If it can make you stronger

it can kill you

personally, I like

the sentiment

but respectfully disagree

Sunday in the diner

walking in, a homeless guy

hits me and my buddy

up for

one dollar

to get a dollar burger

my buddy waits by the door

and I think about it

the homeless guy mentions

something about showing me

some kind of homeless card

or crazy card he has

and I pull a five-spot from

my wallet

he snatches it:

"Thanks, man. You're badass."

He walks off and I follow

my buddy inside and he looks at

me and smiles

I scratch my protruding gut:

"Tell me something I don't know, motherfucker."

We laugh and get our booth

order and eat while I watch

more homeless out

the window

peppering the outside

full with the scrubbed-clean

after-worship crowd

as they begin to pile in

for breakfast

I think about them

clean like soap

every Sunday

the industry of Christ

if we want to truly

help the homeless

and kill the national

deficit, provide true

and humanely

accessible health care,

and all the etceteras

that follow these,

tax the churches

but I take my thoughts

of these dead horse thoughts

of all this

and watch the sunlight

battle through

a bright grey sky

and the coffee

begins its coursing

while I remember all

the love and hate

and platitudes and

erase them from my

mind at once

and realize that because or

in spite of

everything around me

I am happy

and think back to my favorite

Nietzsche quote:

The Trouble With Happiness

"Now everything I touch turns out to be wonderful. Now I love any fate which comes my way. Who feels like being my fate?"

USA, 1908: Charles Guthrie "successfully" creates the first two-headed dog. His surgery team stitched on the front half of a smaller dog to a bigger dog, just at the base of the neck. There was too long of a delay from the severing to the attachment, which left the smaller dog with the most basic of motor functions, and just barely that. The experiment was shut down due to ethical and moral objections to the entirety of the experiment and as to why they were attempting to play god and usurp the absolution of death. While it was shut down, the ramifications of this experiment and the curiosity of humankind to tame and abate death would persist.

USSR, 1959: Vladimir Demikhov took this little and quite unsuccessful experiment and created an experimental surgery research laboratory to conduct it on his own. He recruited the best medical, scientific, and surgical minds from the vast and intellectually cultured Soviet Union. Over 20 puppies were sewn to adult dogs, and the results were astonishingly improved compared to the Guthrie experiment, with one miraculously living to 29 days. Demikhov later wrote Experimental Transplantation of Vital Organs, in which he commented on one of the tests, “...that the attached puppy attempted to pull himself free from the adult dog, as if to get away.” The end product of these Russian experiments was supposed to be mechanical, obedient super soldiers. A dog's head piloting a heavily armed and armored weapon, ready to take commands and fight off the scourge that are the enemies of the USSR. Declassified files show that these mecha-soldiers were never able to be perfected, since the technology disallowed for the dogs to control anything other than their remaining muscles of their head. After the fall of the USSR, some records were found with photographic proof that scientists did attach the heads to a prototype suit, and records showing that the program was a complete failure.

Brazil, 2007: The first human head transplant is attempted in secrecy, since no hospital would allow the operation to be held there. Moments after the patient is put under, a task force of UN soldiers break into the hidden surgery room, and the surgical staff is put under arrest. The leak was sourced to a nurse, who remains anonymous to this day, who tipped off a friend at a foreign embassy of the mansion deep in the jungle where the operation was going to take place in the days following. The patient publicly demanded that the UN allow himself to be allowed to be operated on since he was diagnosed with a severe physical illness that would later be the cause of his death. Within four months, the surgery team was found guilty of ethical misconduct, and jailed for their attempts. All of the evidence for this operation is held by INTERPOL.

The lights come up in the hall. The audience shifts uneasily as a slideshow from the Soviet experiments continues to shuffle on the screen behind the stage. A man walks from a small row of seats just off to the side and a podium appears. He places his stack of index cards upon the podium and adjusts the microphone. The man turns and gestures towards a rather graphic still of surgery being conducted.

"What you have seen here is not the first, or the last, attempt by someone to defeat death by fusing two creatures together. There's some merit to the attempts, and they are not just to spit in the face of god or creator of any sort. Frankenstein's monster is probably the most well known literary example of an experiment such as this. This has been a fictional "warning" to anyone thinking of defeating death, that even if it is resurrected, whatever that was brought back cannot be bound to the morality of the living ever again. But again, this was just a purely fictional instance and nothing substantial really to hold anyone back from actually attempting such an experiment." The lecturer clicks the projector remote, and a photo set comes up of a bodiless dog, tubes circulating fluids from reservoirs and back into the severed neck. It's seemingly alive in some of them, with open eyes and an apparent interest in the chunk of meat that was dangled in front of it in one of the photos. "These are from another experiment, where the Soviets believed that they could create some type of artificial ground force made up of biomechanical soldiers with the head of a dog, because what is more loyal and obedient than a 4,000 pound, heavily armed and armored, mechanical, warrior-dog?" A few worried laughs echo from the audience.

The lecturer clicks the remote again, and a video queues on the large projector screen. It is of the same dog, and it is definitely alive. It looks like it is attempting to stand up, the cheek muscles flexing on the upward facing side of the dogs face. It has no idea that it is no longer attached to it's own body anymore and just a head on a laboratory surgery table. Just before the video ends, you can see the eyes fill up with fear and glaze over.

"As you can see, at the end of the clip, that the head 'dies' for the first time after being removed. The medical team resuscitated the head several times, and kept it alive for roughly a week. The experiment was deemed a failure due to lack of technology sophisticated enough to process the neural impulses to control the mechanical suit. What we can all call a success though is that they did keep the brain functioning and capable of controlling what was left of the dog for that duration of time. That was nearly two centuries ago, just around the time when antibiotics were created, the first successful kidney transplant was conducted, and medical science began to become a growing field. A time where the field of medical science was pulled out from the mire of theological oppression that kept its practices medieval in almost every facet. Today, we are on the precipice of immortality, and we're not afraid to take that leap, much like the forefathers that did these test and experiments all those years ago. Our people live longer, much longer, than previous generations, with many people living long past being a centurion. The current world record holder is still alive at the age of 165. Can you imagine what that person has been through? Imagine the technological advances that have occurred in the last 160 years? Even imagine the jumps in the last fifty years alone! It is absolutely miraculous what we are capable of doing now compared to then." The screen changes again, and it is littered with graphs, flowcharts, and statistics. "What we are here to do today, is show you that this technology is worth getting invested in, and you'd be incredibly surprised in how it is being tested today. We have successfully transferred over one thousand, yes, over one thousand, that's more than fifty five times more subjects than Demikhov, brain and spinal columns specimens from recently deceased lab rats to brand new specimens. In our best example, we had a complete neural re-networking connection.

Keep in mind, this new specimen was only tested in the experimental maze once, and its results were very poor, as most new test subjects tend to be. The entirety of these lab rats are born in a rat farm, and never have to eke out survival in the wild, so their instincts are somewhat dulled and take some time to flex their genetic memory of survival tactics. It had high levels of stress and barely moved within ten inches in any direction. It was clocked at being in the maze for one hour, and had no significant progress. On the other hand, the recently deceased lab rat was a veteran of the mazes and actually held a lab record of completing the maze and the puzzle box at the end in just under fifteen minutes. When the extraction and replacement was completed, and the rat was cleared for full duty in the trial lab again, we put it to the test; The results were just incredibly mind blowing. We tested the rat in the intermediate maze, and it cleared it within twenty minutes. The rat had retained the memory that stored its experiences in this maze, and even amazingly, recognized the intern who fed him, prior to his death, and was even friendly with her like he was before. This kind of absolute recall and return to normalcy is unheard of in the field of brain and spine transplantation. The specimen is here today, alive and well, take a look for yourself."

A cart with a plain metal cage on top of it was rolled out, and the rat was scurrying around lively, trying to get a fix on where it was. The lecturer opened the top of the cage and carefully picked up the brown and white rat. "As you can see, it's perfectly calm, it has no signs of becoming unruly and murderous like the terrible Frankenstein's Monster. It's as if it only underwent a very simple surgery. We've even found that it was able to cope with a small variance of blood types between the brain stem and host body. We're also working on 'programmable' blood, in which a patient could be transfused with this universal blood, and not have to worry about blood typing and the scarcity of certain blood types being in stock. But that technology is being produced at another of our labs, which is one of the leading hematology labs in the world; but I digress. The only downfall we found is that this rat is as smart as a veteran lab rat, and we can't conduct the same trials on it anymore, but that just means we'll have to come up with more just for this type of lab rat." There's a loud murmur rolling through the rows of the audience. The lecturer places the rat back in the cage, and its rolled off stage. "With that, ladies and gentlemen, we thank you for your time, and we'll be fielding questions after a short intermission."

[After Intermission...]

"Welcome back to our second half of our presentation on brain and spine transplantation science and research. A few hours ago, we proposed to you that we could transfer a brain and partial spinal cord as successfully as we did in lab rats, and there was no significant damage to any piece of this nearly impossible to put together puzzle, and it could be done with humans with just as good of odds, in theory.

Yesterday, at five o'clock Eastern Standard Time, our surgery team sewed up the brain of our thirteenth test subject, an elderly man of 115, who, in his prime, was a geophysicist and astronaut, into a donated body from a twenty five year old man who suffered an end to his life from a blood while he was recovering from an appendectomy just a few days ago. His family was sad in his passing, but were willing to donate his body for the advancement of science, which the young man was always very adamant about doing if he passed on. We are all in his debt and we thank him for his generous donation to our cause.” The audience bowed their heads and sat in silence in respect of the young man's final wish.

The moment of silence remained in the air for quite some time, and a few prayers could be heard under breath. A smattering of shifting bodies in seats and throats being cleared announced the ending of the moment. The lecturer raised his head, and clicked forward for the slideshow. A fullscreen Q&A illuminated the room. “Thank you all, and now it’s time for our Q&A segment of this extraordinary event. Please please queue up on either side of the hall, where there are mics and a staff member waiting.” A handful of professional looking people were already waiting on the sides and took their place in front of the mic.

“Good evening sir, I’m Jane Kirtz with MCN World News. There has been a lot of arguing about what this operation is classified as, head transplant, body transplant, or numerous other iterations that mean nearly the same as those two terms. Can you clarify what exactly this operation is?” “A great first question that set the precedent for the evening, thank you very much, Ms. Kirtz. This operation is known as an Encephalium Transplantation, which is the scientific term for a brain transplant. Since we view the brain as the driving force of the body, it is the ‘essence’ of a human being, which allows us to call it so. If it were the body itself, without regard to the brain, then it would be called a body transplant. In this operation, we are removing the brain from one body and placing it into another, and just like a liver or kidney transplant, the name derives from the organ being extracted and replaced. I hope that answers your question completely, Ms. Kirtz.”

“Thank you sir, it has answered it entirely, and unfortunately, I have to pay up on my lost bet after I get back to the office tomorrow morning.” “Well, I can take it back and call it a body-ectomy for your benefit, on the record of course.” the reporter giggles as she waves off the offer and returns to her seat, and scattered laughter erupts from several pockets of the audience. When the laughter dies down, the lecturer gestures to the mic on the opposite side, where another professional stands at the ready. “Good evening, I’m Stanley Williams with Global Daily and thank you for taking my question. With a burgeoning topic such as this, there are those who question the compatibility of one person's body and brain with another, and with knowing that many transplants in the past have been rejected by the receiving body, what issues may arise with this operation?” “Another excellent question, Mr. Williams, and thank you for being here. We, as the human race, has struggled since the end of the 19th century to make medicine work how we want it. The work of blood typing around the turn of the century made it that much easier, and the creation of some blood substitutes to aid in transfusions and reduce the chance of a transplant rejection down into the low single digit percentage. Each block of discovery building up to this cutting edge event that will help humanity maintain-” A door at the rear of the hall slams open, and a group holding picket signs come roaring through, shouldering past the event staff. “BLASPHEMY! BLASPHEMY! PLAYING GOD AIN’T FOR ME! BLASPHEMY!” The group chants as it races toward the stage. Their signs have effigies of god holding a scalpel away from a surgeon, a poor person with the words organ cattle on a sandwich board holding up an old, fat politician, and a bible blocking demonic surgeons holding surgery tools from the world. The event staff scurries to cut off the protesters before the get to the stage, and the audience boos and erupts in yells of counter-protest.

The ragtag group of around a dozen with signs is halted within spitting distance of the stage. Screaming and swatting the event staff with their signs, they are herded toward the back and eventually removed with the help of the local police force. The audience applauds and jeers the protesters as they exit, being man handled and cuffed in quick fashion. The lecturer smiles as he adjusts his cuffs and index cards. “Well, there’s always some group out there who believes that mankind should kowtow to the will of God and allow fate to take its course. These are the same people who’ll be waiting for a donor a few years down the road and keep it quiet to their comrades who are also secretly waiting for some sort of procedure. While we cannot stop them from believing what they do, we can only support their stance and freedom to believe in such a ridiculous notion that humanity should not take life into their hands when fate has foretold a misfortune. I commend them in their activities, but I would ask them to accept their faith and science in the same spoonful.” The audience applauds in agreeance with the quip, and refocus their attention to a change in the projection screen. A banner on top reads, MOMENTS AWAY FROM LIVE FEED FROM THE RECOVERY ROOM WITH TRANSPLANT PATIENT. The lecturer turns to view the change, and looks back toward the hall with a beaming smile.

“We are on standby in his room with a live feed camera eagerly awaiting his awakening, which should be within mere moments. If we are all patient, we could see the beginning of the continuation of his life and work, and another step forward in the field of experimental transplantation. The previous twelve partial matter transplant patients are back living normal lives, and have had no major setbacks, with the most severe being that they don't recognize themselves in their reflections at times, but that's been worked through and they are all alive and well. You'll also be happy to know our little test subject that you met before intermission is still scurrying happily along after being retired from lab work, was adopted out to a senior lab technician's children who named him 'Barley Oats', and is loved dearly by them. A thank you to them for allowing us to showcase Barley Oats here today." The screen behind the stage brightens and a photo of the three children petting Barley Oats, who is happily chewing on a carrot stick while being held and pet by the three children. "Aww, aren't they just precious together? It's always wonderful to see children and scientifically altered rodents getting along so well!" A small laughter set is politely uttered from the darkness in the hall. A small light flashes on the podium, just out of sight to anyone in the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm getting the signal that our patient is beginning to stir and momentarily we'll cut to the live feed from his hospital room in Virginia. If you'll be so kind as to shut off all recording devices and cell phones in respect to this monumental and momentous occasion. This is what we have been waiting for ever since the first human began to philosophize about death and the wonder of living a life that never ends. We can thank Ponce de Leon for searching for the Fountain of Youth, Hercules for forging the River Styx, and Keith Richards from the Rolling Stones doing all the drugs he could get his hands on for all attempting to find the right way of life to live eternally."

A shuffling quietly takes place and the audience eagerly awaits in hushed attention. Two centuries of experimentation and research have come down this operation. A full brain transplant from one body to another, allowing the knowledge and experience of an elderly individual to continue on for another life cycle. Instead of losing the years and years of brainstorming, wild thoughts, and potential breakthroughs, a continuation is allowed and hopefully humankind would benefit from. A gateway to eternal life is within reach, a way to carry on further than any known creature roaming upon the Earth. A glimmer of hope once again shines just beyond the horizon.

A person appears from the side of the stage, hurrying towards the podium, and quickly whispers to the lecturer. His body stiffens and the lights begin to dim. “Ladies and gentleman, I just received word that the feed from the hospital is going online as I speak. Prepare yourselves for the advancement in technology and knowledge that we have harnessed to grab the reigns of our own destiny in the universe.” The screen cuts to the live feed of the hospital room, where a patient can be seen in a bed, and several attendants dispersed in the room. The patient's eyelids flutter and slowly his eyes open for the first time, in his new iteration of a mixed individual. A hushed tone projects from the speakers, the doctors in the room are welcoming the patient back to consciousness. They ask him to hold his arms up, and he complies. Then they ask him to touch his fingers one at a time to his thumb in a certain order, and creakily his finger begin to alternate in order. They congratulate him and he laughs in response. His face seems to drain of all color after laughing, and the patient’s room goes quiet.

After a few tense moments, he moves his hands up to his face and covers it entirely. He slides his hands down and there's a look of complete confusion in his eyes. "This isn't my face." He says, and is immediately alarmed by his new voice. "WHY THE FUCK DO I SOUND LIKE THIS? WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?" He bucks wildly in his bed and begins to scream and yell over and over,"THIS ISN'T ME. THIS IS NOT MY BODY." The attendants attempt to contain the man to his bed and sedate him, but in his powerful twenty five year old body, they are no match for his wild, adrenaline driven strength. He lets out an ear piercing scream as he fingers the stitches along the base of his neck, and proceeds to push deep down in between the sutures, and rips them apart. His body falls to a convulsing heap of broken skin and blood at the foot of the bed.

The feed goes black. The Lecturer stands silently just to the side of the stage, mouth agape, as the audience begins to break into hysterical crying and screams of fear. Under his breath, as he shakes his head in complete disbelief, he mutters. "What have we done? We are fools; plain and simple. Fools.”

What we wear upon our skin

comes down to how we

hold ourselves in light against

the grief, the bullshit

-the photos we carry within

are what we use

-hope against routine

the old poets are dying

today I read a poem about

Philip Levine by a writer

on Prose.

who goes

by the handle of

justinbarisich

and it took me back

to the days when the poets fed me

clean blood

before I became old and closed off

before I tired of the complaints

of the ages

and burned alive and dead so many

of my heroes because I began to sense

falsity in them

but the truth is and always was

what I know now

time only gives a sentence so many

ways

regardless of how we do it

I think back on this and I feel

somewhat bad for walking away

from them

when I should have realized that

I was one of them

even though I didn't want to be in

that club, I was born in it

not to spin this around on myself

but the weight of things for me

comes down to the word against

the page of the world, the old world

the new world, the world we will leave

and the world they will leave

it all burns in a circle

it always has

-a factory in Detroit harboring

steel poetry

-Bukowski's widow laughing to me that

their house will probably be a museum

-the sorrowful exit of Vonnegut against marble

-Hamsun's shamed picture next to Hitler

and all the deaths that carried the weight of beauty

into the ground to be buried and remembered only

by the readers they touched, and to be less and less

mentioned by those of us who have the reach to

remember them in poetry, in stories

all while containing and preserving our own

precious voices and self-respect

our own bullshit

that some other

fucker pushing 30 or 40

will start start detecting falsity in

and less of them than us today

will record them in poems

while those of us remaining

will constantly reach for the

resonance of Whitman

and other timeless entities

to ring through space after our deaths

but we will also forget this

during the course of things

and regardless of

whatever this is

we are only fed

by the hot blood

of artists.

He’d been going there every summer since 1974, alone since the summer of 1999, when Bella gave up her ghost by way of cancer in her stomach. He watched the tips of the pines, the falling sun, the way it thickened the water. It brought the surface from its mirror to obsidian. He glanced at the canoe. He’d wanted to take it out last year, to give the twins their first ride, but it never happened. He hadn’t taken it on the lake since Bella. Behind its nose up over the yard, a car door closed and he watched the water darken.

Mick saw him standing at the dock’s edge, his hands in pockets, the figure of him. His father was old now. He’d made the cross-over to the old man, shorter, bald, frail. Mick lit a smoke and thought of something he’d said to Rose last year while he was watching Garrett wait out the sunset from the kitchen window. It was a ritual for Garrett, and had been since that first summer without Bella:

“Christ. He looks like Yoda.”

Rose gagged on her orange and nearly choked herself. Her eyes widened and she slapped his shoulder, “You fucker! I could have choked to death.”

“It’s hard to see him out here. Mom always tried to get him to watch the sunset with her, and now he’s obsessed with sunsets. It’s pure guilt.”

“That’s sad,” she looked to the living room while the twins slept in their dual swings. The timer had stopped the swings and they were out cold. She smiled at them, “Everything is in twos now. Shoes, strollers, appointments, vaccines.”

“These,” he’d squeezed Rose’s nipples, and she’d punched him in the face. Her nipples were sore from the twins, but Mick hadn’t thought of it. She hadn’t meant to punch him in the face—it was knee-jerk from the pain, and she’d felt awful. It was a moment between them they let float out the window, and they laughed. They’d driven to the lake house to stay with Garrett every couple of weeks during summer since Bella had passed. But tonight was just Mick and the old man, because he didn’t want Garrett to be there alone on his first night. The twins were pushing a year and half, soon there would be day care, dentists, school, clothes, periods, and boys calling, all of the horseshit that makes a man glazed over, Mick thought. He stared out to the water over the top of Garrett’s head, the glimmer of Lake Sammamish darkening by the second, Garrett standing there waiting it out.

He smelled Mick’s cigarette. He hadn’t seen him since last summer. He blinked and watched the surface, the last traces of life scattering the blackboard of the lake. Mick tossed his smoke and picked up a piece of cinder block from the fire pit. He chucked it over his father’s head. It kerplunked out in the calm. Garrett watched the circle spread across the lake, “Hey, bitch.”

“Hey, motherfucker,” he wrapped the old man in a bear hug. Garrett crossed his hands over Mick’s forearms, “How are you, Mick?”

“Good, dad. You know Rose couldn’t make it today.”

“I hear you. Twins,” he whistled, “I can’t even imagine. You and Nina were bad enough seven years apart. I can’t even imagine,” he said again.

“Not too bad,” he let go of his father and they sat on the dock’s edge. Garrett gave him a quick glance, but in that second he noticed a spare tire. Mick patted his own stomach, “Yeah, empathy weight.”

“You get that during her pregnancy, dumbass.”

“I’m pacing myself. Don’t worry about it.”

“You brought it up.”

Mick lit another, “But you were thinking it.”

They watched the water silently. Garrett let the Sun become the Moon and nodded ahead.

“You and Nina talking yet?”

“Sort of.”

He smiled. He didn’t want things to change, he didn’t want harmony between his children because that would be unnatural. Nina was the firstborn, had gone through college straight out of high school and become a pharmacist. She detested Mick’s lifestyle, a student of philosophy, mid-30s, twins out of wedlock, all of it. She’d lost her looks and physique over the course of three bad relationships, one failed marriage, no children, no happiness. But she owned her house, had put away half a million dollars already, largely from selling her downtown condominium. She was Mick’s worst adversary, practical and conservative, but Nina had a good heart. She also had a Prozac addiction, as well as the many other meds she took, and it sickened Mick. But they were still blood, and blood ran thick in the Burkett family.

“She’s just bitter, Mick,” Garrett said. “You have all that she would want in life, and it all fell into your lap,” Garrett hushed him by shaking his knee, “in her eyes.”

Mick stared at the other side of the lake, the shore unreadable, the sounds of bugs created a soft, busy litany that blanketed the water.

“Yeah, well, that’s what you get when you only have a fucking career in mind. If she would’ve stopped to smell the flowers once in awhile she wouldn’t be so goddamned bitter, would she?”

Garrett shrugged, “That’s her nature, Mick. None of us get exactly what we want.”

Mick shook his head. Garrett jabbed his arm, “Fuck all this. Let’s have a drink.”

“I thought you might feel that way, so I picked up a sixer of Redhook, and a bottle of Jack and a two-liter. We’re set.”

Garrett patted him on the back, “Sometimes I’m almost proud you came from my loins.”

“Six-hundred and thirty-one,” he drained half his drink. He took a gulp of beer to chase it, since the coke was only in there for effect. Mick took a drag, “What are you talking about?”

Garrett tilted his beer at him, “I’ve watched 631 sunsets in your mom’s honor.”

Mick leaned back in his chair and stuffed his lighter and smokes in his shirt pocket, “Jesus fucking Christ, dad.”

Garrett shrugged at the fire, “I have a lot to make up to her.”

Mick shook his head and leaned his elbows on his knees. He stared in the fire, “You don’t have to make up for shit, dad. Mom had a good life with you—”

“Good but not great. I could’ve left what I was doing to watch the goddamn Sun go down with her. The few times I did sit out here I was consumed with work. That goddamned cancer took her almost immediately. What I wouldn’t give for one dusk with her, Mick. I’d give my fuckin’ soul.”

Mick swallowed hard. His eyes welled into the fire. Garrett watched the flames, “Whenever I look out the window I see her back toward me, sitting down there while the Sun sets.” Tears pushed out and rolled down Garrett’s face. Mick went to get up, but Garrett waved him off gently. Mick lit another. Garrett stared at the cigarette between his fingers, “Sure wish you’d quit those things, Mick. It’s not worth it.”

“I’m quitting after this pack. Rose has had enough. Plus, I’m ready. She got us a treadmill off of craigslist. I was hacking after half a minute. And then there she is yelling at me because when I come in from the patio holding the girls, their PJs and hair smell like smoke.”

Garrett laughed, “I can’t imagine that girl and her temper. It’s infrequent, but holy shit.”

On the drive down from Bellingham, Garrett vowed that he wouldn’t press the issue of marriage onto Mick this time around. Mick wasn’t hurting for money, that was for damn sure. When Bella passed, the kids received a ton of it. Nina paid off her condominium, and Mick bought an apartment building. Queen Anne Hill had gentrified, and the large rent for new tenants had been good to them. In fact, only two original tenants remained in the building. Rose had made the top floor their apartment, took over the collecting of rent, and Mick decided to go to back to college. Neither of them believed in marriage. They’d met in spring of 1999. Bella and Rose hit if off immediately, and it drew Mick closer to home. Nina felt edged out. Single, bitter, and now having to come home to see her brother, for whom she’d slated a future of coffee house jobs and studio apartments, poor literary circles, goatees and flannel shirts and no desire for achievement–her Peter Pan Syndrome brother, full with a soul mate who had become close as family to her own mother at first sight. It grinded her to the core. Nina loved the twins, but they were another symbol to her: Mick had again managed to waltz into a perfect situation.

But Mick loved Nina intensely. He took most of her sneers, digs, and backstabbing with good humor. Often, when he stumbled upon a deal or found a good shirt in a thrift store, or when he and Rose were able to buy a new Jeep Cherokee, he would stare at her, “How bad would this piss Nina off?” And Rose would laugh every time. Mick thought about Rose over the fire, her long brown hair, her almost Roman nose, an elegant nose, really. Her perfect shoulders and big, blue eyes. She’d stayed in shape during and after the girls. She’d named them: Layla and Mia, and the subject was closed. Rose had a tattoo down her side, a vine with bright purple flowers from the inside of her left arm down to her foot. She still made Mick hot, still kept his eye on home. She also did it for Garrett. Whenever he called Mick from Bellingham, Garrett started the conversation with “How’s my girlfriend?” And every time Bella would laugh. But the joke, like a lot of Garrett’s shine, died with her.

Mick closed his cell phone and set it on the side of his lawn chair. Garrett looked in the fire, “Everything good on Queen Anne?”

“Rose’s brother is crashing over,” Mick made a limp-wristed slap at the air in front of him, “with his boyfriend.”

“As long as they’re not getting any shit on the sheets.”

Mick shrugged a shoulder dismissively, almost remorsefully, “He’s a good guy. I don’t know, I hope I’m not homophobic, but sometimes it gets annoying, like when the cocksucker corners me and bitches about his fella. It’s awkward.”

Garrett laughed. Mick tossed his cigarette in the fire, “Or when the motherfucker calls the landline, and Rose fakes me out and hands me the phone like it’s important, and it’s him up in arms talking about some gay bullshit.”

Garrett roared this time. His shoulders shook and he doubled over for a moment, then regained himself. He wiped the tear from his eye and laughed again, “You’ve got a hell of a life, Mick.”

Mick laughed with his father. It was good to see the old man laughing. His face looked familiar again. The fire cracked and popped, sent orange embers and flakes of ash up and over the water. Mick stared over the fire and realized that he was Garrett’s age now, back when he was in grade school.

“Huh,” Mick said.

“What’s amusing?”

Mick told him. Garrett opened another beer and nodded, “Yep. Welcome.”

Mick’s thoughts went back to Rose. She’d become instant family for Garrett and Bella. When Bella asked her if tattoos hurt, Rose stared at her, “Hell yes, they hurt. Especially on the ribs. Straight over bone.” She poked Bella’s ribs, and Bella jumped and laughed. Nina sat there dumbfounded. It hadn’t been three hours since they’d shown up in Bellingham for Easter, and she was already the headliner. The men leered, the women flocked, the wine poured. During the night, Nina found herself with Rose out back. Rose was drunk. Nina shot her an evil stare. It was cold. But Rose walked over to her chair, sat on her knees and hugged her. Nina didn’t know what to think. Rose whispered in her ear, “All your love just burning to waste. I know.”

Nina returned the embrace mechanically, and the two parted. Rose’s eyes were full with tears, but worse, they were full with life. They were strong. She was strong.

“There’s still so much you have to still give and get. Don’t let it get away like this,” She hugged Nina again, Nina froze and looked out over the rail of the deck, and she realized that she had given off that much hatred, to make Rose break tears. Hatred for Rose. And Rose was selfless enough to expose herself, to open her heart without hesitation because Nina was her man’s family, to risk it all there. Or maybe Rose had looked into her being and it made her pity Nina so sorrowfully. Nina wondered if she could really be that awful, if she could be so embittered by the ones who had let her down, if it could visibly leak out for others to feel. The answer was yes. Long and short, it was yes.

Rose pulled away, wiped her face and sorted herself out before the deck flooded with people, refills and laughter, heads of wine and liquor. Mick had been hiding out in a dark corner of the deck getting ready to hotbox another cigarette, because he was supposed to be down to three per day, and the limit had already been folded by four. He’d stood further in the shadows to escape Rose’s wrath, but what he got was what he saw, that exact moment that he’d decided to get her name tattooed on his forearm, big in old scroll and undeniable. He reached down in the fire’s light and rubbed the tattoo. Garrett was taking a piss off in the yard. He called over his shoulder to Mick, “Nothing like pissing outside.”

“Goddamn right,” Mick called back, then he flashed to the summer of 1999, when he and Rose left her apartment on First Hill for the summer in Lake Sammamish, where even Nina came down for a week with her then-boyfriend, a quirky little fucker named Frank. Frank was the regional manager for the chain of medical centers where Nina worked. Frank had a trimmed mustache and a business haircut. He wasn’t handsome but he was there, and the family was grateful for him. Nina almost resembled happiness in brief spurts, like when Frank had drank too much and leaped over the fire pit on a bet from Mick. Frank landed, spun and came up with his hand over his upper lip, “Did I burn it off?”

It took him six months from meeting her to leaving her, because of her attitude. Frank leaving was just the first blow, the buffer to the big one, before Bella died that winter.

Garrett sat back down, “I’m going for a thousand,” he said. Mick was taking a piss in the other direction. He walked to the fire and sat back down, “A thousand what?”

“Sunsets. A thousand sunsets for your mom.”

“You’ll be close after this summer.”

“One more summer after this, Mick.”

“Then what?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Figure I’ll sign the house off here to you and yours and go see Egypt, touch the pyramids, check out Italy, Greece, all of it. I was always afraid to fly, but you knew that. I’m going to do the thousand sunsets and fly off into my own.”

Mick nodded. Garrett sighed, “I’ll give Nina the house in Bellingham. God fucking knows I’d better.”

Mick laughed. Garrett poured a whiskey neat and sipped the edge off the top, “She came by last week, your sister. She’s talking about working out and shit. She looks better, too. I think someone’s finally giving her a little, or someone aims to.”

“That’s good to hear. God, she’s so fuckin’ uptight.”

“Tell you what, though. She’s a good kid, Mick, been a damn good kid, in spite of her self-created oppositions.”

“Good point,” Mick tossed his bottle into the fire. He belched, “I’d like to see her let the air out once in awhile. When that Frank dude was here, I almost thought she’d been resurrected.”

Garrett smiled, “Even that little pecker couldn’t stand it.”

Mick’s phone rang. “Hang on, dad. Hi, babe.”

“Hi.” There was a pause. Mick knew the pause. He smiled, “Tell me.”

“Wells. Fucking Wells and David. It’s like two women fucking and fighting. You know how irritating it gets sometimes.”

Mick stared at the fire, “I’m not saying anything. I say something bad about him, you two patch it up, then you remember what I said and so on. Pass.”

“Oh, fuck you. You mind if I head over tonight with the girls?”

“Of course not.” He rolled his eyes at Garrett. Garrett laughed. He knew what was happening. He was excited to see Rose and the girls.

“We’ll be there before midnight.”

Garrett made a drinking motion. Mick nodded and pointed to him.

“Bring wine, babe, and whatever else.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Mick closed the phone and put it in his pocket, “Good thinking.”

“Trouble in Fagsville?”

“Always is.”

Mick drained his whiskey. Garrett reached down for the bottle and filled his glass. Mick took a good pull and went for a smoke. The pack was empty. He crushed it and tossed it into the fire. He raised his eyebrows, “And that’s that.”

Garrett reached over and squeezed Mick’s shoulder. Mick stared into the fire’s core.

“I don’t get it, dad. I mean, do we ever stop paying?”

“No.”

The answer was definite and resonant, but Mick already knew the answer. He’d known since Bella had died. They had her so wiped out on morphine and oxycodone for her passing that she didn’t feel a thing, but she died consciously and graciously, surrounded by her family in her own home. Rose couldn’t eat for almost a week after. Nina went the other way. Garrett became obsessed with sunsets and Mick lived in a confused state of fatigue and sleeplessness. Like his father had said, the cancer took her almost immediately, just a season after diagnosis. Aggressive, pure evil and life-killing, it took without prejudice, without a second glance upward. It destroyed and changed life wherever it touched. It blackened bright life into a tar of guilt, of sorrow. It shamed life into a recess, pulled what it picked and left nothing remaining.

The car doors closed behind them.

“I’ll go.” Garrett got up from the chair, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep it in my pants.”

Mick threw a branch in the fire, “Fifty bucks and she’s on all fours.”

“Bitch can’t afford fifty.”

They laughed. He walked off. Egypt, Mick thought, Greece. The old man couldn’t lie to save the nose on his face. But Mick had noticed the slip in the Freudian mud. I’m going to do the thousand sunsets and fly off into my own. He looked around for a long butt. He smoked them down to the filter. But he found one. He lit up and inhaled.

“Fuck.”

Behind the kitchen, where the window over the sink faced the dock, a large dining room opened up into a larger family room, with a hallway shooting off from the right. The hallway led to two rooms on either side, a downstairs master bedroom at the end, full with a claw-foot tub. Garrett slept upstairs, where the staircase veered up the opposite direction of the hall. Upstairs he had an alcove that hung above and to the right of the kitchen window, but a high pine obstructed the view of the dock, which was fine with Garrett. Up there he had his computer and work station, which had defaulted, with much compensation, to consultant status. Garrett had been a criminal defense attorney, infamous for taking the cases that were sure losers, and winning them. If a scorned woman cried rape, Garrett was the lawyer to go after. If a cop forced a man, or a woman, in one famous case, to shoot back, Garrett was ready. He had taken a few jobs from the consortium as a public defender a few to four times a year to give back. But apart from the very occasional innocent man, he basically wheeled the least painful convictions for men he’d rather spit on.

The large ratio of scumbag to falsely accused, and his strong nose for the innocent had made him leave the consortium pool for good and focus on his firm. For Garrett Burkett to lose at trial was a rarity. Often, the district attorneys would reach outside to a criminal prosecution specialist for private counsel if Garrett was involved on any level.

Busy as he was, Garrett still took one or two cases from the state each year, a case that one of his friends in public defense would hand to him. It was his way of still serving the law purely, and became a source of consternation for other firms around Seattle. Garrett was a mystery to them, because he became a lawyer to actually use the law for its intended purpose. He’d decided to move his practice to Bellingham, to start fresh and to be near Bella’s family when Nina was 15 and Mick was 8. At his send-off in a bar in Bellevue, the attorneys were there in groups, and one of them, Dysart, made a crack about Garrett’s throw-back to the working man. Dysart was another criminal defense attorney, and another piece of trash under Garrett’s moral heel. Dysart had the law down pat, probably more than Garrett, and he could be heard laughing with his colleagues if a stranger were to walk into the office:

“Greenfield bet me 2 Gs that I couldn’t spring the fucking pedophile. I got him out of there with three years’ probation and a five-year suspended sentence. I was like, ‘pay up, asshole.’”

Dysart sat the table in the bar, happily drunk, “Hell, Burkett, you could’ve put a million more in your kitty if you hadn’t gone slumming for the state.”

The table grew quiet. Dysart talked to talk, period. Garrett raised an eyebrow at him.

“And there would have been households damaged, wives to get welfare, and children to get abused by the dirt you set free for a lunch tab at the country club. I’ll raise a million dollars for you right now if you quit the practice for good.”

Dysart left the party. Garrett looked around the room and talked into his drink, “Fucking parasite.”

It was no secret that most attorneys were after-hours, closet, or full-blown alcoholics. Garrett made no attempts to hide it, but he finally managed it to a weekend occurrence with the help of Bella, and with seeing the livers around him hardening in plain view. As far as him slumming for the state, Garrett slept like a baby at night. To his best, he didn’t get personally involved with his clients, because that burns out a defense attorney fast and certainly. The few cases he’d lost still stuck in his mind, but the jury is a weird animal, and no attorney or DA fully knows what they’ll do in the end. It was always up to the jury. All Garrett could do was cut through the swath of accumulation from the DA, and hope that he’d made it clear for them to base a clean verdict upon. District Attorneys, in a lot of cases, were more crooked than Dysart.

Garrett looked around the upstairs of the lake house while the downstairs was being settled with Mick, Rose, and the girls. He stared at his desk from the edge of his bed. Sure, he could have made Dysart’s money, and he could have ended up how Dysart did in 2003, a .38 bullet lodged in his brain on a slab of marble—the result of a crazed father whose eight year old daughter’s rapist/murderer was set free by Dysart’s defense, followed by the murderer fleeing the state immediately after walking out of the courthouse.

Eight nights later, Dysart’s bloated body surfaced on the littered shore of Alki Beach during a high-school party. The county coroner reported that before Dysart ate the bullet, he was tied up, his finger and toenails pulled off with pliers, his four fingers taped as two and spread into a V, then sliced from the webbing to his wrists, then pulled apart from a V to an M, as were his toes to his ankles. The girl’s father had shot him up with enough crystal meth to keep him wired for the session. Traces of salt were found in the pulled-open wounds, also traces of rubbing alcohol, hydrogen peroxide and whiskey. Tissue samples also showed high concentrations of sodium pentothal to keep Dysart honest during surgery. But the rabbit hole went deeper. By the time the bullet had entered his brain, Dysart had been separated from his eyelids, ears, six teeth, testicles and nipples, half of which were found in his stomach, mostly digested. Also, his right eye had been literally siphoned with a straw.

The father of the little girl refused to testify on his own behalf regarding any of it, and received fifteen years. Apart from being a hero in prison, he’d probably get paroled in less than seven. When Garrett heard about Dysart, he stared at his paralegal, “Jackass couldn’t even wait to wash up on the shore until the kids went home. Even in death he was a fuck-up.”

Garrett could have retired long ago, maybe even before Bella died, but the job was in his blood, like the bottom of a stream, and until the water became still and dried to dust, the bottom of the stream remained. It still did, but now he was a consultant, the new firms or attorneys handling high-profile criminal cases called on him. Since the passing of Bella, he’d become less obsessed with his work out of guilt, but he worked anyway because he was addicted. At this point money was neutral to him. He’d made enough. Now his money was being funneled into accounts for Layla and Mia, who he was now watching sleep in the living room. Rose was unpacking the tote bag, diapers and formulas, baby booties and little shirts with snaps. Mick watched her ass while she bent over the kitchen table, “Goddamn, you’ve got an ass on you, woman.”

She smiled. The more whiskey, the more fun she had with him. At least up until a certain point. He put his hands on her ass, but she reached back and grabbed them. She turned and kissed him with a peck, gave his cock a quick squeeze and handed him his drink, “Later, darling.” She walked into the living room. He stood there holding his drink, watching it go.

Rose patted Mick’s cock, “Goodnight sweet prince.”

He was sweating on his back, snoring quietly. Her ride had lasted less than a few minutes. She’d fed him too much whiskey, and teased him too long before the bedroom. She checked her phone, 1:30 a.m. She’d be flying solo in five hours when the girls would awake like clockwork. Mick would be in the throes of a hangover, a big one, and Garrett would have his face in the computer screen upstairs, his phone wedged between ear and shoulder, his coffee stone cold. He had his own maker upstairs, but he wasted more than he drank, dumping it cold down the bathroom drain and brewing another pot. The smell of it alone was good for him. She walked down the hall to the kitchen, filled a glass of water and fished out four aspirin. She checked on the girls, then walked back into the room, over to the night stand and set the water and aspirin down. If Mick was lucky, he’d stir awake at some point soon, slam the water and tablets and keep his head down until noon. She got into bed and turned her back to his, touched asses and grinned. For it all, life had been good to her. She kept her eye on the doorway across to the twins’ room, then faded out.

Many of the dives and haunts didn’t exist in Seattle in 1961, when Garrett was 21. The buildings were further apart, the cranes weren’t in constant motion building commerce. Kennedy was still alive, the Moon still untouched, and Garrett had already knocked back three years of law school. He worked in the market icing and selling fish for old man Dignum, who had been anti-pinko in the second world war, stationed up on the Russian border, Morse code flying between him and the Russian soldier on duty across the divide, both in the same job of dispatch, relay and communication for their infantries. When the lines became crossed, Dignum and the Russian engaged in hostile and unyielding war in Morse code, throwing punches at each other from their stations: Pinko Commie Russkie Bastard, American Dog Swine, on and on. Many years later, Dignum owned a good business back home. He was a big, bald man with a mole on his cheek. When left unkempt, the mole sprouted hair like whiskers, and he reminded Garrett of a fat catfish, a channel cat that had aged and bloated, then evolved into an angry man that showed no mercy on his workers or the customer. Dignum always knew when it was time for the mole to be plucked, when the customer’s eye lingered hypnotically.

Garrett was there when the new owner of the oyster bar next door to Dignum started a fight with him, because he said Dignum’s salmon display obstructed the board’s view of foot traffic. The new owner was Russian, so he had far to go with Dignum. He pointed to the mole and yelled, “You have no right to interfere with my place of work!”

Dignum squinted and laughed, his tongue pressed against his bottom lip, his arms folded, “Look here, shitski, or shitface, or whatever your shitty name is, my employee here is in law school. Burkett, who’s right here?”

Garrett stepped back and eyed the storefront, “I’m sorry, Mr. Pulvnichek, but Dignum here is within his own proprietary border. There is no law against his display being higher than your board.”

The two men yelled back and forth, going on about the war, about everything that maddened them. Dignum thought about how if they were just twenty years back, he could have essentially killed the Russian, and Pulvnichek thought the same, and they were more than happy to verbalize that fact. Dignum glared at him, “Pinko commie Russkie bastard.”

Pulvnichek’s eyes narrowed, “American dog swine.”

The men walked away from each other, then stood like statues. Garrett watched them. Pulvnicheck turned his meaty head over his shoulder, “Where was your station in the war?”

Dignum looked at him squarely, “No, where was yours? You’re in my country now.”

Jesus, Garrett thought, what were the odds? Pulvnichek sighed, “Dispatch. Bering Strait. About seven kilometers inside our line. I ran code to infantry from command.”

Dignum looked the Russian up and down, “Son of a bitch. I had the same job twelve miles from the other side of the line, the Russian sector 17, 1940.”

The two men stared at each other. Garrett starting calculating the odds, which were impossible, but proven beaten, and he watched the bizarre movement of the two men bursting into embrace. From that moment on, Dignum became Pulvnichek’s fresh fish supplier, and Dignum let Pulvnichek’s sandwich board fly free. Garrett learned there that by removing the legal confusion first and swiftly, the truth would surface. The speed of knowing the rules and explaining them without space for refute brought the truth to the surface, bare to see. It was his first lesson in law.

In a large way, the truce between Dignum and Pulvnichek is how Garrett met Bella, who was the only non-Russian employed by the oyster bar. Before discovering the mad Russian was his war-time nemesis, Dignum had forbade Garrett from going next door, not that Garrett cared much. He was happy with his job. It worked out well with school and his room down the street was cheap. Garrett’s parents had moved to Venice, Florida, during his first year of pre-law. He was excited to live on his own in Seattle. Garrett had an older brother, but he died from polio when Garrett was six. His name had been James. Garrett vaguely but fondly remembered him throughout growing up, but by then James was a passing fog.

When Garrett first saw Bella, it was two days before the two men had spoken, and when she smiled at him he was too shell-shocked to smile back at her. She was the new waitress at Pulvnichek’s place, and each time she walked by, Garrett trembled. Dignum would shake his head.

“Yep, she’s a honey alright, but if she works at pinko’s, she’d bad news. Forget about her.”

Garrett swept the floor behind the display counter. Forget about her dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, her nose and full lips, the way her ears sat on her face, the way she was sculpted. Her legs not thin but not fat, her breast not flat but not huge, her profile while she walked by. Garrett had to meet her before some chump did, if some chump hadn’t already.

The sky alone is orange, it hangs over the market and Bella is waiting at the counter. The truce between Dignum and Pulvnichek has been a week ago, and Garrett is facing her. Garrett is 21, Bella is 19. Her face is beautiful. Her smooth skin and blue eyes, sky blue, really, the light sky of an Indian summer. She’s there to order for Pulvnichek. Garrett’s throat constricts, but he’s holding it together. Bella’s been aware of him since she’s first seen him. A tall, built young man, dark busboy hair, his jaw clean and his smile wide. She sometimes watches him during her shift. The boy next door, the girls next door watching him work, smiling to each other and making remarks around her.

“He can fillet my yellow fin anytime,” one of them says. The waitresses at her work, cackling like fat hags–fat but pretty Russians, two daughters and a niece of Pulvnichek’s, who has recently defected.

“Yuri wants a king salmon,” are the first words from Bella to Garrett, who digs around the ice. He knows there are no kings there, they wouldn’t see a fresh king until the end of next week.

“All out,” Garrett stares at her. He stands and presses his hands on the counter, and the sky crackles behind her.

“Garrett,” she says, afraid again of the moment ending, as the sky forms two orange hands far beyond her shoulders, far up past 1st Avenue to Capitol Hill. Behind her he can see the entire way up Pike, where the hands are pushed forward by enormous orange arms, and they reach down under the market’s entrance and grip Bella’s shoulders. Upon contact, her skin ages, and the hands pull her back, lift her, and she’s five feet away at 30, five more at 40, until she floats backward and upward at 59, pale, her hair gone, her face mixed with confusion and sadness, crying without tears for leaving Earth. All that she would miss, she reaches out too late for him, and his hands stretch for her, but when they return to him, she’s gone and his hands are full of dark blood. A dark, thick mass, a lump, slides off the side of his palm and thumps on the counter. It pulses and writhes there squirming, making sickening sounds of cracks and moans. It stops, then flops over and almost prostrates itself, raises from the middle into a hump, then it forms into a black ball that stares him down. The ball begins to hiss and undulate, and he watches it intently. It had killed Bella, sent envoys out from her stomach and killed her. He stares at the mass on the counter. It goes motionless, then leaps at him with sickening speed.

He jumped awake. 5:30 a.m. on the nose. His head was slightly pinged from the whiskey, Red Hook, and a full glass of wine from a bottle in his stock he’d been saving for a special occasion, and had last night proclaimed the occasion to be as such, because another year had passed. He sat on the edge of his bed. The dream wasn’t new to him. Bella had appeared in nightmare form beneath the orange sky for years now. He started a pot of coffee and flipped on his monitor. His screensaver was a shot of the twins, in the apex of laughter while they swung in the dual-seats. Their hands over their heads, a roller coaster pose, and they laughed like loons. The photo never ceased to make him laugh, or at least smear a grin across his face. He crept down the steps and closed the door to Mick and Rose’s room, then wheeled the cribs out into the kitchen, readied two diapers on the table and started the twins’ breakfast. He set the high-chairs up with apple juice and chunks of fruit, warm oatmeal and a half cookie for each of them. By the time Mia had stirred awake, Layla was changed and eating. After Mia was all set up, Garrett sat with the girls and sipped his coffee. He hadn’t been a father to a baby in 34 years, but it was exactly like riding a bike, or a tandem, as it were. He played the radio, the classic country station, and lucked into a block of Roger Miller. He sang to the girls, who watched their gramps, almost stupefied. He refilled their juices, “Dang me, dang me, they oughta take a rope and hang me, high from the highest tree-heee, woman would you weep for me, doo-doo-dip-dip-do-doo-doo-ohhhh.”

The girls giggled at him. The next song was one of his best, Everything’s Coming up Rose’s. He sang it softly as he wiped their mouths and faces and unsnapped their bibs. He wiped down their trays and sat across from them, watching their faces and looking for himself in them. They looked more like Mick than Rose. He could see the Burkett nose growing pronounced each year. An hour had passed since the nightmare. He started a fresh pot of coffee downstairs and sat across from the girls. Mia reached for him. He lifted her out, and heard Rose checking their room down the hall. He poured a cup of coffee and held it up without looking, his eyes on the window, whistling the chorus to Mia. Rose took the cup, “Jesus, Garrett. Thank you for taking care of them.”

Layla reached for Rose. She scooped her up, set her mug down, and took Mia in the other hand. She set them down on the living room carpet, handed them their cups of juice and set their bean bag toys on the floor. She stood in the kitchen doorway and watched Garrett do the dishes. He nodded to their room, “How’s the party animal?”

She laughed, “He came alive at some point, drank his water and took the aspirin I’d set out for him. He’s out cold.”

Garrett dried his hands and gave her a loose smile, “What a pussy.”

“He’s learning. One day he’ll grow up.”

She sat at the kitchen table, “The song got me out of bed.”

“American classic.”

“Are you alright, Garrett?” she put her hands out. He sat and put his hands in hers.

“Goddamned nightmares again, babe. Could’ve been the drink, but I doubt it. I get them, regardless.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but Mick told me about your thousand-sunsets plan. Well, he mumbled it to me around four in the morning. I think it’s beautiful, Garrett, as long as there’s not some dark edge involved.”

Garrett looked at their hands, his spotted, hers so young and expectant. She’d always thought he was handsome, more handsome than Mick. She touched his face, “She’s in a painless place now, honey. She was a lucky woman, and you have nothing to regret or pay. Whenever a loved one dies, we instantly make them into saints and count our shortcomings toward them. In the short time I had with her, she expressed nothing but love and gratitude for her life because of you. She lived more than all of us will. You need to see that, sweetheart. You were absolutely perfect in her eyes.”

The tears came rolling down Garrett’s face. Fast, steady tears without a blink. They dripped into the creases of his elbows, and it turned on Rose’s waterworks.

“Thank you for that,” Garrett said. He looked down at their hands again, “I don’t know why this year’s been so tough on me. It’s almost like she dies again, every morning.”

Rose jumped up and grabbed two paper towels. She and Garrett wiped off. She squeezed his arm, “Garrett, I’ve been thinking about this. I know you don’t want another dog after Maximillan, I get that. That was hard on Mick, too. But you need companionship. You need to meet somebody.”

“Impossible.”

“I don’t mean a piece of ass, unless that happens, but I mean a woman for companionship. I mean there has to be—”

“Oh, hell,” Garrett interrupted, “I’ve got all kinds of women trying to get in my pants. Some of them even Bella’s friends. I know what you’re saying, Rose. But something feels wrong about it.”

“And it’s going to feel wrong until you get used to it. You’re not the one who died, Garrett. I’m sorry, but you’re not. You can’t live running toward her ghost like this.”

Garrett leaned forward and stared over at the twins. They were chewing on their bean bags, “I can’t replace her, Rose.”

Rose rolled her eyes at him. It had occurred to him more than once that she carried a lot of Bella’s tics and habits. They had the same eccentricities: eating pizza from the plate to their mouths, or not leaving a paper towel or toilet paper roll with a jagged edge. Bella would rather waste twenty paper towels than walk away without a clean tear across. They had a lot of idiosyncrasies in common–the way they held a phone, annunciated their Ts, clicked their tongues when impatient or annoyed. She gave him a frustrated sigh, “Of course not, Garrett. But you can make new memories.”

Garrett nodded tolerantly, she stared at him tolerantly, and looked at the twins. When she’d first met Mick, he took her to Eileen’s on the hill for a drink after a movie. She told him that her ex was a real asshole, he’d taken her there once and she hadn’t been back because the place reminded her of him. Mick took her hand as they walked to the door, “Come on. Let’s make some new memories.” They went in and had a good night, drank, talked and kissed in a different booth, then the same one. It became their place until it shut down. She told Garrett about it.

“I know what you mean, Rose. I need time is all.”

He checked his watch and stood before she could respond. He looked at it, “Time to punch in.”

She laughed. He squeezed her hand, bent down, kissed her forehead and went upstairs. Mia socked Layla on the ear and Layla bawled. Rose downed her coffee and walked over.

Garrett sipped his coffee. The tall pine in the window brushed against the glass, so he opened it. The air was good, it floated in and cleared out the rest of his nightmare. He stood in the shower and let the water hit his neck. He looked down and held his balls. A companion. The thought of being with another woman on any level made his stomach turn, even in the shower. Bella’s passing hadn’t rendered him impotent by any means, he’d never had that problem. On the occasions when he did masturbate, he thought of Bella, though last summer he had woken up with a hard-on from dreaming about Rose, which was natural, he thought. Any man who saw Rose in her little string bikini wanted to fuck her. No harm there, but a companion was nowhere in sight.

He fielded a few calls and emails. One was from Nina, which never happened. She had a long weekend coming and she thought she’d drive down to the lake house. He checked the time, 8:15. She didn’t have to be at work until 11:30 on Thursdays. He dialed her cell.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Woman, why are you emailing your old man?”

She guffawed. Only Garrett got that out of her.

“I was up late last night so I didn’t want to call, but I wanted to let you know about the weekend.”

“Hell, babe. You’re always welcome here, you know that.”

“Anyone else there?” she reached down and picked up her cat. He was fat and lazy now.

“Mick drove in just before dark. Then Rose and the dynamic duo showed up. They grow larger by the minute.”

She sighed, “How’s Mick?”

“He’s good. He asked about you,” Garrett lied, “he wants to see you.”

“Hmmm, well, to be brutally honest, I wouldn’t mind seeing him, either.”

Garrett laughed. She was an introvert for a non-creative person. She was his favorite area of study, always had been. Even as a child, a happy child, she was withdrawn and observant. Garrett never knew where she’d gotten her defensiveness. Neither he or Bella—or Mick, for that matter, were defensive beings. Garrett caught a glitch in her silence. He swiveled a 180 away from the screen and stood, “You alright, peanut?”

“Fat cat just puked on my lap.”

She wiped off, walked to the kitchen and cleaned up. Garrett hadn’t called her peanut in years, since grade school. She’d picked up the name from the zoo, when she tossed a gorilla a peanut-shaped cookie from the bag and he whipped it back at her. It thumped against her dress and she cried. Garrett picked her up. He was laughing, and he wiped the crumbs from her dress, “He’s just in a mood, baby.” There was a perfect imprint, a red hour glass on her chest when Garrett checked her over. He set her down and buttoned her back up, “He doesn’t even know you, sweetie. Plus, look at him, ugly as a gorilla.”

He touched her chest softly over the welt, and scrambled his finger around it, “Peanut.” She laughed. When she got her period, she asked if the name could be forgotten. She was becoming a young woman, rushed by her body. Up until that moment, into the conversation, she hadn’t heard him utter the name, thirty years in between, and she felt a rift as Mick had over the campfire.

“Are you alright, Dad?”

“I’m fine,” Garrett said, “stood up too fast.”

Nina told him that she was leaving in the morning, that she’d see him around noon or earlier. He washed his face and stared into the mirror. All the years behind him like a long drive, which it had been, and the last leg was bittersweet but he had a lot for which to be grateful. Back at the computer his phone rang, a buddy of his in Oregon, a Washington defector named Hazel, whom Garrett had advised on a few cases since. Garrett picked up, “Zane, you old trader. How the hell are you?”

“Garrett, I’m good. I’m guessing right now you’re at Sammamish?”

“I’m here. Got a full house downstairs, and a drunken son who has yet to match his father’s steel proclivities.”

“Sometimes it skips a generation.”

“Thank Christ for that. I faintly remember hangovers.”

“So, Garrett, I need your brain on this one. Four counts of first degree rape.” Garrett whistled. Hazel continued, “Rape 1, Sodomy 1, Unlawful Sexual Penetration 1, Sex Abuse 1.”

“Age of the girl?”

“35. Aspiring actress. Seen some of her shit on-line. Really awful.”

“Alright. Who’s the guy?”

“John Stanton, 39, author.”

“I know the name and the reputation, but I haven’t read his work. Mick reads him. First felony?”

“First anything. The reputation is bullshit, I can tell you that firsthand. I had concerns about that upon meeting him, but he’s a big sweetheart. He just ended up meeting one who couldn’t deal with him moving on.”

“I understand. He’s a wild card, but from what I know about him, I couldn’t see him being a rapist.”

“Hell, no. That’s why I’m calling you. This is one of those rare plums, Garrett. It’s bad. As you know, all Measures, all maxed. The guy’s looking at life in prison. And trust me, this guy won’t make it in there.”

Zane was another one like Garrett, or like Garrett used to be, a private attorney and cowboy, handed cases from the consortium that were so unwinnable they were laughable. Garrett reached over and killed the fan. Zane took him off speaker.

“Garrett, this one’s really corrupted with bad shit. The girl is lying, plain and simple, but the state has this guy against a wall. His bail is so high it’s ridiculous, 250K, and you know Oregon has no bondsmen, and nobody in this guy’s life has 25 large to spring him. He’s keeping his publisher out of it. He doesn’t want the word to spread, understandably. Lara is keeping his close friends and family informed from the office. Jack, my P.I., is heading up your way in a week to interview a couple of his friends. I might have them come in as character witnesses.”

“I’ll keep it under wraps. How about a bail reduction hearing? Get it down to 15 or 10.”

“In this case, even if he had the 25 grand, the judge would raise it. I’m telling you, Garrett, this is really inside here, this case. A lot of accumulated, circumstantial, bullshit evidence, probably the worst I’ve seen. Not enough to prosecute, in my opinion, but you know how most rape trials go, especially in Oregon.”

“Go on.”

“She met and dated Stanton for six weeks when he got back to town from his book tour.”

“Dated him?”

“They fucked around for six weeks, basically. He’s admitting to all the sex, but absolutely denies and even cringes at the words forcible, compulsion, or rape. She’d also had sex with an ex within 48 hours before she fucked Stanton. I get the feeling she’s done this before in some way, Garrett. When she and the detective, who she’s incidentally fucking at the moment, went before the Grand Jury, they had cherry-picked text messages, a really cleverly staged pre-text phone call and a rape kit, but it only shows that they had sex, no defensive wounds.”

“That’s why grand juries are bullshit. Let me guess, Killings County.”

“Bingo.”

“Shit. Any bruising?”

“One the size of a dime on the inside of the knee, and one on the thigh, the same size, but they look pretty aged in the photos. She waited exactly 24 hours to go into the hospital with her ex, who just happens to be a parole officer.”

“Motive?”

“Stanton called it off with her, and was headed to Los Angeles to talk movie options with one of his novels. She invited him back to her place, the night of her birthday, no less. After he took her out for dinner, she fucked him, and then cried rape. I have text messages from her after he left, telling him what a doll he was.”

“Well-played on her part, but it sounds like a trial to me. Who’s the DA?”

“Some moron named Bill Dolt. The name says it all, but he’s a real fuckwad, you know?”

“Most of them are.”

“Well, they’re making this really personal, lined up cops and many professional witnesses against him. Garrett, I wouldn’t call you if I didn’t have an innocent man keeping me awake at night. Been a long time since I’ve had one like this.”

“Write this number down,” Garrett read it off from his contact list, “John Bradley, the ex-head examiner of Oregon. He’s like fucking Quincy down there. He’s retired, but drop my name. If anyone can get a trumped up sex kit exposed to the jury, it’s him. Has the DA offered a deal?”

“No deals yet, and he wouldn’t take one if they offered him a conviction and a walk.”

“A fighter, huh? That’s good. Will he present well in court?”

“He will.”

“How is he?”

“Frightened and pissed. He writes by hand compulsively in his cell, so he has that. Jack visits him on a regular basis, and they’ve discussed taking a deal, and the pressures of taking a deal to avoid decades in prison. I was there with Jack the last visit. Stanton knows what he’s facing, but he told me he’d rather die on his feet than live on his knees for the state.”

“Then a bench trial’s out of the question. A judge in that county will convict him so fast. This is going to be a tough case, but it’s not unwinnable, I think. You’re going to have to go with a jury trial, full emotion. Punch holes in the prosecution and get as much reasonable doubt that you can possibly find. Get that jury full of women and middle-aged men. Is he good looking?”

“He is.”

“Young women on the jury, if Dolt doesn’t challenge them all off. Women can read other women. What’s the victim like?”

“A real pile of shit. I had Jack tail her. He took Lara with him and sat in at a few of her spots. She was out drinking and laughing with her pals, grinding on men and kissing other girls. The recorded phone call and headshot of her at the hospital is enough to make you want to put her down. Pretty little thing, but an ignorant little cunt all the same.”

“Yeah, you’re taking this personally. Means you’re not dead to the field yet. I would say to call Bradley, and bring all the holes to light from the discovery when compared to the police report, because I promise you there are incongruences there.”

“There are, we’ve counted six.”

“Use that as your base. Discredit the little whore. And by no means instill confidence in Stanton, keep him on edge. If you ask me, you have a rough road ahead here, but one maybe worth taking. And when you get that fucking detective on the stand, show no mercy. When you do your cross with her, she’ll expose herself to the jury. That Dolt asshole will have her crying for them, then when you get her, trip those nerves. Hell, Zane, you know all of this already. Your reputation precedes you. Is the guy any good with the word?”

“Thanks, Garrett. Yeah, he really is. I read one of his novels in one night. Lucky for him it all flies under the banner of fiction, because Dolt would bring it into evidence.”

“He’ll still try it, Zane. I guarantee it. But I don’t care how slanted that county is, his writing won’t be admissible.”

“I like him quite a bit, and so does my team, but I can’t tell him that, I can’t get in deep with him, because if he loses, then he goes to prison, and we go to lunch. I can’t have that.”

“I remember those cases. Few and far between, but they run the gamut on your sleep.”

“Exactly.”

“Call Bradley, he’s going to be crucial.”

“I appreciate that, Garrett. How the hell are you holding up, anyway?”

“I’m good. It’s good to have the family here.”

“Garrett, I’m glad to hear that, and I want to catch up with you, but I have to get to the jail and meet with a client. This one did it, though, shot back at a cop. Stupid, stupid kid. Dangerous, too. He’s getting 200 months, if he takes a deal.”

“I remember those, too. Go. It was good to hear your voice again. Call me when you can and let’s catch each other up, Zane.”

“What do I owe you, old man?”

“Oh, hell. Buy me a beer next time you see me.”

“I’ll have Lara send you a check tomorrow. The beer’s a given.”

“Suits me fine, brother.”

They said goodbye and hung up. Garrett turned the fan back on and sipped his coffee. The pine outside tilted a branch back and forth beyond the window. Garrett walked over and plucked a needle and chewed on it while he checked his emails. His phone rang more, he talked more, then after another hour, he closed shop and went downstairs. Out back Rose had the girls set up on a blanket while she read a book. He poured a glass of orange juice and sat out there with them. The sunlight on the lake and the girls on the blanket, Rose’s face in the book on the lawn chair, if Bella could see that. Maybe she could, maybe she could see it, and maybe she even agreed with Rose about Garrett not being alone. Inside, Mick rolled out of bed and ran the shower. Garret looked at the lake. Rose looked over her book, “You done for the day?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Anything new?”

“Nina’s coming down tomorrow. She has a long weekend.”

“Nice. I like seeing Mick on his toes.”

Garrett laughed, “She’s coming around, slowly but surely. She’s always been a weird kid.”

Rose closed the book and sipped her wine, “Not like your son’s normal. That apple fell close to the tree, that’s for damn sure.”

Garrett leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He stared at the grass, “Both of our children are mildly retarded, in their fashions.”

Rose laughed. Garrett looked at her and smiled, then shrugged, “Mick got his mother’s bleeding heart, and Nina got my sense of responsibility. Not that Mick’s irresponsible, just relaxed. He’s always been calm in the face of chaos. Nina, not so much. She likes to shut down and go inside of herself.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Rose said. Garrett looked at her and smiled, “Right. The bitter, silent evil she emits doesn’t make it plain enough, does it?”

Rose looked at the girls, “I hope they get a touch of everyone.”

Mick walked out back in his shorts, holding a cup of coffee, “Least one of you could have done was made a new pot. Thanks for the mud.”

Garrett shook his head at the water, “There’s a fresh bag next to the Midol.”

Mick raised the back of his hand to him. Rose sipped her wine, “Take two and go back to bed, grouchy ass.”

He moved his hand toward her. She lowered her sunglasses, “Uh huh, you just keep thinking that.”

He moved it toward the twins and Garrett laughed. The sun was warmer than it had been the previous summer. A drop of sweat rolled down the back of his neck into his shirt. Rose looked at Mick, and the look told him to take the girls inside. He squinted at her and she laughed, got up and scooped up the girls from their blanket. Back inside they sat and listened to the radio. Mick drank a fresh cup from the pot Rose had brewed, popped four more aspirin and waited for them to work their way to his forehead. Garrett handed him a shot of whiskey and he slammed it. Rose shook her head at him, “You’re just now doing that?”

“Head’s moving slow, woman. Don’t toy with me.”

She lobbed a grape in the air. It landed in his lap. Garrett poured a few shots around the table, and they slammed them. The girls were in front of the television, watching a DVD. Mick looked at it, “They can’t call that shit cartoons. CGI has completely destroyed Saturday morning.”

“We said the same thing about eight-tracks,” Garrett said, “we hung on to vinyl until the bitter end.”

“This is different, dad.”

“No, it is. Just felt like flicking you shit because you’re hungover.”

Rose smiled at Mick, “Either way, it’s television, babe. Let them get their fix while they’re here. Us, too.” she looked at Garrett, “I don’t let them watch it more than an hour every few days. I want to raise them as humans. But it’s nice to have them quiet and in one spot.”

“Always been a cheap babysitter,” Garrett nodded at the set, “but Bella felt the same way, though Mick was fucking glued to the television every chance he got.”

Rose looked at him, “He has a thing for westerns and Dirty Harry.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Mick said quickly. Garrett nodded at her, “My fault. I addicted him. I can’t look away from that pistol when he aims it, either. I have the films memorized.”

They drank at the table until Mick’s head was better. The twins had gone down for their naps, and Garrett surfed the fridge, “We need some food in this house.” Rose offered to drive to the store. Garrett said he’d drive, which was fine with Mick. His head was better, but the bright day was murderous for him. They left. He sat on the couch and killed the music, stretched out and put his arm over his eyes.

“MICK!”

He leaped up and looked around. Nina sat in the recliner and set her sunglasses on the table by the lamp. His eyes narrowed, “Sister.”

She uncapped her bottle of water and drank. He rubbed his eyes.

“Lucky you didn’t wake the girls.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’d be napping, with a black eye.”

“Uh, huh.”

He glanced her over. She’d lost some weight, and even had her hair highlighted in the front. He reached over and drank his coffee. It was cold, and it ran through his chest and arms, hydrating his lingering hangover. She stared at him, “Tied one on last night?”

“Nothing gets by you.”

She kicked the recliner’s leg rest out, leaned back and sighed, “Still weak in your replies. Good to see it.”

He set his cup down, “Sounds like someone’s finally getting laid.”

“Someone just might be, and he might be a much younger man, a bad-boy, if you will.”

Mick rolled his eyes, “Jesus. As long as you’re not giving up too much money.”

She reached down, took off a shoe and threw it at him. He caught it and set it on the couch next to him, “Thanks. I needed one of those.”

She kicked the other one off and threw it. It hit him on the chest, “Take two.”

He set it next to the other one, “Who’s the martyr?”

“His name’s Blake. He works in advertising and he rides a Harley.”

“Pathetically dual. How old is he?”

She smiled, “Just turned 30.”

“Does he have his own place, and his own money?”

She rolled her eyes, “Yes, ass, he’s well-established. He has a tattoo, my first tattooed one.”

“What and where?”

“A praying mantis on his forearm.”

“I can’t fault him for that, but he has to be disabled in some way if he’s giving it to you.”

She shook her head at him, “You idiot.”

“At least you’re looking better and sounding better. Good to see you somewhat less from Hell.”

“Where’s my father?”

“They went to the store. I should call them and make sure they bring back some lamb’s blood to keep you away from me.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. She sighed, “Sometimes, I actually have to remind myself that I love you.”

“Likewise.”

The car doors closed out front, and they walked in. Nina stood and hugged her father. Rose looked at Mick and smiled. He shook his head at her and she laughed. She hugged Nina and they stood in the kitchen while Garrett put the groceries away. Rose nodded to the room, “Still out?”

Mick shrugged, “Even the cold presence of Satan didn’t shake them.”

Garrett laughed. Nina looked at Rose, “I put a block on them.”

They sat at the table and drank wine, while Nina told them about her boyfriend. Her phone rang and she walked outside to talk to him. Rose looked at them, “Wow. I like the 180. I think I actually saw her smile with her teeth exposed.”

Mick laughed. Garrett smiled into his glass, “The opportunity always presents itself, even to the queen of black souls.”

Nina came in with her phone to her side and looked at her father. He nodded to her before she could say anything, and she walked back outside. Mick looked at him, “Wonder what this one looks like.”

“Can’t be any worse than the mustache. Goofy little motherfucker.”

Rose laughed. Nina came in, “What’s funny?”

“Frank’s mustache,” Mick said.

“Blake is clean shaven, just so you know. I just texted him the address. He’ll be here tonight. Mick, you be fucking nice to him.”

“I will.” The girls began crying in the room. He stood and looked at her, “For the good of the rest of the world.”

Garrett broke out laughing. Rose looked at Nina and smiled. Nina shook her head at him and pulled out her phone, “Let me show you a picture of him.”

Mick put his hand up, “I’ll let the fag’s appearance strike me.” He walked off. Rose looked at Garrett, “I think you were drunk when he fertilized the egg.”

“More than likely.”

Nina showed them the photo. Rose and Garrett passed the phone back and forth.

“Hell,” Garrett said, “not bad.”

“Not at all,” Rose said, “how’d you meet him?”

“Online. Some free dating site. I tried it out for a week, met some real fatasses who looked really good on their profiles. I’d decided to jump off the site just before Blake messaged me. I figured one last effort. He doesn’t want me telling people that we met on-line, but I don’t really care. Not like it’s new.”

Mick set the twins on the floor and grabbed the tote bag, “Almost unnatural to meet someone any other way these days,” he said, “it’s a whole new time.”

Rose watched him change the girls, impressed with his reassuring words to Nina, because she was expecting him to bring some serious venom. But Mick liked the new Nina, a hell of a lot more than the old one, and he wanted to keep the ball rolling. Garrett shrugged, “As formidable as I find it, I’d have to agree. Meeting someone in person doesn’t always guarantee that they’re kosher, either. But the on-line dating scene these days is a vortex, for sure. Even in law. Almost every civil or criminal, or even family court trial has elements of social media involved. Messages, comments, posts. It’s amazing, when you think about it. People incriminate themselves without knowing it. Kind of funny, too.”

“I imagine it cuts some of the investigation time in half,” Rose said.

Garrett nodded, “It practically does the P.I.’s job for him, in a lot of cases.”

Mick changed the girls and set up their chairs in the kitchen. Nina watched him. He poured their juice and handed them their cups, which instantly went to their lips. Garrett laughed. Mick nodded to Rose, “Feed the beasts.”

He walked into the living room and fell back across the couch. Nina walked over and sat next to them. They looked at her over their cups. Mia smiled at her and held her cup out. Nina took it and started to raise it to her mouth, and Mia reached for it. Mick laughed, “That’s daddy’s girl.”

Rose walked over to the counter and started making their lunch. Nina kissed the girls and held her finger out to Layla. She gripped her finger and Nina smiled at her, “Sorry your daddy sucks, baby girl. Yes, he does.”

Rose smiled at the counter. Mick closed his eyes and listened to the outside. He could hear the birds over the voices in the kitchen. After a few minutes he faded to black, and woke up with Layla on his chest. Behind her Rose’s face floated overhead, “Alright, husband. You’ve had enough time to let yourself heal. I need to shower.”

“We have two workers in the kitchen.”

“They’re out back. Sorry, Charlie.”

He sat up and took Mia from her. Rose kissed his head and walked to the bathroom. The water turned on and he set the girls on the floor. He stared down at them, “You two need to get some fuckin’ jobs.”

They looked up at him, and he crouched to the floor from the couch and did a somersault over them. They padded over and jumped on him.

Out back over the fire, the group of them sat and drank. Garrett had seen the Sun fall, and he was looking at the four of them. A seed of sorrow laid in his stomach, the absence of Bella seeing the four of them, seeing Nina honestly happy for once. Garrett watched Blake’s profile. Blake was actually alright. He’d scored points with Mick because he was well-read in Nietzsche, as well as Vonnegut. They talked about Man or Superman until the others had to tune out and start their own conversation. Mick was doing well without his cigarettes. He wasn’t thinking about them, because he’d made them a non-option in his mind. Earlier, Rose had promised him the best blow-job of his life if he could get through the night without breaking down in some way over the withdrawals, which Mick pawned off to the hangover. His plan was to stay drunk for the first two days, this way he could drink consistently after his body was used to not having nicotine. Too many times in the past, he’d quit then restarted after a few drinks. Rose thought the plan was genius. The fire crackled and the drinks were constant. Nina was drunk, and she sat close to Blake, her hand on his leg. When he went inside to use the bathroom, she asked Rose what she thought of him, and Rose told her she thought he might be the one.

“I fuckin’ hope so,” Mick said, “at least the dude reads.” he looked at Nina, “how bad did you trash me to him?”

“The usual amount.”

“Constantly,” Garrett said, keeping his foot in the conversation and away from the seed down there, and the seed was taking to soil without mercy. Garrett felt it growing a body, and the body formed with dread in the trunk, a dread he’d never felt.

Rose looked at her, “Well, at least he’s tall and minus the mustache. Two for two against the last one.”

Nina looked at her father, “Dad?”

“He’s a good man, sweetie. Just don’t drive him crazy.”

Mick nodded into the fire, then felt Nina’s slap across his leg.

The five of them drank until midnight, when they put out the fire and stumbled into the house. Garrett was drunk, and upon walking upstairs and seeing the bed, the drunken sorrow turned into violent depression. The sorrowful seed at the fire had sprouted up and moved through his heart, and its leaves were soaked black. He stared at the closet. A dark edge to it. Rose’s words ran through his mind. All that he had on Earth, his family, and all that Bella had left behind, died with his heart in her corpse. Another nightmare awaited him, another morning, another day bright with death, hers and his own. By the time Layla and Mia were ten, he’d be dead anyway, or close enough. He stared at the closet door. A thousand sunsets my ass. He staggered over, opened it, and dug the box out of the back, his oldest bottle of wine and his .45. Nobody knew about it. He had the kit ready for his last sunset, had readied it the summer after Bella died, but tonight was the night. No point in going for a number. He would die failing her, because he needed the punishment. He needed to leave his life at war. Tonight was the night, the mood was definite, and he had no fear of it.

He coasted the canoe out into the lake, opened the bottle and drank from the neck. There was a cool and steady wind, which had only been a breeze on shore. The oars sat on the floor of the boat next to the pistol’s chrome. He looked at the house and thought of them, his blood and their people. There was no note written, no short goodbye. His death would explain everything.

He finished the bottle and reached it over, let the lake make it full and swallow it down. He looked around the dark water, his head lifted with the drink, his heart heavy with sad blood. No more sadness, no more nightmares, no more dreams. If death brought nothing, then nothing was better than this. The time was there, and he was grateful.

He sat in the middle of the boat, placed the gun under his chin and clicked off the safety. He thought about it, his head blown in half, and he didn’t want them to see it. He placed the gun in front of his chest. It made more sense. He looked at the house and pushed the trigger with his thumb. The hammer pulled back and he remembered her face, all that he loved, all they’d created. The light came on downstairs in the kitchen. Rose poured Mick a glass of water, fished out some aspirin and stared out to the lake. She lingered there. It was impossible to see him, but she stared directly at him, to where he was. She’d never seen lightning bugs in that part of the country, but she watched a swarm circle out over the lake, then disappear inward. Garrett saw no bugs, because there were no bugs to see. His pain begged him on. He stared at Rose. She stared out, walked away then killed the light, and the wind stopped blowing.

He closed his eyes and told her that he was coming, to wherever she was. He sighed a last breath and touched the gun over his heart, pulled it back and pressed with his thumb while his hands were forced aside. His brow furrowed, the hands over his, a feeling of warmth covering him, a light planted in his stomach. It devoured the tree within him, it glared up through his skin, and the light of her told him that he had time left, plenty of it, and the trigger wouldn’t be allowed to reach its cradle—no weak end to his warm blood—he owed her his natural death. Before that, though, she had a debt to collect from him, the remainder of sunsets, then his own happiness, which he’d stolen, not her. He let the warmth pull his thumb from the trigger, and watched the gun fall into the water without sound.

The wind picked up again, and there on the lake he knew. He knew wherever she was, she was waiting for him, and she was in no hurry. Her concept of time was something he couldn’t grasp, and he couldn’t let the sunsets get away from him, because he’d made a deal with her ghost. 368 more, and then he owed himself the rest of his life. She’d stopped by to collect from her man, she was stronger than Garrett, and while he sat there staring at his hands, the black sorrow of ten years left his body and ran across the surface of the lake, over the trees and away from him. He sat up and turned around, picked up the oars and rowed slowly to shore, and the feeling of knowing covered him like she had in the middle of the dark water, and it was good. Everything was. He rowed and thought about Mick, who was onto his plan, and he couldn’t let Mick be right about him. He thought about Mick and he laughed.

Walking off the plane, respectably drunk from first class, my hair pulled back and pinned high, my skirt hugging my legs, nothing underneath, my heels flexing my calves, old perverts fucking leering at me. My mind was on one thing, what he'd think of me, would he kiss me outside on the sidewalk: would he kiss me, would his tongue taste like coffee hiding whiskey, would he finger me in his car while we drove to his place? I wondered if I was insane being here like this. My time with him flashed through me in less than a second: I went ahead and contacted him through his website. I'd read all of his books, but I'd read a lot of books, I read for a living. But there was something about him, not just the way his words stared a hole through me, but something about him as a person. I wasn't sure what it was exactly, the photos of him online or the fact that when I contacted him under the pretense (how I hate that word) of who I was in the city, who I worked for, what I did in publishing, he replied like I wanted him to, humble yet arrogant, and respectfully declining my literary interest in him. He had his own money, had conceived a writing application last year, and it had blown up hugely, and there were enough savvy investors to erase his need for a publishing deal, which was too bad. But there was something vulnerable to the message, and when I called the number below his signature he was soft spoken, polite, and humorous. A month went on. A month. Constant texting, calling, photos. First the faces, then a shot of my tits, my ass, my fingers blocking an otherwise graphic shot of my sex. He sent me shots back, all of it: his chest, shoulders, cock, him out of the shower. It was the first time I'd sent a man anything like that, but I trusted him. In bed at night, I'd listen to him, ask him to read me something, and he finally did, and I'd masturbate to his voice, his words. For a man who wrote like him, he lived alone, confused by it, but something told me he needed distance. But it didn't stop me from flying out west and seeing him.

First flesh impression: He was a little heavier in person, especially in profile. He was taller than I'd imagined him, 6'1, big shoulders, tattoos down his arms, which I'd seen in the photos, but in person they were more prominent. I have one, on my shoulder blade, a black rabbit, a ghost rabbit from fiction that stirred me as a little girl, and when he first saw it in an early photo I'd sent him he immediately texted back, "Watership Down, that image haunted me throughout my childhood in the saddest and best ways. Good piece."

--From that point on, the first impression didn't matter, I was mad for him. And outside on the sidewalk, there at SeaTac, he pulled me into him and kissed me, ran a big hand over my ass, got me hotter than a teenager.

Back at his place, a smaller place than I'd imagined, we had two hours of the bar up the street in us, I met his famous dog, and then he and I were in bed fucking like prisoners. It was Friday, then it was Saturday night: pizza boxes everywhere, empty bottles of wine. Walking out of the shower, I passed his desk and chair and it just then occurred to me that it was where everything happened for him, and something gripped me. I had to leave the next morning. I had to leave and I panicked. Back in bed I asked him what he thought of me, where he saw us going in the future. His dog jumped on the bed and curled up and slept behind the back of my legs. I instantly fell in love with both of them. But he basically told me that I lived in the city and he lived two thousand miles west. He also said we'd just met, which was fair, but it hurt. It hurt because of the last four weeks of constant contact, of wanting, almost hurting for him, and it also occurred to me there that he probably had a few more like me waiting in the shadows. Looking into his eyes I could see that I was nothing special. I was another reader, a hot piece of ass that might grace a poem in some obscure, chickenshit way. The moment changed for me, it changed his writing, and it changed him. But feeling him next to me, his cock against my leg, his freakishly big and weird body sleeping, his dog snoring right in rhythm with him, it was clear that I had to be the last piece for him, the last "booty call" he'd need to have. I rolled off the bed and quietly kissed the air until his dog awoke and walked out. I gave him a little bone from the box on top the fridge, and grabbed the longest knife from the rack, closed the bedroom door and watched his silhouette sleeping, bathed in moonlight, a drunk and fat attempt at what was once my future in my heart. I held the knife and felt the whiskey move me closer quietly. I'd had enough men like him. He wasn't special, he played with words for a living, and I'd fallen for it. He'd live after I left, but he'd never be able to fuck another woman.

The thick silk dress found its way over my body and draped itself effortlessly down towards the floor. The colors imitating late spring: a cream, square top, fitting dress with apricot flowers and green leaves patterning the material. Three lines of ruffles decorated the top and the edge of the sleeves. Simple but elegant. Diana's signature style. Diana always comes up with the most beautiful dresses I've ever seen. Always perfect, right down to the hem. Her mother used to sew clothes for her when she was a little girl, and her father was a very talented artist. She doesn't talk of them much. She says they're in the past and it won't hurt for them to stay there. I think they died in a building fire when she was eight but I haven't asked Diana about her parents in years. I made the mistake of prying once, and for her sake, I won't make the same mistake again. But my guess is that's where she got her talent for turning me into some kind of goddess whenever I have to somewhere to go. Creating beautiful things is in her blood.

"What shall we do with your hair today, Miss Bay?" Diana asks. Pulling a few of my auburn strands back, as if showing me rough drafts of the million and one things she could do with my pathetic excuse for hair. "You're the expert, not me," I say, giving her a familiar smirk. She gives me a teasing glare. "Very well," she grinned back ruthlessly. As if she knew something I didn't. Suddenly a blur of her two hands are teasing my hair and turning it into what would appear to anyone else as a bird's nest. A scream of laughter escapes my mouth as I try to swat her hands away. "What?" She questions innocently. "You said I was the expert and I say this is perfect." I laugh at her as I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror. Brown heaps of hair are scattered all across my head, giving me the look of just getting up out of bed. "This is the style these days, you know?" she jokes. "Exactly what Do- uh, Detective Alexander is expecting." I feel a wave of nausea that i thought had passed wash over me, despite her joking tone and the very light atmosphere. My green eyes gaze back at me and I watch as the happiness that was there just a moment ago dissolve into anxiousness and anxiety. Diana must pick up on this- as she usually does- because she begins to stroke my hair thoughtfully.

"It'll be alright, dear." She says with an amount of sincerity that's always surprised me. She begins working on my hair, talking while brushing out the tangles she caused earlier and pulling various pieces back to braid them. Forming something like a crown from my temples to the back of my head. "I'm sure Sir William hasn't gotten far," she continues cautiously. "He's always been one to run off from time to time, you know that. Don't worry too much about it." All the laughter from minutes ago has been stripped and her voice is wearing nothing but worry.

Diana finishes fastening the braids and curls the ends of my hair slightly. She places small flowers in my hair that looks like a pastel fire burning against my burnt wood colored hair. She makes me face away from the mirror so she can paint my face with natural earthy tones: browns and greens are spread and blended across my eyelids, making me feel like one of the nymphs in the picture books my brother, William, used to read to me when we were kids. Diana dabs some pale pink gloss across my lips. She gives a comforting smile and tells me I can look now. I turn around to see a stranger in the mirror. Diana has been dressing me and making me look at my best for as long as I can remember. I used to go to my father's parties and balls, and Diana was always there saying and doing the things a mother would usually do. Diana's always been there for me, even when I couldn't be there for myself.

"You're beautiful." she whispers.

"No, this dress is beautiful." I say breathlessly. "My hair and makeup and flowers...all of this is what you've done. "I am simply the canvas, Diana. A canvas is not beautiful, the art placed on it by the hands of an artist such as yourself is what makes it beautiful." I tilt my head around to see her face directly. There's such wisdom and time in her eyes that you could say anything and she might make you change your mind. Even if you pointed out the sky is blue she could look at you and you'd feel as if you've just said the stupidest thing ever said throughout mankind. She takes her hand and rubs the back of her knuckles against my cheek. They're soft and frail and smell of the garden. She makes a slight tsk-ing sound and kisses my forehead. "Nonsense. You know better than to say such foolish things." She says that as if she was having a conversation with a bird in the trees and it just sang a response that she disagreed with, though to anyone else she would seem like a mad woman. "But I am nothing but a foolish girl," I tease. "Surely that's a fitting title." I stare into Diana's hazelnut eyes and she removes her hand from my cheek and pats my hands, as they've been sitting in my lap, fiddling with one of the extra flowers that she placed in my hair with expert's hands. Her hair is graying faster than I remembered it had been, but she has aged gracefully and is the most beautiful person I know.

She gives a tight smile and says, "'You are only foolish if you choose to believe it.' That's what my father used to say." Her smile fades, then grabs my hands and helps me into a standing position. "Come now," Diana says. "You don't want to keep Detective Alexander waiting."

I step outside the carriage and into the crisp April air and immediately the wind is cool and refreshing against my face. The wind doesn't cut through my clothes like late January's did. Instead it fills my lungs and seems to be the only thing keeping me from fainting. I take shallow, shaky breaths as I walk up the the old, little building's doors and give it a firm knock. When I pull my gloved hand away I see a light layer of dust littered across my knuckles and attempt to dust it off, but my attempts are cut short when a tall, slender man in a pair of tailored pants and a white, open collared shirt answers the door. His thin glasses rest just on the bridge of his nose. His dark hair is disheveled and seems to glow from the fire slowly burning out in the living room.

"Yes, what can I do for you today?"

"I'm Veronica Bay. I'm here to see you about the disappearance of my brother, William Bay."

He looks dazed and distant. As if he's spent the evening out of his body and in another demintion. Just as I'm about to ask him if he's alright, something has snapped him back into reality and I'm face to face with a young, grey eyed detective that will hopefully bring me closer to finding my brother.

"Oh yes, of course! Please, come in."

I enter the cramped space and the smell of weathered pages and brown sugar assault my senses and cause my head to spin. But it's relaxing in a way. Almost familiar. Seeming to calm my hiked nerves. "So what exactly can I do for you, Miss Bay?" He says as he clears off a stack of geography books from a large, maroon apollstered chair, with gold buttons with intricate designs, tattered down the sides. His voice is low but full of youth. He couldn't be much older than William, I conclude.

"Well, actually I was hoping you could tell me." I say hopefully. Taking my seat in the apollstered chair. He makes his way over to a small, heavy wooden desk. It's covered in various papers and what appears to be a logging book. There's a small plaque that has Alexander's name on it. There's something else written across it but he turns it on its face before I can finish reading it. He looks up at me with thoughtful, yet concerned eyes as he pulls up an worn, wooden barstool next to the chair he placed me in. "You see, my brother has made a habbit of running off whenever he feels like it so it makes for a very hard time to get someone to care that he hasn't retutned. And I was hoping you might assist me in trying to discover the whereabouts of him." I try to keep the aching feeling of dread out of my tone and I'm fighting to keep my voice even, but I'm afraid my efforts only caused me to sound more frail. "And what evidence do you have that your brother, Mr. William, is not just out roaming the streets of Manhattan? That perhaps it had just slipped his mind to make someone aware of his whereabouts?" There was no judgemental questioning in his voice, just simple curiosity and knowledge needed for the proper procedures to be carried out.

"My brother and I are very close. He always let's me know where he's going and when. This is not like him. He wouldn't just leave," my voice sounds hesitant and shaky in my own ears. But Detective Alexander hasn't taken his eyes off me. He's paying close attention and keeping on my every word, but, "I see," is all he says.

The sun has begun to drift off into a hazy sunset of violets and golds, the rest of the sky is a dulling gray that seems to hang in the air like factory smoke. The light of day is fading and this is one more day of no answers.

After Diana helps me out of my dress I run a bath and silently slip into the warm, inviting water. The soaps smell of dogwood and orange blossoms, both bubbling up and popping against my skin. But even with smells of home taking hostage of my body something still smells faintly of old books and brown sugar. An odd combination that seems to linger far into the night.

I dream of oceans dropping off into nowhere and my brother's voice calling to me from somewhere I can't see. I can hear William's distant words echoeing across the water but they don't quite reach me. His words fall into the depths of the sea. I try swimming after them, pumping my arms and legs, willing myself to catch the words he said and bring them to shore, but I can't go anywhere. I'm stuck underwater with no way out. I try turning around but something grabs at my legs and pulls me further down into the abis. I see William floating towards the bottom of the sea, his blonde hair around him like a halo. I try to call to him but my voice has gone mute. I try to scream, but my efforts are in vain. The world is blackening around me.

I wake up to Diana shaking my shoulder and and placing a wet cloth against my forehead and collarbone. My throat is hoarse and dry, I can feel a layer of sweat covering my body. The room is still dark. If it wasn't for the lamp Diana turned on I wouldn't be able to make out the outline of her features.

"Are you alright, Veronica? You were having quite a fit in your dreams tonight. I could hear you all the way down the hall." She places her hand on my forehead on down through my hair. "I'm sorry, it was just a dream. I hadn't meant to wake you." She seems saddened. Almost absent, but I can't tell its intentions through the night. "Diana, what's wrong?" She looks at me with glassy eyes but turns away from my face. "Its nothing, dear. It just seems I can in never sleep these days." She gives a sad smile and makes a motion to say more but seems to decide against it. "Can I get you anything?" Is all she says. "No, no. I'm quite alright," I manage to say. "I'll be heading back to bed now." "Very well, Miss Bay. Goodnight." I give her a slight nod and she turns off the bedside lamp. As soon as Diana exits the room I let out a shaky sigh that I hadn't realized I was holding in. I glance around my room and then close my eyes. An image of William's dead body comes to mind and it makes me shake. Why had a dreamt him dead? My brother's not dead. He's... Wait, where is my brother? Confusion fills my mind and I can't focus on anything. I hear Diana's voice in my mind. "William's dead. I'm so sorry."

I hopped the rail and sat against the dirt wall below the highway. The face of a mountain stared at me from across a small valley. It was high and snow-capped. I took off my sweatshirt and faced it. The sun hit my face and ran through it like chemicals. Down in the valley a thin stream ran beneath the tall trees and loose rocks, which tumbled down the sides like tears. I sat there and stared at all of it. My face and arms were hot with blood. I was back with life. Birds would land and take off again from the limbs down there. I sunk my hand into the warm dirt and let it fall through my fingers. I missed the road, the dangerousness of no routine. I sat back and thought about everything. I wondered what Helena was doing, and if I still crossed her mind. I wondered if my mother could see me from where she was, and I wondered what she thought of me. I wondered if there were mountains in Heaven. I knew there had to be a Heaven because she was dead and I couldn’t stand the thought of her rotting in a coffin with nothing else for her. I wanted a Heaven to exist for her. For me it didn’t matter. I believed in no afterlife, and I believed that man may never know how the first form of life began, but that was where the beauty of life came from, from that mystery. The biblical God to me was a joke, the words were a joke, but I considered God to be everything that I knew nothing about, a feeling, the source of love I felt concerning good and evil. To have told her that God to me was another word for the unknown would have broken her heart, so I watched the bright leaves and let them rest onto the idea of her up high, to shine beneath her soul. I sat there and remembered her, then my thoughts trailed back to the warm air, and how much time I’d spent away from it. A cloud passed and blocked the sun. I stood up and put my sweatshirt on.

was this bum in west Phoenix

who took a ride in my

first van which

I also lived in

and

on some nights

he as well

not like I shared the

van with his

dirty ass

but on a few nights when I was

with a girl in her place or

on the couch of a friend

in the neighborhood

Bob would somehow break in

and pass out in the back

the first morning I found him

in there I had driven half way to

Flagstaff with a girl

when my sleeping

bag shifted and

farted and

a grizzled voice

said

JESUS

and he farted again

and said

JESUS

and

the van was filled

with the smell

and I pulled over and

the girl jumped out and

I jumped out and

picked up a

dirt clod

from the shoulder of

17 North

and I opened the back door

and pulled the

sleeping bag off

and the smell

of another one

wafted

out from the bag

and nearly made us

puke

and I drove his

bum ass

back to the west side

and dropped him off

then made the drive back

to Flagstaff

and the girl thought

I had

compassion

which maybe

I did

but I also

had a grudge against

Bob because

I had to work

and he made

thirty dollars a day

plus food

-mainly pizzas

and candy bars-

standing on the corner

of 83rd and Indian School

cardboard sign in hands:

VIETNAM VET:

will work for food.

whether Bob was really a soldier

I’ll never know

On the nights when he and I would talk

he never once mentioned the war

instead he talked,

overweight

though his gut and long red beard

about other bullshit

I eventually escaped that place at 17 years of age

and when I returned there two years later

with a different van

Bob was gone

he had been shot through the head

and died crossing the street

looking for help

I drove around the old neighborhood

for four or five minutes

then jumped on the freeway

heading west

to Los Angeles.

the hours of

youth

have bled

out

with the dust

and the sand

where roses

once shimmered

under our

golden hair

now sits

a perfect drop of

blood.

...and then I was on the 99 turning off the bridge, right onto Stone, left onto Northgate and into Gas Works Park. HB and Zach stood there waiting, Zach barefoot with crazy hair, HB in shorts wearing a fedora. I laughed at them, jumped, we hugged, and walked up a sidewalk of Gas Works. The feeling of the day was good, the Sun high, and walking with them talking about Prose., I wondered if this was what it was like when the Facebook team started talking about it. I mentioned it and they laughed. Zach stared across the street at the coffee house where we were going, “This is big.”

Outside, Zach fished his shoes from his backpack and we sat. The cold kicked in all around us, the last traces of winter in Seattle grazed the streets: grey fingers, fading nails, and we took a seat inside. HB and I grabbed the coffees. Back at the table Zach pulled out his iPad and showed me the progress on Prose., the newest wireframes, and they were nothing short of amazing to stare upon. There was one screen with my photo and name as a sample page, and around my photo in circle, was an orange dragon with the word “Grandmaster” above it.

I looked at it, “What’s that?”

Zach looked at me, “The color is just a sample. And the name of the status isn’t set in stone, but I had the idea that as far as the writing contests and challenges, or whichever names we give them, for that part of Prose., we’d have levels, like Scribbler, Scribe—”

“Wordsmith,” HB said, “we need Wordsmith in there.”

Zach stared at me, a bit worried: concerned, obviously, that I would shoot down the level status. I stared back, “Brilliant.” His face relaxed, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, and I like it, Grandmaster, which I think is cool as fuck, and I think it at that high of a level, it should have those elements: the Japanese style throw-down, the jam circle, but for starters, I like Scribbler, Scribe, Wordsmith, Paperback, Hardcover, Best-Seller, in whichever order of level. But keep Grandmaster for a higher level, spice it up.”

“I like that, man. I really like that. It gives the feature more integrity.”

But that was just one part of it. There was the home screen with all the posts, each writer’s profile, and a reader’s profile, and an eventual feature for them if they wanted to show what they read and connect readers of the same genres for discussion. There would, in time, be a web app with the writer’s own page that would basically be a blog page with a link for the writer in one line, saved drafts, a photo they could personalize. I had a lot more listed in my notepad, and I turned the pages and read the ideas to them, and they wrote as I talked. HB made a good point about Prose. being open to all genres, so we would need every main genre we could think of. What we each started to see was that each genre of writing, from sci-fi to erotica, from romance to crime, from literary to nonfiction, from creative nonfiction to journalism. Each genre had its own world of Prose., each one could, in time, form groups and communities, and the news feed would be just as much fun to read than any other social media news feed. The three of us were wired on a wavelength. Two hours had passed like nothing. The energy at the table rose off and sent an orange dragon cloud over the room. A few tables started listening. The foul language from our excitement sent poison arrows around the room and caused a father to give Zach a pissed off look and move his family across the cafe. I laughed. We were two months south of summer, and it occurred to me that I'd only thought of Prose. one month earlier in Austin, exactly one month to the day from the table across from Gas Works. The time and 2,500 total miles between were merely vague necessities, yet bizarre stone steps to walk, that led to the first dev. team meeting. What each of us could feel there, and what a few tables around us maybe got a sense of, was that something was changing, a cultural shift devoid of ego or repose, simply because the work in front of us destroyed any of that bullshit. Each of our ideas, or anyone else's who would be needed to help build the sanctuary, would ultimately succeed or be adapted, or be absorbed by better ideas from the team. The goal was one now, it was Prose. I sat back and watched the street outside, and everything moved perfectly, under a Sun that had returned to the city to again destroy the rain.