The coolness revived her and the rain caused the grasses and flowers to look even brighter and more inviting than ever. She had a moment of intense longing and then realized that she needed to go home. She closed the window reluctantly, and left in the heat of the day.

----------------------

   For weeks she visited and watched, or was it months? Oh, yes, it was months, and more than just a few—but how many? She couldn’t tell. Looking out the window at the big meadow became very important to her. At first. it happened only once in a while. Then more frequently, then regularly, until finally it was almost every day. Some of the time he wasn’t there, but she could see evidence of his presence: a book or a jacket, or fishing tackle left beside the pond. She stayed and watched a long time then, but he seldom returned for his belongings during the times she was there. On those days, she left the little house sadly.

   But sometimes he WAS there when she looked through the window, busy doing various things: scything the tall, green grasses in the meadow, clearing the paths, pruning dead branches from the trees. Sometimes he was just resting in the grass, watching a bird perched on the sapling across the pond or watching the clouds moving across the sky. She knew he had come to know that she was there, even though he was usually self-absorbed in what he was doing. Sometimes he waved at her; a few times he bowed in mock homage. That pleased her intensely. And under everything, when he was there, were the faint sounds of music—the most beautiful music she had ever heard.

   She continued to watch him through the round of window-seasons. Did it seem to be spring? He was tending to all the riotously colored flowers. Was it summer-warm? He often swam or fished in the pond. In autumn-like days, he cleared fallen leaves; in the snows of seeming winter, he scattered food for the animals. Occasionally he even threw snowballs at her window. She always ducked and laughed; she could almost see the mischievous expressions on his face. She was content to watch, and approve, and be entranced by his continuous activities.

-----------------------------

   The seasons of watching rolled on, year after year. It was now an established part of her life, often seeming more real than the other things she did every day. She crossed the lines back and forth enough times that everything seemed to her to be connected, to be one reality instead of two.

--------------------

   Finally, there came a day….

   In the world outside the window, it had snowed again. Even though the little house was warm enough, she breathed in crisp, cold air from the winter weather beyond and rubbed her arms. I’m not dressed for this… she thought with amusement.

   The pond was frozen, snow covered the ground, and the distant tree branches were frosted with white. A beautiful red bird perched on the sapling. Everything was calm and peaceful. Looking around, she noticed a trail of footprints in the snow, running from the tree line to the edge of the pond. She smiled, knowing that he had been there, but sorry that she had missed seeing him once again.

   She continued to gaze at the wintery scene, hoping he would come back. She had learned long ago that he didn’t seem to mind any kind of weather, even deep snow. But something started nagging at her, bothering her, worrying her. She looked carefully through the window, wondering what was wrong—and then all at once she knew: there was only one set of footprints. One set only, leading from the trees to the water. No footprints back or leading anywhere else. He had walked to the water’s edge and then—what? What did he do? Where did he go? Where was he? The footprints looked too perfect for him to have retraced his steps exactly, back to the trees. Could he have walked across the ice-covered pond? But there were no footprints leading away from it on any side. He had vanished. Where was he? Then she thought—had the water been frozen when he arrived at its edge? Or had it frozen….afterward?

   Fear and dread filled her. Where was he? Had he fallen into the water? She knew he could swim, but the water was surely too cold for swimming. Panic struck her all of a sudden. Was he at the bottom of the frozen-over pond? She couldn’t bear that thought. Without a moment’s hesitation, she climbed up onto the windowsill, swung her legs over, and pushed herself out and away from the wall…

   …and found herself falling, falling, falling into darkness and flashes of color and fragments of music. Falling endlessly, as she thought only of trying to reach him, to find him, to pull him back into life. If he was gone, how could she go on? There would be no light, no color, no music; nothing anymore—never again, never anymore. She had to find him.

…falling slowly and endlessly in darkness—a darkness that abruptly became extremely cold. And then she stopped falling because she had landed, feather-light, in his arms. Startled, she stared up at his face, taking in details she had never yet seen. He looked back at her, silently. Nothing else for a long time, while something crystallized in her heart.

   “Why are you here?” he asked, finally.

   “Where were you? I couldn’t see you.”

   “I was here.”

   “But there weren’t enough footprints—I didn’t know where you were—I was afraid for you…”

   “You don’t need to worry about me.” He smiled and carefully placed her on her feet, and then stepped back. She felt colder instantly—snow still lay all around them. She shivered a little.

   “Are you cold?” When she nodded, he said, “Get warmer,” and opened his arms. After a brief hesitation, she took a step forward—paused—and then moved into the embrace. The coldness receded and his warmth enveloped her. Nothing in her life had ever felt so right. She never wanted to move again.

   Too soon, though, he relaxed his hold on her and looked at her directly. “Your life is up there.” He gestured with a nod of his head toward the little house on the hill.

   She looked at the house for a moment and then back at him. “True,” she replied. The window was still there in that wall; she could climb back through it and go home.

   “Mine is here,” he stated briefly.

   After a moment, she said, “Is there room for anything more in your life?”

   He looked at her amusedly. “You don’t know anything at all about my life except this little piece of it.”

   “You are still you, wherever you are. Is there room?”

   There was a long silence. ““Maybe.”

   “Maybe?” 

   Silence again. “Maybe.”

_____________________________________________________

Copyright 2023, Mary M. Isaacs

From a forthcoming book

Hidden in Plain Sight

  Continuing our retrospective of Mary M. Isaacs' short stories...This one was published here June 8, 2020

   There hadn’t been any public burnings for a while. The State had decided that “out of sight, out of mind” was the best policy for destruction, now that the people had been conditioned to know what was allowed and what wasn’t. Many things were regulated or banned outright—art and literature and religion especially—and sparks of intellectual creativity had been few and far between for a long time. Certain topics only were allowed for books, certain subjects only for artwork. Everything else had been forbidden or destroyed. The Guards had made sure of that.

   John remembered witnessing frequent burnings many years ago, when he was a child. One had been for forbidden art. There had been a large pile of beautiful paintings, mostly portraits, and he had watched with unexpected pain and anger as the Guards threw the artwork into the fire. The colorful images darkened and then burst into hot flame until they were entirely consumed. Years later, he understood that pain, as he discovered a love for art within himself and eventually trained to be a landscape and florals painter, the only art subjects now allowed by the State. But in the back of his mind was always the memory of the fiery destruction of beauty; deep inside his soul he remained angry at the restrictions and waste.

   The creators of forbidden art and the authors and publishers of forbidden books were never seen again. “Exile” was the whispered explanation, which spread throughout the population. Other kinds of contraband had been publicly destroyed, as ominous and pointed examples. People fell into line eventually and the burnings became rarer. But John never forgot.

   He knew how to keep secrets. His parents and grandparents had been quiet but committed Christians and had carried their faith undetected to the grave. John had no family now, but he had the legacy of their faith in full measure. He did not know any other Christians personally, nor did he attend any of the underground, illegal house churches that existed in his city—tiny groups which operated semi-independently, for security’s sake—but he was in touch with them through a carefully constructed network. This network had been painstakingly set up in order that nothing could be traced from them back to him, because some of his artwork was destined for those house churches: John was the secret painter of the Holy Cross icons.

   In certain of his paintings, John hid the shape of the Cross of Christ.

Nick at Night

Continuing our retrospective of Mary M. Isaacs' short stories...This one was published here December 6, 2020

   The coffee shop owner looked up as the door opened. When he saw who had come in, he grinned widely. “Hey, Nick, how’s it going?” and then he glanced at the clock on the wall. “You just barely made it on time! I was about to lock up.” 

   The young man walked to the counter. “Sorry, Mr. Collins, but I was kept late at work. I’m glad you’re still open. How many were turned in today?” 

   The owner opened the cash register. From underneath the till he pulled out several laminated red cards. “Eight, Nick,” as he handed them over. “All coffee drinkers this time. Pretty nice guys, too—they all said to tell you ‘thanks.’ Oh, and I wiped those down for you.” 

   “Eight?” replied the young man. “There should be a couple more. I wonder where they are? I hope those guys are okay…” He looked worried. 

   “Maybe they’re saving them for some time special. Maybe they didn’t see them and left them behind. Maybe they got lost.” The coffee shop owner spoke cheerfully, trying to inject a positive note. “They’ll turn up, Nick.” 

   “Maybe so.” The young man took the cards and then rummaged in his pocket. “I hope I have enough to cover these, Mr. Collins. Payday isn’t until tomorrow.” And he started counting out bills onto the counter. The coffee shop owner watched the process anxiously. 

   The young man finished counting and looked up apologetically. “Gosh, Mr. Collins, I’m so sorry. There’s not enough to pay for them all. I should try to plan things out better. I guess I’m not very good at budgeting.” 

   “Don’t worry about it, Nick. I know you’re good for it.” The owner gathered up the money and put it away in the till. Then he shut the cash register drawer. “Are you going out again tonight?” 

   “Yes. It’s going to be extra cold overnight, the weatherman says. They’ll need something to warm them up in the morning.” 

   “Well, then, you’ll need something too. I’ll make you a hot chocolate. You can pay me tomorrow.” The coffee shop owner started fixing a hot drink for the young man. 

   “Thank you, Mr. Collins. And don’t forget to let me know if you need some extra cleaning done before I come in Saturday morning.” 

   The coffee shop owner nodded and then handed over the hot chocolate. The young man took it to one of the small tables, sat down, and opened his shoulder pack. Out of it he pulled several envelopes. He put one of the red cards in each of the envelopes, sealed it, and wrote a few words on the front. Then he put the small stack of envelopes in his jacket pocket. After he finished, he took a little time to enjoy his hot chocolate, looking around the little coffee shop he knew so well. Where should he go tonight, he wondered. He’d already been downtown a couple of times recently. Maybe one of the freeway overpasses? Yeah, that would be good. Maybe a couple of the overpasses. There were some out-of-the-way places there, sheltered places for someone sleeping outside all night. 

   He gradually realized that the owner was putting things away for the night. The young man got up and helped him to wash the tables and stack the chairs. Afterwards, as he slung on his shoulder pack and was getting ready to leave, the coffee shop owner called him over to the display counter. 

   “Pick out a couple of doughnuts for the road, Nick—on the house.” 

   “But I already owe you for the chocolate and some of the extra coupons, Mr. Collins.” 

   “You need energy for this job, Nick! Here—this is your favorite kind, isn’t it?” He put two oversized jelly doughnuts into a bag. “Take a couple of napkins, too, for spilled jelly.” 

   “Yeah, I know--it always gets all over my chin,” the young man laughed. “Thanks, Mr. Collins.” 

   “Happy distributing, Nick—stay safe!” 

   The owner walked to the door with the young man, clapped him on the shoulder, and then locked the door after him. He watched the young man through the glass door as he walked away into the fading light. That Nick! He sure is something! Then he turned around to finish closing up. 

……………………. 

   Early the next morning, the coffee shop owner was busy setting things up for the day. He opened the big boxes of doughnuts that had just been delivered and looked with satisfaction at the tempting contents. He put a couple of jelly doughnuts aside and then filled the pastry trays in the display cabinet. 

   Just as he finished setting out the doughnuts, a man came into the shop. He was dressed in a business suit and had the air of being a little out of his element. In spite of that, he walked up to the counter expectantly. 

   “May I help you?” asked the shop owner. 

   “Well, I hope so,” the businessman said. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a red card. 

   The owner’s eyebrows shot up and he looked startled. “Are you turning this in?” 

   “Turning it in?” The businessman looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh! no. No, I’m not here for…” and he read aloud what was printed on the card. “ ‘A free hot drink of your choice and two doughnuts at Collins’ Café’ .“ He looked up at the shop owner as he handed over the card. “I found this on the street where I usually park my car. Someone dropped it, I imagine. Looked interesting, well-designed, so I thought I’d come and ask about it. Is this some kind of promotion?” 

   “No, it’s not a promotion.” 

   “Well, why do you give these out?” 

   “I don’t give these out.” 

   “But it’s from your shop! You have to know how people get these! Is this some kind of scam?” 

   “No, it’s not a scam!” the coffee shop owner answered heatedly. Then he looked at the businessman for a while, trying to decide how much to explain. Finally, something about the man’s demeanor helped him make up his mind. “Okay, there’s this young guy, see? I’ve known him since he was a kid. Used to come here with his mama—he liked the jelly doughnuts.” The owner laughed. “He’d pick out the goopiest one, and always got the jelly all over his face.” He stopped, lost in memories. 

   “He’s not a kid any more, is he?” prompted the businessman. 

   The shop owner shook himself back to the present. “No, he’s grown up now— well, not too grown up! He still lives here, he has a job, and he still likes jelly doughnuts. Anyway, he came in one day with this idea… He saw guys sleeping outdoors all night and it made him feel bad. He knew he couldn’t do much to help but figured out a way to do something nice for them. He made up one of these cards—the coupon you brought in?—and asked me if I’d honor them. He’d pay me for every coupon that was turned in, and he said he’d come in once a week and do extra cleaning. He figured that the guys might not be the cleanest in the world—not their fault!—and as the whole thing was his idea, he didn’t want me to have to do more cleaning. So that’s what it is. He distributes the coupons, the guys bring them in, and they get doughnuts and a hot drink.” 

   “Quite a set-up,” said the businessman. 

   “Yeah, Ni—,” the coffee shop owner caught himself. “He’s pretty smart. Well, thanks for bringing in the coupon. He’ll be glad to know it was just lost. He knows exactly how many he gives out, and it bothers him when some are missing. He worries about the guys he gives them to. Hey, how about a cup of coffee on the house? As an appreciation for bringing in the coupon.” 

   “A cup of black coffee would be fine, thank you. I have a few minutes before I have to be at work.” 

   “Go ahead and sit down anywhere. I’ll bring it to you.” 

   The businessman walked over to a small table by a window. He sat down and looked around the shop. It was small but home-y. He liked being there and wondered why that was. There was nothing special about the furnishings or the décor, but there was just—something. It was just a nice place. 

   The owner came to the table with a large cup of coffee. “Black, like you wanted. But if you change your mind, there’s cream and sugar on that shelf there.” After setting down the cup, the owner turned to go back to work—but his eye was caught by movement outside the glass door. Someone was standing there, looking at something he held in his hand; something red. 

   The coffee shop owner strode to the door and opened it. “Hey, is that one of our coupons? Come on inside!” He held the door open and ushered the man in, almost by sheer strength of will. “Would you like some coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate? Here, put your stuff down at this table and come pick out your doughnuts. There’s a lot to choose from this morning—not too many customers yet!” 

   The man went over to a table and set down a backpack and bedroll. Then he met the coffee shop owner at the counter and handed him the red card. “I found this on the ground beside me when I woke up this morning.” 

   “Just passing through?” The owner asked. 

   “No, I live here. Well, here and there…” 

   “I understand, man. I see your bedroll. Coffee?’’ The homeless man nodded in reply. “Which doughnuts would you like?” The owner filled a large coffee cup as he spoke. 

   The man looked at the doughnuts. “These all look really good. I can have any two I want?” 

   “Sure,” the owner said, “anything you like.” 

   After a few moments’ deliberation, the homeless man indicated two bars— maple- and chocolate-covered. 

   “Good choices!” said the owner, as he put them on a plate and handed it over the display cabinet. “And here’s your coffee. Cream and sugar are over there,” he indicated the shelf. 

   The homeless man took his doughnuts to the table, set the plate down, and walked over for cream and sugar. He then sat down and began on one of the doughnuts. 

   The shop owner continued to set up for the day. He brought plates and cups out of a small kitchenette behind the counter and stacked them, ready for use. He refilled utensil containers and wiped down the serving area. From time to time he glanced at the two men in the shop; after a while he took the coffee pot to offer refills. The businessman accepted more coffee, and then the owner went to the other occupied table. He saw with satisfaction that one of the doughnuts was gone. “Good doughnuts, right?” he said, and held up the pot. The homeless man nodded and pushed his cup over for the refill. 

   As the owner poured more coffee, the homeless man asked, “Who does this? The coupons, I mean. Is it you?” 

   The coffee shop owner shook his head. “Then who does it?” “Sorry, man, I can’t tell you that. But he’s a good guy.” 

   “Yeah,” the homeless man took a drink of his coffee. “A really good guy.” 

   The shop owner returned to the counter and busied himself between there and the kitchenette. The businessman sipped at his coffee and alternated between watching the homeless man and watching the owner. The homeless man ate the second doughnut and drank his coffee. It was quiet and peaceful in the shop. 

   When he had finished, the homeless man brought his cup and plate to the counter and then returned to the table and started to gather up his things. 

   “Wait,” the shop owner called over to him. “You get a takeout sandwich, too.” And he started pulling supplies out of a refrigerator. 

   “I do?” the homeless man was surprised. The businessman shifted in his seat and took another drink of his coffee, watching over the rim of the cup. 

   “Sure—what kind would you like? Turkey? Ham? Roast beef?” 

   “Wow—roast beef would be great, thank you.” 

   “Whole wheat or white bread? And all the fixings?” 

   “White bread, please. And lettuce and tomato, if that’s okay.” 

   “Cheddar cheese?” 

   The homeless man nodded and then looked around him. The coffee shop owner pointed to the far corner of the shop. “Bathroom’s over there. This’ll be ready for you in a jiffy.” 

   As the man went towards the bathroom, the shop owner continued to prepare a big sandwich. He also wrapped up a large dill pickle and got a small bottle of water from the refrigerator. He put all the items into a paper bag. The businessman watched silently. 

   After finishing, the owner walked to the end of the counter and leaned over some equipment. All of a sudden, soft Christmas music began to play. At the same time, the homeless man returned from the bathroom and put on his backpack. He stopped and listened for a moment, and then said, “That’s right—Christmas is coming soon.” 

   The coffee shop owner walked over with the bag. “Here’s your sandwich. I hope you enjoy it.” 

   “I will, thank you!” The homeless man smiled and took the bag. “And please thank that guy who gave me the coupon.” He then picked up his bedroll and left the shop. 

   The owner walked to the door to watch him go. Then he got a wet rag and cleaned off the table where the man had been sitting, and straightened the chairs. When he finished that, he returned to the counter and started clearing away the sandwich makings. When he finally turned around, the businessman was at the counter looking at him. 

    “Would you like anything else? Coffee refill? A doughnut maybe?” the owner asked. 

   “A sandwich isn’t on the coupon,” the businessman said, matter-of-factly. 

   The coffee shop owner shrugged. “It’s just part of the deal.” 

   “I don’t think so. That’s all you, isn’t it? Your contribution. Does the other guy know about that?” 

   “No, he doesn’t--and he’s not going to know! I’m just paying it forward. The other guy, he’s the one. It was all his idea, right from the start. HE goes out at night and gives out the coupons. HE knows where the homeless folks are. HE comes in here and does extra cleaning, just in case the coupon guys track in dirt or whatever. He does all the work. But I’ve seen how it makes people happy, so--I just wanted to help.” 

   “Me, too,” said the businessman, and he pulled a wallet from his back pocket. He took out a bill and handed it to the café owner. “Here—sandwiches for the next few coupons that are redeemed. My treat.” Then he turned and walked out the door. 

   The shop owner watched him go, in surprise, and then finally looked at what he held in his hand. It was a hundred-dollar bill. 

   He stared at it for a few moments, and then grinned widely. That Nick! His idea just keeps getting bigger and better! He put the bill and the red card into the cash register and went to clean the table by the window. The Christmas music continued playing as the owner hummed along: 

   “In the bleak mid-winter/Frosty wind made moan; 

Earth stood hard as iron/Water like a stone; 

Snow had fallen, snow on snow/Snow on snow, 

In the bleak mid-winter/Long ago…. 

What can I give Him/Poor as I am? 

If I were a Shepherd/I would bring a lamb; 

If I were a Wise Man/I would do my part, 

Yet what I can I give Him/Give my heart.”

-----------------

 From the carol, “In the Bleak Mid-Winter”; lyrics by Christina Rossetti, music by Gustav Holst.

Mary M. Isaacs, Copyright 2020

From the book "Hidden in Plain Sight"

Hair of the Dog

 Continuing our retrospective of Mary M. Isaacs' short stories...This one was published here Apr. 3, 2022

   

 

    "Hey, John! C'mere! Dobby's got something treed!" Alex ran across the big backyard to the old oak tree near the fence. The dog was standing on his hind legs with his front paws on the tree trunk, barking loudly. "What ya got, Dobs?" He looked up through the branches but couldn't see anything. Just then, there was a rustling above him and an acorn came flying down, almost hitting him. "A squirrel, huh? Good dog!" Dobby kept looking up and barking as he jumped around the bottom of the tree.

    Alex yelled over his shoulder, "John! Get out here!" He searched the ground, looking for a good throwing rock. All he could find were acorns; he knew they were no good for throwing INTO the tree. Then Alex remembered his jacket pockets; he always had something useful in his pockets. He dug around in them. Sure enough, there were a few rocks, just the perfect size and weight for throwing. He looked back up through the branches and thought he spied a grey squirrel tail overhead. He took aim and let fly with a rock. It whammed into the tree right near where he'd seen the tail; there was a loud scrabbling sound as the squirrel jumped out of the tree and raced along the fence.

    "Yeah, Dobby! We sure chased that squirrel away!" He sat down on the ground and rubbed the dog's head. In no time the two were rolling around on the ground, Alex laughing and Dobby licking his face endlessly.

    After a few moments, Alex stood up and brushed himself off. He looked at the upstairs windows. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, "John, you missed it! We got that squirrel without you!" He started back inside while Dobby lay down to rest in the shade. As Alex came through the back door, he peeled off his jacket and tossed it on the back of the kitchen chair. "John, you shoulda been there!" Alex called out, as he ran up the stairs. His brother was always missing the fun...

# # # # # # #

    "Alex, where did all this dog hair come from? Was there someone with a dog in your office today? Or did one jump on you on the way home?"

    Alex came down the stairs and entered the kitchen. He looked over her shoulder; sure enough, there was brown dog hair all over his jacket. He grinned, "I was outside playing with Dobby."

    "Dobby? Who's Dobby?" She asked him as she tried to brush the hair off the fabric.

    He frowned slightly. "Dobby, my dog--actually, he belongs to me and John."

    She stopped what she was doing and faced him directly. "John? Your brother John?"

    "Yeah, Dobby’s our dog, John's and mine. I was just in the backyard, playing with him. We chased a squirrel out of the big oak tree."

    She glanced out the window at their small patio and then got a peculiar expression on her face. "Alex...your brother John died when you were both in grade school. You told me that before we got married. And we don't have an oak tree--or a dog. " She gestured out the window as she continued to look at him.

    Alex stared at his wife. What was she saying? He turned towards the window. All he could see was a cinder block wall and a metal patio table with two chairs. He looked back down at the dog hair on his jacket. It was the same color as Dobby's; he'd seen that too many times to be mistaken. He took the jacket from her hands and, after some thought, searched the pockets. He felt something in one pocket and pulled his hand out.

    Sure enough, it was a couple of rocks --just the perfect size and weight for throwing.

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@2021, by Mary M. Isaacs

From the book Hair of the Dog. As seen on the sidebar.