When My Fire Burns Low

Introduction

2006-02-28T20:38:00.000-05:00

I wrote this back in the '90s sometime. I guess you could call it a spiritual-suspense novel. It is the story of a woman (with the unfortunate name of Lizzie Borden) and her struggles with depression, despair, and suicide. It is also, if you stay with it long enough, about hope.

Honestly, it is not a very good novel. That said, it is not very bad either. Or at least, I have read far worse than this. It is a first novel, and at times reads like it. It is, however, the first novel I ever wrote, and only one I ever finished, so it has a soft spot in my heart.

Table of Contents

2006-02-28T13:09:00.000-05:00

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

2006-02-28T13:06:00.000-05:00

And so here we are. I spent the rest of yesterday morning and into the afternoon waiting. Waiting for the police to come. Waiting for Zach to come home. Waiting for the world to end. Between one and two o'clock, the phone rang more or less constantly. I didn't answer it. I figured if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were coming to get me, the least they could do was come in person. Then the phone stopped, and I felt guilty for ignoring it. At three in the afternoon I got the pistol from the top shelf of my closet and loaded the chamber.

I sat on the bed for two-and-a-half hours -- humming, rocking, thinking. A soft, lilting voice played in my head. Ain't nobody's business. I remembered how it felt to put the barrel in my mouth and squeeze the trigger. I wondered if I could do it again, for real this time. More than once I raised the shiny steel toward my head, only to lower it again. Each time my resistance grew weaker. It would have been a cinch if I could have kept my concentration on that horrible song, but I couldn't.

Something kept interrupting. Questions. So many questions. How did it get to this point? How do I get out? Can I get out at all? Do I want to?

Then, in a flash, I thought of the old typewriter under my bed, and Hugh Daily pounding his thoughts and convictions into letters, and I thought, why not?

But it's nearly six-thirty in the morning now, and even after all these pages I don't feel any closer to the answers. Strange, because that first one at least should have been a snap. There have been so many worthy scapegoats in my life just aching for blame.

My dear, sweet, sainted mother, for dying untarnished. We all have our crosses to bear. It is our lot in life. Don't forget, you are a Perkins. Make me proud.

But this cross is too heavy. I can't bear it. How can I compete with a ghost?

My father for killing himself and part of me. You did this to me. I loved your mother, and you stole her from me, you greedy little brat.

But that's not fair. I miss her too. And I didn't ask to be born.

My grandmother, for rejecting me. Stop that infernal whining. I took you in when no one else would. I kept you out of some juvenile home. And this is the thanks I get? Well, you can just forget it. You can go to hell, for all I care.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to impose. I would have gladly stayed with my mom and dad. But they weren't available.

Danielle and Rosemary and all the other eyes in this town, for never letting me forget who I am. There she is, that little tramp. She killed her father, you know. You've heard about the note, haven't you? And that was when she was only five. Imagine what she's like now. The devil incarnate.

Stop it! That's not fair. It's not my fault. I didn't ask for this! I didn't do anything wrong!

Didn't you? You mean you're just a product of your environment? The world made you the way you are? Well, I had a rough life too, Lizzie. Does that mean I'm off the hook?

No, Ryan. You used me. You took advantage of me, then discarded me like a ragdoll that's been outgrown. I have every right to hate you.

Then what did I do, Mommy?

Zach. Dear, sweet Zach. You took all the years, all the pain, all the embarrassment I've tried to bury, and you threw it in my face. And I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear to see -- I couldn't bear to hear -- I couldn't bear to know -- the real me.

Because I do share the shame. If not for me, my mother would be alive, and my father and grandmother would be happy. From day one, I have been a source of grief to those I should have brought joy.

And when the eyes turned on me, didn't I enjoy the attention? Provoke it at times?

And Ryan. Did he take advantage of me? Yes. Was I a willing participant? Yes. A partner in the crime.

And Zach, with his eyes like mirrored sunglasses. It wasn't his hand that bloodied his lip and bruised his cheek. It was mine, and mine alone. And now I want to do to him exactly what I accused Ryan of doing: abandon him for his own good. I am guilty.

You see, all these worthy candidates for blame I can forgive. Except one. She is always there, lurking in the shadows, picking through my garbage, exposing me, punishing me, never letting me forget, piling shame on top of guilt.

Myself.

"Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death."

I know, I know. But how do I get there from here? How can I just let go of it all? All the eyes are right. I am bad. I am dirty. I break rules and I break promises. I don't deserve to be forgiven. I need to be punished.

Please, God. Just let me do this. Leave me alone and let me die. I'm not worth the effort.

"Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation..."

Of course, that's the whole point, isn't it? I don't deserve His love, but in spite of that fact, Jesus loves me anyway and died for my sins. He paid the price because He knew I couldn't. Unless I've missed something, that is the core of the gospel. Somewhere in this pathetic act I call a life, He saw something worth saving, and He is willing to forgive me.

When I put it in those terms, it makes my own unwillingness to accept His offer seem shallow and prideful, almost arrogant. Like I'm bigger than He is because I can carry a grudge.

"...and leaves no regret..."

And then I hear my grandmother. No, you're not carrying a grudge. You've just gone past the point where He can reach you. You can't be forgiven. You've gone too far. You're Lizzie Borden. It's midnight. Can't you hear the chimes?

"...but worldly sorrow brings death."

But then I think, if I had gone too far, would I be wondering about it? I don't think so. Maybe that's what they mean by blasphemy against the Holy Spirit. Maybe it has nothing to do with any single act. Maybe it's just when you stop hearing those voices, those questions.

"Godly sorrow..."

So the bottom line is, Do I want to go on? No matter how many times my brain tells me how good it would feel to make a big red splatter painting on the wall, no matter how many times 'ain't nobody's business,' echoes in my head, no matter how much I'd like to scrap this life and take my chances on the next, when I look at this stack of paper on the floor, the idea seems ridiculous. Why else would I sit up all night hammering away at this ancient, worn out typewriter if I didn't want to live?

But why do I want to live? And will I want to tomorrow, when the police come and tell me it will be a cold day in hell before I see my son again?

"...brings repentance..."

Why? The biggest reason is for that boy. When I looked into those eyes and saw myself, it scared me. I don't want to think of him at thirty, sitting in his bedroom with a loaded gun on his pillow. I want to be a good mother to him. I don't want to abandon him anymore than I already have.

There is another reason. It's probably selfish, but it's true. All my life I have been a walking mistake. Every good thing I ever had I've messed up sooner or later. I've lived my life as a failure. I don't want to die a failure.

"...that leads to salvation..."

And then there's one more, maybe the most important one. Through all the hard times I have never felt truly alone. It's been close sometimes, but never complete. There has always been something or someone that never deserted me. I keep thinking back to my not-so-aimless trip from Grandma's house to the library. I might have wound up sleeping in the park, a bum, an addict, a prostitute, anything, but I didn't. It's almost like a play, and my life is one part in it. The final act can't end this way. There is something more. I know it. It is somebody's business. It's His business.

"...and leaves no regret..."

Will I still want to live tomorrow? I don't know. But that seems a really stupid reason to kill yourself today. So I'm back to how. Forgiveness is the ticket. Don't try to buy it. Don't try to bargain. Don't try to earn it. Just accept it.

I know I should. I know I want to. I know I ought to. I know I have to, if I ever want to get out of this. But it's so hard. I need help. I suppose I could always...ask.

Dear Jesus, I don't want to die. But sometimes it looks like the only way out. I try to do what you want me to, but I always seem to come up short. I hate the things I do and the thoughts I think. I hate everything about me, but I don't know how to be anything else. Still, you love me. I know that. So, please, if you can still hear me, help me. I don't know where else to turn. Forgive me. Change me. Please help this poor little waif find her way home. Amen.

There, it's done. Funny, I half expected some great miracle, a thunderbolt, or manna from heaven maybe. But there's none of that. Except...

The sun is coming up. It's strange, but I don't remember ever seeing a sunrise before. I know I must have. I am thirty-two years old, after all. But I can't recall. And I certainly don't remember it being so -- beautiful. In fact, I don't think I've ever really seen beautiful until just now. Isn't that strange?

There are so many things I should be doing. I need to find out where Zach is, if they'll tell me. I need to find out how I can get him back. Maybe if I get some counseling, they'll let him come home.

Yes, there are so many things -- but not now. For now, I think I'll enjoy the sunrise. Then maybe I'll get some sleep. Suddenly I feel very tired.

Lizzie Borden's feeling blue
She loaded up her .22
But when the Son-rise woke the day
Lizzie put the gun away.

Some people say depression is like a tunnel. Maybe so, but too often mine has been like the Lincoln tunnel, where there is only a vague memory of what it was like to live above the ground, and every approaching light turns out to be just another car. But I know, as well as I know my own name, that during those times I have someone who will not only ride with me, but take the wheel. I don't know how I know. I just do. And I know that when my own personal fire burns low, I have one True Friend who is never too busy to take the time and troupe up my dark, misty ways. Thank you, Jesus.

The End
(or better still)
The Beginning

Chapter Twenty-Two

2006-02-28T13:05:00.000-05:00

Which brings me to today. Well, yesterday actually. School was winding down to its last few days, and Zach didn't want to go. He said his stomach hurt. It would have been the third day in a row he missed, and I was beginning to think something might really be wrong. I stuck a thermometer in his mouth and went downstairs to call the doctor.

Dr. Busch said he could fit Zach in today if it was a real emergency, but wanted me to call back after I got his temperature. He didn't seem to think a three day old upset stomach that big a deal yet. I went back upstairs and opened the door to his bedroom without knocking.

Zach jumped. He pulled the thermometer away from the reading lamp he had been holding it under and stuffed it behind his back. Then he looked at me and his eyes sank, defeated. He tossed the thermometer onto the floor.

"Zachariah Tristan Borden, what do you think you're doing?"

He shielded his eyes with his hand and rocked back and forth on his bed. He didn't answer.

"I'm warning you, young man. I want to know what this is all about. What kind of stunt were you trying to pull? Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

He didn't look up. "You didn't notice yesterday."

I walked over to his dresser and started yanking clothes out. I threw them on his bed. "Listen to me, Mr. Smart Mouth. I want to see you in these clothes and downstairs in five minutes, and I want you to bring a good explanation with you. Is that understood?"

He pushed the clothes onto the floor. "No."

"What do you mean 'no?' No, you don't understand?"

"No, I'm not going."

"Oh, I think you are." I marched over to him and started pulling his pajama top off. He punched and kicked and screamed.

"No! I won't go! You can't make me!"

This went on for several minutes, and all I managed to do was rip his pajama top in half. I collapsed onto the bed next to him. He pulled his knees to his chest. We were both panting.

"Zach, what's going on? You've always liked school. What happened?"

He turned his head to the wall. "The other kids tease me."

I put my hand on his knee. He pulled away. "Honey, everybody gets teased once in a while. It's part of growing up. I've heard what Reggie calls you. You just have to learn to deal with it."

"I can't." It was barely a whisper.

I was at a loss. I got up and paced the room, searching for something profound, something inspirational. Instead, I found a baseball in the trash can. I picked it up.

"What's your Randy Johnson baseball doing in the trash?"

He rubbed his hair with both hands. He didn't answer.

"Zach, I asked you a question." He still did not speak.

"I guess it must have just fallen in," I said. "I'll put it back on the shelf."

"I hate baseball," he snarled.

"But Zach, you--" The beginnings of a theory dawned in the back of my mind, and in an instant I had the whole thing figured out. It didn't matter that I was totally and completely wrong.

"This is about Grandpa and Grandma, isn't it? You don't think it's your fault, do you?"

He glared at me. His eyes were black. "They weren't my grandparents."

A knot tightened from my throat to my stomach. I thought I was going to throw up. I wondered, how much does he know? How much should I tell him? Does he know anything? Should he? Should I have told him sooner? I took a deep breath. I decided to let him tell me what he knew, then play it by ear.

"Who told you that?"

"Everybody! Everybody says it!" He dug his face between his knees. His body shook.

I tiptoed around the question in my head, looked at it, examined it for frays, analyzed it for implications, tossed it from one mental hand to the other like a cat bats around a ball of string, tucked it away, then ripped it back out and asked it.

"What else does everybody say?"

He picked his clothes up off the floor. "I have to get ready for school."

The turn threw me. I took a step back to try and see the thing from another perspective. "Zach, I don't understand?"

"What's not to understand? I need to get dressed. Get out of my room."

"But you said --"

"Forget it. I'm going to school. Isn't that what you wanted?"

He was right. That's what the fight had been about. I had forgotten. I took a few steps toward the door.

But, no. That's what triggered the fight, but it wasn't what it was about. Everything I hadn't noticed this past year came home in a rush. There was something else going on here. I stopped.

"Zach, you can't go to school. Not yet. I need to know what's going on. I know I haven't been paying much attention to you lately, what with school and all, but I see it now. Something is wrong. We need to talk about it."

He walked to the closet and took out a pair of sneakers. "You can drop it, Mom. I know the whole story."

"What story?"

He threw his sneakers at the dresser. The baseball rolled back off and into the trash can. "Okay! You want to know what they call me? I'll tell you. They call me Bastard Boy. Did you know that? Bastard Boy Borden. HA! HA! Look at the poor little Bastard Boy. He killed his grandpa, you know. That's what they say. He killed his Grandpa, just like --"

His voice cut off. He turned toward the window. His right hand was squeezed into a tight fist.

I took two steps toward the center of the room. My throat was so tight I could barely push out the words. They came in a forced screech. "Just like what?"

He whirled around. His eyes were red. "Just like his mother!" He spun into a wild rage. His arms flailed out of control. His fingers tore posters off the wall. He snatched up the baseball and hurled it at the window. The glass shattered, the screen gave way, and the ball rolled slowly into the rain gutter.

"Just like his mother killed her father! Just like Crazy Lizzie! Crazy Lizzie! Crazy Lizzie! Crazy Lizzie!"

He screamed the words over and over, as if repeating them enough times would drive them from existence. "Just like Crazy Lizzie!"

An urgent desperation took over my body. "Zach, that's not true. None of it. Just like things they say about you. None of it is true. You know that, don't you?"

He wasn't listening. He was still ripping and tearing and flailing. I needed to stop him before he hurt himself. I reached out to grab his arm. He spun away.

"Get away from me you freak. You whore! You Murderer!"

"Zach, I am still your mother, and I will not have you talking to me that way!"

The fit stopped as suddenly as it came. He looked at me and smiled. But it was not his smile. It was evil.

"Yes, dear mother," he said, and then, "they say a poem about you too. Want to hear it? It goes like this."

"Zach, what's the matter with you?"

His eyes squinted and he smiled wickedly. There was a tremble of laughter under his breath.

"Lizzie Borden took an ax --"

"Stop it."

"And gave her mother forty whacks --"

"I mean it. Stop it."

"And when she saw what she had done --"

"Zachariah!"

"She gave her father --"

Smack! I caught him with a hard backhand on his left ear. I hadn't meant to. I just wanted him to stop, and it happened. Then came more, on his cheek, his eye, his nose, his shoulder. It was like someone else had taken control of my body. The next thing I knew, Zach was a lump in the corner. There was a dark red handprint on his left cheek. The soft skin under his right eye was already swelling and would soon be black and blue. Blood trickled from both nostrils and out the corner of his mouth. But the scariest thing was his eyes. They were angry and joyful, bitter and thankful, heroic and shamed. They were net zero. It was like looking in a mirror.

I held out my hand. "Let me help you up."

"Thanks."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. So am I."

He got a new set of clothes from his dresser. "I better hurry if I'm going to catch the bus."

"You already missed it. I just heard it go by. I'll drive you."

"No, that's okay. I'll find my own way."

"Suit yourself." I went into my own bedroom and locked the door. Five minutes later, I heard a door open and close and footsteps on the stairs. Another door opened and closed. I looked out the window. Zach limped slowly up the street. I laid down and went to sleep.

The phone woke me. I answered it. A husky man's voice spoke.

"Hello? Ms. Borden?"

"Miss."

"Huh? Whatever." He paused. "Listen, this is Sergeant Franklin, over at Providence P.D."

"Yes, Sergeant. What can I do for you?"

"Well," he said, "it's kinda strange. See, we picked up your son out walking the street. He was pretty messed up, like somebody beat him up real good. We asked him what happened, you know, who done it to him? And he wouldn't answer. He just kept saying he had to get to school or his mom would be mad at him. Ain't that just like a kid?"

"Yes, it is," I said. "So did you take him to school?"

He sounded surprised. "Well, no. Like I said, he's pretty bad off. It doesn't look like he needs a hospital or anything, but he probably could use some motherly attention right about now."

I laughed. I couldn't help it.

"Ms. Borden, are you all right?" I heard a muffled remark, like he had put his hand over the phone. When he came back, he cleared his throat. "Ms. Borden, you wouldn't happen to know what happened to him, would you?"

"Yes, I do."

He waited for me to finish. I didn't. He cleared his throat again. "Well, would you mind telling us? It sure would go a long way to clearing this thing up."

"I did it."

"Excuse me?"

"I said I did it. We got into an argument this morning, and I hit him."

He cursed under his breath. "Ms. Borden, do you understand what you're saying? That's child abuse."

"I understand that."

"You realize we can't just let this drop, don't you? Child Services is going to want to get into this, for one thing. You could lose your son. And there might be criminal charges."

"Do whatever you have to." And I hung up.

Chapter Twenty-One

2006-02-28T13:04:00.000-05:00

I didn't see much of Mildred those next few weeks. I couldn't bring myself to go back to that house. I might never have gone back if Zach hadn't been so persistent. So on the first Saturday in June, we took a drive to the little white stucco house.

As we approached, it was clear something was going on. There were about a dozen cars out front. Zach scooted front in his seat.

"Do you think she's having a party?" he said.

"Maybe," I said, but I didn't think so. It didn't feel right. No, I thought, something is definitely wrong. As we got closer, my suspicion was confirmed. There was a for sale sign in the front yard.

We parked on the road. There were tables all over the driveway. Mildred buzzed from one table to another. She was almost dancing.

Zach jumped out of the car. His face was wild with excitement. "Grandma, what are you doing?"

Mildred looked around like a kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar. "Hilda, could you watch Zach for a minute? I need to talk with Lizzie."

We went into the kitchen. There were boxes stacked all over the place. "Excuse the mess," she said. "I meant to call you, but I didn't know how to say it."

She looked different under the kitchen's florescent light, but as I try to put that difference into words, I can't. It wasn't that she looked sad or depressed or angry, or even tired for that matter. Her smile was as sweet as ever. And it wasn't bitterness. It was something more subtle. She just looked -- incomplete.

"Didn't know how to say what? What's with the tables and the boxes, and why is there a for sale sign in your front yard?"

She went to the refrigerator. "Would you like some lemonade?"

"No, I want to know why your life is packed up in boxes."

"I suppose it's just as well. I'm just about out anyway, and who knows where the mix is."

"Mildred!"

She paced a circle around the table. "Yes, yes. You're right. There's no other way to say it except straight out. Here goes. You remember my sister, Rachel? The one who lives in Virginia? Yes, of course you do. Well, she invited me to come live with her, and I'm going to take her up on it."

"I don't believe it. Why? You love this house."

She sat down. "That's just it. There are too many memories here."

I slapped the table. "But they're good memories."

"True," she said. "Very true." She got up and walked to the window. She ran her finger along the glass. "And that's why I have to leave."

"I don't understand."

She moved aimlessly from spot to spot, stopping to feel a dent in the door, or pull off a strip of loose wallpaper. "It's like the wedding cake top," she said. "It's part of the tradition that the bride and groom save it in the freezer to eat on their first anniversary. And that whole year it sits there looking as pretty as the day they got married. And then the anniversary rolls around, and you take it out, and it's -- stale." She twirled her wedding ring around on her finger. "I don't want my memories to get stale, Lizzie. They're too wonderful. Does that make any sense?"

I got up and put my arms around her. "I think so."

She looked at me. Her face brightened. "It's not like we won't see each other again," she said. "You get vacations. And the beaches are wonderful there. Zach will simply love them. And we'll write, of course."

"Yes, we will. And I'll send pictures."

"You do that." She went back to the refrigerator. "Are you sure I can't get you something? There's some ice water here."

"No. We have to get going. Zach has homework to do."

"Yes. Of course."

We walked onto the porch. Suddenly, she grabbed my arm. "Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you. Hugh wanted you to have it."

She scurried back inside and returned a few minutes later lugging a metal suitcase-type box. "It's that old typewriter he always used. I kept telling him to get rid of it, that we could afford something faster and easier to use, but he wouldn't hear of it. It meant so much to him, probably more that any object should. Anyway, he wanted you to have it."

I took it from her. It almost broke my wrist it was so heavy. I sat it on the porch. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll come by Monday and see me off. Deal?"

"Sure."

I called Zach to come give me a hand. Together, Mildred and I tried to explain why she was leaving. We couldn't even manage to explain why the bride and groom save the wedding cake top. And he still didn't understand when that gray Plymouth disappeared over the horizon the next Monday.

And he really didn't understand when we got a call the following Thursday, informing us that Grandma had died in her sleep.

There wasn't as much hoopla at her passing. The newspaper didn't run any special articles or tributes, just the standard obituary. There was no crowd at her funeral. Part of the reason, undoubtedly, was that Mildred wasn't as visible as her husband. But I think there was more to it than that. You see, even though Mildred had a heart as big as her husband, she also had the uncanny knack for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, and I'm sure more than one person carried a grudge against her.

If her death had little effect on the good people of Providence, the impact it had on me was enormous. I felt alone, and it pushed me into a thick blue haze that lasted all of last summer. I was hostile, especially to those who only wanted to help. I remember a day in August when Max stopped by the restaurant. He brought flowers. I brought an attitude. I told him it was only a stupid baseball for crying out loud, and if I would have known that accepting it would cause all this trouble I never would have done it, so get a life and leave me alone. He did. I haven't seen him since. Imagine that. For once in my life I don't want to be taken seriously, and this is what I get. Go figure.

Ironically, not all the news was bad. It turned out that Hugh and Mildred had both made some shrewd investments, and I was one of the beneficiaries in their will. They didn't leave me enough to retire on or anything, but it was enough so I could quit work and go back to school. School is probably what saved me from ending up where I am now a lot sooner, in fact. The ordeal of relearning everything and the speed of the material brought me back kicking and screaming to the world of the living. But it was a selfish world. Though I can see them now, while they were happening I missed the changes in the one that matters to me most.

I should have seen. I should have seen the bounce go out of his step. I should have noticed the plastic smile. I should have wondered why he was staying home so much. I should have asked questions when he spent hour after hour in his room. I should have heard the edge in his voice, seen the chip on his shoulder, felt the anger behind the front. I should have. But I didn't. I missed it all.

Why didn't I see the changes in Zach? I don't know. I guess I just wanted to get on with my life. Was that too much to ask?

Chapter Twenty

2006-02-28T13:03:00.000-05:00

Hubert: From the Teutonic, meaning, "bright in spirit; intellectual." He was those thing and so much more. He was kind, caring, understanding, full of hope. He always looked for the best in people, and in doing so often brought it out. It is quite likely the only thing he ever did that left a lasting hurt was die.

He never regained consciousness. He passed away that evening at the hospital. The doctor said it was a massive coronary attack. It wasn't totally unexpected. During those last few years, he had been ill increasingly more often. Still, it was hard to comprehend. He was only sixty-two.

The whole town went into mourning. I guess my own selfish perspective had blinded me to how much he meant to so many people. The Monitor ran a tribute to him in their editorial section, joking that if it hadn't been for his contributions, the paper might have shut down years ago. In another section, they ran a list of his achievements. Someone even dug up that old history book he had worked so hard to bury.

The memorial service played to a packed house. Everyone over seven and under seventy came to pay their respects, and all of them had nothing but fond remembrances of the helpful librarian, trusted counselor, and faithful friend. He was one of those rare individuals who, when spoken of as a pillar of the community in a eulogy, the statement is actually true.

It was a nice service, as they say. There were lots of tears and hugs, but none of them were for Hugh. Though he had died fairly young, there was little you could say he had left undone. The sorrow was for our own loss, not his. You don't just replace a man like Hugh Daily.

Zach and I sat in the front row along with Mildred. There were no other family members present. The mourners moved in a slow assembly line. One by one, the stiff upper lips quivered, the hands trembled, and the tears came. There was one young man that sticks out most in my mind. He couldn't have been out of high school yet. There was a girl with him, perhaps a sister, perhaps a girlfriend, or maybe a total stranger. They waited in line, stoic, somber, and reverent. When they got to the casket, he looked on dispassionately, his hands folded in front of his belt, while she cried gently into his lapel. After a sufficient time, she turned and returned to her seat. He half turned, then turned back. His hand touched the lifeless hand in the casket, and he squeezed it. Then, suddenly and violently, he whirled around and ran to the back of the room. The girl got up and followed him. His sobs could be heard throughout the building.

Occasionally a hand would appear on Mildred's shoulder and some comforting words would be muttered. Mildred would thank the person for the concern and prayers, and then, remarkable, go about comforting the comforter.

Zach watched the procession in quiet confusion. Every now and again he would scoot forward on his chair and try to peek into the casket. I don't think he understood what all the fuss was about. He knew what death was and that it was permanent, but putting Grandpa and death together just didn't make sense. It was like a computer overload.

Mildred caught him peeking. "Zach, would you like to say goodbye to Grandpa?"

Zach sat back. He stared at his shoes. "No."

I put my arm around him. "I think you should, honey. Mommy and Grandma will go with you. Okay?"

He shook his head impatiently and crossed his arms across his chest. "No!"

Pastor Taylor came over. "How are you three holding up?"

"We're doing just fine," I said. "Except Zach. I think he's a little scared."

"I am not."

Pastor Taylor got down on his haunches. He brushed the hair out of Zach's eyes.

"Course you're not scared. You just don't feel like saying goodbye just yet. Am I right?" Zach nodded slowly. "I knew I was. I'm pretty good at telling that sort of thing. But you know, it wouldn't be anything to be ashamed of if you were scared."

Zach looked up. "But I'm not!"

Pastor Taylor patted Zach's hand. "I'm sure you're not. But I'll bet your Mom and Grandma would like to go say goodbye. How's about if I sit here with you while they go?"

Zach shrugged. "I guess so."

"Oh, I don't think that's such a good idea," I said. "I think I ought to stay here with Zach."

Mildred looked over at Pastor Taylor. "Ho! Ho! Now look who's scared."

"I am not scared," I said. "Come on, Mildred, let's go. And stop looking so smug."

The casket was not one of those designed to preserve for the next thousand years. It was functional. There were no elaborate ornaments. There were no plush cushions. It was solid on the outside and plain white on the inside. There were no flags or other accessories to be buried with him. He was dressed in a basic blue suit, with a basic white shirt and a basic blue tie, and basic brown loafers.

Mildred touched his hand. She was humming a soft tune. I felt compelled to say something.

"He was a good man."

"Hm? Oh, well, I guess compared to other men, yes he was. Certainly the best I've ever known. But he was far from perfect." She picked a piece of lint off his jacket. "For one thing, he never did look good in a suit."

It seemed a very strange thing to say. I reacted defensively. "You can hardly fault him for that."

"Oh, I didn't mean it to sound that way, dear. I just meant that he had his faults, that's all. I remember, after we'd had an argument and it was time to make up, he'd apologize and say, "I'm not perfect, you know." Then he'd wink and say, "but I'm getting closer, don't you think?" Then he'd kiss me, and everything would be all right." She sighed. "I suppose that's why the good Lord took him home. He was probably as close as he was going to get here."

A hint of a tear came into her eye. "I'm going to miss him so much," she said.

I put my arm around her and pulled her close. There was a nudge from behind. It was Zach and Pastor Taylor. Zach went around and looked into the casket, then pulled back. His face was twisted in the way little boy's faces do when they see grown-ups kissing.

"That's not Grandpa," he said. "It doesn't even look like him."

Pastor Taylor smiled. "You're right, Zach. It isn't him."

Zach gave him a double take. Pastor Taylor smiled.

"Not if you mean the part of him that made him so special. That's just his body there. The rest of him, the part that you remember, the part that really matters, that's in heaven with Jesus."

Zach strained for another look. "Do they have baseball in heaven? I hope so. Grandpa loved baseball."

I put my hands on his little shoulders. "I'm sure they do."

We stood there for several minutes. No one said anything. Then, abruptly, Zach turned around. "Could you guys go sit down for a minute? I want to talk to Grandpa alone."

We exchanged quizzical glances. Pastor Taylor mouthed that everything would be okay and led us back to our seats. When we sat down, I saw Zach lean forward and whisper something into the casket, then he turned around and came toward us. He sat down next to me.

"What did you say?"

Zach twiddled his thumbs. "You'd laugh if I told you."

"I would not."

He checked me over for signs of sincerity. Zach could always tell when I wasn't being up front with him. Just last year, he raked me over the coals about Santa Claus. This time I passed the test.

"I told him I loved him and asked him to say hi to Jesus for me."

"There's nothing funny about that. That's sweet."

"And I told him in heaven, it's probably best not to boo or argue with the umpire."

Pastor Taylor got up and said a few words. I'm sure they were nice, but I don't remember any of it. The emotion in the room said it all. Then we took him out to the cemetery at the church and buried him, and everybody said how there would never be another Hugh Daily. Then we all went home. After all, life does go on.

Most of the time, anyway.

Chapter Nineteen

2006-02-28T13:01:00.000-05:00

I don't mean to give the impression that I was Zach's only friend. I wasn't. He had several from school and Little League, but for some reason none of them ever came to our house. Zach always had to go visit them. I thought he might be ashamed of the way we lived. I didn't say anything at first. I didn't want to embarrass him any more than I already thought he was. But the more time went by, the more curious I became. When school started up again the following September, I suggested that he invite some friends over for a back-to-school sleep over.

To my surprise, he went for the idea. He sat up in his room and planned the entire event from arrival to pick-up, complete with munchies, video games, squirt gun battles and gory movies he knew I'd never let him watch. Then he began his optimistic house to house tour. He came back frowning two hours later.

"What's with the face?" I asked. "Not as many guests as you had hoped?"

He picked up the TV remote and scanned the channels. "They're all busy."

"All of them?"

He buzzed around the dial, but there was nothing on but soaps, reruns, and talk shows. He turned off the set. He looked at the ceiling and ran down his list. "Todd's going fishing, Billy's dad has him for the weekend, Rick's going to his grandmother's house, and Roger is grounded."

"What about Paul?"

"Sick."

"Reggie?"

"His mom said he's too young for sleep overs."

There was a sinking feeling in my stomach. I looked closely at Zach's face. Though he was obviously disappointed, I could tell he believed the excuses to be truthful. I examined them in my own mind. They certainly sounded reasonable. So, in spite of my doubts, I was left with only one alternative; they were true.

"Oh well," I said. "Maybe another time."

His face brightened. "Yeah. Another time. In Service Day or something." He put the remote on the coffee table. "I'm gonna go up to my room now. I think the sleep over plan could use some work." He bounded up the stairs, leaving a wave of cheerfulness behind.

There were no other days. Every plan Zach's bright mind conceived met negative responses. At first, the excuses were typical and ordinary. But as Zach's invitations became more frequent, the excuses got more and more fantastic. Zach bought them all. At least, he pretended to. But I think after a while even he knew.

I tried to believe. I really tried. When Roger had his appendix out on a Friday and was back playing football on Monday, I tried. When Billy's third grandfather passed away, I tried. But when Todd's mother had her second hysterectomy, I knew.

Not that it was a big surprise. I had heard the gossip, had heard it since I was a child. I knew people called me "Crazy Lizzie." I knew many thought I killed my father. Old rumors die hard. I was the town freak, and I knew it. Parents didn't want their children around me. I can't say as I blame them, either. If I knew a woman about whom such things are said (which I don't. I doubt there is another one in the whole tri-state area), I wouldn't want Zach to go to her house either. I was just sad for Zach. He was the real victim. So on his eleventh birthday, I thought I'd do something special for him, to make it a day he'd never forget.

It was to be a surprise party. I talked Hugh and Mildred into having it at their house. They were well respected members of the community, so I was hoping that at least a few of Zach's friends would show. Then I set about acquiring a present. The present. The present to beat all presents. It wasn't easy, but with a little luck and a lot of help, I got it, and just in the nick of time.

The change of venue did lure some of his friends out of hiding: Roger, Billy, and Reggie. The three of them got there just after school let out. Since it was a Friday, the plan was for a sleep over, modeled after Zach's revised plan. Mildred ushered the boys into the living room, and they decorated the place for the party. Zach and I were still at home. He was desperately trying to remind me that it was his birthday without actually saying so, and I was trying just as desperately to act as if it was just another day. We decided to go to Grandma's house for dinner. I think I even managed to convince him it was his idea.

Zach was despondent as we pulled up to the house. All the lights were out. There were no cars in the driveway. I gasped when I saw that Hugh had hidden the car next door. Thankfully, Zach didn't see it. It would have blown the whole thing. But he was too interested in a note that was tacked to their front door.

Zach pulled it off and read it, then he dropped it on the porch. His eyes welled with tears. I pretended not to notice, and scooped up the note.

"Zach, you know how Grandma feels about littering." I scanned the note. "So they've gone away for the weekend, huh? Oh well, I guess we'll catch them another time."

He sniffled, and I said, as if seeing his tears for the first time, "Good grief, Zach, stop that. So what if Grandma and Grandpa went away for the weekend? It's not like it's your birthday or anything."

As soon as I said it, I wished I could have taken that last bit back. I could tell I had pushed it too far. Zach's mouth opened, and I could hear his throat click as he shut off whatever he was going to say. He closed his mouth and turned toward the car.

"Wait a minute," I called. "I'm kind of thirsty. Grandma always has soda in the fridge. You want one?"

He shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

I fumbled with the keys in the door. "Grandma needs to put new locks in. I can never get this old one open. It's all worn out. You want to give it a try?"

He looked at me sideways. I had never had trouble with the lock before, and the hint of suspicion in his eyes sharpened. He nodded knowingly. "Sure, I'll give it a try."

He reached up and turned the key. The bolt popped open easily. He looked at me and smiled. "You want to go first?"

I did my best to keep up the front, but I knew I was smiling too. "It doesn't matter. We're just getting a soda."

"Oh yeah, sure, just a soda."

"I'll go first if you want," I said.

"No, that's okay. I'll go first." He turned the knob without opening the door and listened. "Unless you really want to go first," he said.

"I told you it doesn't matter. But if you don't open that door soon I'll run you over. I'm getting really thirsty."

"Sure you are." The anticipation must have been written all over my face, because Zach started laughing. "You could go wait in the car if you want," he said. "I'll get them."

"No," I snapped. "I have to use the bathroom too. Now will you open that door?"

He pushed the door open. The lights switched on. "Surprise!" they shouted. Zach staggered and put his hand over his heart a la Redd Foxx. Then he saw his three friends and his face turned to real surprise. He fell unceremoniously on his behind. We all laughed.

Reggie helped Zach to his feet. "We scared you good, didn't we?"

"Naw. I was just play-acting. I knew about the party weeks ago."

"Zachariah Tristan Borden, you are a big fibber. If you did figure it out at all, it wasn't until just before we came through this door."

The three friends saw me in the doorway. They recoiled. Only Reggie spoke. "Hello, Mrs. Borden."

"Why hello, Reggie. We're glad you could make it." I should have shut up there, but I couldn't resist. "How's your appendix?"

He grabbed his side. (The wrong one, by the way.) "Just fine, Ma'am."

Zach glared at me, and I felt sorry for saying anything. There was an uncomfortable silence while the group examined me. I looked to Hugh for help. He pointed to the corner.

"Oh, look," I cried. "Look at all those presents!"

Zach looked. He stared. He drooled. The other three beat their chests proudly.

"Wait till you see mine."

"Mine's better."

"Is not."

"Open mine first."

The bodies shifted to that side of the room, like lawyers to an ambulance. Zach ogled each package, but especially the large box in the back. It was four feet by two feet by three feet, and was wrapped in electric blue paper. Zach gasped for air. "Can we open them now?" he said.

I looked at Mildred and she looked back at me. I shrugged. "Well" she said, "we were going to do games and cake first, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to do gifts now. If your mother doesn't mind."

Zach turned to me. His hands were clasped in prayer. "Please, Mommy. Please, please, please, please, please."

I put on a fake look of consternation. "I suppose. But open your friends' gifts first. And don't forget to read the cards before you open the boxes."

The warning wasn't necessary. Zach always used the same procedure when opening gifts, whether birthday or Christmas or whatever. First, he held the envelope up to the light and located the card. Then a small tear went down one side, never across the top, and he blew the envelope open and removed the card with his thumb and forefinger. He read the entire card, turned to the giver and said thank you, then moved on to the box. He held his ear to it and shook it, took three guesses as to what was inside, put the box down, and slowly removed the tape. He was very careful not to rip the paper. If the gift had been put in a plain box, he never opened that box until all the paper was removed. If it was in its original box, Zach looked only at the paper until it was completely unattached from the box. He said he didn't want to give away the surprise. It was a truly painful thing to watch.

The gifts stacked up slowly. There was a batting glove from Reggie, a genuine Seattle Mariners baseball cap from Todd, a magic set from Billy, and clothes and other assorted toys from Grandma. All the while he kept one eye on the big package in the back. His attention was temporarily diverted by a new baseball glove from Grandpa, but not for long. Then some more clothes from me, and finally only one gift remained. The boys looked at it breathlessly.

"Can I open it now?"

"Well, of course you can, silly. There's nothing else left," I said.

He removed the card gingerly and opened it in his normal fashion. He scanned it and dropped it to the floor. He stood still in reverence to the great box. His mouth watered.

"Why don't you open it, butthead?" Reggie said.

Zach moved cautiously and took off the tape on the top of the box. He peeled back the paper. His hand shook, and the paper ripped. He looked at me. Then, with one gigantic pull, he tore a four foot section of paper free. He was using both hands now. Paper was flying everywhere. The other boys joined in. Soon there was a huge naked cardboard box in the middle of the living room. They surrounded it and gave it a mighty heave. The box tumbled over easily. Zach scratched his head. There were no guesses this time. He opened the box.

Newspaper fell out onto the floor. The boys waded through it. Halfway down the box, and there was still no gift. The boys started checking the individual pieces of paper, thinking the gift might be among the liter. It wasn't. Finally, they turned the box upside down. There was a muffled thump. Zach picked up his gift. It was a baseball. His shoulders slumped.

"Gee, thanks," he mumbled.

"You did ask for one, didn't you?" I asked.

"Well, yeah, but..." He put on his best smile. "Yeah. Thanks, Mom." He gave me a short hug, then picked up his new glove and turned to his friends. "You guys want to have a catch?"

Hugh put his hand on Zach's shoulder. "I wouldn't have a catch with that ball if I were you."

"Why? What's wrong with it?"

"Take a closer look."

He held it up to the light. "It's just a ball, except for --" His voice caught. He looked at Hugh, then at me, then back at the ball. The other boys gathered around. Zach spoke as if he were entering a shrine.

"Randy Johnson."
He looked back at me. His eyes were exploding out of his head. "Randy Johnson! Ohmigosh, you got me a Randy Johnson autographed baseball!" He threw his arms around me. "Thank you thank you thank you thank you." He showed the other boys and they gawked and ogled. Reggie reached out to touch it.

"Get your hands off!" Zach snapped.

Mildred stepped in and broke up a possible fight. "Maybe we ought to put this up where everybody can see it."

Zach agreed grudgingly, and she placed it on the mantle. Then we all had cake.

The four boys devoured theirs almost before it hit the plates, then they gathered around the sacred baseball. They talked in whispers. The rest of us ate more slowly and used the time to talk.

Mildred said, "So how did you manage to get the baseball? I hear those players today charge a lot of money for a signature."

I skimmed off the frosting and ate only my cake. "It was easy. I sent Randy Johnson a letter, explaining that I had a little boy who was terminally ill, and his dying wish was for a Randy Johnson autographed baseball. He sent me one immediately."

To appreciate the effect fully, you have to understand how difficult it was to do to this to Mildred. The color drained from her face, and her eyes bulged in genuine shock. It looked so foreign that Hugh laughed milk through his nose.

"Hugh Daily," she said in alarm, "I don't see what's so funny about that. I think it's downright dishonest, and the ball should be returned immediately!"

I looked at Hugh. We both laughed again. She got up from the table and stalked toward the kitchen.

"I can't believe it," she said. "I just don't believe it. Thieves in my own home. This world is going to heck in a --"

"Grandma," I called. She turned. Her nostrils flared. I laughed again. "Gotcha!"

Her stone face crumbled. "You mean --" She sank back into her chair. "Oh you! That wasn't nice at all. I'm getting to be an old woman, you know. You shouldn't play dirty tricks on an old woman."

"Sorry," I said. But I wasn't.

"So are you going to tell me how you really got it?"

"If you really want to know," I said. "But the other story is better. See, there's this man that comes in the restaurant every so often."

Her ears perked up. "Oh really? A man, you say?"

"It's not what you think. He swings by on business. He says he's the Second Assistant to the Secretary of Player Development for the Baltimore Orioles, or something like that. His name is Max Kruger."

She sipped her coffee. "That's a nice name."

It was my turn to get angry. "Will you stop looking like that? I told you, it's not what you think."

"Whatever you say, dear. Go on with your story."

I fumbled with my napkin. "Now where was I? Oh yeah. Anyway, Cathy, the new waitress, found out what he does, and knowing how much Zach likes baseball, she suggested I talk to him. See if I could get an autograph or something. I didn't think much of it, but I did like the idea of an autograph for a present. So I started sending off requests to Seattle."

"And --"

"And nothing. Like you said, they don't do that kind of thing much any more. So I sent more letters to other people. More nothings. I was getting frustrated. I mean, Zach's birthday was just around the corner. So I figured, what the heck? Why not at least talk to the guy? He ought to at least know who I should talk to, if I could get one at all. So I did."

"And then --" There was still a glint in her eye.

"You know, Mildred Daily, I believe you have a dirty mind. And he said he'd see what he could do. The next week, Mrs. Stewart comes into the kitchen with this package for me. I opened it, and it was the baseball and a letter. The letter was on official Baltimore Oriole letterhead. He said it was no trouble and he hoped Zach enjoyed the present."

Mildred took another sip of her coffee. "More trouble than most men would go through for a stranger. Are you sure he's just a patron? Nothing going on we should know about?"

"No! Will you please drop it!"

The boys straggled in. Apparently services were over. "Grandpa, want to come out and hit us a few fungos? I want to break in my new glove."

"I suppose my creaky old bones can handle that. You boys go on. I'll get the bat and ball from the cellar."

Mildred and I set up camp on the front porch. Hugh made home plate at the edge of the driveway, and the boys took their positions by the garden, just out of our vision. After smoking a few worm burners, Hugh got the knack of lifting the soft pop-ups. We could hear the boys jostling for position, calling for the ball, and cheering or jeering the drop or catch. Then the ball would appear again, and Hugh would snag it on three hops.

Mildred said, "So have you seen Max again to thank him personally?"

"As a matter of fact, I have." A throw came in hard and smacked into Hugh's hand. He shook off the sting.

"What did you talk about?"

"Mildred Daily, what makes you so nosy? He came in, I said thank you, he said no problem. That was that."

"Did he ask you out?"

I stood and looked around the side of the house. Zach and Reggie fought for the ball. Neither caught it. I sat back down. "That is none of your business."

"I see," she said. "So he did ask you out."

"Will you give it a rest!"

They tired of shagging flies and moved on to a game of pepper. Zach was hitting. The others soft tossed it to him, and he slapped it back for them to catch. They went about a dozen hits without the ball touching the ground before Zach unloaded on one. It jumped past all of them and into the garden.

"Way to go, Diarrhea," called Reggie.

"Don't call me that."

"Don't worry, boys. I'll get it." Hugh jogged back toward the garden and disappeared around the back of the house.

Mildred nudged me in the side. "I don't believe I like that Reggie Kaufman. Did you hear what he called poor Zachariah?"

"They're just being boys. Zach can take care of himself."

"Hmm. If it's all the same, I'd rather he didn't use that type of language."

"So tell him. It's your house."

Mildred stared at the maple tree. There was a slight smile on her face. "So," she said, looking at me suddenly, "What did you say?"

"What did I say to what?"

"To Max, of course. Are you going to see him?"

"No!"

"Why not? For heaven's sake, dear, you haven't seen a man since that Ryan fellow. What could the harm be?"

I felt a superiority growing in my badgered soul. I reached for my ace. "Mildred Daily! You don't even know if he's a Christian, and you want me to go out with him? Are your morals slipping in your old age?"

She peered at me over the top of her glasses. "He is a Lutheran."

I stomped my foot on the porch. "How could you possibly know that?"

"We 'old people' have our ways."

"What ways?"

"If you must know, Peggy Stewart told me about a man she thought had taken a shine to you. A baseball man of some sort. She says she has had several lengthy conversations with him, that he seems very nice, and that he is a Lutheran. You tell me a story about a man that seems interested in you. He says he is the second assistant to the secretary of something-or-other for the Baltimore Orioles. I put two and two together. Very simple, don't you think?"

I squinted my eyes at her. "You are an evil woman, Mildred Daily."

Zach tore around the corner and up the front stairs. He was panting and his face was pale white.

"What's the matter, dear," Mildred said. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

He waved his arms frantically toward the back yard. Though he tried desperately to speak, no sound came. He was too busy trying to catch his breath. Then his knees buckled and he slumped against the rail. I helped him back to his feet.

"Zach, slow down. Breathe slow. That's it. Now, what's the matter?"

He managed to slow down enough to get out a few words. They came in short bursts.

"Grandpa -- in the garden -- he fell -- he's not -- he's not breathing."

Mildred stood. She put her hand on Zach's shoulder. Her voice was calm and confident. "You did good, Zach. Now go inside with your mother. I'll send your little friends in. Lizzie, call the ambulance, give them the specifics, then give Zach the phone and come out and help me with Hugh. Understand?"

I nodded and took Zach's hand. He resisted. "No. I want to be with Grandpa." He looked at Mildred. "Grandma, is he going to die?"

She patted him lightly on the head. "No, dear. Everything will be all right. Your Grandpa is a tough old bird. He'll be just fine. Now go inside with your mother." I went dutifully inside, and Zach followed limply.

Of course, Grandpa was not all right.

Chapter Eighteen

2006-02-28T12:10:00.000-05:00

I really do love you, honey. It's true that you weren't planned, but you were the best mistake I ever made. I wish I could have been the half the mother you deserved.

Because the truth is, I couldn't have asked for a better child than Zach. He was sleeping through the night within a month, walking before a year, and potty trained before two. He was cute, smart, and always minded his mommy. Well, almost always. He was a child, after all, and he did the things that children do. He had accidents. He colored on walls. He took things apart to see how they worked, especially things that weren't made to come apart. His favorite word was and is, "Why?" Simply put, even good children are no walk in the park. Without a father it's even harder. Let's face it, it ain't as easy as it looks on TV.

But we got through those tough early years. I dropped out of school so I could keep working and still spend time with Zach. I promised myself I would go back as soon as I could. I got promoted to breakfast and lunch short order cook at the restaurant. The pay was a little better, and it sure beat washing dishes. Zach and I moved into a townhouse. It wasn't the greatest place in the world, but the rent was cheap. Mildred took care of Zach while I worked, free of charge, until Zach started kindergarten. Somewhere along the line he started calling them Grandma and Grandpa. I don't know whose idea it was, but it seemed harmless to me, so I let him. It was only natural.

Zach was always the brightest in his class, which had its good and bad points. He was also one of the smallest. He used to get upset about that. I tried to reassure him that smart was better than tall, and besides, he would probably shoot up some day. Who knows? I'd say. You might turn out to be as big as Randy Johnson.

Randy Johnson pitches for the Seattle Mariners. At six-ten or so, he is one of the tallest players ever to play the game of baseball, maybe the tallest. I know that because Zach told me. Randy Johnson is his hero. He fell in love with him while watching the All-Star game a few years ago. Randy Johnson threw a pitch over and behind John Kruk's head, scaring Kruk half to death. John Kruk used to play for the Phillies, and Zach hates the Phillies. He says he doesn't know why, he just does. There are a lot of other players and teams he likes and hates, but I can't remember them all. There are so many.

Mr. Daily took Zach to Veterans Stadium to see his first ball game in 1988, when Zach was only five. The Phillies were awful that year, and I think they lost by seven runs or something. But Zach was all smiles when he got home. He had learned something new, and he wanted to show me.

"Okay, let's see it," I said.

He looked at Mr. Daily. Hugh grimaced and nodded. Zach took a big breath, cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone, and yelled, "Boooo! You stink! Send 'em back to Reading! Boooo! Boooo! Hey, Blue! What, are ya blind or somethin'? Boooooooo!" Then he dropped his hands and strolled off toward the toy box and pulled out some blocks.

I was horrified. I glared at Hugh. He shrugged sheepishly. "You can't go to a Phillies game unless you know how to boo," he said. "They won't let you through the gates. They say Philadelphia fans would boo a cure for cancer. And stop looking at me like that. We boo our own, the opposition, and the umpires with equal fervency. We are equal opportunity boo-ers." He looked over at Zach, who was in the process of building a ballpark out of his blocks. "And that boy is going to be a good one. He boos better than most men."

Zach's love for baseball grew like mold in a refrigerator. If there was a game on television, we watched it. Whenever the Phillies were in town, he'd beg for Grandpa or me to take him. A few times we made the trip to Baltimore and New York for some American League games, usually to see the Mariners. He slept with a ragged hand-me-down glove under his pillow. He taught himself how to switch hit, and he dreamed of the day he would be old enough for Little League.

That moment came two summers ago, but his passion did not make him an instant success. As I said, Zach has always been undersized, and that definitely played a part. He was fast and could catch most anything hit near him, but he couldn't throw far, and when he tried to he couldn't throw accurately. That made him angry, because he wanted to be a pitcher. But his hitting troubles made him angrier still. He had a good eye for the strike zone and rarely missed when he swung. He just couldn't hit it very far. All through practices and during the first four games, he never got a hit. He couldn't get the ball out of the infield. But he never dreamed of quitting. He loved the game too much.

In the fifth game of the season, he got his first hit. It wasn't pretty. They were playing the Atglen Cubs at Atglen, a field known for its rocks and ruts. Zach had been practicing all week swinging extra hard. The result of his troubles was an awkward, almost falling down swing. But he kept working on it. Practice makes perfect, he said. And it did. It made for a perfectly awful swing. He knew it too, but decided to try it in a game anyway. What did he have to lose?

He started the game in center field and batted last. By the time he got his turn at the plate, they were already down by three runs. He spit on his hands, grabbed a handful of dirt, and rubbed his hands together. He moved to the left-handed batters box and dug a small hole with his back foot. He looked for me in the stands, and he winked. Then he got the rest of the way into the box.

The first pitch was high and outside, a pitch he normally wouldn't take a second look at. But I guess he was overanxious. He lunged at the ball and took a mighty swing. The ball tipped off the end of his bat, and spun softly up and off to the left. It landed on the third base line, halfway between home and third.

The pitcher, catcher, and third baseman (third basegirl, actually) held their positions and waited for it to go foul. Zach didn't. He was moving before he finished swinging. He always ran everything out.

As it happened, when the ball made its gentle touchdown on the hard dirt, it hit one of those famous ruts. The ball bounced straight up in the air, hit the dirt again, bounced, landed, and rolled to a stop against a small pebble. It was a foot from the third baseman, and directly on the line. She picked it up and looked to first. She had no play.

Even though there was no throw, and even though he knew sliding would only slow him down, Zach dove head first into the bag. The umpire signaled safe, and Zach pulled himself to his feet. He looked to the bleachers, and gave us all a wide-eyed, little boy grin. He didn't bother to dust off his uniform. Somewhere, a flash bulb popped.

Zach had one more at bat. He lined out to first. His team lost 11-2. Zach did his utmost to look properly dejected, at least until we left the field. His uniform was still dusty from his slide when we got to the car.

"Sorry you lost," I said. "But at least you did your best. Those other guys were just lucky."

He dragged his feet in the gravel. "Yeah, just lucky."

"You'll get 'em next time."

He kicked one of the loose stones. It skidded across the lot. "Sure. Next time."

I put my key in the lock and opened the door. "That was some hit you had. I was really impressed."

His eyes lit up suddenly and he hid a smile. "It wasn't much. I hardly hit it at all."

"Are you kidding me? It was perfect. Nobody could have made that play, not even Mike Schmidt in his prime. And the way you hustled to first, I couldn't be more proud."

He blushed. I got in, reached through, and unlocked the passenger side. Zach opened the door and put one foot on the floorboard.

"Wait a minute, Pete Rose. Don't you think you ought to dust off before you get in? I don't feel like vacuuming."

He pulled his foot out and gave the dirt patches a few half-hearted passes. "It won't come out."

"Didn't give it very much effort," I said. He frowned and dusted off some more, harder this time.

"Never mind," I said. "Just get in. I'll shake out the floor mats when we get home. Some bleach ought to fix those pants. They'll be as good as new."

He hung his head. His eyes dropped. His bottom lip drooped. He looked like a basset hound. "Do you have to? I mean, it's the first time I got my uniform dirty for real. Couldn't you leave a little dirt?"

I smiled. "Well, I suppose. But you know, it won't be the last time you get dirty. You're getting better every week. I can tell, and so can Grandma and Grandpa. Everybody can. Why, as fast as you are, and as much as your hitting is improving, I bet you'll be batting leadoff by the end of the season."

His eyes sparkled. "Do you really think so?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't. You just have to keep working at it. Now how about some ice cream?" He jumped in, and off we went to the Tasty-Freeze.

With his old determination and new confidence, he went back to work on his swing. He spent hours in the yard with just a bat, honing that swing to perfection. When all the kinks were worked out, he took advantage of anyone and everyone he could coerce into throwing him a few. Hugh pitched to him. I pitched to him. Even Mildred pitched to him. He got better and better.

The biggest boost was when the Monitor came out Wednesday. There in the community section, right at the top of the page, was Zach, beaming away and caked with dirt. We clipped it out and hung it on the refrigerator.

Gradually the awkwardness faded. He started to hit the ball harder. Some of them dropped in. He grew more confident. He hit the ball harder still. More hits. It snowballed. Before long he was in the leadoff spot, roping line drives all over the field. Then it got to be contagious. The rest of the team started hitting better. They started winning. And the more they won, the better they played, and the more they won. They won eight in a row at the end of the season to earn a spot in the playoffs. But a funny thing happened on the way to the championship.

The four playoff teams met at the Buchanan High field for the semifinals. The winners would play the following week for the championship. Zach's team, the Pirates, didn't play till the second game, so we sat and watched. Mr. and Mrs. Daily couldn't make the game, which was a shame since they hadn't missed one all season. They took a vacation to visit Mildred's sister in Virginia Beach. The trip had been planned for some time. The woman even took a week off work so she could show them around, so they couldn't very well cancel. They apologized to Zach more than was necessary, then left for some much needed rest.

The Pirates were relaxed to the point of being silly. They were laughing, making faces, farting with their armpits, and giving each other wedgies. By comparison, their opponents, the Cardinals, were quiet, sober and downright tense. It was a sight, like watching Jerry Lewis meets Hamlet.

During the fifth inning of the first game, a man wandered into the stands and sat down next to me. "Hello, Lizzie," he said.

I turned. The hair was a little thinner than I remembered, he was chunkier around the middle, and he had a thick beard now, but still the identity was unmistakable. I turned back to the field.

"Hello, Ryan."

The two teams on the field changed sides. Zach's team moved like a swarm of bees to behind the bleachers and started warming up for their game. I focused on the game at hand, but I could feel Ryan swivel around.

"That's him, isn't it? Number four?" He sighed. "He looks just like me."

"No, he does not!"

A few mothers glared at me. I shot a quick glance over my shoulder at Zach, then at Ryan. My eyes narrowed. I looked longer at Zach, then again at Ryan. It was true. No matter how much I didn't want to believe it, it was true. I don't know how I could have missed it.

"I guess a little, maybe," I said weakly. "Around the eyes, anyway."

The visitors scored three runs to take the lead. Athletic parents cheered. White Sox parents groaned. Pirate and Cardinal parents did a little of both. Ryan and I sat.

"Pretty good game, huh?" he said.

"I guess so."

"Zach's turning into quite a player."

"And how would you know?"

He smiled Zach's smile. "I saw his picture in the paper, the one with the dirt all over his uniform. I didn't even have to look at the caption. I knew who it was just by looking at that face." He caressed me with his eyes. My stomach tossed. I had to look away.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Sure you are."

"I didn't expect you to believe me. I probably wouldn't believe me either if I were you. But it's true. There isn't a day that's gone by I haven't thought about you."

I snickered to myself. "And after all, it's the thought that counts, isn't it?"

"Lizzie, that's not fair."

"Not fair!" I shouted, forgetting I was in a public place. "You're going to tell me about fair? You abandoned me and that wonderful little boy without so much as a goodbye, and for what? Convenience? You are a fine one to tell me about fair!"

He held his hands in front of his face. "Keep your voice down. People are staring."

He was right. Every eye in the stands was on us. The coaches forgot the game and turned to see who this crazy woman was. The umpire called time and looked. The game stopped. The outfielders inched forward, trying to figure out what all the fuss was over. The Cardinals and Pirates stopped throwing and looked. Zach walked slowly toward me.

"Mom, what's going on?"

My face was hot. "Nothing, honey. Go back to your catch. Everything is fine. Mommy will take care of it." He hesitated, then went back to his team. He kept one eye on me. The umpire called time in, and game resumed. I grabbed Ryan's arm. "Come with me. We aren't finished yet." I led him to the parking lot.

"Which one is yours?"

"The red Porsche over there," he said.

I snorted. "Still go for those expensive ones, eh?" We walked over to it. I put my hand on the hood. "Why did you come here?" I said.

He rubbed his beard. "I guess I just wanted to see him first hand."

My fingers tapped involuntarily on the hood. "Well, you've seen him. Now goodbye, and don't let the door hit you in the butt on the way out."

He circled the car. He stared at a puffy white cloud. "That's not the only reason."

"I thought not."

He leveled his eyes at me. He looked wounded. "Could you please let me say this? It's already hard enough."

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I nodded in his direction. He went on. "We never would have made it. You know that as well as I do. Especially without the money. We both would have quit school, and we would have struggled to make ends meet, you waiting tables and me working in some third rate convenience store. We would have divorced within three years."

"So you abandoned us for our own good? Is that what you're saying?" I laughed. "Oh, that is rich, Ryan"

"No, I'm not saying that. What I did was reprehensible. I should have been there for you, supported you, been a father to Zach. But you have to admit, at least to yourself, that we never would have made it as husband and wife."

I crossed my arms and tapped my foot on the macadam. I said nothing. Ryan went on. "Anyway, that's the other reason I came here today. I want to -- to make it up to you."

I turned and faced the field. The White Sox must have rallied to win the game. They were jumping up and down and carrying one kid off the field on their shoulders. I felt kind of bad for missing the end of such an exciting game. I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my hand.

"Make it up to us? How? Are you going to take us out for ice cream after the game and make it all better? Ryan, your son is ten years old. You missed his first words, his first steps, his first day of school. You know, he didn't say Daddy until he was five, and then only to ask what one was? You weren't there when he lost his first tooth, or when he fell off his bike and I had to take him to the emergency room, or when he had chicken pox or measles. You weren't there the first time he wrote his name by himself. You weren't there when he did a family tree at school, and half of his was empty. Those ten years are gone, and no amount of ice cream can bring them back."

I looked back at him. There were tears in his eyes. I looked away. "But if you're here because you're genuinely sorry and you genuinely love that little boy, then you are welcome in his life. He needs a father. He deserves a father. Everyone does.

"But if this is just a guilt offering to ease your poor conscience, then you can take your ice cream, climb back into your expensive sports car, and go. He needs your love, not your pity."

I walked slowly toward the field and listened for footsteps behind. There were none. There was only a slamming car door, blaring stereo, and screeching tires. Then there was nothing. I never saw or heard from him again.

When I got back, Zach was just stepping up to the plate to lead off the top of the first. He scanned the bleachers. His look was more concerned than normal. When he found me, he smiled and waved. He looked relieved. A fortyish woman with a smiling White Sox at her side tapped my shoulder.

"Is that your boy?" she said.

"Yes."

"He's going to be a real heart-breaker someday."

"He sure is," I said, not to the woman but to the clouds. "Just like his father."

The Pirates played poorly. I don't remember the final score, but they lost by a bunch. Zach struck out twice, which was more times than he had the whole season. He also made an error in the field. He just wasn't all there. He kept looking over at me.

After the coach's obligatory congratulations-for-a-great-season speech, all the suddenly sober Pirates piled into their respective cars for a trip to the Tasty-Freeze. By the time we got there, though, almost all of them seemed to be over the loss. They were back to their belching, farting, annoying selves. All except Zach. He was quiet in the car and quiet at the ice cream stand. He moped off to a corner picnic table by himself and drowned his sorrow in a chocolate and vanilla swirl soft ice cream cone with candy sprinkles.

Occasionally a coach or teammate would sit across from him and throw platitudes. "Everybody has a bad game sometimes," or, "It wasn't all your fault," or "We all stunk it up today." None of them made any progress in cheering him up. In fact, they soon found that his despair was catching and quickly moved on. After watching six or seven people walk dejectedly away, I went over and sat down beside him.

"It's not just the game that's bothering you, is it?"

He looked up from a small ice cream puddle that had dripped down his hand and onto the table. His eyes were dark swirls. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

"It's about that man I was arguing with, isn't it?"

He sat quietly. His eyes looked inward, as if to examine whether he really wanted me to tell him. When he spoke it was from a great distance. "Who was he?"

I knew it was coming, but still I was caught unprepared. How do you tell your son that the father he never knew came to see him, but you sent him away? My fingers twirled my hair. My brain sorted through a variety of truths, half-truths, and outright lies. I took a deep breath and chewed my lip. I settled for half-truths.

"That man was -- he was a man I used to know. It was before you were born. We used to see each other a lot, then something happened. We just drifted apart, I guess. Grown ups do that sometimes. I don't know why I snapped at him today. I suppose I cared for him more that I would like to admit."

Zach leaned forward. His eyes were fixed on mine. He didn't blink. I could feel him boring into my skull, probing my thoughts, searching. I tried to stay calm and sincere, and thought I was doing a pretty good job of it. Then he straightened. His eyes turned back inward, and he lowered his head. His finger traced a circle in the ice cream puddle. He knew I wasn't telling him the truth, but he would not admit it. The guilt overwhelmed me.

"No, that's not right," I said. "We didn't just drift apart." I put my hand on the back of Zach's neck and kneaded it gently. "That man was your father."

I expected something -- a shock, a start, a cry -- something dramatic. I didn't get any of them. He raised his head. His skin was tight in a forced grin. His eyes were the soft, gentle eyes I had become so accustomed to, and I knew that he knew all along.

"Why did he leave us?"

I got off the bench and stood behind him. I rubbed his shoulders. "You'd have to ask him that."

He softly pushed my hands away and swung his legs around so he was facing me. "Doesn't he love us?"

I reached down and traced my finger around that strong chin. His father's chin. My words were a whisper. "I don't know."

He smiled that warm, infectious, little boy smile. "It's okay, Mommy," he said. "I still love you." He wrapped his arms around my waist and buried his face in my belly.

I was stunned. Here I had more or less confessed to him that his father didn't want him, and he was worried about me! My hand found his hair. I stroked it gently.

"I love you, too."

That night, after Zach had gone to bed, I called Mildred in Virginia Beach. I cried to her for an hour; then she put Hugh on and I cried to him for an hour. I wanted to know if I had done the right thing. Had I overreacted to Ryan? Should I have taken his support, regardless of why it was given? Should I have doubted his motives to begin with?

They were kind as always. They agreed that I probably could have handled it better, but under the circumstances my reaction was understandable, and if Ryan truly did care about his son he wouldn't let one bad encounter discourage him. We all agreed it was best not to dwell on it.

So I didn't. I put it behind me and concentrated on raising the best little boy on God's green earth. It was true we didn't have much, but we had all we needed. We had enough to eat. We had a place to live. I loved him and he loved me. He needed me, and I needed him just as much, maybe more. And when things got too difficult to handle, there were two wonderful people to support us, and to bail us out if need be. And the two of us bumped along happily in a paupers' Camelot. And they all lived happily ever after.

Or not.

Chapter Seventeen

2006-02-28T12:07:00.000-05:00

Things started moving quickly after that. There were so many things to take care of: checkups, ultrasounds, picking out baby clothes and furniture, a shower, and finding just the right name. If my baby was a girl, I had pretty much decided on Mildred Ann. Boys' names were tougher, though. Naming him Hubert would have been a nice tribute, but frankly, I hated the name. I thought it was stupid and would lend itself to teasing. I had taken enough hazing over my own name to know not to put my child in the same position. There is enough teasing that comes with growing up, and parents who give their kids moronic names are asking for heartaches. Ryan was definitely out for obvious reasons. Other eliminations were not so easy. By the time I finished scouring the books, my list was as big as my waistline. I did manage to narrow it to seven or eight, but that was as far as I got. So I decided to think about it until the baby's birthday and trust my instincts then.

Word of my pregnancy spread like butter on a hot skillet. Some attitudes changed; others simply intensified. The girls at the restaurant would stop talking whenever I walked by. Some people would turn away when I looked at them. Other people, often times those I barely knew, would pat me gently on the shoulder and whisper their condolences. What made this more remarkable was that it all happened without me telling anyone. It was as if I had a sign on my back that said "Kick me, I'm pregnant."

One afternoon, while Mildred drove me to another checkup, I asked what she thought about it, whether she noticed or was I just being paranoid. She put on a defensive smile and tried to change the subject. I wouldn't let her.

"I just don't understand. It's like they're reading my mind."

"Well," she said, "you have put on quite a bit of weight."

I rubbed my belly. "Not that much. Besides, it started way before, back when you could hardly tell."

Mildred tapped the steering wheel. "Mr. Daily and I might have had something to do with that," she said with some embarrassment. "We mentioned it at church. For prayer concerns, you understand. Afterwards, we realized that might not have been the best idea given your, uh, relationship with some of the people there. Before we left the building, certain people were already talking, and I don't mean in a bear-one-another's-burden sort of way." She slapped the wheel, hitting the horn accidentally. There was an anemic beep. "I just don't know why people have to act that way, and Christian people at that. It seems to me if they were more concerned about spreading the gospel instead of the gossip, our churches would be packed."

Mildred was at least as good as Hugh at venting a spleen. She never let anything stick with her long. Of course, that got her in trouble from time to time. I think she would have made a good Old Testament prophet. Probably would have ended up stoned to death just like the rest of them, too.

Hugh and Mildred, once again, were my lifeline. They bought most of the baby clothes and furniture for me. Mildred took me to my checkups, and Hugh made sure I didn't over exert myself. When I couldn't work anymore, they took me in again. When my insurance wouldn't cover something, they picked up the tab. Mildred took birthing classes with me and served as my coach. She helped me pack for the hospital as the time grew near: a change of clothes, toiletries, tennis balls, a Bible, and my baby name book. We stored it in the back seat of the car. We were good to go.

On April 15th, at one in the afternoon, the contractions started. They progressed rapidly to twenty minutes apart and were fairly strong. Hugh was just finishing up the tax return he had been putting off since January and was heading to the post office to mail it. I wanted to go with him. What if it was the real thing and we had to get going?

Mildred scolded me gently. "You have nothing to worry about, dear. These things take time. Why, I once knew a woman who went into labor supper time Friday and kept it up all week-end, straight through lunchtime Tuesday, twenty minutes apart the whole time. And you know what? They stopped. False labor."

I frowned. Hugh elbowed her in the side. Mildred bit her lip. "I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean for it to sound like that. This may very well be the real thing. But even if it is, we have lots of time. And Mr. Daily is just running to the post office. He'll be back in ten or fifteen minutes."

I hung my head. "I know. It's just that, this is my first, and I'm a little scared. That's all. Can't we all go, just to make an expectant mother feel better?"

Mr. Daily stuffed the tax form into an envelope. "Come on, Mildred. What's the harm? We could make a nice afternoon of it. A quiet drive, then maybe we could go to the mall. I hear walking is good for moving along labor."

Mildred sighed reluctantly. "I guess it won't hurt anything. But I still think you're being silly about this."

Hugh and Mildred led the way to the car. I waddled along behind. Mr. Daily asked me if I wanted to sit in the front or back seat.

"The back is fine with me." He opened the door and I squeezed in. As I was settling down, another contraction hit. I tried to relax and concentrate on my breathing, just like you're supposed to do. Then I felt a warm trickle. I looked down, embarrassed. I thought I had wet myself. Then there was a gush, and I soaked myself and the car seat. I looked helplessly at Mr. Daily, who was still holding the door.

"I think we better go," I said. "My water just broke."

His face went ash white. His eyes looked like two pieces of charcoal. "Are you sure?" he said, then he smacked himself on the forehead. "Stupid question, of course you're sure. Just look at all that water on the seat. Father Christmas, we gotta go! Mildred!"

"Yes, dear?"

"Get in the car! It's time. Baby's having her Lizzie!"

"What?"

"Woman, just get in the car!"

She got in, and Hugh tore out of the driveway, leaving thick black skid marks behind. We raced down the road and peeled onto Providence Highway. He barely paused to check traffic. He did the same thing when we turned onto Route 30 and headed for Lancaster General. Mildred covered her eyes. So did I.

"Hugh, driving like a madman won't do Lizzie any good. You're liable to put us all in the hospital."

He gunned it through a yellow light. "That's easy for you to say. You aren't having the baby!"

I peeked through the gaps in my fingers, then covered my eyes again. "But I am. Please slow down."

That seemed to do the trick. He drove a lot more sane the rest of the way, though he never relaxed. The whole way he was hunched forward, his eyes popping out of his head, his fingers entwined with the steering wheel, his head darting from side to side. He reminded me of a giant cockroach. None the less, he got us there safe and sound, and in plenty of time. The contractions were fifteen minutes apart, and I was dilated three centimeters. They admitted me to the maternity ward.

It was not as bad as I thought it would be, which is not to say that it was at all pleasant. I had never been in so much pain in my life, and nothing has come close since. Appendicitis, tonsillitis, bronchitis, and any other -itis you can think of pale in comparison to childbirth. Somebody once said it was like passing a kidney stone the size of a bowling ball. I don't think that does it justice. It is more like passing the Empire State Building.

No, what I mean when I say it wasn't as bad as I expected is that the duration wasn't so bad. It was only three hours from the time the contractions started to the time I had the baby. During those three hours, though, I was a mess. Or so I'm told. My own memory is a little spotty. But Mildred told me that all those birthing classes, everything we talked about and rehearsed, just went out the window. At one point I was so close to hyperventilating Mildred grabbed my face with both hands, leaned over so we were chin to chin and eye to eye and screamed, "This is lamaze, not Lemanz, so slow down!" And I bit her nose.

All that natural stuff went down the drain too, and soon I was begging for something, anything, to ease the pain. I would have settled for a fifth of Irish whiskey. They did give me something after I threatened the nurse, but it didn't help. At least, I don't think it did. The only thing I'm sure it did was make things harder to remember afterwards.

We were in a birthing room, so they didn't have to wheel me into another room when it came time to deliver. I have a vague memory of Mr. Daily poking his head through the door and stammering like Fred Flintstone, his face white as a sheet, and then ducking back out. It would have been comical if I had been in a laughing mood.

At four-fifteen that afternoon everything clicked into place and out came the baby. It was a little boy, seven pounds, eight ounces, twenty-three inches, wrinkled, crying, haze gray, bald on top and hairy everywhere else, and undoubtedly the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The nurse laid him on my stomach, and while I counted ten fingers and ten toes and wondered how I could have ever dreamed of aborting him, I knew what his name would be: Zachariah Tristan. It means "God has remembered the sorrowful."

I hugged him and kissed him, and showed him to Mildred and to Hugh, and I hugged him and kissed him some more, and then they took him to do whatever it is they do to newborns. Then they brought him back, and we all cooed and sang, and I was sure that this was the best day of my life.

In spite of everything, I am no less sure of that today.

Chapter Sixteen

2006-02-28T12:04:00.000-05:00

Ryan: a name of uncertain origin, meaning, "capable."

Capable of what? Apparently anything but commitment.

That Thursday I cut class and made the trip to Lancaster for my appointment. Dr. Fetter confirmed what I already knew, and he gave me some prenatal vitamins and what-nots. When I got home, I called Ryan. He wasn't there. His roommate said he took off Monday morning. He didn't know where he went. He thought maybe I should try his house.

I checked the time. I still had two hours before I had to go to work. Not only was that enough time to make a phone call, it was enough time to pay him a visit. Even if Ryan wasn't there, maybe his mother could talk some sense into him. She couldn't possible be as bad as he made her out to be, I thought.

As I said before, I had never met her. But that was only part of it; I didn't even know the address. This might sound strange, but it just didn't seem important. As I scanned the phone book in search of a phone number to match the name, I regretted it. Luckily, Dietrich isn't a popular name in this part of the country. If his name had been Zook or Stoltzfus, I would have been in real trouble. And who knows what might have happened if his mother had taken back her maiden name. Finally I found it. 122 North Street, Kinzer.

I suppose I should have called first, but the whole thing was so odd, him taking off from school like that, I was afraid to. I mean, we had agreed that I would call him at school. True, I had been worried that he might try something, but running home to Mommy? A fear grew slowly. What if it was something worse? I grabbed my jacket and headed out the door.

Kinzer, like most places around here, isn't built from a blueprint, so I had some trouble finding his house. I took one complete pass through the town and didn't realize I was in it until I was out of it. I backtracked, made a few stops for directions, and stumbled across North Street by accident. Then, after a trip in the wrong direction, I found 122.

The house looked out of place. Suffice it to say that BMW's are not common in Kinzer, or anywhere else in Lancaster County for that matter. But it was everything else that really blew me away. The land alone covered enough square acreage for two or three small shopping malls. The house was half hidden, back in a cluster of trees, in front of a lake. It was a modernistic A-frame type, with solar panels on the roof. A stone drive lead the way to a car port on the side of the building. There were three cars in the car port. One was Ryan's BMW.

Back on the road, I put the car in park and left it idling. My little Chevette was almost embarrassing. I mean, what was I supposed to say if his mother answered? Excuse me, Mrs Dietrich, you don't know me, but I'm the girl your son got pregnant, and here's my American Express card to prove it?

In the end, I had no other choice. I put the car in gear and turned down the drive.

There was an unnerving quiet about the place. The doors, windows, and curtains were all closed. No one wandered anywhere on the property. Even the birds were silent. If it weren't for the cars, I would have thought no one was home at all.

I parked the car and got out. I walked as confidently as I could possible manage to the front door, and I knocked an authoritative knock. There was no answer. I knocked again. Still no answer. Maybe somebody is around back, I thought, and I started for the stairs. Just as I turned, the door opened.

"May I help you?" said a plump, stately woman.

"Yes. At least, I think so. What I mean is, I was wondering --"

"Perhaps I can save you the trouble. We've given all we plan for the assistance of the poor."

She started to close the door. I grabbed it. She glared at me with how-dare-you eyes.

"That's not what I came for," I said. "I came for..." I shook my head, chasing away the urge to say, "I come in peace."

"Is Ryan home?"

She smiled in an overly sweet way. "No. Ryan is not here. Ryan is at college. Now, if you will excuse me."

Again she tried to close the door, and again I stopped her. "No, he isn't," I said. "I just talked to his roommate, and he said Ryan has been gone since Monday."

"I find that very hard to believe, Miss..."

"Borden. Lizzie Borden. And I'm telling you, it's true. Why would his roommate tell a story like that?"

"I have no notion as to that, but I can assure you, he is there."

I tried to peek past her inside. She moved to block my view. I threw up my hands and glanced out at the driveway. "But his car is here. If he's in Pittsburgh, then why is his car in your driveway?"

She pursed her lips. "Miss Borden, I am not accustomed to being interrogated on my own front porch! I will tell you one last time. Ryan is not here. Ryan is at the University of Pittsburgh. Perhaps the reason his roommate told you otherwise is because Ryan does not wish to speak with you. Now good day, Miss Borden."

She pushed the door a third time, pinching my fingers. "But I have to see him," I pleaded. "I'm carrying his baby!"

The door reopened slowly. She stepped fully into the doorway and folded her arms across her chest. She was smiling. "Ryan told me you might say that, and he gave every indication that he believed it to be so. I, on the other hand, do not. Miss Borden, I am well aware of how the game you are playing works. I ought to. I invented it. You tell Ryan you are pregnant, he marries you, and you have an unfortunate miscarriage but live the rest of your life in the lap of luxury. Or, possibly, you divorce him, taking half of his assets, plus a tidy little allowance for yourself." The smile evaporated. "It won't work."

I gawked at her throughout her speech. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "What are you talking about? Mrs. Dietrich, I really am pregnant."

She threw her head back and laughed. "I see. You are one of those kind of girls, are you? Then we should have no trouble proving that Ryan is not the father, should we?"

My voice trembled. "Mrs. Dietrich, I didn't go after Ryan for his money. I didn't even know he had any till just now."

She practically spit at me. "Do you really expect me to believe that? How many unemployed college students do you know that drive BMW's?"

I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. I thought about the fifty dollar tip, the gifts, the trip to New York. I looked at the car, then back at her. "But, if he's so rich, then what was he doing at LCCC? Why wasn't he at Yale or Princeton or someplace like that?"

"That's simple," she said. "Ryan is an idiot. You should have been tipped off to that from the first. Why else would he be interested in someone like you?" She laughed again. "Miss Borden, let's get one thing straight, shall we? There will be no gravy train for you. Ryan has been informed that should he marry you, he will be completely cut off from his family, as well as the money that goes with it. Not one red cent will go to you, him or that alleged child you are carrying."

"But I don't care about the money!"

She patted my cheek with her hand. "But Ryan does." She backed through the doorway, and she laughed and laughed. Even after she slammed the door in my face, I could still hear her laughing.

I backed slowly down the stairs to my car. My eyes were locked on the front door. This was too incredible. I got in the car and started it up. I took one last look at the house. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a curtain rustle in one of the second floor windows. It was Ryan, I knew, but what was I supposed to do about it? Nothing. I put the car in reverse, turned around, and headed home.

Chapter Fifteen

2006-02-28T11:58:00.000-05:00

That was nearly twelve years ago. It seems like forever. There were no repeat performances of our one night of passion. Ryan never even mentioned it. I think he felt guilty; at least I hope he did. I'd hate to think I was the only one.

Ryan barely squeaked by his government final. In September, he collected his associates and left for Pittsburgh, while I went back to LCCC. Part of me was glad to see him go. Our relationship had become strained. We still saw each other regularly, but we rarely talked and never cuddled. When we did talk, it was only so we could argue. Breaking up was a recurrent theme. In the end I always talked him out of it, and for one very good reason. Since that hot July evening, I hadn't had my period.

I didn't tell Ryan. I didn't want to worry him. At first I wasn't that worried either. I've always been kind of irregular. But when a week turned to three, and three to six, I started to sweat. When classes got started, I couldn't concentrate. My grades suffered. Every time I walked by a mirror I would stop and look. Was I putting on weight? Or was it just my imagination? Every morning at ten o'clock sharp, I would get sick, and I wondered, was it because I was worrying so much, or was it...

I didn't know, but I couldn't put it off any longer. In late September, on my way home from Friday classes, I picked up a home pregnancy test. First thing Saturday morning I opened the box, read the instructions, did the test, and waited. The box said it would take five minutes.

Nothing happened at first. "Please be negative, please be negative," I whispered. Two minutes passed. Gradually, a blue minus sign started to show. "Yes! Yes! Go negative!" Three minutes, and still the same. "Come on, two more minutes." At four minutes, the hint of a vertical line crossed the minus sign. "Calm down, Lizzie. You're just looking too hard." I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them, I couldn't bring myself to look at the test. I checked my watch. Thirty seconds to go. I left the bathroom and sat on the couch, trying to gather my resolve. I took another peek at my wrist. It was time. I went back to the bathroom. A dark plus sign greeted me.

"Damn!" I dumped it out and threw the kit in the trash. I grabbed the box. "Over ninety-nine percent accurate." I threw the box away too and plopped onto the floor. "Well, over ninety-nine percent isn't one hundred percent," I reasoned. "Maybe I did the test wrong. I'll get another one and try again tomorrow."

I did, and the results were the same. Still, I wasn't ready to believe it. I decided to try one more time, this time with a different brand. In a strange way, I was confident the result would be different this time. Wishful thinking. It was positive again. I called Dr. Fetter and set up an appointment. Then I called Ryan in Pittsburgh.

"Hello," croaked a hazy voice.

"Ryan? Sorry to call so early on a Monday, but I need to talk to you about something."

He yawned. "Can't it wait, Liz? I was up real late last night. Mike made me go to this party. I thought it would never get over with, and I'm beat."

"No, Ryan, it can't wait."

He gave an annoyed sigh. "All right, but make it quick."

I cleared my throat. "I don't know how to say this, but -- Do you remember that night in July?"

There was an edge in his voice. "Yeah? What about it?"

"It...I --" I took a deep breath. "I'm pregnant."

"You're what?"

My voice was stronger this time. "I said I'm pregnant."

"How?"

"The usual way. How do you think?"

I could hear him cursing softly. "Are you sure?"

"No, Ryan. I'm just pulling your leg. Girls are always doing that to their boyfriends. It's the latest thing. Of course I'm sure!"

"Then you've seen a doctor?"

"No, but I've taken three home pregnancy tests. I'm definitely pregnant, okay?"

There was a short pause, then, "Is it mine?"

I bent over like I had just been punched in the gut. I wish a punch in the gut was all it had been. "How can you even suggest otherwise. You're the only one I've ever been with."

"Right. Sorry." He cursed again. "So what are you going to do?"

What am I going to do! I wanted to scream. What happened to We? I bit my lip. "I don't know. What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know."

There was a long silence. I thought he had hung up. "Ryan?"

"Yeah?"

"I never meant for this to happen."

"I know." His voice broke a little. "Neither did I."

For a full minute, the only sound I heard was my own faucet dripping. It was unnerving. I had to say something.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. I know." His voice was distant. "Have you thought about an abortion?"

I had. It was all I had thought about for the last three days. "A little. Do you think I should?"

"I can't make that decision for you. Maybe we just need some time to think. Have you scheduled a doctor's appointment yet?"

"Yeah. Thursday."

"Why don't you call me back then? That will give us both some time to figure out what we're going to do."

"Okay." I counted seven faucet drips. "I love you, Ryan."

"I know," he said, and he hung up.

For several minutes, I stood listening to the open line. I wanted to crawl into a hole. I thought briefly about the pistol, resting peacefully in a shoe box wrapped with duct tape. It was a viable option. I knew I could.

But I didn't. I hit the phone to get a dial tone again, then I started punching the only number I knew besides Ryan's. It rang twice before Hugh Daily answered.

The voice took me by surprise. "Mr. Daily? I thought you'd be at the library by now. Is Mrs. Daily home?"

"No, I'm afraid she's not. May I ask who's calling?"

"It's Lizzie Borden."

"Lizzie? I didn't recognize your voice. You don't sound at all like yourself. Are you feeling well?"

"As good as can be expected." My voice was uncertain. "When will Mrs. Daily be home?"

"Oh, I have no idea. She went to the grocery store, and you know my Mildred in a grocery store. She could be a half hour picking out ground beef." He laughed at his joke. I tried to laugh, but it came across sounding fake.

"Oh well, that's just my luck." I said. "I'll try back later this afternoon."

"Is it something I can help you with?"

"I don't think so," I said. "It's just girl stuff."

"Girl stuff?"

"Yeah. It's nothing, really. Well, like I said, I guess I'll call back later."

"I'll tell her you called." He hesitated. "Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"No. I mean, yeah." I rubbed my forehead. "I mean, yes, I'm sure there's nothing wrong."

"Okay," he said. "As long as you're sure --"

"I said I'm sure, didn't I? How many different ways do I have to say it? Nothing is wrong!"

His calm response made me sound diabolical by comparison. "Lizzie, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm just concerned about you. We're concerned about you. We haven't heard from you in a while, and your tone right now isn't very reassuring. We love you, Lizzie."

"I doubt you'll be saying that for long," I muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're right. Something is wrong. I just don't think I can tell you."

"Lizzie, nothing you could ever do or say would make Mrs. Daily and me stop loving you. You know that, don't you?"

"Seems to me someone else told me that once."

"What? Lizzie, what are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Listen, I know you think that now, but this is really bad." I could feel the tears coming. "I don't know if I can love me anymore."

His voice was tense. He sounded impatient. "I understand how you feel. I've felt that way from time to time myself. Everyone does. But I can't help you unless you tell me what's going on."

"How could you possible know how I feel? You have no idea what I'm going through!" I bit down on my lip, harder this time. I could taste a trace of blood. The tears flowed freely. I brushed my hair away from my eyes.

"I'm pregnant," I said.

"I see." He let out a deep sigh. "How did it happen?"

"How does it always happen?" I snapped.

"Was it your new boyfriend, what's his name, Ryan?"

"Yes."

His voice was thick. "He didn't rape you, did he?"

"No," I said. "It was mutual. Sort of. It was in July. I was upset because I just found out Grandma dies, so I called him and asked him to come over."

"Your grandmother died? I'm sorry. We didn't know."

"It's okay. I'm pretty much over that now. But it really shook me then, and Ryan came over and comforted me. He was so wonderful. Then one thing led to another, and the next thing I knew --"

"You're pregnant." I could hear him tapping his fingers on the table. "Does Ryan know?"

"Yeah. I just got off the phone with him before I called you. He wants me to call back after I see the doctor on Thursday." I caught an uneven breath. "I think he wants me to have an abortion. He didn't come right out and say so, but I could heard it in his voice."

"What do you want?"

"I don't know." I twisted the phone cord with one hand and my hair with the other. "It doesn't sound like such a bad idea right now."

"Oh, no." Four faucet drips, and then, "Lizzie, I understand the difficult position you're in. Lord knows that nothing has the impact on a life as having a child, especially when you aren't married. And I'm not going to tell you that abortion is definitely, beyond the shadow of a doubt, murder. I'm not God." He took a short pause. Four more faucet drips.

"But by the same token, you can't tell me beyond the shadow of a doubt that it isn't. All I'm saying is, don't you think that baby deserves the benefit of that doubt?"

By this time I had spun a knot in my hair and the phone cord. I worked my hands free. "Mr Daily," I said, "I'm not sure what's right anymore. I just don't think I have that kind of faith. Not by myself."

"But you aren't by yourself. Maybe Ryan will do the right thing. And even if he doesn't, we'll be there for you."

"I know you will, and I can't thank you enough for everything you've done for me already. But --" My hands started to shake, and I nearly dropped the phone. I had to hang on with both hands. "But what if I still can't go through with it? What if I still have the abortion?"

His tone was firm, calm, even. There was no doubt in his reply. "Lizzie, I told you already, there is nothing you could ever do that would make us stop loving you."

For the next few minutes he said nothing while I cried into the phone. At last I regained my composure to go on. "Thank you," I said. "You don't know how much that means to me. I promise I'll think about what you said. Right now, I've got to go. I haven't had breakfast yet."

We said our goodbyes. I sat down at the kitchen table to think. Part of me regretted calling at all. But most of me was thankful. I got up and poured myself a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice. I was surprised at how hungry I was. I wolfed it down quickly and poured myself another bowl.

After all, I was eating for two.

Chapter Fourteen

2006-02-28T11:50:00.000-05:00

Ryan and I started dating regularly, and we hit all the normal dating spots: movies, bowling, miniature golf, as well as some unusual ones. We went to the zoo and laughed at the monkeys. We went to the local Amish tourist traps and laughed at the tourists. We even took a trip to New York so we could laugh at Picasso's blue period in the Museum of Modern Art. And he taught me how to dance. For the next few months it felt like I really was Cinderella.

We also studied together. A lot. And, surprisingly, we got a lot of studying done. It did help that the only class we had together was biology, so while we were studying together, we weren't necessarily studying together.

There were two places we didn't visit that we should have. If we had, things might have turned out differently. We should have visited the Dailys, and we should have visited Ryan's mom. It didn't seem to bother Ryan. He never even mentioned his parents. He was perfectly happy to talk about the Dailys, though. But he never pushed me to offer a visit, because that would have made it open season on his family. I thought he would loosen up as we got to know each other better. But as the weeks went by and he got more vague instead of less, I started to wonder. Finally, during one of our study dates, I got up the nerve to ask him.

"I think I'm ready for that dinner now," I said.

"What?"

"Don't you remember? That day at the deli, you asked me if I wanted to come over for dinner. I'm ready now."

He stirred his coffee. "I don't think that's such a good idea. You and mom wouldn't hit it off. She's a little different. Stuffy, you know?"

"Maybe, but I'd still like to meet her. Maybe she could come over here. I've never really had company."

He snorted. "I told you, I don't think it's a good idea. Not yet."

I rolled my eyes. "Then when? You never talk about her. Why? Is there something wrong with me? Are you ashamed?"

"Don't be silly," he said. "So I'm a private guy, is that a crime?" He finished off his coffee. "Besides, you aren't exactly the poster child for openness. I haven't met your folks yet either."

So I was caught. Ryan was under the impression that I went to live with the Dailys after my father's suicide. I hadn't told him about Grandma yet. Plus, I hadn't talked to the Dailys since I told Mildred about that first date. It turned out Ryan wasn't a Christian, and I didn't want to go through that mess on the phone again. I kept hoping he would come around, but every time the subject turned to religion, we got sidetracked by romance. I picked up his cup and walked to the sink.

"At least I have a reason," I said. I turned on the water and squirted some soap into the cup while I thought about which reason to give him, the one about my grandmother or the one about him not being a Christian. "It's because you aren't a Christian," I said finally. "They have a real problem with be dating anyone who isn't a Christian."

He tapped his fingers on the table. "I see."

"Maybe you could come to church with me. That would make a real difference to them."

He picked up his music theory book and thumbed through it. "We'll see."

"What about you? Is there a reason I haven't met your mom?"

He didn't answer. I asked again. He tapped his pencil against the pages. "Lizzie, honey, I'd like to talk about this now, but this isn't a good time. I have a big test tomorrow."

I threw the cup into the cupboard. There was a ceramic click. "No, you don't."

"Huh?"

"You do not have a test tomorrow. I know when all your test are, and you do not have one tomorrow. Especially in music theory, since the class doesn't even meet tomorrow." I plopped into the chair next to him. "Come on, Ryan, what's going on? Why can't you talk straight with me? Don't you care about our relationship?" I did feel a tinge of guilt. But not much.

He closed his book and stood up. He walked behind me and massaged my shoulders gently. "Of course I care, Lizzie. I love you. It's just that some things are hard to talk about. You understand that, don't you? There's so much I want to tell you, but I don't know where to start. Please be patient with me, and don't ever think that I don't love you."

Did I understand that some things are hard to talk about? Oh, brother, did I ever! He bent down and kissed my neck.

"Oh, Ryan," I said, "I could never think that." End of conversation.

We were nearly inseparable. I thought that all the time together would adversely affect my grades, but it didn't. I scored an A in every class except one, but that was the one I was most proud of: B+ in biology. Ryan didn't fare as well, though, so he enrolled in summer session to make it up. That was fine with me. It meant he would be closer to my apartment.

He spent a lot of time there, more than when we were both in class. He came over to study, and I helped, though in truth I was mostly a hinderance. We took more breaks than before, and some of them got pretty hot and heavy. Several times we approached that point of no return before I called it off. Ryan wasn't too happy about that.

"Lizzie, a man has needs," he would groan.

"Ryan, if you really love me, your needs can wait." He'd get angry and complain, but he always complied.

He was taking a course in government, so he had to read a lot of newspapers and magazines, both local and national. The professor gave a quiz every morning. Part of my helper assignment was to weed through everything with him to try and figure out what was important and what was hype. It wasn't easy. Most of it was hype, but we did all right.

One Tuesday evening after he'd gone home, I was browsing through the Providence Monitor, trying to find out what the town council was up to. They were always up to something and Ryan's professor would want to know what it was. We got sidetracked during a study break that night, so we didn't get past the state news. I wanted to make it up to Ryan in the morning.

As I flipped through the pages, something caught my eye. It was in the obituaries. I turned back for a second look. There, at the top of the third column, was my grandmother's name. I flattened the page open and read on.

Sarah Perkins, 68, of Providence, died Monday in her home. She was a lifelong resident, and member of St. Thomas Episcopal church. She is survived by a sister, Martha Adams, of Toronto, Ohio.

I sat back in stunned silence. I couldn't believe it was true. I checked it again to see if I was mistaken. It was no mistake. Grandma was dead. The reconciliation I had dreamed about secretly was never going to happen. There would never be a tearful reunion full of "I'm sorry." But I think what hurt the most was that I was so little a part of her life that I wasn't even mentioned in her obituary.

I wanted to rip it up or burn it or spit on it, but I didn't. Instead, I took the scissors from the kitchen drawer, cut the story out, folded it neatly, and walked to the bedroom closet. I reached up on the top shelf and pulled down an old shoe box. I opened the box. Inside was a shiny .22 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver, the same one that now rests on my pillow. Mr. Daily had gotten it for me when I moved out. He said a young girl living alone these days can't be too careful. I thanked him, then stashed it away as soon as he left. I didn't want anything to do with it then. I was beginning to regret not throwing it away all together.

I reached into the box and lifted it out. Funny, I thought, I always imagined it would be heavier. I looked into the box. The shells were resting on the bottom, half hidden by a wad of tissue paper. I walked to the couch, put the box next to me, and twirled the pistol around my finger like an old west gunslinger. In my other hand I held the newspaper clipping. I unfolded it and read it again.

It hardly seemed fair to condense the life of a woman I spent most of my childhood with into three sentences. True, life with her had not been wonderful, but she provided all my basic needs: food, clothing, shelter. Many people don't have those things. In spite of everything, I think she loved me in her own way. I dropped the clipping into the shoe box, and an unexpected sensation swept over me. It was guilt.

I stopped spinning the gun and took a long look at it. It was like brand new except for the dust from storage. And it looked lonely. A thought flashed across my brain, and I wondered, could I do it?

I checked to make sure it wasn't loaded, then I felt for the safety and clicked it off. I cocked the hammer and raised the gun to my head. My hands were steady, as if rehearsing your own suicide is the most natural thing in the world. I put the barrel into my mouth and rested it on my tongue. It was cold, and I shivered. Then, slowly, I squeezed the trigger. There was a click, and my teeth rattled, but that was it. In that instant I knew I could do it if I wanted to. A mournful voice haunted my memory.

Ain't nobody's business if I do.

My movements from there were instinctive. I threw the gun into the box and slammed the lid on. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a roll of duct tape, then ran back to the living room and taped the box shut, over and over, hand over hand, until I held only a cardboard circle in my hand. My breathing was frantic and out of control. I took the box and hurled it into the corner, and I staggered to the phone. My head was swimming. My fingers wouldn't cooperate. I kept hitting the spaces between the numbers. Twice a recording informed me that if I'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again. I did. Finally, it rang.

A woman answered on the third ring. I was surprised. Ryan had his own phone, and in all the times I'd called, he was the only one that answered. I thought I had a wrong number. I almost hung up.

"Hello?" said the voice. "Is anyone there?"

"Hi," I said. "Is Ryan there?" There was a silence on the other end. I fumbled for something to justify my request. Nothing came to mind. Finally, I added weakly, "This is his girlfriend."

She was still quiet, then, "I think you have the wrong number. My Ryan doesn't have a girlfriend."

There was the background noise of an argument, then another voice came on the line.

"Ryan, is that you?" I said.

"Lizzie? What's the matter? You sound awful."

I broke into a panic. "Ryan, something terrible has happened. Please come over right away."

"Sure. I'll be right there." He sounded puzzled. "Are you going to be all right?"

I heard the other voice shouting in the background. "Ryan, what is the meaning of this? Who is this girl, and since when did you have a girlfriend? Is that where you've been going when you were supposed to be studying? Answer me!"

Ryan's voice was muffled. "I'll explain later, Mom." He came back to me. "Lizzie, honey, don't go anywhere. I'll be right over."

"You'll do no such thing, young man. Not until I get a full explanation. What the devil --" The phone slammed, and the line went dead. I dragged myself to the couch and rested my arms on the back. I stared out the window, wondering if he would show.

My question was answered shortly when his BMW screeched into the parking lot. I looked at the silver-gray box in the corner of my apartment. It was leaning against the wall at an odd angle. One of the ends was dented in, and there was a big chunk of drywall missing where it had hit the wall. It didn't look dangerous. In fact, it looked rather silly, and I wondered, what was I going to say?

There was a pounding at the door. Dutifully, I got up and answered it. It was Ryan, of course. No sooner did I get the door open than he encircled me with a warm, concerned embrace. I didn't hug back.

"Lizzie, what happened? You sounded so upset."

"It's nothing really. I shouldn't have bothered you with it. I hope I didn't cause too much trouble. Your mom sounded pretty mad."

"Don't worry about my mom. I'll take care of her." He stroked my hair gently. "The only person I'm worried about is you. You wouldn't have acted like that if it was nothing. Now what's going on?"

I broke away and walked to the kitchen. "I told you, it's nothing." I took the lid off the coffee canister and grabbed a filter. "Coffee?"

"No, I don't want any coffee," he said as he followed me to the kitchen. "I want to know what's going on. And I'm not leaving till I find out." He pulled out one of the chairs and sat down defiantly.

I put a scoop of coffee into the filter. "It's nothing. Really. You'll think it's silly."

"No, I won't."

I filled the coffee pot with water and dumped it into the coffee machine. "It's just...my grandma died, okay? No big deal. I don't know what I got so worked up about to begin with." Even as I said those words I could feel my eyes mist and hear my voice shake. I wiped my eyes with my shirt sleeve. "See? Here I go again. Isn't this the silliest thing you've ever seen?"

Ryan got up from his chair. He put his hand on my shoulder. "I don't think it's silly at all."

I turned and threw my arms around him, and I cried until I couldn't cry anymore. Ryan held me tight and rocked me like a baby. He told me he loved me, and that everything would be all right. We stayed like that for at least an hour, but Ryan never said a word about being tired. It was me who finally let go and sat down. Ryan sat down also.

"You must have been very close to her," he said.

I chuckled. "You might say that."

Ryan raised his eyebrows. I smiled meekly. "There's something I have to tell you," I said. "There is something I haven't been totally up front with you about."

He took my hand. "Before you say anything, let's get one thing straight. I love you, not your past. It doesn't matter to me, no matter what it is."

"Well, it matters to me," I snapped. He pulled back his hand and lowered his eyes. "Sorry," I said. "I didn't want it to sound that way. I just feel like if I don't get this off my chest, I'll explode."

"Okay," he said with a nod. "If it will make you feel better, then go ahead." He took my hand again. His voice was soft and reassuring. "Just know that you don't have to. No matter what you tell me, I'll always love you."

"Thank you," I said, and I started in on my story, from the day my father committed suicide to the day I found my bag on her front porch. Ryan listened. I told him about living with the Dailys and seeing Grandma in the restaurant. Ryan listened. When I got to the newspaper clipping, I couldn't go any further. Ryan held me close, and between sobs I told him about the newspaper and the gun. Ryan listened. He never pulled away and never tried to offer advice. In short, he was everything I could have needed. What came next seemed only natural, though it didn't make me feel any better.

When Ryan left at half past one that morning, he left me in largely the same condition he found me, with one notable exception. He took my virginity with him.

Chapter Thirteen

2006-02-28T11:40:00.000-05:00

While I walked to the bathroom, I did two things. First, I invented an abundance of excuses. Second, I prepared myself for the inevitable; Ryan wouldn't want to go out with me anymore. By the time I pushed through the bathroom door, I was half-convinced he wouldn't even be in the restaurant when I went back out.

The mirror provided a welcome surprise. I didn't look nearly as bad as I pictured myself. There was no lettuce in my hair, no croutons up my nose, no potatoes in my ears. A brush here, a touch up there, a little soap and water, and I was good as new. The only noticeable reminder was the soup stain on my shirt. I covered that with my apron and marched into the dining room.

Ryan was still there. In fact, he had already ordered and was enjoying some potato soup. He stood when he saw me. "That was quick," he said. "I went ahead and got my food. I hope you don't mind. The soup looked so good, I had to see what it looked like in a bowl."

"Cute," I said. "Very cute." I twirled my apron strings. "I'm sorry about all that. I can be a real klutz sometimes. That's why I wash dishes instead of waiting tables. It's to save dishes."

"Don't worry about it. Everybody makes a fool of themselves sometimes. I locked my keys in my car today. Ended up missing all my classes waiting for a locksmith."

That explained why I hadn't seen him at school. I laughed a little, partly at his joke and partly in relief. Then he stood up and walked around the table, and I got nervous again. He pulled out a chair for me.

"Can you sit and talk?"

Here it comes, I thought. Dumped before my first date. You're a real winner, kid. I checked my watch. "I'm already late for my shift," I said. "Things are going to be picking up shortly, and if I get behind now I'll never catch up."

"Mrs. Stewart said she'd cover for you."

Mrs. Stewart doing dishes? That was a laugh. More like she wanted to hang by the door to watch me. I glanced at the windows on the kitchen doors. Sure enough, there was a face in each one. Mrs. Stewart's face was in the nearest one.

"Oh, did she now," I said to the doors.

Ryan said something, but I don't remember what. I was still watching the windows. It must have been obvious, because Ryan turned also. The faces vanished quickly, but he still caught a glimpse of them. "It appears that we are in a fishbowl today," he said. "Maybe now isn't such a good time. When do you get your break?"

"You wouldn't want to wait that long. It isn't until after dinner."

"I could come back."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"I have nowhere else to go." Then he took my hand. It was the first time he had touched me, and it sent shivers from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair. "Besides, I enjoy your company."

It was then that I understood the meaning of being swept off your feet. My stomach fluttered. I held my breath. The room tilted, and I grabbed the chair for support. My face must have turned three shades of red. I was on the verge of saying something really stupid, when Amy swung through the kitchen door. My sensibilities came back in a rush.

"Really, Ryan, that is so sweet, but I'm afraid you wouldn't feel that way if you saw me on my break, especially on a Friday. I'm not very nice to be around."

"You got that right," Amy said as she buzzed our table. She almost hit me with her tray. "Ryan, honey, that is definitely not the face you want to see. She'll bite your head off."

I had known Amy since high school and we never got along, but I must say I never truly disliked her until that moment. "Amy!" I snapped, but a burst of laughter from Ryan quickly diffused my anger. I bowed my head and smiled. "She's right, you know. It's probably best to wait until tomorrow," I said.

He shook his head, still chuckling to himself. "I think you would make good company anytime, but I certainly understand a woman's desire to put on her best face. As you wish." He bowed and kissed my hand. I swear I heard half the place go, "Awwww!"

"Ryan, will you stand up. You're embarrassing me!"

He straightened. There was a twinkle in his eye. "As you wish."

"And will you stop saying that."

He grinned wickedly. "As you wish."

"Ryan!"

He snickered. "I'm sorry. I should let you get back to work.

"Good idea," I said as indignantly as my schoolgirl heart would let me, and I marched off toward the kitchen. I wanted to stay tough, but I couldn't. Three paces from the door, a laugh slipped out. He was just so darn cute. I turned back to see if he heard me. He was looking directly at me with his arms folded across his chest, smiling broadly. I slammed through the door.

The next hour was a play-by-play about Ryan. What he was ordering. What he was eating. What he was drinking. What he got for dessert. Above all, how long he took on each item. At first, the girls thought it was sweet. That faded quickly as the tables filled up and he was still nursing his coffee. Amy was particularly ticked off, since it was her table. Each trip to the kitchen she got more and more upset. Finally she said to me, "Will you tell your boyfriend that this is not a homeless shelter!"

"He is not my boyfriend!"

At about four-thirty, Amy sauntered into the kitchen looking like a stray cat that had just stumbled upon Colonel Sander's trash can. "You have got to bring that guy around more often."

"Why?"

She lowered her voice to a whisper. "'Cause he left me this." She waved a fifty dollar bill at me. "And it's real!"

I had trouble concentrating the rest of the night. I broke more plates that night than in all my other dishwashing nights put together. At nine o'clock Mrs. Stewart sent me home, citing a need to have some dishes left for breakfast.

When I got home I went right to bed, but sleep didn't come easily. I tossed and turned all night. Occasionally I nodded off for a brief nap, only to be awakened by my Cinderella nightmares. Finally, after about the fifth nightmare, I gave up on any designs of sleep. I dragged myself to the shower. It was still dark outside.

The cool shower water chased away the bogeys. While I was toweling off, I tried to remember what had me so worried. Yes, the date was important, but only because it was a first. We certainly weren't going to run off and elope. If the date went badly, which was still a sinking suspicion of mine, I would never have to go out with him again. No biggie there. Was it the fifty he gave Amy? Maybe. Maybe I was jealous. But that's stupid, I thought. What was he supposed to do, tip the dishwasher? Was it that he had the money to throw around like that? Again, maybe. But, was simply having money a bad characteristic? Of course not! As a matter of fact, most people consider money to be a good thing. So I came to the conclusion that I was only losing my mind. Nothing to worry about.

I poured myself a bowl of cereal and a root beer for breakfast. As long as I was up and half insane, I might as well make the most of it, I figured. I finished up my meal and went to the bathroom to get ready. I brushed my teeth, shaved my legs, did my hair, got dressed, and went through the sacred feminine rite of makeup application. I hated wearing all that paint. It always made me feel like a piece off an old house. But when I checked the mirror, I had to admit I looked pretty good. I finished up, double checked everything, then went to the living room. The sun was just rising. I clicked on the television and collapsed on the sofa.

Some old Felix the Cat cartoons were on, followed by Scooby Doo, Bugs Bunny, and a host of other old and new friends. I hadn't watched Saturday morning cartoons in years, and now I understood why. They were stupid. But they did numb the mind enough to let the time pass quickly. In fact, I became so engrossed in how ridiculous they were, I ended up enjoying myself. It was mesmerizing. When Ryan's knock finally came, I jumped.

"Just a minute!" I ran to the bathroom to make sure everything was still in place. A few strands of hair hung down across my forehead. I brushed them back and doused them with hairspray. Everything else looked fine. I walked with short, choppy steps toward the door, paused, took a deep breath, and, with an incredible fake looking smile on my face, swung the door open.

"Hi, Ryan. Sorry I took so long. I was just --"

I checked over my shoulder and spotted my biology book on the sofa. "I was just doing some studying and I didn't want to quit in the middle."

He looked in at the television set. "Do you always study with Sylvester and Tweety?"

I stammered my way over to the TV and clicked it off. "Well, you see, I..." I threw up my hands and surrendered. "Okay, you got me. I was amusing myself with mindless cartoons. I am guilty as charged."

He wagged a finger at me. "You should be ashamed of yourself. Don't you know that Aquaman is on?"

I laughed. He laughed. He rocked on his heels in the doorway. I rocked on my heels in the living room. His hands were behind his back. My hands twisted my hair. He whistled a little tune. I hummed a little hum. It wasn't until he started talking about the weather, though, that I realized I hadn't invited him in.

"Where are my manners? Come in and have a look. It isn't much, but it serves a purpose."

"It looks very nice. It must feel good to come and go as you please."

"It has its ups and downs," I said. "You have a car. Can't you go whenever you want?"

"Hardly," he mumbled. I wanted to push and find out why, but he changed the subject. "I brought you something," he said, and he pulled a box with half a dozen roses in it from behind his back. "Just a little something to brighten up the place."

I took them in my arms and cradled them gently. "Oh, thank you, Ryan. They're beautiful. But really, you shouldn't have." I went to the cupboard for something to put them in. "As a matter of fact, that's something I wanted to talk to you about. We can't keep seeing each other unless you promise me something."

"What's that?"

I talked to the flowers as I arranged them in an oversized plastic cup. "You have to let me pay my own way. I know you're not trying to buy me, that you're just being nice, but it would make me feel better if you let me pay my own way. And no more gifts." I glanced up at him. He looked crushed. "At least not just yet," I added. "It's too soon."

He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "As you wish."

I grabbed my purse on the way to the door. "And if you don't stop saying that, I'm going to whack you with this thing!"

When we got to the car, he stopped and turned to me. "Is it still okay if I drive and open doors for you and stuff like that?"

"Not only is it okay," I said, "but I insist on it."

He laughed and we got in. After he started the car, he popped in a cassette. It was not the kind of music I was used to. There were clarinets and saxophones and trumpets, then a soulful woman's voice.

"Who's that?"

"That is Billie Holiday, the greatest blues singer of all time."

"Well, then, I guess I better learn to appreciate her." I turned up the volume, sat back, and listened. I liked what I heard. The music was interesting, not like that stuff from music appreciation, and the singer had a soft lilt in her voice that made me melt in my seat. Then something caught my ear. I leaned forward and listened closer to the words.

If I should take a notion
to jump into the ocean
ain't nobody's business if I do.

"That's awful," I cried. "How can you listen to that?"

"To what?"

"Didn't you hear what she just said?"

He rolled his eyes. "That's not the worst of it. Listen on."

I'd rather my man would hit me
than for him to jump up and quit me
ain't nobody's business if I do.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

I swear, I won't call no cop-ah
if I'm beat up by my Papa
ain't nobody's business if I do.

I hit the eject button. "I don't care how important she is musically. That is the worst song I've ever heard. That someone could feel that way about herself, it's just..." My voice trailed off. Words didn't seem enough.

"Yes, it is sad," he said. "But they don't call it the blues for nothing."

"I don't care. I don't want to listen anymore. I refuse to listen anymore."

He reached over and patted my hand. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry. There are some Glenn Miller tapes in the glove box. I promise you, there are no suicidal lyrics in Glenn Miller."

He was right; there were no suicidal lyrics in Glenn Miller. In fact, there were no lyrics at all for most of the songs. I cooled off while we swung the rest of the way to the Wonderland Cinema.

Parking was no problem. The matinee drew the smallest crowds, mostly old people and little kids. By the time we bought our separate tickets and got into the concession stand line, I had all but forgotten about that music in the car.

"Couldn't I at least buy the food?" Ryan asked.

"Absolutely not!"

"Tell you what," he said. "You let me buy this time, and I'll let you buy next time."

"Next time?" I said smiling. "Who said anything about a next time?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "You can't very well blame a guy for trying, can you?"

We were just about to the counter when I tapped him on the shoulder. "How's this sound? You get the popcorn and I get the soda."

"What about Snowcaps? There's no way I can make it through a feature film without Snowcaps."

"All right. You can buy the Snowcaps, for crying out loud!"

He paid for them and the popcorn, heavy salt and butter, and I ordered the sodas, diet, and light on the ice. I elbowed Ryan in the side.

"But I get to buy them next time."

"Next time?"

We made our way to the theater. There were plenty of seats. Ryan wanted to sit in the back row, but I convinced him I couldn't see from there. That was a lie. My eyesight was perfect. The truth was, as much as I liked him and for all my flirting, I still wasn't completely sold on this guy, and I figured better safe than sorry.

All the trailers said the movie was a trilling, chilling, spine-tingling, edge-of-your-seat adventure movie. The critics agreed, calling it a guaranteed blockbuster runaway hit, and the greatest adventure movie since the last great adventure movie, whatever that one was. I thought it was okay, but I was more interested in my own adventure with Ryan. Even before the opening credits were done rolling, our fingers brushed in the popcorn box. The next thing I knew, we were holding hands. Half an hour into the show, I felt his arm behind me. It wasn't a big pass, but the inside of my head was spinning. To block out the pressing urge to jump into his lap, I forced myself to watch the movie.

It was your basic boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl, boy-hunts-down-girl-with-a-tank-an-AK47-and-about-a-thousand-Navy-Seals movie. At the climax, the hero breaks into a gothic mansion protected by blood thirsty communists and an acid moat to rescue the girl, her kid brother, and the entire human race. I know, I know. So cliche'. But I bought it anyway. Then, just when it seemed he was home free, a dark figure leaped from a secret passage, capturing the hero, and several Seals. I screamed. Ryan pulled me close. We looked deep into each other's eyes. Then we kissed, and I was in love.

Pretty corny stuff, huh? But it is true, all true. It may be helpful to remember that I had never even been on a date, let alone kissed anyone before.

The rest of the movie is fuzzy to me. We kissed and we hugged and we held hands and we kissed some more. Sometimes I wonder what happened to that couple and the Seals. I suppose they came out okay. After all, the human race is still going strong. But Ryan and I totally missed the closing credits. An usher had to tell us the show was over. I have no idea whatever became of those Snowcaps.

He drove me to my apartment so I could get changed for work. There was no music in the car this time, except for the songs playing in my head. We didn't talk. He held my hand over the gear shift, and we smiled a lot. A whole lot. By the time he parked the car, the corners of my mouth were sore. I couldn't stop smiling. He put on the emergency brake and walked around to open my door for me.

He offered his hand and helped me get out. "Listen," he said, "I had a really great time."

"Me too." I walked slowly to the door of my apartment. He followed like a lost puppy.

"I'd really like to see you again," he said. "I could stop by your place tomorrow. We could study."

"I'd like that very much."

"Then it's settled. See you around lunchtime. I'll bring the pizza. You can't study biology without pizza."

We stopped, I put my arms around his neck. "And I'll bring the Snowcaps."

He looked toward the front door. "I could come inside for a little bit now."

"No, I don't think that's such a good idea," I said. "If I'm late for work, I'll be out of a job. Then we won't have a place to study tomorrow."

He put his arms around my waist. "As you wish."

"Shut up and kiss me."

Chapter Twelve

2006-02-28T11:36:00.000-05:00

I went to four different department stores and tried on no less than twenty outfits. Yet after hours of dressing and undressing, and badgering and annoying sales clerks, I was still undecided. So I went home. On the way, I stopped at K-Mart and grabbed a pastel skirt and blouse combination. It was the only thing I tried on there. I rewarded myself for my frugality by forgoing the Rice Crispies in favor of Captain Crunch. Then I really went home. First thing in the door, I called Mildred and told her the news.

"Is he a Christian, dear?"

"How should I know?" I said. "He's in my biology class, but the first time I ever talked to him was this afternoon. We went out for a soda. He was really sweet, and he asked me to go to a movie with him Saturday. So I said yes!"

Her voice was calm and measured. "I'm sure he is very sweet, Lizzie. Otherwise you wouldn't have said yes. Mr. Daily and I have no questions about your judgement. But like faiths are not extras in a relationship. They are extremely important. What if you end up married? I'm just saying you should do some checking first."

I felt like slamming the phone through the wall. "What are you talking about? Married? Good grief, Mildred, I told you we just met. You can the wedding invitations on hold for now."

"So your saying you would never marry him?"

"No, I didn't say that either. You're twisting everything all around. This is only our first date. Let me get to know him first."

"Lizzie, dear, I was only suggesting --"

"I know what you're suggesting!" I snapped. "But I'm almost twenty now. I can take care of myself."

Her voice was still calm and precise. "I know you think you can, but emotions can be a funny thing. Once you give your heart away, it can be very hard to think clearly."

Enough was enough. "Listen, I'm sure you mean well," I said, "but there's nothing to worry about. I'm not going to get hurt. I know what I'm doing. You're getting worried for nothing."

There was a deep sigh on the other end. "I hope so."

"Well, you are. Trust me."

I looked at the clock. It was still early, and I didn't have much studying to do. My only Friday class was bowling. But I needed an excuse to get off the line.

"Listen," I said, "I have a bunch of work to do, so I better get going. I'll call you on Sunday, okay?"

"Okay," she said. "Good luck. We'll be praying for you."

I thanked her and hung up. Praying for me? I thought. Am I that homely? I'm sure she meant well, but jeez, this is ridiculous. It's only a date.

Then I thought again. No, it wasn't only a date. Even I knew that. But had I -- it was hard to even think about -- had I already given my heart away? He was so evasive about himself. Should I put some more time into this thing first?

I rubbed my hands on my face. Darn that Mildred! She was confusing me. The only reason this date is so important is because it is my first. It has nothing to do with Ryan or giving my heart away. Just a good time. Nothing more, nothing less. I put away the cereal and made my dinner.

That next day couldn't get over fast enough as far as I was concerned, which of course meant that it took forever. I got to the bowling alley at ten for class, and wished I would have cut instead. I bowled so badly that the instructor asked if I wanted the kiddie bowler bumper boards put up. I almost accepted the offer.

From there I was off to the library for my shift at the desk. I tried to sort the returns in the book drop, but every time I thought I was finished I found that I had mixed up the books somewhere along the line and had to start over. After four tries, I gave up and settled in for some studying.

That didn't go much better. I went through three pages before I realized I had no clue as to what I had just read. I couldn't concentrate. I kept looking up at the door. I expected Ryan to drop in and say hi, but he never did. At three o'clock, I signed my time chart and headed for the restaurant. I planned on having a leisurely meal before throwing myself into the mad rush of Friday night.

I settled into the employees lounge with a gyro, fries, and a Coke. I didn't feel particularly hungry until I took my first bite. Then I was a blur of hand-to-mouth motions. I was just stuffing the last of my fries into my mouth when the door opened.

"Lizzie," said Mrs. Stewart. "There's a customer here that would like to see you."

"Can it wait?" I said through a mouthful of food. "My shift doesn't start for another ten minutes."

"I'll tell him," she said. "But he seemed very insistent. Nice young man, and handsome too. He said he knows you from school. Said his name was Brian, or something like that. I never was very good with names."

"Ryan? Was his name Ryan?" I jumped up from my chair. A half-chewed french fry fell out of my mouth. "Ryan's out there?"

"Now that you mention it," she said, tapping her chin with her index finger, "I think that was what he said his name was. But I could be wrong."

"Ohmigosh! What's he doing here?" I grabbed my napkin and wiped my mouth quickly, then slammed down the rest of my soda. I ran to the mirror and checked my hair. "Has he been here long? What does he want? How do I look?"

"He just walked in, I believe he wants to eat, and you look just fine. Except for that sour cream spot in the corner of your mouth." She smiled innocently. "Is this boy something special to you?"

I took a deep breath and tried to act cool. I walked slowly to the table and picked up my napkin, then back to the mirror. "Like he said, we know each other from school. He's an okay guy, I guess. We're going to the movies tomorrow."

My hand shook as I dabbed the corner of my mouth. I heard Mrs. Stewart snicker. "I'm glad you aren't rushing things. I hope you have a good time." She pointed a finger at me. "Whatever you do, just don't be late for work." Then she left, still snickering.

I brushed my hair again, picked up my dishes, and started for the door. Before I went out, I paused and took a big breath to compose myself. Then I burst into the dining room, smiling confidently.

He was sitting at one of the window tables. Mrs. Stewart was standing next to him, talking. There were maybe ten other people in the restaurant at various stages of eating late lunches and early suppers. I waved in Ryan's direction.

"I'll be right there. I have to take these to the kitchen," I said. I walked toward the kitchen, and took a big bite of door for dessert. My dishes scattered, and I was instantly covered in cream of potato soup, romaine lettuce, and a delicious olive oil salad dressing.

"I'm sorry, Lizzie," said Trish. "I didn't know you were on the other side."

"That's okay, Trish. I was using the wrong door. My bad."

"But I should have been paying more attention. It's as much my fault as it is yours. Let me help you clean up this mess."

"No really. It was my fault," I said. "I'll get it."

"Will you two stop it?" It was Mrs. Stewart. "It was both your faults. Now Trish, you go get another soup and salad for Mr. Carter. Lizzie, you go clean up. I'll take care of the mess."

She helped me to my feet. As she did, she whispered in my ear, "Good taste. No wonder you got so flustered." Then she winked and went about sweeping up the floor. I slipped away as inconspicuously as a human platter can, while Ryan ducked behind his menu.

Chapter Eleven

2006-02-28T11:29:00.000-05:00

"What do you mean you're leaving? Remember what we talked about? Running away from your problems? And forgiveness? Jesus never said it was going to be all peaches and cream. He just promised to be with us, through the good times and the bad."

They were both sitting on the bed for devotions. I had just come in the door. I walked to the wooden rocking chair in the corner and dropped into it. "I'm not running, Mr. Daily. It's just...well, you know. Even if I did forgive her, she wouldn't forgive me. I could never fit in there. And besides, I'm almost nineteen. I should be getting on with my life."

"Where will you go? What will you do?"

"I guess I'll get a job. Mrs. Stewart at the Garden told me they were always looking for help there." The next sentence sounded odd in my mind, and felt even more odd in my mouth, but I said it anyway. "Then I thought that in the fall, I might go to school."

They exchanged glances, and he clapped his hand on her knee. "Will you at least stay here until you have something for sure? And a place to live? I'd hate to see you wandering the streets."

"To tell you the truth," I said haltingly, "I was hoping you could help me find someplace. And maybe a car too, if it isn't too much trouble."

Mildred smiled broadly. "No trouble at all, dear."

Within a week I had a job washing dishes at the Garden. After two weeks, I had a small, cheap, one bedroom apartment within walking distance of the restaurant. Two months after that, I bought a 1979 Toyota Corolla. I was independent and self sufficient for the first time in my life.

And I found a new church, a Presbyterian one over in New Holland. It was a bit of a drive, but the chances of running into someone I knew went down dramatically. It wasn't even in the same school district.

The minister was a balding man who looked to be in his sixties, though he may have been younger. When he retired a few years back, he still looked the same. He was a reserved man, and soft spoken even in the pulpit. To tell the truth, he was downright boring. The people, while not overly friendly, were very polite.

Aside from church, I had no social life. Work kept me busy. Peggy Stewart was an odd duck. Her husband died rather young, but left her a substantial sum to raise their three children in a dignified manner. And that is what she did. Two of them went off to Ivy League schools, married into nice families, and provided her with a gaggle of grandchildren to dote over. The third, the family black sheep, converted to Catholicism and is in the process of entering the priesthood. All that would have been enough for many women of her generation, but Peggy grew restless. And so, while many of her friends were contemplating retirement, Peggy Stewart opened a restaurant. As I have said already, it was a smashing success.

Over the course of that spring and summer I added to my sparse furnishings. I bought a little TV to occupy my lonely nights, a recliner to watch it in, and a stereo for when there was nothing on but college football and infomercials. And I bought books by the dozen, nearly all of which were mysteries. I got a real kick out of them, because of the nice neat packages the stories ended in. It was funny the way the detective could deduce his way all the way down to the only possible way the crime could have been done by the only possible person, when I knew there were at least a dozen more possibilities he hadn't even considered. They were a great way to kill an evening.

I also studied for and took the SAT's, and did much better than I expected. Though I only scored a 450 in math, my verbal score was 750. I guess all that time in the library paid off. Anyway, I then applied to and was accepted at the Providence branch of Lancaster County Community College. True, LCCC wasn't a prestigious school, but with my high school record I was thankful to get in anywhere. Then I took a night off, called the Dailys with the news, and we celebrated. We played bridge. Mildred cleaned house.

Freshman registration was in late August, and classes started the first week of September. I signed up for English Comp I, American History, Intro to Psychology, Math 101, and Music Appreciation. That last one was supposed to be a joke class, but it turned out to be the most difficult. It wasn't that the work was so hard (it wasn't), but I considered Journey and the Eagles to be classical, not Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven. But I did all right.

In fact, I did much better than all right. I pulled straight A's. I also managed to annoy my classmates to tears. Whenever exam grades were posted, everyone would flock to check them, and I was always the most surprised person in the group. After the psychology final went up, and I said something about how I couldn't believe I got an A, the girl next to me, who got a D, burst into tears, called me all sorts of nasty names, and told me if I was going to gloat I should go to the library where all the other nerdy brainiacs hung out. It was without a doubt the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me.

Speaking of the library, I did spend a lot of time there. I had to; it was my job. School made me cut back on my hours at the restaurant, so I had to pick up some money from somewhere. I got into the work-study program, and my experience at the public library made me a natural. By the end of October I practically owned the place. Twenty hours there during the week and twenty hours at the restaurant over the weekend kept the rent paid, the car out of hock, and me in school. True, it didn't leave much time for a social life, but that was nothing new to me. In fact, over time the library became my social life. I was the most used reference book since Funk met Wagnel.

My second semester went much the same way. I took English Comp II and aced it. History of American Politics rounded out my social studies requirements. It was a breeze. I took a mildly amusing class in bowling. I had enjoyed Intro to Psych so much that I was thinking of making psychology my major, so I tried my hand at abnormal psychology, and promptly decided that English was more up my alley. I found it very strange that two doctors, each of whom had spent an incredible amount of time and money to earn their credentials, could come up with different and often contradictory theories about how the mind works. And not only that, they also concocted equally convincing studies and experiments to support their particular idea. Still, it was a cakewalk. My only real stumbling block was Biology I.

Part of my troubles were my own doing. On the second day of classes, I got into an argument with my professor. We were talking about the origins of life, and he asked if anyone was a creationist. I tentatively raised my hand. He snorted, then turned around and started writing on the board.

"Then you must believe that the earth is only six thousand years old. Modern science has proven that the earth is much older."

"Dr. Holloway," I said.

"The evidence is so overwhelming," he went on without turning around, "that no intelligent person could possible hold the creationist viewpoint."

"Dr. Holloway," I repeated, more forcefully this time.

He continued speaking to the board. "Religion, in fact, has always been a sworn enemy to science. The reasons are simple; proven science explodes the myths of religion." He turned around and looked directly at me. "There will be no points awarded for fiction on my exams. Is that understood?"

A rage I didn't know I had flared in me. I nearly shouted in response. "I didn't know this was a history class and a philosophy class."

He walked slowly to his desk and consulted his seating chart. "Ms. Borden, we aren't going to have any problems, are we?"

I swallowed hard. My burst of confidence faded. "I hope not, sir."

"Because, if there is a problem, you can always drop the class. I'd be all to happy to accommodate you. In fact, many of my more narrow minded students do just that."

I felt the ember of rage being fanned. My words were sharp and crisp. "I don't plan on dropping the course, sir. If I have any problems, it's that you seem to be teaching beyond your area of expertise."

He ambled to my desk and placed his hands, palms down, on my notebook. He leaned forward and smiled. "I have a Ph.D. in biology, Ms. Borden. I assure you I am well qualified. But, what is your area of expertise? What degrees do you possess?"

I stood and leaned forward also so that our noses were nearly touching. "First of all, it is Miss Borden, not Ms. As to my expertise, it is in the area of my personal beliefs. Although I am a creationist, I do not now, nor have I ever been under the assumption that the earth is six thousand years old. I do believe that this world is not an accident, that there is a creator, and that we are not in this world without a purpose. My particular purpose at this time seems to be standing up to rude and arrogant professors who wish their students to tolerate and eventually accept their own opinions as fact, while refusing to tolerate any view that is contradictory."

For a second, I was sure he was going to hit me. But I didn't back down. If abuse is what he wanted to deal out, then I was willing to take it. We both stood motionless for a full minute, though it felt like hours. Then, from the back of the room, someone started clapping.

It was a halting, muffled clap, but still clearly audible. Just when it started to die down, someone else joined in, and then three more after that. Soon, half the class was giving me a standing ovation. It was a different kind of applause, however. I didn't feel it was in support of me so much as it was against Dr. Holloway. They were not endorsing my beliefs, simply acknowledging my right to hold them.

Dr. Holloway stepped back. His face was burnt crimson. "You will regret the day you first set foot in my classroom. I will make your life a living hell," he hissed.

I thought about dropping the class after that, but that would have been like letting him win. So I stayed. And he was half right. It was a living hell. But I never regretted taking the class. In fact, as the semester wore on, I grew to appreciate it. Dr. Holloway sparked an interest in science that until then I didn't know existed. He challenged me to examine my own views in the light of other well educated opinions, and despite Dr. Holloway's previous assertion, I thought science and Christianity fit together marvelously. And not only did he challenge me, but I challenged him as well. By mid-terms, I think he gained a measure of respect for me.

Still, he was harder on me than any other pupil, which says a lot because he was extremely hard on all his pupils. It didn't help that I was basically a scientific illiterate going in. I spent many long hours racking my brain over the difference between mitosis and meiosis, DNA and RNA, virus and bacteria. And so, on one warm April afternoon, while the rest of the college world tossed frisbees and frolicked, I was cooped up in a stuffy library, a pen in my teeth, nose deep in a text book.

"Excuse me," said a man's voice.

I took the pen from my mouth and scrawled a few notes in the margin. "I'm not on duty right now," I said without looking up. "The person at the desk should be able to help you." I waved my pen in that general direction while still focusing on my book.

"No, you don't understand. I don't need help finding anything."

"Then I suggest you sit down and stop bothering me."

He cleared his throat. "Maybe I better start again. I'm Ryan Dietrich. From biology? Fourth row on the left, second seat from the back?"

I picked up my yellow highlighter and marked off a large section. "So?"

"I was wondering, jeez this sounds stupid, but what I was wondering was, I mean, would you like to have a cup of coffee with me?"

I put the cap back on the highlighter and sat it down. My eyes hadn't yet left the book. "A little hot for coffee, isn't it?"

"How about a soda, then? My treat?"

I was rapidly becoming convinced that he wasn't going to leave unless I at least acknowledged him. Wearily, I closed my book and looked up. I was pleasantly surprised. He was cute but not gorgeous, muscular without being overdeveloped, not too tall or too short, with shortly cropped brown hair and bright blue eyes. His smile was tender and insecure. I smiled back. "If I say no, will you leave me alone?"

"Probably." He sat his books on the opposite side of the table. "For now."

"And if I say yes?"

"If you say yes, I can assure you that you'll have a good time. If you don't have, I will never bother you again."

I studied him closely. He certainly looked harmless enough. Besides, I needed a break right then, anyway. I rocked back in my chair and crossed my arms. "Is that a promise?"

He raised his right hand. Three fingers were extended in a Boy Scout oath. "I give you my word as a gentleman, a scholar, and an athletic supporter."

It was corny and stupid and incredibly cute. I laughed out loud, and was greeted with a fierce, "SHHH!" from the desk. I mouthed my apologies as I got up and stuffed my books into my book bag. We headed for the door. I was impressed when he stopped and held it open for me.

"Thank you, Ryan. Courteous guys are few and far between." A thought suddenly occurred to me, and I chuckled to myself. "Apparently courteous girls are too, because I haven't even told you my name yet. My name is Lizzie." I hesitated before adding, "Lizzie Borden." I watched him closely. The significance of the name obviously eluded him.

"I know. You are the star of biology, after all. I think everyone knows your name. That's Miss, not Ms., right?"

I smiled at the sidewalk. "That is correct." I glanced over at him, then back ahead. I didn't want to stare. We walked a few more yards in silence, when I noticed that we weren't going toward the student union, but toward the parking lot. I stopped and turned to him.

"Shouldn't we be going the other way? The student union is that way."

"I hate that place. The prices are so high, and it's so loud you can't have a decent conversation without losing your voice."

"So where are we going?"

"There's this nice little place on Oakmont. I thought we could walk over there. It's just a few blocks."

The college is located on the south side of Providence in the more historic section of town. The walk from the campus to Oakmont is lined with trees, many of which were there before the town was settled. Some of the streets, in fact, were built around the trees. It makes for a truly delightful, even romantic, walk.

At the time, I thought the conversation went well. It wasn't until later that I realized we talked about me almost the entire time. He was so easy to talk to, I felt like I could tell him my life story. And I almost did. I told him not only my goals and interests, but about my mother dying, my father committing suicide, and living with the Dailys. I left out the part about Grandma kicking me out, I guess because I didn't want to scare him. I don't know why. If the things I told him didn't frighten him off, nothing would. Maybe I was saving it for later, just in case. Anyway, I kept talking, and he kept listening and asking more questions. I even told him the story of my name and that stupid little rhyme. He didn't laugh, or act shocked and horrified. He just listened. He never made a move to touch me.

The only thing I learned about him was that he was from New York originally and now lived in Kinzer with his mother, that he was a music major and hoped to get his associates degree over the summer, that he hoped to go to Pittsburgh after that, and that he had a wonderful sense of humor. The pun seemed to be his specialty. As we made the turn onto Oakmont, a car drove by with three Mennonite women in it. They each had on the net head coverings many Mennonite women wear. Ryan stopped walking. He looked at me with all the seriousness of an undercover CIA agent.

"They say they wear those for religious purposes, but I think it's just a cover," he whispered.

A few minutes later we reached our destination. It was definitely a no frills place. The marquee was apt and concise; it said only, The Deli. The interior of the store consisted of a counter, a cash register, a refrigerator with drinks in it, and the kitchen. There were no tables, no paintings, no plaques. Ryan grabbed two Cokes, paid for them, and we went outside.

There were tables there: two wooden picnic tables, benches attached, with a large umbrella over each one. I sat in the middle of one bench and put my pack under the table, leaving ample room for him to sit next to me. He didn't. He walked to the opposite side of the table and sat down there.

We talked for over two hours and through three or four sodas. We talked mostly about me and biology, but I did make an effort to get him to open up about himself. He was an expert at redirecting a question, though. The only extra thing I got out of him was about music. He was a big fan of jazz and blues, and he played the trumpet and sang tenor. That didn't surprise me. Even when he talked his voice was very lyrical, almost like he was singing his way through the conversation.

He checked his watch. It was four-thirty, he said, and he had to get going. His mom would be expecting him for dinner. We stood up and he asked, rather hesitantly I thought, if I wanted to come with him. I said no. I wasn't up to meeting his mom. I barely knew him. He looked almost relieved.

He walked me back to my car. He still hadn't touched me, not even by accident. I thought about his promise. I was beginning to wonder if I had disappointed him instead. He did invite me to dinner, but that could have been to be polite. He had looked awfully relieved when I said no. A veil of depression came down on me as I thought about the things I had said. I went too far. Guys don't want messed up girls. Head cases are a real turn-off. By the time we got to my car, I was sure I had blown it.

I unlocked the door. "Thanks for the soda," I said. "Guess I'll see you in biology." I got in the car and started to close the door, but before I could, he stuck his head in. I came within six inches of giving him a concussion.

"So," he said, "did I live up to my end of the bargain? Did you have a good time?"

"Yes," I said softly. "Did you have a good time?"

"Of course I did."

I looked up at him. He was smiling broadly. Too broadly, I thought. "You don't have to say that. I know I must have bored you to death. I don't normally talk about myself so much, you know. Usually, I'm my least favorite person in the world. I don't know what came over me."

"Lizzie, how can you say that?" he said. "You're the most interesting, fascinating person I've ever met. Your nothing like those plastic sorority girls. You're so -- real. I thought you must have been bored with me."

I chuckled at that. So did he. "In fact," he went on, "I was thinking, if you really did have a good time, maybe we could go to the movies Friday."

I jumped half out of my seat, then sank back slowly and fidgeted with my keys. "I'm sorry, Ryan, but I have to work."

"What about Saturday?"

"I work all weekend," I said, wishing for once that I was like a normal college student.

He backed away from the door a little. I could see in his eyes that he thought I was making an excuse. "Oh, sure. I understand. See you in biology, then." He turned to walk away.

"Wait!" Ryan stopped and turned back. "Don't they have a Saturday matinee," I asked. "I don't have to work until late afternoon."

"Really?" he said. "That's great! I'll pick you up around eleven then, okay?"

"Sounds great. I'll see you then." He turned again, and this time he bounced away. He stopped at a blue BMW. He unlocked the door, opened it, stopped, closed it again, and came running back to my car.

I rolled down the window. He was panting.

"I forgot to ask where you live."

"I guess that might come in handy." I pulled a scrap of paper from my notebook and scribbled out the directions, along with my phone number in case he couldn't find it, and he wrote down his number for me. My hand was shaking. So was his.

After he took the directions and my number, he waltzed back to his BMW and drove off. But I couldn't move.

I sat alone in the car. My fingers were tingling. I couldn't catch a good breath. My mouth was dry. I stuffed his phone number into my pack and told myself that this was no big deal. It was just a date, nothing to get worked up over. People go on them all the time. Stop acting like a high school freshman.

But the fact of the matter was that it was something to get worked up over. Other people may go on them all the time, but Lizzie Borden does not. This wasn't a big deal, this was THE big deal.

And then it hit me. The only clothes I owned were for church or for bumming around. There was nothing in-between. I couldn't believe the old cliche' was true; I didn't have a thing to wear.

So I decided I would take a trip to the mall and treat myself to something nice and totally frivolous, even if it meant eating Rice Crispies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for an entire month. I put the car in gear and drove off.

Chapter Ten

2006-02-28T11:22:00.000-05:00

After that, I attended church religiously, so to speak. In the beginning I was still uncomfortable, but as the weeks passed I felt the eyes less and less. It helped that it was the holiday season. Mr. Daily told me that Christmas would never be the same again. I was skeptical, but he was right. Jesus was a much better reason to be merry than Santa ever was.

I did the best I could to find my niche. I wanted to show everyone how much I appreciated the love and prayers. Mildred suggested the choir. I told her that my singing voice wasn't very good, but she insisted it was.

"I've heard you sing in the shower, and you sound lovely to me," she said. I tried to tell her that even a fog horn sounds good in the shower, but she would have none of that.

"The least you can do is give it a try, dear. If you don't like it, you can try something else. It isn't like you need to be a professional. Besides, you're singing for God, not us."

I asked why she wasn't singing, then. She cleverly avoided my question, something about all of us called to different areas, and the next Wednesday I was at rehearsal.

The director asked me what part I sang. I told him I didn't know, so he asked me to sing a little.

"I don't really know anything," I mumbled.

"How about the Star Spangled Banner?"

I didn't have the nerve to tell him I didn't know all the words, so I nodded and we walked over to the piano. He played a few introductory chords and cued me with his head. I croaked a few feeble notes in a decidedly non-shower voice before trailing off quickly. His playing got softer at the same rate as my singing. By the time we got to the rockets red glare, I don't think you could hear either of us for more than a few feet away. I was thankful when he stopped well short of the end.

"I think I have a pretty good idea now," he said delicately. "Why don't you have a seat in the alto section. You can have the end chair, next to Evie Clairmont."

Practice went well from a social standpoint. Evie proved to be quite a character. She needled the director in a good natured way. In fact, none of the group seemed really serious about singing except the director. Even he wasn't overbearing about it. Throughout the rehearsal, he kept giving me tips: how to keep from singing flat, or sharp, or how to get a particular rhythm right, or whatever sin I was committing at the time. Halfway through, we took a break. They all wanted to talk to me, it seemed. They introduced themselves and welcomed me to the church and to the choir, and, oh, we hope you keep coming back, it's so hard to fine dedicated young people nowadays, and do you know so-and-so's grandson or nephew or whatever. It was a lot of fun.

But even with my limited musical experience, I could tell this wasn't for me. After it was over, I told the director I was going to try something else. He said he was sorry to hear that and asked me to reconsider, but I could tell by the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice how grateful he was. He had enough problems in the choir already.

I ran some other ideas through my head. I didn't know enough to teach Sunday school and everything else I could think of involved standing in front of a large group of people. The choir would have been okay, since there are so many that you don't feel so conspicuous, but to stand alone? All I could think about was the eyes. I was starting to get depressed when Evie Clairmont came up to me after the service one Sunday.

"Lizzie, I was just talking to Mildred, and she said you might be able to help me out. I coordinate the nursery workers, and I'm having a real problem filling the rest of the month. I don't know why, but it happens every year after the holidays are over. I suppose I should be prepared for it by now. Anyway, what I was thinking, would you be a dear and help me out?"

"I'd love to, Mrs. Clairmont."

"Oh please, call me Evie. I can't tell you what a load off my mind this is. I'll give you a call this week and we can work out all the details and you can ask any questions you have. If you can, be here a little early next week to give the children time to get used to you." She glanced at her watch. "Oops, gotta go. Roast in the oven, you know," and she flitted off.

She called me that Wednesday and filled me in on the rules: no spanking, put name tags on the children, always leave them with a clean diaper, don't hesitate to get the parents. All pretty straight forward stuff. She said she'd be there early and introduce me to the parents and children. I thanked her, and we said goodbye.

For the rest of the week, I read every child care book we had at the library, from Dr. Dobson to Dr. Spock. I knew it was overkill, but I couldn't help myself. It felt so good to be useful. That Sunday, I packed my purse with a teething ring I picked up during the week and plenty of extra tissues. "You never know" was my motto. On the way to church, I asked if we could stop at the store so I could pick up some Lifesavers. I figured a little bribe might come in handy.

We were the third car in the parking lot. Almost before we stopped moving, I was out the door and on my way to the nursery. Evie was there as promised, and she showed me where to find everything: extra diapers and wipes for forgetful parents, books to read to the kids, spare rolls of toilet paper, and toys, toys, toys. Most of them were older toys, ones that I might have played with growing up, but they were not outdated by any means. Things like building blocks and Lincoln logs never go out of style.

It wasn't long before the first wave hit. Evie did the introductions while I made out masking tape name tags and stuck them on the childrens' backs. The Blanks brought their three year-old, Tyler, and the Thompsons brought the twins, Michelle and Melissa. Tyler ignored me and headed immediately for the toys in the corner. Michelle was finishing her bottle and half asleep, but Melissa was wide awake and curious about this strange new person in the nursery. I was afraid she might start crying, but she took to me right away, and the Thompsons and the Blanks made their way to the sanctuary.

Evie bent down and poked playfully at Melissa, who was sitting at me feet and stroking my nylons. Evie looked at me and smiled. "Looks like you found a friend for life. I'm so glad you hit it off with the children. Melissa doesn't take to just anybody, you know." She pinched Melissa's cheek. The little girl cooed contently. Evie checked her watch.

"This is probably about it. The Baxters might be here after a bit, but they're usually sporadic, especially now that the holidays are over. The choir is getting ready to warm up. Do you think you'll be all right now?"

I looked over at Michelle. Her bottle had dropped to the floor, and she was fast asleep. I picked her up and carried her to one of the cribs. "I'll be fine." I whispered.

Evie left, and I sat down in the rocking chair. Tyler came over and tugged on my skirt. He pointed frantically toward a stack of blocks in the corner. I walked over with him, and he painstakingly demonstrated how to build a house. He scolded me every time I did it wrong, and he clapped every time I did it right. I'm not sure which one of us had a better time.

We were interrupted by a very proper looking young woman in a Christmas green dress. A little boy followed on her heels. They stopped in the doorway, and she looked around curiously. She spoke in short bursts.

"Wasn't there supposed to be...are you the only...that is, it was my understanding that -- Where's Evie?"

"She's warming up with the choir." I walked over to her. "You must be Mrs. Baxter. My name is Lizzie. I'm pleased to meet you." I held out my hand. She looked at it with disgust, as if I were holding a used tissue.

"If you're concerned about my age, I'm eighteen," I said. "And I love children." Tyler came up behind me and yanked on my skirt. "They seem to like me too. But you don't have to worry. Mrs. Clairmont told me all the rules. If there are any problems, I won't hesitate to come get you."

She took a step back. "I'm still not...maybe I should take Todd in the service with me. He's not very good with people he doesn't know." She was turning to leave, when Todd slipped past her into the room. He and Tyler ran to the blocks and dove in, scattering them everywhere. Then they both came tugging at my skirt to help them rebuild.

"He seems okay to me," I said. "Mrs. Baxter, I promise you, everything will be fine. You have nothing to worry about. Go enjoy the service."

She took another step back, paused, then turned and skulked off to the sanctuary. I went over to Tyler and Todd and helped them rebuild their tower of rubble. The time flew by. I tried to follow the service on the speaker system, but it was difficult to keep up. Partway through the service, Michelle woke up. I changed her, and she set about discovering the room. Then the place was literally crawling with little people. Between their tiffs and spats and boo-boos and owies, they kept me more than busy. Before I knew it, I heard the pastor saying the benediction.

"Okay, time to clean up," I said. After a brief protest, Tyler and Todd started picking up the toys. They were aggravated by the twins, who were intent on pulling out each and every toy the boys put away. I tried to keep the girls out of the way, but each time I moved one, the other would sneak in behind me. It all hit the fan when Melissa took a toy frying pan from Todd's hand and whacked him over the head with it.

"WAAAAAAH! IZEEEEE! M'LILLLSA HIMEEEE!"

I scolded Melissa and picked up Todd. We sat down and rocked, and I sang to him. Hugh and Mildred poked their heads in.

"How did it go?" whispered Mildred.

I mouthed that everything was fine and that I would see them in Sunday school. They left. Little by little, Todd's sobbing faded. We rocked slowly, and he sucked his thumb and hummed along while I sang. He rubbed his eyes on my blouse.

The door opened. Mrs. Baxter stepped in. She took one look at her son sitting on my lap, rubbing his face into my bosom, and she screamed. She ran to the chair and snatched Todd from my hands. Todd let out a startled cry. I stumbled from the chair, trying to explain.

"Todd had a little fight with Melissa. She hit him with a toy. I was only trying to --"

Her icy glare cut me off. She turned and stormed from the room, nearly running over the Thompsons. As she went, Todd looked back over her shoulder and whimpered.

Mrs. Thompson looked quizzically at the green blur. "What's the matter with her?"

"Melissa and Todd got into a little fight, and Todd started crying. I was trying to comfort him when she came in. Then she freaked out."

Mr. Blank and Evie came in. Mr. Blank looked curiously over his shoulder. Mrs. Baxter was with the pastor now, and they were having an animated conversation. When it became obvious that the woman would not be pacified, Pastor Taylor lead her to his study. Evie looked at me. "Lizzie, what happened?"

Mrs. Thompson answered. "Rosemary happened. She saw Lizzie rocking Todd and she blew a gasket."

"He was crying," I said. "I didn't know what else to do."

Evie walked to me, but her eyes were still out the door. "Lizzie, it's a nursery. Children cry. You did what you were supposed to do." She looked at me, held out an encouraging hand, but I thought I saw a twinge of doubt in her eyes. "You have to understand Rosemary. She's a little, uh...overly sensitive." She looked back out the door. "Maybe I better go and see if I can help straighten this out."

Evie left the room. The rest of us stood around awkwardly. Mr. Blank spoke next.

"Uh, thank you for taking care of Tyler today. I'm sure Evie will get this cleared up. She's, uh, she's very good at this sort of thing. I hope to see you, that is, will you be watching the children next week?"

"I don't know."

"Well, for what it's worth," piped in Mrs. Thompson, "you can watch my kids anytime. The way they took to you is amazing. They aren't that good with their grandma."

"Thank you, Mrs. Thompson."

"No, thank you, Lizzie." There was another long pause. Abruptly, Mrs. Thompson tapped her watch and gasped. "Oh my! Speaking of Grandma, we have to be going. She's expecting us to be there by eleven." She picked up Melissa, and her husband picked up Michelle. She waved Melissa's hand at me. "Say goodbye to Lizzie. Thank you again. We'll see you next week."

Mr. Blank grabbed Tyler's hand. "I've got to be going too. Don't want Tyler to miss Sunday school."

They left. The vestibule outside was empty. Everyone had either gone home or was in Sunday school. The door to the pastor's study was closed, and had been since Evie went inside. I was alone. I finished picking up the toys and swept the carpet while I waited for the conference to finish.

Ten minutes later, the door opened. Rosemary came out first, still dragging a sobbing Todd. She headed for the door. Evie was close behind, then Pastor Taylor. I moved behind the door, where I could see and hear through the crack unnoticed. "Don't be so unreasonable, Rosemary," Evie said. "You're blowing the whole thing out of proportion."

"I am not being unreasonable! I saw what I saw. If it was your child, you'd feel the same way, Evie, and don't you deny it. I know what goes on at that house. If Mildred Daily wants to let that -- that two dollar whore carry on right under her nose, that's her business, but I will not allow it in my church, and with my children!"

Pastor Taylor took a few steps toward the door. "I don't know where you got these ideas from, but you're way off base."

"Oh, am I now? Have you talked to Danielle Hamilton? You know, she used to baby sit Lizzie. She says she was a troublemaker even then. Did you know that she killed her father? Cut his head clean off. Is that the kind of woman you want in our nursery?"

"I know the story, Rosemary. She didn't kill her father. He committed suicide."

"So she has you snowed too, has she, Pastor? That's what she wants you to believe, but I know!" Pastor Taylor took another step toward her. She pointed a sharp finger at him. "Need I remind you that you serve at the pleasure of the board? You better take care of this situation and soon, if you know what's good for you. I can have your job like that." She snapped her fingers. "People don't take kindly to Pastor-approved, child-molesting murders in the church." She turned on her heels and stomped out the door.

Pastor Taylor leaned against the wall. He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. Evie stared at the door in a bewildered trance. Neither noticed when I took a few cautious steps from behind the door and into the vestibule. A hot tingling sensation washed over my face. My tongue was in a knot. It was happening again. Just when it seemed everything was going to be okay, my world was collapsing. I crouched down and put my head between my knees. The next voice I heard was Evie's.

"You don't think it's true, do you?"

I didn't hear Pastor Taylor's response. I didn't have to, because it didn't matter. I couldn't stay there anymore regardless. I made a mad dash for the door.

"Lizzie, don't--"

"Oh, Lizzie, I didn't mean --"

I hit the crash bar and staggered into the parking lot. I stumbled onto the gravel and stopped, momentarily forgetting where the car was. Pastor Taylor and Evie came through the door. He reached out a hand for me, but before he could grab me, I spotted the gray Plymouth and made a beeline for it. Thankfully, Mr. Daily rarely locked his door. I threw myself inside and locked the car up tight. Within seconds, they were at the window, pounding on it and shouting apologies. I put my head on the steering wheel and tried to block them out.

The shouting died away and all was quiet. Some time later, maybe five minutes, maybe an hour, I heard a tapping on the window, then a key in the door. I looked up. It was Mr. Daily. The others were nowhere in sight.

He opened the door and knelt down. His hand rested on the shoulder harness. "Pastor Taylor told me what happened. Are you all right?"

I sniffled and wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my blouse. He handed me a tissue. "Yeah. I'm okay. Can we go now?"

He scratched something in the gravel. "If that's what you want. But do me this favor first. Will you talk to Pastor Taylor? He's very upset about this whole thing. You should know he's behind you all the way." He chuckled to himself. "He is not a man to be shaken by a few threats."

I blew my nose in the tissue. "I'll talk to him. But not today. I need to go."

He stood slowly. "I understand. I'll go get Mildred. That is, if I can tear her off Danielle. You should hear her. I had no idea those words were in her vocabulary." He rubbed his neck. "Evie's really sorry. She wanted me to tell you that. She blames herself for this."

"Tell her it's okay. It's not her fault."

Mr. Daily walked inside. A few minutes later he came back, dragging Mrs. Daily. She was yelling at the doorway and he had to keep pulling her toward the car. Finally, he succeeded in putting her in the car, and I got in the back. We went home. No one said a word on the way.

That night after dinner, I packed my bags.

Chapter Nine

2006-02-28T11:16:00.000-05:00

One more thing about those rules: The most surprising one was the one they didn't make. Considering how religious they were, I thought they would make me to go church with them. They didn't. They did make it clear that they wanted me to go, but they left the decision to me. I went fairly regularly at first, but I didn't feel comfortable. It wasn't that the people made me feel that way on purpose. In fact, most of them went out of their way to make me feel at home. But whenever we were there, I couldn't get away from the eyes. No matter where we sat or who we sat with, the eyes were always there, watching me. Every time I would hear a laugh, I turned to see if they were looking at me. I was sure every whisper was about me. I suppose it has something to do with a perverse sense of pride.

Though I didn't attend church faithfully, I did sit in on devotions every night. It was curiosity at first. As I got used to it, it became part of my routine. I certainly didn't keep going because I got much out of it. It was all Greek to me, until one cold mid-December night.

It was a Friday. The first snow flurries of the year were falling outside. It wasn't enough to make travel hazardous; in fact, it hardly stuck to the ground at all. Still, Mildred didn't like to go out in it, so they canceled a dinner date at the Blank's, and we set up to play cutthroat.

Though my game had improved some, I still wasn't very good. But as the old saying goes, it is better to be lucky than good, and on that night I was extremely lucky. Every hand I got was a winner. Mildred was most affected by my good fortune; she couldn't get a decent hand to save her life. I knew how much she liked to win, and I felt bad. I thought losing would make her surly. But something strange happened. The more evident it became that this was not her night, the less she cared about winning, and I was soon shocked to find that she was a better loser than a winner. It wasn't long before the conversation drifted from the game.

Hugh was shuffling the cards. "Mr. Daily," I said, "I was thinking about the story Mrs. Daily told, the one when the two of you started seeing each other."

He rolled his eyes and dealt around the table, me first, then the dummy, then Mildred, then himself. He glared at Mildred. "Why is it that whenever you tell that story, it always comes back to haunt me sooner or later?"

"If you don't want to talk about it," I said, "I understand." I checked my cards. "Lots of men your age are uncomfortable showing their emotions."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I didn't mean anything at all." I flicked my cards with my index finger. "I'll open with four spades."

"Four spades!" shrieked Mildred. "Tell the girl what she wants to know so we can end this forsaken game."

"I'll have you know, young lady, that I am a man of the nineties. I am perfectly all right sharing my emotions."

"Really," I smiled. "You don't look a day over eighty."

"Knock off the wise cracks," he said grinning. "Or I'll show you a whole new side of my emotions."

I wagged my finger at him. "Temper, temper. But seriously, what I want to know is, why did you cry when you went up to the altar?"

"Seriously?" He laid his cards face down on the table. "To tell the truth, I don't know why."

"What do you mean? You have to have some idea. Were you happy or sad or scared or confused or what?"

He rocked back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest. His eyes studied the bookcase. Then he sighed and let the chair rest back on all four legs. He looked at me. And he said, "Yes."

"Yes? Yes what? What did you feel?"

"All of the above. But why are you so interested in what I felt? Why do you want to know?"

I didn't expect the questions to turn on me. I looked back at my cards. "Isn't anyone else going to bid?"

"Now, now, Lizzie. Mr. Daily answered your question. It's only fair that you should answer his."

I fumbled with my cards. "I don't know...it's just, like I said, I was thinking about it today."

Mildred opened her mouth to say something, but Hugh patted her hand. He shook his head slightly but deliberately. "Why don't we just finish this forsaken game, Mildred."

It might be worth noting that I did not win that game. Mr. Daily did. I couldn't keep my mind on the cards. I kept thinking about what he had said. Why did I want to know? My question seemed innocent enough before, but now I wasn't so sure. The game came to an end just before ten o'clock. Mildred cleaned up the munchies, and Hugh put away the card table. I stepped outside for some fresh air.

It was cold outside but not bitterly so. For some reason, snow tends to take some of the teeth out of Jack Frost's bite. A light breeze swirled the flakes into a thousand different whirlpools before they melted into the grass. I flicked out my tongue at a snowflake, like a frog trying to catch flies. A picture of how silly I must have looked flashed across my mind, but I ignored it. I was overcome by an intense fit of giggles. It was so overwhelming that I didn't hear the door open behind me.

"Catching snowflakes, I see," said a man's voice. I quit abruptly and acted like I didn't hear.

"It's been a long time since I tried that," he said. "I wonder if I still have the touch."

Mr. Daily descended the stairs to the front walk. He stuck out his tongue, held out his arms for balance, and staggered around the yard like a drunk. He ran to a spot, stopped, snapped his head to one side, moved to another spot, then back to the first. I felt the giggles coming back. To fight them off, I joined him. We wobbled around in an odd formation, like a marching band halftime show gone mad. Finally, we both collapsed to the ground, utterly consumed with joy.

Mildred stepped through the front door. We both covered our mouths reflexively. Mildred stood on the top step and looked at us lying in a heap on her front lawn. She put her hands on her hips.

"Well, I declare! Hugh Daily, what do you think you're doing running around out here with no coat on? You two will catch your death of cold. Now get in here. There's hot cocoa on in the kitchen."

Dutifully, we got up and followed her in, exchanging an occasional snort along the way. I took the chair by the window while Hugh got his Bible. Mildred poured us each a cup of cocoa.

Mr. Daily sat his Bible on the table. He took a couple sips of his drink. Mildred and I followed his lead. There were satisfied smiles all around the table, the kind of smiles that only warm cocoa on a cold winter night can produce. We sat in silence for several minutes and soaked it in. Finally, with his cup nearly empty, Mr. Daily picked up the Bible to signal the start of the evening's study.

He didn't open the Bible like he usually did. Instead, he held it closed, upright on its binding, and ran his thumb along the pages. "We're going to do something a little different tonight," he said. "Call it twenty questions." He looked at me. "Lizzie, you asked a very interesting question during the game, but I don't think you got the answer you were looking for. Would you like to try again with a different question?"

The snowflakes and the cocoa has an intoxicating effect, like a truth serum. The inhibitions and apprehensions I had at the card table melted with the flurries. I spoke confidently.

"Yes, I would. I think what I really wanted to know wasn't why you cried, but why you went to the altar at all. Or even to the church? You hadn't seen Mrs. Daily in six months. Why'd you go there?"

He scratched his chin and stared through the window behind me. "I doubt you'll be satisfied with this answer either, but it's the only one I have. I joined the Navy because the recruiter told me I could see the world. He didn't tell me the world was eighty percent water. Still, we made our fair share of port calls, and I did all the normal things sailors do in port."

He glanced at Mildred. She shifted in her chair, obviously uncomfortable with this part of the story. Hugh cleared his throat and went on. "Not that I was really bad. I wasn't. I was just a typical sailor, and enjoyed being one from the first day of boot camp. But then, something changed."

"What?" I said much louder than I intended. I noticed I was sitting on the edge of my seat, and scooted back accordingly. Mr. Daily shrugged uncomfortably.

"Things weren't as much fun as they used to be," he said. "I figured it was just a phase and would pass, but it didn't. It got worse. Then I figured what I needed was a steady girl, so I went after Mildred. She floored me when she turned me down just because I didn't go to church." He drummed his fingers on the Bible. "My parents were loyal upstanding members of the local Methodist church, but that didn't guarantee me a nice childhood." His voice cracked and trailed off.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Mildred filled in the blanks. "Mr. Daily's parents divorced when he was young. And that was before divorce was a way of life. That made him an easy target."

"I know how that feels," I said, mostly to myself.

He wiped his eyes and picked up where he left off. "Anyway, they got divorced. I'm not sure why. No one bothered to tell me. But even worse than their splitting up was that neither of them wanted me. I spent most of my youth being bounced from relative to relative. Lots of them claimed to be religious, but after a few months, each and every one of them got tired of me and shipped me off to the next stop." He dabbed his eyes again. "On my eighteenth birthday I enlisted. Mostly to get away."

"Guess you really hated your parents, huh?"

"Yes, I did. For a long time I did. And that was the trouble. I was carrying all this stuff, this garbage around with me, and it drowned out everything else. There was a big void, and nothing could fill it."

A memory of a TV preacher popped into my head. The TV guy had been so plastic; his testimony sounded like a line out of a soap opera. It was a revolting image.

"So you asked Jesus into your heart, and everything was fine," I said sarcastically. "You felt better, you got the girl, and you even patched things up with your folks. Right?"

He looked at me slowly, like a wounded deer, but didn't acknowledge my comment. When he spoke, his voice was just above a whisper.

"When we got back in port that night, I went out looking for a good time. Something to take my mind off what was going on inside my head. What I found was that Baptist church, and it was like a hand was pulling me in."

My mind flashed to my experience at the library. I swallowed hard. Mr. Daily didn't notice and kept going. "I didn't know Mildred would be inside, but I wasn't surprised when I saw her. It wasn't like I went to see her anyway. I didn't even listen to the sermon. I went there to be with God. I wanted to know if he could fill the void."

My mouth was pasty. My tongue felt like it was two sizes too large. It was my turn to whisper. "Did he?"

Hugh Daily smiled. "While I was sitting there, I remembered a verse I picked up when I was a kid. I didn't know I remembered anything from then. Later, I had to look it up, just to be sure I wasn't fooling myself. It was from the sermon on the mount, when Jesus said if we forgive others, God will forgive us. Then I went to the altar, and I gave it all up. And, as Mildred is so fond of putting it, I bawled like a baby."

"And that was it? Just like that?"

He shook his head. "No, Lizzie. That was just the beginning. There was a definite change for the better, but it wasn't nearly 'it.' There were many days I would doubt whether it was real, and hate and resentment would grow. Then I had to remind myself that my parents weren't perfect, just like I'm not. Those days got fewer and farther between as I grew older." He looked out the window, and a tear streaked his face. "But even now, it still happens once in a while. It would have helped if my parents had at least tried to understand what they put me through."

"But they didn't?"

He got up and walked to the window. He ran his fingers across the glass. "No. They never wanted a part in my life, not even when I was grown. Not even when I actively sought them out. I remember, when we were preparing for the wedding, Mildred kept getting on me because I didn't want to invite my parents. I tried to tell her they wouldn't want to come anyway, but she wouldn't listen. Finally, she talked me into at least going to see my father and trying to work this out."

"He wouldn't see you?"

"No, he saw me." Hugh breathed heavily onto the window glass. It fogged up, and he wiped it clean. "He told me to go to hell."

"I would have killed him," I said.

"Would you? That's refreshing, because that's exactly what I wanted to do. But then, I realized that it wasn't my responsibility how people reacted to me, not even my own parents. My only responsibility was to love them and forgive them and live like Jesus commanded. After all, he loved me when I was at my worst, so much that he died for me. Was it too much to ask that I give back a little?"

I sank back into my chair, and took a long drink of my cocoa. "I don't thing I could ever do that."

Mr. Daily heaved a heavy sigh. "But don't you see? There's no other way out. If you ever want peace of mind, you have to. All the other streets are dead-ends. It's a trap."

My head fell forward defeatedly. "I can't."

A chortle from across the table caught me off guard. I looked up angrily. It was Mildred. "Of course you can't, dear," she snickered. "That's the whole point. None of us can do it alone. That's why we need Jesus."

I jumped up from the table, knocking over my cup in the process. My voice was above a shout, above a shriek. "But don't you get it. I don't want to! I don't want to forgive my father, or my mother, or anybody else in this town. And nobody can make me do it. Not you or God or anybody. If Jesus himself came down from heaven and asked me, the answer would still be no!" And I ran out the back door.

The flurries had stopped and a bitter chill set in. My breath came in foggy bursts. Any second I expected someone to come running out of the house after me. No one did.

I went to the big maple and sulked. A few tears dribbled off my chin. Five minutes later I was still alone, and the wind was stinging my cheeks. I went back inside. The Dailys were still sitting where I left them. They were holding hands, and their heads were bowed in prayer.

"You two do an awful lot of that, don't you?" They looked up. No one laughed. "I'm going to bed now," I said.

I tossed and turned for what seemed like hours. I tried lying on my stomach, my side, my back. I flipped my pillow endlessly from one side to the other and back again. I put it at the foot of my bed. I put it back at the head. I moved to the floor. Nothing helped. Reluctantly, I got up.

I walked down the hall to their bedroom and tapped on the door. No answer. I peeped inside. The room was empty. I went downstairs.

I walked into the kitchen, and there they were, still sitting like I had left them, with their hands clasped and their heads bowed. I stood in the doorway, full of awe and disbelief. The love in that room was almost suffocating.

"Okay, what do I do now?"

That night, I gave my heart to Jesus.

Chapter Eight

2006-02-28T11:10:00.000-05:00

How many ways are there to say I'm sorry? Don't you know if I could turn back time I would? But life isn't like that. There is no rewind button. No erase. No delete. No takeovers. What's done is done.

I wish I could have been more like Hugh and Mildred. They were always good to me. There were rules, as Mildred said, but they were fair. There were three "zero tolerance" rules: No drugs, drinking or smoking. They didn't make me follow a curfew, but asked me to let them know if I was going to be late. I could have friends over whenever I liked, so long as they cleaned up after themselves and followed the "zero tolerance" rules. That was no problem. I didn't have any friends. Still don't, for that matter.

Also, I had to help with the cleaning and cooking. And in time, I got to be pretty good in the kitchen. My favorite thing to make was chicken pot pie. Mildred taught me how to make it. It's a Pennsylvania Dutch dish. The name is a little misleading. It isn't a pie at all. It's more of a chicken soup or stew, and the "crust" is rolled out and cut into squares, then dropped in the broth. Sort of like chicken and dumplings, only with flat dumplings.

One day, about three months into my stay, Mildred was making some pot pie. It wasn't my turn to cook, but I was helping out anyway. The kitchen was the best place to go if you wanted to talk. She was slicing carrots and I was chopping celery.

"Where did you meet Mr. Daily?" I asked as I dropped a handful of celery into the pot.

"Now why would you want to hear a sappy story like that?"

I grabbed a potato. "Just curious, I guess."

She put the carrots in the pot and stirred. "I'll tell you," she said, "but don't say I didn't warn you. I'm not from here originally. I was born and raised in Virginia. In 1950, when I was seventeen, my daddy got me a job at the naval base in Norfolk, at the barber shop." She closed her eyes and smiled reflectively.

"I was most likely the worst barber ever. But I was fairly good looking then, if you can believe that, so I still had my share of customers. Especially this one seaman. He came in every week to get his hair cut by me. Even if the other barbers had open chairs, he'd wait for me."

"Don't tell me. Mr. Daily was that seaman."

"Yes," she said dreamily. "He'd come in every Monday with a perfectly good haircut, or at least as good as I could give him, and he'd sit in my chair, and he wouldn't say a word the whole time."

"Nothing?"

"Not a thing. It went on for months like that. Then one week, he didn't show up. I started to wonder where he was. I thought maybe his ship went out to sea. Then I spotted him through the window. He was pacing. He'd walk up to the door, turn around and go back the other way, over and over. I was getting really curious, so I asked one of the other girls to finish up for me, 'cause I wanted to take a break. I think she was watching him too. She gave me this big smile and told me to take my time. So I took off my apron and went outside."

"And?"

She picked up another carrot and chopped it slowly. "And I walked through the door and just about ran him over. He hemmed and hawed and said he was sorry, and he went to walk away. I wasn't ready for him to go, so I asked him if he was going to get his hair cut today. He looked at me kind of funny, like he didn't expect me to recognize him. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and said no, not today." She paused. Her eyes were a million miles away.

"Come on, Mildred, you're killing me! What happened?"

"Well," she said, "We just stood there for a while, and nobody said anything. Then all of a sudden, he says, 'You wanna go out?' Just blurted it out from nowhere."

"And I bet you jumped at the chance."

"No, not right away. A girl wants to find out about a boy first. Like his name, for starters. So I asked him and he tells me, and I tell him my name. He tells me he already knows my name. Then it was my turn to look at him funny. I say, 'How'd you know that?' He's got his hands shoved into his pockets up to his elbows, and he raises his eyebrows and shrugs his shoulders. It was so cute. He looked like a turtle. 'Guess I heard one of the girls in the barbershop say it once or twice,' he says."

"And then you said you'd go out with him, right?" I had stopped fiddling with the food by this time. I was sitting on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs, with both elbows on the table.

"I was ready to, but I figured I ought to know where we were going, so I asked him. He says, 'Maybe we could go dancing.' I said that was out of the question. My daddy wouldn't let me go dancing. We were Baptists."

"Baptists don't go dancing?"

"Oh, I suppose some of them do now, but not in 1950. Not the Baptists I knew anyway. He says he can understand that, and he asks me where I want to go. So I say, 'Why don't we go to church?'"

I just about jumped out of my chair. "Your first date was at a church?"

"You don't have to say it like that. It's not unheard of, you know. Besides, my faith was important to me, even then."

I settled back into the chair. "Okay, so you went to church together, and then what? Get to the good parts."

"There weren't any good parts, because we didn't go to church together. He told me he wasn't a religious man, and I told him I couldn't date a man who was not a Christian. He said a few more things, I don't remember what, and he left."

I looked at her incredulously. "You let him go?"

"Of course I did, dear. What else was I to do? I couldn't date a non-Christian. What if we ended up married? Then what would I do? The Bible is very clear on that subject, Lizzie."

"But you did end up married. How did that happen?"

She went to the stove and stirred the pot pie. "It was around six months later. It was a Wednesday. I was in church with my parents. I hadn't seen him since that day, and had just about forgotten him, when he strolls in and sits down next to me. He says, 'Hello, Mildred,' like it's nothing. So I say, 'I thought you weren't a religious man.' I know saying things like that isn't the best way to impress boys. It's probably why I didn't get more dates. But it didn't seem to bother Hugh. He just does that cute little turtle impression and says something about six months at sea changing a man."

"So that's why he disappeared. His ship was out to sea."

"That's what he said. I had my doubts. But I didn't say anything, because the service was starting. I tried to pay attention, but I couldn't help looking over at Hugh from time to time. It was so strange. He acted like I wasn't even there. He acted like nobody was there, like he was alone in the church. He sat there staring straight ahead, with his hands on the hymnal. I looked at his hands, and his knuckles were white from squeezing the hymnal. He didn't say anything or get up one time, not even when we were singing. I was sure he was going to bolt out as soon as the service was over and I'd never see him again. But then, the pastor gave an altar call at the end, and he hadn't finished what he was saying before Hugh got up and marched right up to the front. He knelt down at the altar, and he bawled like a baby. From that point on, I was in love with him. We were married a year later."

Mr. Daily walked into the kitchen. "Good grief, Mildred. Do you have to tell everybody that story? It was just a few tears, for crying out loud. Nobody noticed but you."

"Don't blame me, Hubert Alan Daily. Lizzie asked, and you're the one who brought her home with you."

I walked over to him and patted his shoulder. "I think it's a sweet story, Mr. Daily."

"I think it's a sweet story, Mr. Daily," he whined. "Did she tell you about the time she lost her bathing suit top at the church picnic? She swam like that for ten minutes. Caused quite a revival, if I remember correctly. We had people falling over each other to get baptized in the pool that day."

She slammed dunked an entire carrot into the pot. "You better be quiet, if you know what's good for you. I know where the rat poison is."

Though we almost always stayed at home, there was one time we didn't I should tell you about. You may have noticed that I haven't mentioned seeing Grandma since the day she kicked me out. That's because I didn't see her, and it was easier than it sounds. Grandma was set in her ways. Everything she did was on a routine and schedule I was very familiar with, so all I had to do was not be at the places she went at the times she would be there. It was a snap. Until the Garden opened.

The Garden is a restaurant, just a little place with a dozen or so tables. The menu is limited, but the prices are reasonable and the food is divine. It quickly became a fixture in the community. Everybody that came into the library was talking about it. So, on one cool October evening we decided to check it out.

The dirt parking lot was full but not crowded, and the wait was longer than we expected but tolerable. The delicious smell of steaks wafted to the front door, and I wondered if the owner set up the ventilation system to do that on purpose. Fifteen minutes after we got there, a short, stout waitress showed us to our table. We settled in for a delightful meal. Even though we were right next to the kitchen door, the steak smell was less here, and I thought again about the ventilation system. But it could be that I just got used to it. The waitress took our drink orders and left us menus before whisking off to another table. I opened my menu, and noticed it was for breakfast.

I was looking around for our waitress, when I saw her. She was sitting on the far side of the room, sipping a cup of coffee. It was my grandmother.

My mouth went dry. I reached for my water glass. I guess I still had my eyes across the room, because instead of grabbing the glass, I knocked it over. Water went all over the table.

She saw me, too. I know she did. She didn't come over or leave or do anything really. It was just a condescending little nod, and then she went on drinking her coffee and talking to her companion.

The waitress scurried to our table. "Are you all right, Miss? Let me get you a towel. I'll be right back."

"I'm fine. Thank you." My eyes were still fixed on the far wall.

Mildred stood up and tried to catch some of the water with her napkin. "It's just a little spill, nothing to be upset about, Lizzie. Lizzie?" She waved her hand in front of my eyes. "Anybody home?"

The waitress came back with more napkins. I grabbed a handful. "I'm so sorry. I guess I'm not feeling very well all of a sudden."

Mildred put her hand on my forehead. "You don't look very well, either. You're as white as a sheet. What happened? You were fine a minute ago."

"I don't know," I said. "It just hit me. I don't feel much like eating. Do you think we could just go home?"

"I suppose we could, dear --"

Mr. Daily broke in. "No. Why don't you just get something light. Soup or something." He turned to the waitress. "You do have soup, don't you?"

"Yes, sir. Chicken corn and cream of potato."

"There. You see. Get the chicken corn and some crackers. I'm sure you'll feel better after a bit. It's probably from standing in line so long."

"But Mr. Daily, I really think --"

"That's enough, Lizzie," he said firmly. "We don't get out often, and it isn't going to kill you to sit here with us."

I looked up helplessly at the waitress. She gathered up the wet napkins. "I'll be back in a few minutes with your drinks," she said.

I stared at the damp place mat. I wanted to crawl into a hole. Mrs. Daily sat down. She patted my hand lightly. "Everybody has an accident once in a while, dear. It's nothing to get sick about."

"It's not the water!" I snapped. "It's her. She's here." Mildred shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Who is here?"

"My grandmother is here! She's at the table over there, the one under the barn picture."

Mildred turned to look. "You mean the one sitting with Danielle Hamilton?"

I shook my head. "No, the one sitting by --" I stopped. I rubbed my eyes. I looked from the wall to Mildred to the wall again, just to be sure. I put my head in my hands. "Yeah, that's the one."

Mr. Daily cleared his throat. "Lizzie, we can go if you really think you need to. But, you know, you can't spend your whole life avoiding people that make you feel uncomfortable."

"What do you expect me to do? Invite her to come and sit with us? Have some cheescake maybe?"

The intensity of my voice surprised even me. Mr. Daily rapped his knuckles on the table to compose himself. "I didn't say that. I meant that sooner or later, you are going to have to deal with this. Otherwise, you'll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, wondering who's watching you."

I hid my eyes. He went on. "I've seen the way you look when we go to the supermarket, or the mall, or church, or practically anywhere, really. Now you can either go on hiding like that or we can sit here and have a nice dinner. What's it going to be?"

The waitress came through the kitchen door with our drinks. "Here we go. Have you decided yet, or do you need some more time?"

They both looked at me, and I squirmed uncomfortably. "I'll have the chicken corn soup," I said.

Hugh smiled broadly. Mildred clapped her hands in silent applause. They ordered their meals, and we went about making dinner conversation. Mildred did more that her part, filling the quiet spots with ease. She even told the bathing suit story. Everyone laughed at the right places. As the waitress brought our food, Grandma and Danielle got up and left. Grandma didn't even give me a second look.

We talked some more about how great everything looked and smelled and tasted, and about how generous the portions were, and about how juicy Mr. Daily's steak was and how hard it is to get a decent rare one anymore, and how pleasant the service was. The waitress came back and asked us if we wanted dessert. We all patted our bellies and said how we couldn't eat another bite. Mr. Daily left a big tip. "That's how these girls feed their families," he said. On the way home, I told them both the latest I'd learned about the original Lizzie Borden. They acted intensely interested. All in all, it was a most pleasant evening.

Then I went to bed and cried myself to sleep.

Chapter Seven

2006-02-28T11:03:00.000-05:00

The sun is setting outside. I've been typing for over three hours now, and my hands are getting sore. It's a lot harder to type on these manual things. I'd love to take a break, but I can't. I haven't found the answers I need. And there's this gun calling my name.

Did I mention that I got this typewriter from Mr. Daily? He was always using it. Hugh Daily was the most famous writer Providence ever produced, though you won't find his stuff in bookstores. He wrote letters -- mostly letters to the editor. Whether it was the Providence Monitor, the Christiana Ledger, or any of the scores of other local papers, his name was bound to be in at least one. Sometimes he even made it into the Philadelphia Inquirer. He also wrote letters to his congressman, his senator, the head of the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation, and just about every other government agency known to man. Whenever he got an itch in his craw, as he called it, he would scratch it with this typewriter and send it off. This old thing was his prize possession, and he gave it to me. Of course, he gave me the pistol too. I guess nobody's perfect.

Letters were not the only thing he wrote. He also wrote one book, which he published himself. It was called Divine Providence: A Local History. I found it on the library shelf my first day at work.

It was the Tuesday after I moved in. (The library was closed Mondays.) I soon learned there was much more to running a library than checking out books. Returns had to be put back in the proper place. New books had to be filed, and the card catalog had to be kept up to date. Inter-library loans had to be arranged, both incoming and outgoing. With school letting out, there was a summer reading program to organize and run. Plus, there was no cleaning staff, so that was also our responsibility. It was certainly enough to keep the both of us from getting bored.

Not that I mean to imply that he worked me to death. My tasks were mostly mundane. I emptied the book drop and put the books back on the shelves, did some cleaning, and ran errands. Once in a while, he let me do story time. So I still had plenty of time to browse, and it was during such a time that I stumbled across his book, hidden behind an encyclopedia in the reference section.

I had always wondered why the town of Providence even existed. There are many small farming communities around, but few grow beyond that. The ones that have, did so because the Octorara Creek or the railroad runs through them. Providence has neither. There is no reason for a town this size to be here. I dusted off the book and brought it to Mr. Daily.

He squinted at it through the bottom of his bifocals. "Where did you find this old thing?" he said. "I thought it was long gone to the incinerator. Probably should be anyway."

I paged through it. "Then it is you? You wrote this?"

He sighed and went back to his work. "Yes, unfortunately. That was a long time ago. Why would you want to read drivel like that when there are so many good things to read?"

I shrugged. "Because you wrote it?"

He threw up his hand in a "suit yourself" kind of way, and I sat down to read it. Later, I checked it out, and I read it so many times that I memorized it. This is how it started.

"Once upon a time, in Landisville, Pennsylvania, there lived a young man and his wife. The young man was a farmer, though not a very good one. He dreamed of moving to the big city of Philadelphia. It is unclear whether his dream was inspired by his lack of farming ability, or was a distraction that kept him from becoming a good farmer. In any case, after a particularly dry and feeble growing season, he decided to make his dream a reality. He packed up his wife and belongings in a one horse wagon, kissed his mother, and set out on his journey.

"The area geography, then as now, was littered with hills, some larger, some smaller. Often, after a steep one, the man would have to rest his horse at the top until the beast could continue. On one such hill just east of Gap, the horse waged a mighty battle against the hill before overcoming it. However, the battle so exhausted the horse that the man and his wife had to set up camp for the night to allow their weary animal sufficient rest.

"The sun rose the next day, and the man and his wife loaded the wagon again to continue their voyage. But the horse refused to move. The young man whipped and begged and prayed and cursed, but the stubborn nag would not budge. The young man's wife, who had misgivings about moving to the city to begin with, declared that it was the hand of God, and she to would go no further. Reluctantly, the man acquiesced, and they dubbed the place Divine Providence and began building a home. In the process, the young man discovered a knack for making furniture. The Divine Providence Furniture Company was born, and a community grew around it. The industrial revolution later broke the furniture company, but the community stayed. Later residents shortened the name to Providence.

"The young man who founded the town and the company was James Patrick Daily."

It was the first book I ever read that I didn't have to, and it hooked me forever. I must confess that from then on, I knew I would also write a book someday. But I had no idea when I did, it would turn out to be a suicide note.

I learned many other things in my six months at the library. Without a doubt, the chief object of my interest was the woman I was named after, the original Lizzie Borden. It may surprise you to know that aside from that stupid jingle I quoted earlier, I knew almost nothing about her and had no interest in finding anything out, either. That all changed one day when I was leafing through the encyclopedia. I was looking for border terriers, though I don't remember why, and I saw her name (my name) on the opposite page. It was a short entry, so I read it. I was shocked.
Did you know that Lizzie Borden was found not guilty? I had carried that name around for eighteen years, listening to that awful poem, the jokes, and the snide remarks, and I didn't know that. We didn't have any books on her at our library, so I asked Mr. Daily to order some from other libraries. He did, and my shock turned to indignation.

I learned that my father was not the great historian I had been led believe he was. For starters, the original Lizzie Borden had a middle name, and a strange one at that. It was Andrew, after her father. And about that jingle. It is grossly inaccurate. As I said, she was acquitted. Also, the poor murdered woman was not her mother, but her stepmother. In fact, Lizzie's telling that to the investigative marshal was most likely the start of her trouble. Second, the murder weapon was a hatchet, not an ax, and she took only eighteen blows, not the noted forty. Lizzie's poor father lasted only ten. The murder weapon was never found.

She was brought to trial on the weak premise that no one else could have done it; therefore, she must have. The evidence was shoddy, and the police often contradicted themselves. The case was so shallow in hard facts that the jury deliberated only ten minutes before reaching a verdict, though they waited almost an hour to pronounce it. It seems they didn't want to embarrass the prosecution.

All of which was not enough to convince the public. She lived the rest of her life in the town of her birth, isolated from the community, convicted by the masses and the press, with only a few friends for support. One of the local papers regularly ran slanderous pieces against her character on the anniversary of what became known as the Fall River Tragedy. And you thought tabloids were a recent invention.

But Lizzie never lashed out, and she deeply appreciated those few that stood by her. They say she had a poem carved above her fireplace. I don't know where she got it from. Maybe she wrote it herself. This is what it said:

And old true friends, and twilight plays
And starry nights, and sunny days
Come trouping up the misty ways
When my fire burns low.

At least I still have the starry nights.

Chapter Six

2006-02-28T11:01:00.000-05:00

Did I ever figure out Godly sorrow? There was a time I thought I had it figured, but now I'm not so sure. I've never done anything I felt this sorry about. I ought to regret what I did. Can you feel Godly sorrow and still hang onto the guilt? I don't know. I guess I should keep writing then.

I was happy that the Dailys didn't go overboard at the mall. Mrs. Daily and I went bargain hunting, while Mr. Daily disappeared into one of the endless shops. It was hours before we saw him again. In that time, we found some excellent buys in jeans, blouses, and other necessities. We also got a chance to talk some more.

"Did you enjoy the service, Lizzie?"

I shuffled through a rack of forty percent off jeans. "Yeah. I liked the preacher all right, in a weird sort of way. Is he always that -- well -- weird?"

"No, not always. Just when he's trying to make a point. I hope Danielle didn't make you feel too uncomfortable. We love her to death, but sometimes she makes you want to take her by the collar and smack her."

I stared at her open-mouthed. She looked at me, rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and sighed. "I did it again, didn't I? I shouldn't have said that. I apologize. I really must learn to keep my opinions to myself."

That reminded me of something. I turned it over in my head a few times. The deep thought must have shown on my face.

"Is there something wrong, Lizzie?"

I pulled a pair of jeans off the rack and checked the price. "No," I said. "Not really. I was just wondering something."

"Wondering what?"

"Well, I don't know if this is appropriate, considering how nice you and Mr. Daily have been, but I was wondering, whose idea was it to let me stay with you?"

She half smiled and half frowned. "Why, it was my and Mr. Daily's idea, of course. Whose else would it be, dear?"

I put the jeans back and moved on to a different rack. "No, what I mean is, who brought it up first?"

Mildred scratched her head. "I don't recall. I think we more or less came up with the idea together. Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity, I guess. When I first got there last night, and again during the card game, you seemed to be the one in charge. But then, during the devotions, Mr. Daily kind of took over. It just got me to thinking."

"Wondering who wears the pants in the family?" She snickered. "When I was growing up, my daddy had a saying. He used to say, 'I am the head of this household, and I have my wife's permission to say so.' That's pretty much how Hugh and I handle things."

I turned away from the clothes folded my arms, gaving her my undivided attention. "That sounds cute, but I don't quite follow."

She scratched her chin. "How can I put this? Whenever Mr. Daily and I have to make a major decision, we can usually come to an agreement. But sometimes we can't. And when we can't, it is up to him as the husband to decide."

"And you're okay with that?" I said. "You don't mind him getting what he wants while you don't?"

She smiled. "I didn't say he gets what he wants. I said it is up to him to decide. Sometimes we end up doing what he thinks is best, and sometime we do what I think is best."

"I don't think I could do that. That gives the man way too much power for my tastes."

"I would agree," she said, "if Hugh and I were not on the same agenda."

"The same what?"

"The same agenda, dear. You know, the same page. Hugh and I follow the same road map."

I was still staring at her with my mouth open. Mrs. Daily's eyes searched the ceiling tiles for the right words. Then she clapped her hands suddenly, and I could almost see the light bulb over her head.

"In a Christian relationship," she said, "ultimately, the objective is for both people to do God's will, not your own."

And as I think about Mildred Daily's philosophy of love and marriage, using my twenty/twenty hindsight, I can sum up my reaction in two words: If only.

Chapter Five

2006-02-28T10:55:00.000-05:00

I awoke the next morning to the smell of frying bacon. A clean bath towel hung over the foot of the bed. I picked it up and started for the bathroom. The shower was running already. I thought briefly about going back to bed until whoever was finished, but the smell of the bacon drew me down the stairs.

To my surprise, Mildred Daily was not creating those wonderful smells. Instead, Hugh was at the stove. An apron protected his gray dress pants and white shirt. His sleeves were rolled up. A gray jacket and solid blue tie hung over one of the kitchen chairs.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Good morning, Lizzie. Did you sleep well?"

I moved beside him and peeked into the pan. "How come you're cooking and not Mrs. Daily?"

"Oh, I try to do my share around here. Mildred loves to cook. Just not all the time." Artfully, he scooped a strip of bacon from the pan and dropped it onto a napkin covered plate. "She says it's like chocolate. You can eat only so much before you get sick of it."

"I wouldn't know," I said. "Grandma wouldn't let me near the kitchen. I think she was afraid I might get into the knives." I laughed a self-effacing laugh. Mr. Daily wrinkled his nose.

"Would you like to try?" he said.

I pretended I didn't, but he pretended to insist, so I pretended to do it just to make him happy. Inside, I was giddy. And as we went along, I got giddy on the outside too. We moved from the bacon to the eggs, and Mr. Daily showed me some of the tricks he used to keep the yolk intact. I'm afraid I didn't do very well. I broke more than I saved, but that didn't matter. I was having fun. The strange thing was, Mr. Daily didn't seem to care either. He was having as much fun as I was, maybe more.

By the time we finished, we were laughing so hard neither of us noticed Mrs. Daily come into the room. "Well! Just who's idea was it to throw a party and not invite me?"

"Maybe this will teach you not to take such long showers, Mildred." Mr. Daily wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. "Anyway, that was only the pre-party. The real party is just starting. Lizzie made us a delicious breakfast."

"I wouldn't exactly call it delicious," I said.

"Are you kidding? For a first time cook, you did just fine." He reached over and mussed my hair. "Come on, let's eat."

We sat at the table. Mrs. Daily spread a napkin neatly over her dress. It was fancier than the dress she had on the day before, and I remembered it was Sunday. All the happiness that had filled me at the stove left. The Dailys were going to see the pastor about what to do with me. It was almost midnight again.

The anxiety must have shown on my face. Mildred put down her silverware. "What's the matter, dear? You're not really upset about the eggs, are you? I think you did a fine job."

"It's not the eggs," I said. "I guess I'm a little worried about what's going to happen today."

There was a short silence as they exchanged glances. Mildred nodded to Hugh. He cleared his throat. "You know, after you went to bed, Mildred and I talked about that too." He cut his eggs into perfect squares. "We were thinking, that old spare room is just going to waste. We don't have any children or grandchildren to come visit. The only real use we get from it is when Mildred's sister stops by, and that's not so often anymore. So, what we were thinking is, there's no reason you have to go anywhere. You could stay here." He stabbed a piece of egg. "At least until you get on your feet."

I sat back wide eyed and looked at Mrs. Daily. She shook her finger at me. "Now don't you think of this as a free ride. You'll have to do your share. There's cooking and cleaning, and Mr. Daily's always complaining about not having enough help at the library."

I thought about that little place and I wondered, how many people would it take to run a place like that? It didn't seem like there would be that much to do even in a big library. How much effort could it take to stamp a card and say, "Bring this back in two weeks." But I was too grateful to protest.

"If you're sure it won't be too much trouble --"

"Don't be silly, dear. We wouldn't have offered if it was. Of course, we'll have to set some rules, but we can do that after church. You are coming to church with us, aren't you?"

I flattened my napkin onto my lap. "I'd like to, but the only dress I have is from yesterday, and it's all muddy."

"Lucky for you I saw it when I put out the towels then. It's in the dryer now."

I choked on my milk, almost shooting it through my nose. Mrs. Daily jumped up and slapped me on the back. "Oh, I hope I didn't upset you, taking your things without asking first."

"No, I'm not upset," I said. "I'm amazed. You really are an angel, aren't you?"

"I see you've been talking to Hugh," she snickered. "You have to watch out for him. He's a real sweet talker. Now hurry up and eat your eggs, dear. We don't want to be late."

At around ten-thirty we left the house and headed down Providence Highway, then up Strasburg Road, where we took a right. We went for a mile or so, until Mr. Daily turned into the church parking lot. The lot was dirt and gravel, and the building was small and white. I had gone past it a thousand times, but never connected in my mind that it was a church. It looked more like a one room schoolhouse. When we stopped, there were maybe a dozen cars already there, and a few more came as we walked to the door.

City people have this misconception that in small town America, everybody knows everybody. In fairness, small towners do little to discourage that sentiment, because while it is not true in fact, it is true in essence. What I mean is, if you go to a gathering of any significant size, you are sure to be recognized by at least one person. That person, in turn, will introduce you to the person she is with. And, small towns being what they are -- that is, small -- you are sure to run into your new acquaintance at the supermarket or the drugstore or where ever, and she will have someone else with her for you to meet, and so on. So, while you may not know everyone, it certainly seems that way. And as we approached the church, that had me more than a little worried.

I took a tight hold of Mr. Daily's arm as we walked through the white double doors and into the vestibule. I quickly scanned the crowd of about twenty that milled about, talking about this, that, and the other thing. I didn't see anyone I knew at first, and my hand relaxed on Mr. Daily's arm. Then, a familiar voice called from just inside the sanctuary door. The voice was piercingly shrill, high and whiny, and very loud. I recognized it immediately as the voice of Danielle Hamilton.

Danielle had been a close friend of my grandmother, and often was my sitter growing up. We had great fun together. At least, I had great fun, many times at her expense. When I was thirteen, she suddenly stopped coming around. I often wondered if it was my fault, or if she and Grandma had a rift. Grandma went through friends like candy.

Whatever happened those five years ago seemed forgotten to Danielle. She waddled her stout, full-figured, forty-something frame in our direction, and I thought how strangely out of place she looked without a box of chocolate covered cherries in her hand.

"Lizzie? Lizzie Borden? Well, bless my soul, it is you!"

Heads swiveled around, and I latched back onto Hugh's arm. He stepped in front of me and intercepted Danielle.

"Good Sunday morning to you, Danielle. You're looking well."

"Oh, hello, Hugh," she said, still looking at me. "Lizzie, I knew it was you the moment I saw you. You look exactly like you did, when was the last time I saw you, three years ago?"

"Five, I think."

"Has it been that long? You haven't changed a bit. 'Course, you are taller now, and you've filled out some, but that's the same face. I knew it as soon as I saw it. I said to myself, Danielle, that's little Lizzie Borden, and I was right! Tell me, how is your grandmother? What have you been doing with yourself? What brings you to our little church?"

I stammered a partial answer, when Mildred cut in. "Lizzie is staying with us."

Finally, Danielle made the connection that we were all together. "Is that a fact? Imagine! I had no idea you knew Sarah Perkins. What a small world! Are you friends or relatives?"

Hugh smiled the way people usually smile at in-laws and IRS agents. "We don't really know Lizzie's grandmother. We're friends of Lizzie."

"Is that so? I suppose I should have guessed." She lowered her voice and placed her hand on Hugh's elbow. "Sarah Perkins is a mean-spirited little -- well, you know. The things she did to this poor little waif, they could make your head spin."

This whole conversation is making my head spin, I thought. I tugged at Mr. Daily's arm. "We'd love to chat," he said, "but I think the service is ready to start. We should probably get a seat."

"Oh, sure," she said. "Maybe we could talk some more after the service?"

"Possibly," said Mildred, "but we have a lot to do today. We're taking Lizzie shopping."

As soon as we were in out seats, I nudged Mildred. "Thanks for bailing me out back there, Mrs. Daily, but we don't really need to go shopping. I have my own clothes."

She checked the pews in front and behind us to see if anyone was eavesdropping, then she bent low, cupped her hand around her mouth, and whispered, "I didn't want to say anything yesterday, dear, but those socks you had on didn't match at all."

I pulled at a few loose threads on my dress absent-mindedly. "I didn't think you noticed," I mumbled. "But we can't go shopping. I don't have any money."

She patted me on the leg. "You worry too much, Lizzie. Now hush, the service is starting."

A brown-haired young woman took a seat at the organ and began playing softly. Conversation faded, until all sat in silent meditation. I tried to join them by concentrating on the verse from the night before. I couldn't. It wasn't that I couldn't remember it, I just couldn't stay focused. I felt like everyone was watching "that poor little waif." I could feel their eyes burning into the back of my head like a branding iron. I waited for them to start laughing. I waited for Mrs. Daily to turn into my wicked step-mother.

In my head, I knew they weren't really watching me. Danielle couldn't have possibly told the hundred or so people that now filled the sanctuary about me. But that didn't stop me from feeling the eyes.

And then I thought, what if more people knew me, like kids from school? I shifted in my seat and scanned the room as inconspicuously as possible. Nearly every head was bowed. Well, I thought, I bet they're still thinking about me. I was on the verge of jumping up and shouting, "Mind your own business!" when the introspective music stopped. The organist turned the page and played several introductory chords. The congregation stood in unison, hymnals in hand, and began singing while the choir filed in from the back.

It was a good service, I think. At the time, I didn't have much to compare it with. Grandma, for all her religious posturing, didn't go to church much. We went most Christmas's, and a few Easters, but that was it. Even then, I was not impressed. Everyone seemed so stuffy and uptight. People here were different. They smiled when they sang, followed along when the Bible was read, and listened intently to the sermon. A few even took notes. It wasn't totally clear to me what was so interesting, but their enthusiasm made me want to listen closer to try and find out. For a time, I completely forgot that I was named for a woman accused of turning her parents into hamburger.

About that sermon. The bulletin listed the man who gave it as Pastor Taylor, but I didn't recognize him as the preacher until he got up to speak. He didn't look like a preacher. He looked about my age (later I found out he was twenty-eight) and he didn't have on a robe. He wasn't even wearing a jacket, just a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tie. He didn't stay behind the podium. Instead, he roamed all over the stage and down to the front pews. He was constantly pushing his glasses up to keep them from falling off his face. Once or twice, he got his feet tangled in the microphone chord. But through all the fumbling around, the message came through loud and clear.

The title of the sermon was, "Hardened Hearts." He told the story of Moses going to Pharaoh, and Pharaoh's repeated refusals. He told about the plagues God sent to convince him, but still Pharaoh would not listen. Pharaoh didn't relent, in fact, until God took the thing that meant the most to him: his son.

While he spoke, I tried to put myself into the story. The plagues certainly were raining down on me. Did God still use plagues as a message? Was everything that had happened really just God trying to get my attention? Was it possibly that all this was truly a blessing in disguise?

And what was it exactly that God wanted from me anyway? And how would I know? And if I didn't figure it out, what would come next? Or worse, what if I did figure it out but chose not to listen? Then what?

I started to get a queazy feeling in my stomach, like the one I had in the library, when the pastor said something that grabbed me. He said we have an advantage that Pharaoh didn't. He said that we have a Savior that can soften the hardest heart. He said that Jesus, if we ask, will cover us with his love and wash us with his blood.

He gave an altar call after that, and I leaned forward to get up. Then I felt the eyes again. I paused, hovering just above the pew. I wondered what people would think. When I finally decided to get up anyway, it was too late. The altar call was over. I had missed my chance. The congregation went into the final hymn, and a deep sadness set in. i slumped into my seat and burried my face in my hands.

After the hymn everyone else got up to leave except me. I was still fighting off the tears. Mildred poked me in the side and brought me back to reality.

"Lizzie, are you all right?"

"Huh? Oh yeah, sure. I was just thinking about a few things."

They exchanged knowing glances. "We understand. We've both been there before."

We joined everybody else in line to the door. It reminded me of a wedding reception, or maybe a campaign rally. As we moved closer I could see why the minister wasn't wearing a coat. His shirt was drenched with sweat from his collar to his belt. I bet he lost ten pounds during that sermon. If the service had been any longer he could have passed out from dehydration.

He had a glazed-over look in his eyes as he shook each hand that was offered, smiled in appreciation, and moved on to the next. Occasionally someone would want to talk at length, and he would nod his head, smile, and reach for the next hand. I don't think he was being rude, just tired.

When we got to him, I ducked behind Mr. Daily and tried to slip by while they shook hands. Mildred grabbed my arm. "Pastor Taylor," she said, "I'd like you to meet Lizzie Borden. She's going to be staying with us for a while."

I smiled weakly and gave him my hand. He tilted his head and wrinkled his forehead. The glazed look vanished. I thought he was going to ask me about my name, but he didn't.

"You graduated yesterday, didn't you?" I nodded and mumbled that I had. He smiled. "I thought I recognized you. We're glad you could join us today, Lizzie, and I hope you'll come back and see us again."

He reached for another hand, but stopped short. He turned back to me, but he didn't look at me. It was more like he was looking through me, like he was listening to something. Then he looked me in the eyes.

"Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death." Then the glazed look returned and he moved on to the rest of the line.

After we were in the parking lot I pulled Mildred aside.

"What was that?"

"I believe it was Corinthians, dear."

"It was what?"

"Corinthians. You know, from the Bible. One of Paul's letters to the Corinthians."

"Well, what was it supposed to mean? What was he talking about?"

"Oh, I have no idea," she said. "Pastor Taylor often says things that just go right by me." Then she smiled at me. "Do you know what he meant?"

"No."

"Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out if you think on it long enough." Then we climbed into the little gray hatchback and set out for that great American institute of culture, the mall.

Chapter Four

2006-02-28T10:52:00.000-05:00

On the grand scale of things, having total strangers take you into their home for the night is not all that big of a miracle. Let's face it, the parting of the Red Sea this was not. There didn't seem to be any cosmic forces at work. It was just two people taking a chance and doing something nice for someone who needed help. I always knew there were people like the Dailys out there somewhere. I had just never met any. And considering what my life had been to that point, I was beginning to suspect there was more to my meeting them now than just a run of luck.

"I don't know how to thank you," I said.

Mildred tapped her fork on the table. "Well, there is one thing. I'm a bit of a card fanatic, and if I don't get to play tonight I will be an absolute bear to live with. So, would you mind joining us in a game of bridge?"

I wrinkled my nose. A card game? It wasn't that I didn't like card games. I had just never really played one, except solitaire, and I cheated at that. But they had come to my rescue, and I was their guest, so I really ought to try. I could probably learn. But bridge?

"I don't know how to play."

"My Hugh will take care of that. He's a wonderful teacher. He's the one that hooked me. Didn't you, dear?"

He patted my hand. "It really isn't that hard, once you get the hang of it. But I think Mildred is forgetting something. We need a fourth."

Mildred smiled a smile that was on the verge of being sinister. "Not if we play cutthroat."

Mr. Daily covered his eyes. "Lizzie, we are in for a long night."

Hugh disappeared into the living room. Mildred got up and stacked the plates to take to the kitchen. I stayed in my chair, trying to digest these latest developments. Mildred carried off the plates. On her way back for the other dishes, she saw me still sitting there.

"You know, when I was your age, it was customary for children to help with the dishes." Then she winked, and walked off with the leftover meatloaf.

Happy to have something to do, I gathered up the glasses. We finished clearing the table and loaded the dishwasher. Then we went to the living room.

I could tell by the way Mrs. Daily was licking her lips on the way in that she wasn't a woman who liked to play cards. She was a woman who liked to win cards. Mr. Daily stood up from his folding chair. He rolled his eyes.

"Don't be so eager, Mildred. I haven't even taught the poor girl how to play yet. Go easy on her for a bit."

For the next fifteen minutes or so, Hugh set out for me the rudiments of bridge. He told me about bidding and contracts, tricks and trumps, doubling and redoubling, declarers and defenders. It was all very confusing, and still is now to a certain degree, but I finally got enough of it down so we could move on to the basics of the brand of bridge we would be playing. It was called cutthroat, as Mildred promised, and it boiled down to the person making the contract playing with the open hand, or dummy, against the other two players. Scoring went every man for himself.

Mrs. Daily did not go easy on me, or her husband for that matter. While he was relaxed and easygoing, and used the game merely to fill the gaps in the conversation, she was relentless. Not in a mean or dishonest way, but with a clear understanding that the purpose of the game, or any game, was to win, and if you didn't want to win, you might as well not play at all.

"Hugh, darling," she would say, "don't send a little boy to do a woman's job," and she would slap a queen or ace on his jack and pull in the cards, giggling all the way.

I'm not sure how I did, but I know Mrs. Daily cleaned house. She was intensely competitive, but managed it without any real gloating. At about nine o'clock we agreed it was time to stop, although Mildred did so reluctantly. She showed me to my room, pointed out their room if I needed anything, and left me to myself.

A shower sounded good, but sleep sounded even better. I opened my suitcase, only to see that Grandma had neglected to pack me a nightgown. Just the thought of sleeping in those heavy clothes I was wearing made me sweat, but at the same time, sleeping in my underwear in a strange house sounded highly improper. I decided I would ask Mildred if I could borrow a nightshirt.

Their bedroom door was open a crack. I tapped on it lightly. There was no answer. "Mrs. Daily," I whispered. There was still no answer. I poked my head inside. They were sitting on the bed with their heads bowed and their eyes closed. A Bible sat on the sheets between them. I was in the process of slipping out so I could come back later when Mildred looked up and saw me.

"Hello, Lizzie. Having trouble finding something?"

"No. Well, yeah, sort of." I twisted my hair around two fingers. "I don't have a nightgown. Could I borrow one?"

She walked to the dresser. "Why, of course, dear. It's no trouble to me. I can only wear one at a time. Now, let me see. Oh, here's one. Will this do?" She held it out to me, obviously expecting me to go inside and get it. I walked uncomfortable through the doorway.

"Yes. That's fine. Thank you." I backed toward the door. "Sorry I interrupted. I should be getting to bed now."

"You didn't interrupt," said Hugh. "We were just sitting down for our nightly devotions." He paused and glanced toward Mildred, then back at me. "Would you like to join us?" he said.

It's funny, but what I meant to say was, "No thank you, I'm really tired, I'm not into that stuff," but what came out was, "Okay."

"Terrific," he said. "We're doing a little study on Romans."

Mrs. Daily crossed to the bed. She picked up the Bible and leafed through it. "Hugh, I know how you hate jumping around during a study, but I was reading from Matthew today, and there was something that struck as very odd. I was hoping we could talk about that tonight. Now, where is -- yes, here it is. Matthew 5:3. This is Jesus talking. "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." What does he mean by that? Don't you think it sounds contradictory?"

Mr. Daily took the Bible. He scratched his ear while he thought. "That is interesting, isn't it? What do you think, Lizzie?"

I had expected to be an observer, not a participant, and the question caught me off guard. I moved from a two fingered twirl to a three fingered twirl. "I dunno. Maybe it's a warning about having money, or something. You know, one of those, how's it go? 'Money is the root of all evil' things."

He took his hand away from his ear and pinched his thumb and middle finger together, waving them in front of his chin like a dart. "It's intriguing you should say that, because when Luke relates this passage, he suggests just that. Luke blesses the rich and curses the poor." He aimed his imaginary dart at the Bible. "But Matthew makes a special point to say 'Poor in spirit.' Why do you suppose he did that?"

I shrugged, feeling extremely inadequate. I wanted to leave the room. Mrs. Daily saved me. "I wonder if he means that it is easier to find God when you're desperate," she said. "At the end of your rope, so to speak."

Mr. Daily crossed one arm across his chest while still clutching the dart with his hand. His forehead wrinkled and he rocked back and forth deliberately. "Or maybe that those are the times we are most likely to look. Sort of like you can't find salvation until you are desperate enough to look for it."

Mildred nudged Hugh and smiled broadly. "I think you've got it, dear. I don't know why I didn't see that in the first place."

They continued to talk about the passage, but I wasn't paying attention anymore. I was fascinated by the thought. I wondered about that strange experience I had walking aimlessly in the rain, yet convinced I knew where I was going. Was it a coincidence that the place I stopped was the library, and there I found perhaps the only person in the whole town who would care about me? Was God reaching out to me in my time of trouble? Or had he always been reaching for me, but I just wasn't ready to listen?

We wrapped up the devotional with a prayer, and I headed to my room. I put on the nightgown, still thinking about those words. My mind was like a skipping record, playing "Blessed are the poor in spirit," over and over. I looked at the bed stand. Not surprisingly, there was a Bible on it. I picked it up. I wanted to see the words, to know they hadn't made the whole thing up. I don't know how I thought I'd find it. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen a Bible, let alone opened one. I rifled through the pages. I remembered it was supposed to be in Matthew, so I checked the table of contents. I found Matthew and turned there, but I had no clue what chapter to look in. I turned a few pages despairingly and lowered my eyes. And there it was! Right there in black and white! (or red and white anyway). I read over it a few times, concentrating on each word. I closed my eyes and said them out loud to make sure I had them right. I put my head on the pillow, turning each word over one syllable at a time, sifting for comfort. Within seconds, I was asleep.

I did not dream about Cinderella.

Chapter Three

2006-02-28T10:46:00.000-05:00

Some people might think it's kind of silly for me to be telling my story this way, yammering away at a mythical reader. I mean, suppose I make it through the night. Who's going to be interested in the ramblings of a clinically depressed, thirty-two year-old nobody? Of course, if I do kill myself, some sick publisher will put it in print and probably make millions, but so what? I'd be dead. If there is one thing my father and grandmother and almost everyone else in this God-forsaken town have tried to teach me, it is that posterity is a sucker play.

So why do I bother? Why not just be done with it? I don't know. I guess because I'm not so sure I want to be done with it. There are so many questions. I just can't find the answers. Hopefully they're buried somewhere in this compost pile of a life.

Anyway...

Mr. Daily cocked his head to the side as he picked up the suitcase. "That's quite a moniker. Is there a story behind it?"

I curled my lip at him. It was inconceivable to me that there were still people in Providence unfamiliar with the story of my name. My mother's death, my father's suicide and the note he left were the juiciest bits of gossip ever to hit the town. People still speculate about what drove him to it. I personally have heard several different theories, but all of them have one thing in common: that trampish daughter of his must have had something to do with it.

"You can't be serious," I said.

"Oh, I see I've spoken out of turn. I'm sorry. I guess people ask you that a lot. But you have to admit, it is a strange name to give a child."

I peeled my eyes back as I examined his face. There was no smirk, no sneer, no accusation. Hugh Daily was either the greatest liar on the face of the earth, or he really didn't know. I blinked my eyes in disbelief.

"No, it's okay," I said as I tentatively stepped through the doorway. "There is a story. I -- I killed my mother."

He stumbled again with the suitcase. "Excuse me?" he said.

"I killed my mother. She died giving birth to me. My father gave me the name."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be."

We walked in an uncomfortable silence toward a gray Plymouth hatchback across the street. I waited for him to go on, to say something, to ask questions. People always did, even when they already knew the story. It's human nature, I suppose. People are a curious lot. And a cruel one. So I watched my new companion out of the corner of my eye, waiting for him to turn on me like everyone always had.

He was rubbing his chin and kicking the loose stones in the parking lot. Several times he opened his mouth to speak only to decide against it. I crossed my fingers and hoped he would just let it go. But I felt something else too. Part of me actually wanted him to ask. It was a hope I felt often, that this time instead of ridicule and scorn there might be sympathy.

We arrived at the car and loaded my things into the back. When he saw the white dress under my gown was still damp from the rain, he fetched a light green ladies sweater from the back seat and draped it over my shoulders. I nodded my thanks. Then we got in the car and he turned onto the Old Providence Highway. We still hadn't spoken.

As we drove on and the silence continued, my discomfort turned to agitation. It was no longer just a need for attention and sympathy. It was a matter of survival. That queer feeling I got in the library was coming back. Like I was being led to the slaughter house. I wanted him to say something. I needed him to say something. And the worse part was I knew he wanted to say something, but he just wouldn't. So finally, with the casualness of a marriage proposal, I picked up the conversation.

"I lived with him until I was five."

"Excuse me?"

"My father. The man who named me Lizzie. I lived with him until I was five."

"I see."

There was a strained look of dispassion on his face. He was dying to know. I could tell. I leaned forward in my seat a little. He caught me peeking and gritted his teeth. His hands choked the steering wheel.

"Don't you want to know why I moved in with my grandmother?"

"Only if you want to tell me," he said, I could see by the look behind his eyes that he hoped I did. It was a look something like pain, horror, and curiosity. And fear. At the last second, I saw the fear. He knew. Maybe he didn't know at first, but something had triggered it in his memory. I knew someone couldn't live in a hole that deep.

"Mr. Daily, are you afraid of me?"

"No," he said, rather unconvincingly I thought, and I had to chuckle. He was as afraid of me as I was of him. Maybe more.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I said. "Except I wouldn't be offended if you were afraid of me. Most people are. And the truth is, I'm scared to death of you."

He threw back his head and laughed. It was a laugh that came a long way from deep in his belly, and the sound of it shook the car. "Oh, that is funny. Hugh Daily, killer librarian. Mildred is going to get a kick out of that." He laughed again, and I found myself laughing along.

He glanced over and stopped laughing abruptly. There was a strained smile. I checked myself in the vanity mirror.

"What? Do I have food in my teeth or something?"

"No," he said grinning. "It's just that you remind me of -" He cleared his throat. "There was a boy who used to come into the library all the time a few years back. A good boy, smart, funny, very ambitious. He was going places. Like that George Bailey fellow from that Christmas movie. He spent so much time in the library some people thought he lived there. And he had a laugh just like yours."

I looked out the window. "My Dad loved to read. Or so I'm told. I don't remember him much."

"I don't suppose you would. I always wondered what happened to him. I mean, what would cause him to...well, you know. He must have loved your mother a great deal. Too much, it seems. Idolatry comes in all shapes and sizes."

"Idolatry?" I said with a crack in my voice. "What are you talking about? My father was a Methodist."

"A Methodist, you say?" He laughed at some private joke. "That certainly explains it then."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just the rantings of an old man. I just meant that idolatry doesn't always look evil on the outside. Sometimes it's as simple as a loss of perspective. Letting one thing consume so much of you that there isn't room for anything else."

"Oh, I get it," I said. But I didn't. Not like I do now. I did like to listen to him talk, though. There was a certain something in his voice that I find hard to explain. It made you want to trust him. I was going to press him some more when he pulled the car into the driveway of a small white stucco house.

"This is it," he said. "Ready to meet Mildred?"

"As ready as I'll ever be. Which reminds. Shouldn't you have called her first?"

He smacked his forehead. "That was rather inconsiderate of me, wasn't it? But you don't have to worry about Mildred. She's a real angel. And she loves children."

"I am not a child," I said in mock protest. "I am a young lady."

"Well, in that case I better mind my manners." He hopped out and goosed stepped his way to may side of the car. There he made a grandiose gesture of opening the door. "In my day we always opened the door for a lady. Especially a young one." I think it was the first time in my life I ever blushed.

It was a nice little house, with a maple tree over the driveway, a flower bed in front of the porch, and a vegetable garden out back. All in all, it was very respectable looking, and I remembered my earlier thoughts at the library. "He was such a nice man. We never dreamed he was a pedophile."

Mr. Daily gathered my things and led me around back. "Mildred always snaps at me when I go in the front door after it rains," he said. "Leaves tracks on the carpet."

He opened the screened door and we went in. He took off his shoes and left them on a throw rug by the door. I followed suit. Then he looked at me and fixed the sweater, like he was bringing home a date to meet his parents. When he was satisfied, he called out, "Mildred, I'm home!"

"I'll be there in a minute, dear," answered a voice from the cellar, and I gave an involuntary sigh of relief. I looked at my hands. They were clenched in fists. I forced them to relax. It was just nice to know there really was a Mildred.

A few minutes later the cellar door opened and Mildred came into the kitchen. Though I later found out she and Hugh were nearly the same age, my first impression was that she was much younger, maybe in her thirties, but certainly not over fifty. A pastel house dress showed off an attractive figure, and her light brown hair showed no hint of graying or coloring. A smattering of perspiration on her forehead kept her from looking too perfect. She was June Cleaver, Carol Brady and Caroline Ingalls all rolled into one. She was carrying a laundry basket.

"Don't just stand there, you silly goose, we've got to --" She saw me. She stopped. She looked at the sweater. She looked at Hugh. She looked back at me. She smiled sweetly. "Hello there."

Hugh took the laundry basket from her and carried it to the table. "Let me get that for you. You know what the doctor said about you hauling things up and down the stairs." He waved a hand in my general direction. "Oh, Mildred, this is Lizzie. I invited her to have dinner with us. I hope you don't mind."

She went to the table and started matching and folding socks. She was still smiling. I felt like a stray cat. "Did you forget, dear? This is bridge night with the Miller's."

"It wouldn't hurt to miss one week. You were just saying the other day how we never have company over."

She continued to fold socks and smile as if her life depended on it. "Did I say that? Yes, I suppose I did." Then she turned to me abruptly. "You look like you got caught in the rain," she said. "Maybe you'd like to freshen up and get out of those wet clothes. Do you have something you can change into?"

I nodded my head toward the suitcase Mr. Daily had sat by the door. Her smile wavered imperceptible. "Good. There's a washroom at the top of the stairs. Just go through into the living room and you'll see them." She turned to Mr. Daily. "Could I speak with you for a moment, dear?"

A change of clothes did sound nice, and that kitchen was getting crowded in hurry. So I slipped off to the bathroom to let them hash it out. In truth there was little else I could do. It was obvious she wasn't keen on having strays over for dinner, but I was fairly sure she was too polite a woman to toss me out now. After dinner was a different story, but that out of my hands. Besides, I had more important things to occupy my mind, like trying to figure out why my grandmother chose to fill my bag with winter clothes, socks that didn't match, and only one pair of clean underwear.

I dug into the suitcase, figuring if I couldn't be fashionable I could at least be comfortable. I settled on a pair of brown corduroy slacks, a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, and one dark blue and one black sock. I wrung the wet clothes out as best I could, hung them over the shower rod, and headed down the stairs. Mrs. Daily was mixing something in the kitchen as I walked in. Mr. Daily was nowhere to be found.

"Hello, dear," she said cheerfully to the clump of hamburger she was kneading. "Feeling better? Mr. Daily went upstairs to put away the laundry. I thought it would give us girls a chance to talk. I really must apologize for the way I acted earlier. It was so inconsiderate, staring at you like that. I feel just horrible."

"It's okay, Mrs. Daily."

"No, it isn't. The Lord tells us to welcome strangers, but I'm afraid I'm not always very good at it. You must think I'm an awful hostess. It's just that you surprised me. I wish Hugh would tell me before he does things like this, but that wasn't your fault, and I apologize again. But I suppose I shouldn't complain too much about my Hugh. Good men are hard to find, and he is one of the best. He just doesn't always think. But that's men for you. There was one time, we took a vacation to Boston -- but I don't suppose you'd want to hear about that, would you? It is a funny story though. No, don't you dare lift a finger. You're a guest here."

She rattled on like that the entire time she cooked, which was fine with me. I wasn't up to talking much. She talked about bridge, and the wonderful new pastor at the church, and just about every vacation they had taken in their thirty year marriage. She talked while she made the meatloaf, she talked while she mashed the potatoes, she talked while she boiled the vegetables. She talked while Mr. Daily set the table and she talked while she put the food on the serving plates. Then we sat down to eat and she talked some more.

Mr. Daily was right about one thing. She was a great cook. Grandma's meatloaf was always dry, her potatoes were always lumpy, and her vegetables were always mushy. Mrs. Daily's dinner was none of these. It was delicious. No one had to tell me about all the starving children in China to get me to finish that dinner. I would have thought she got it from a restaurant if I hadn't seen her make it with my own eyes. By the time I was finished eating, the problem of where I was going to sleep was gone from my mind. I leaned back in my chair, totally satisfied.

"Are you sure you don't want some more meatloaf?" Mildred said.

"No, ma'am. I'm stuffed. That was the best meal I ever had."

She stabbed at her meatloaf, which was largely untouched. "Hugh tells me that you had some trouble today."

Mr. Daily cleared his throat and reached for his water glass. He shook his head subtly.

Mrs. Daily looked from her plate to me and kept poking the meatloaf. "Lizzie Borden is quite an odd name to give a child. Is it a family name, or --"

Mr. Daily covered his mouth and coughed loudly several times. He shook his head more emphatically.

She took a deep breath and laid her fork down gingerly. She placed her elbows on the table, steepled her fingers in front of her chin, looked him in the eye and said, sweet as maple syrup, "Hugh, darling, exactly what may I talk to the young lady about? I would appreciate your input, because frankly, I've run out of things to say."

"Mildred!"

"It's okay, Mr. Daily. I am a guest, and it's her house too. I think she has a right to know." I took a drink of water and drew in a deep breath.

"My grandmother kicked me out of the house today. She thinks it's my fault my mother is dead. I can't say as I blame her. Mother died giving birth to me. The only reason she let me live with her to begin with is because I had nowhere else to go, since my father committed suicide when I was five. He blamed me for killing my mother too."

I spoke to the plate, and the words came out in one long emotionless breath. It was like I was afraid I would forget something if I didn't get it out quickly. Even as the words came out, I thought I ought to be more upset. I tried to force a tear, but it wouldn't come. I guess I used up my quota for the day at the library. All I succeeded in doing was sounding phony. I don't know what I expected Mrs. Daily to do when I looked up, but I would not have been surprised if she threw me out on the spot.

What I got was something completely different. There was no doubt in her eyes, nor was there pity. There was only compassion. One lone tear rolled off her cheek. Mr. Daily had been right again. She was an angel.

She dabbed her cheek with a napkin. Her words came slow and softly. "Where will you go?"

I fidgeted with the tablecloth. "I don't know."

"There's a shelter up in Lancaster," Mr. Daily said. "I could give her a ride --"

"Oh, pish-posh," she snapped. "You will do no such thing. We've got a perfectly good bedroom upstairs." She lowered her voice and looked back at me. "You can stay there tonight. Tomorrow at church, we'll talk to Pastor Taylor and see what he suggests from there."

"Mrs. Daily, you've done so much already. You hardly know me. I couldn't put you out like that."

"I don't want to hear another word about it. You will stay here tonight. Is that understood?"

I looked at Mr. Daily. He shrugged his shoulders. "It's best not to argue with Mildred when she has her mind made up," he said with a smile.

"I -- I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll stay."

I slumped back in my chair. Things were going much too fast to think clearly. But one thing was certain. Just like everything else that had happened that day, there were no other options.

"Sure. Why not?"

Chapter Two

2006-02-28T10:38:00.000-05:00

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It is difficult to describe how I felt standing there on the porch. Numb may be as close as I can get, but that isn't truly it. Sometimes after a tragic situation, the brain will switch back and forth rapidly between conflicting emotions, giving the person the effect of feeling all the emotions at the same time. But that isn't quite what I felt. What I felt actually was each and every one of those powerfully opposite emotions simultaneously. As a result, they canceled each other out, and I was left with a big fat nothing. A vacuum. Net zero.

Would it make sense if I told you that while Grandma's actions came as a complete surprise, I knew it was going to happen all along? Or that even though I hated Grandma for doing this to me, I felt eternally grateful to her for getting me out of that house? Or that I was ready to beat on the door until my knuckles bled if only she would let me back in, while at the same time I wanted to send her flowers for granting me my freedom? Anyway, what I really wound up doing was standing there, doing nothing.

After a while I noticed a space in the blinds. I looked closer, and I could see Grandma's eyes staring out at me. I stared back. I couldn't beg. I couldn't scream. I couldn't move. I was frozen to the porch.

I might have stayed there all day if it hadn't started raining. And not just your conventional rain, either. This was the rain to drown Noah. It came down in sheets, and the wind slanted it onto the porch. Within seconds, I was soaked from the knee down. I figured if I stayed in one place too long I'd float away. So I picked up my suitcase and started walking.

I walked as quickly as I could, given the conditions. This is not to say that I moved very fast. I had no idea where I was going. Other than Grandma Perkins I had no relatives nearby. As I said, my father's parents had moved away long before. I hadn't even gotten a Christmas card from them in years. I had no one I could call a friend. There was simply nowhere to go. But I wasn't going to let a little thing like that stop me.

I kept sloshing along, convinced that if I did so with enough conviction and purpose, I would eventually end up somewhere worth ending up. And looking back, I realize something else; my conviction was based on the feeling that I was not so much blazing a trail as following a path. A crooked path to be sure, full of forks and rocks and overgrown weeds, but a path nonetheless. It was like a hand holding the hand of my mind. Several times that day I splashed decisively down on the side of the street, only to cross over and wade back in the direction I had just come. I must have walked about five miles to cover two blocks when the path came to a dead end. I was in front of the public library.

That I wound up there was especially puzzling. I had lived my entire life in Providence without once venturing to the library. Not to research a report for history, or pick out a book for a book report, or grab something to read over the summer. I didn't even have a library card. I think I avoided it because it seemed like such a lonely place, and I was lonely enough already. But as I stood there with rain dripping from my nose, solitude was just what I needed. I needed a place where I could think, where people didn't ask questions, where I could sort this mess out. So in I went.

A bell tinkled as I opened the door, and a smiling, gray haired man poked his head out from behind a stack of books at the front desk. The smile didn't last long. I thought he might be wondering about the suitcase, but when I put it down he was still looking at me. His eyes were as big as dinner plates.

"Is it all right if I leave this here?"

He blinked for the first time and took off his glasses to clean them. "Oh, sure. I don't believe I've seen you around here before. You know, most young people stop coming here after they graduate. You're certainly the first to drop by on graduation day." He chuckled softly.

I had forgotten I was still wearing my gown. I must have been a sight, with that cheap thing stuck to me like Velcro. I shrugged off his little joke.

"You know what they say. Reading is fundamental," and I walked off into the stacks, leaving the poor man scratching his head.

I had expected the place to be much bigger. You know, one of those places with a thousand rows, and stacks so high you need a ladder to reach the top shelf. I don't know where I came up with that image. The building wasn't much bigger than a hen house. A person just gets notions that certain places should look certain ways, and this one didn't fit the mold. There was only a card catalog and a few tables behind the checkout desk, and only one of the tables had adult sized chairs. The rest were tiny tables with kiddie chairs. The stacks started where the tables stopped, and they ran to the back wall. There were only eight of them. Two were for children's books, and the rest were for non-fiction. To the left of those stacks was one more row that ran the entire length of the building. Most of it was for fiction, but there was a small reference section by the back wall. I made my way there, putting every book in the place between myself and the only other person in that little library world. I felt safe. I sat on the floor and started leafing through an encyclopedia. Before I knew it, I was asleep.

And I had a dream. It was a dream that came to me often, and it never failed to terrify me. I dreamt I was Cinderella just arriving for the ball. I could hear the heavenly music coming from inside the palace. The coachman helped me down from my extravagant carriage and I waltzed my way up the stairs. When I walked through the palace doors, the musicians stopped playing, the dancers stopped dancing, and the servants stopped serving. All eyes turned to me. I held my head high to soak in their adoration. And then --

And then they started laughing. The king laughed. The queen laughed. The prince laughed. Even the court jester laughed. I looked around to see why they were laughing. And I saw a mirror. And I saw myself in the mirror. And I saw that I was dressed in rags. I turned to run, but my fairy godmother blocked the doorway.

"It's not midnight yet," I screamed.

Then my fairy godmother turned into my grandmother. "My dear, you are Lizzie Borden. For you, it is always midnight."

I woke up with a scream in my throat and a hand shaking my shoulder. Still half in the dream, I scrambled to my feet and looked around frantically for a way out. But the way was blocked, and I was surrounded, and everyone was laughing. Then the fog cleared, and the people were just books, the laughter was just the air conditioner, and my fairy godmother was just the man from behind the desk.

"Miss? Miss, are you all right?"

"I'm sorry. I guess I fell asleep." A thought crossed my mind, and the terror came back a little. "Are you going to throw me out?"

He screwed his face quizzically. "No, I'm not going to throw you out, but I'm afraid you will have to leave. It's five-thirty. We're closed for the day. As a matter of fact, I locked up half an hour ago. I would have waken you then, but you looked so, well -- peaceful. Right up until I woke you up, that is. I didn't want to disturb you."

"Oh," I said. My eyes fell to the carpet.

"You do have somewhere to go, don't you?"

I looked up, prepared to invent some outrageous story that would fit the cap and gown and suitcase and falling asleep on the floor, but when my eyes met his, I couldn't. I was so tired, and his eyes were so full of compassion and concern that I just couldn't. I started to cry. I blubbered like a four-year old who just dropped her ice cream in mommy's new car; sad for losing the ice cream, afraid of what mommy might do, and ashamed for letting the whole thing happen.

"Oh my," he said. He dug in his pockets, finally pulling out a handful of tissues. He handed them to me clumsily. "It can't be that bad. Why don't we sit at the table and talk about it?"

He took my arm and led me to the adult table. I was still sobbing uncontrollable. He sat down across from me and let me go. It was a good ten minutes before I could talk again, and when I did talk my face was red from embarrassment.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what that was all about. I'm not usually a crier."

He tapped my hand with his finger. "No apology needed. But I think you have a pretty good idea of what that was about. If you want to talk, I'll listen."

I stared at the table. I didn't want to talk, but it came out anyway.

"I can't go home."

"Did you run away?"

I shook my head and turned away. The rush of tears was building up again behind my eyes, and I knew if I looked at that face again it would start all over again. I bit my bottom lip hard and pinched my eyes shut.

"My grandma kicked me out."

He was quiet for a long time. Only his slow, rhythmic breathing let me know he was still there. Then he said, "Do you know anyone else you can stay with?"

I shook my head and squeezed my eyes closed even tighter. A small tear trickled down my cheek. "I'm all alone," I said, and I started to bawl again. This bout was shorter. When it passed, I wiped my eyes and got up from the table.

"I'm sorry. I've taken up enough of your time. I have to get going."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

He got up and stepped in front of me. "Would you like to come to my house?"

For the first time, I was aware of the fact that I was alone in a locked building with a man I didn't know, to whom I had just confessed that I had no home and no family to speak of. My stomach turned. Sure, he could be my fairy godmother. He could also be Charles Manson. I took a few steps backwards.

"Just for dinner," he said. "My Mildred is a wonderful hostess, and she never gets to cook for anyone but me. She was just saying the other day how we never have company over."

Probably because of the rotting flesh stench, I thought. I shuffled my feet. I knew this was a bad idea. It's the stuff tabloids are made of: 'Teen raped and eaten by necrophilic cannibal.' Then the reporters interview the neighbors, and they say what a quiet man he was, and sure he seemed a little odd, but they never dreamed he would do something like this. I took a few more steps back.

But then again, what were my other options? Spend the night in the park? How long could I do that? There were no homeless shelters in Providence. There wasn't even a YMCA within twenty miles. I shrugged my shoulders.

"I don't know."

"It would be a big favor to us."

Just then, I heard a voice in my head so loud I nearly jumped. Then I felt that hand again, like the hand of God, and I knew this was why I had ended up at the library.

You might think my little revelation calmed my nerves some. Actually, it did just the opposite. I started thinking about my father, and how he probably had revelations just like this when his sanity began to unravel. But I figured, if I'm going to wind up dead anyway, better now by someone else's hand than later by my own.

"Well, I guess so. For your wife's sake."

His eyes sparkled. "Mildred will be so glad."

We walked to the door. I felt a rush of relief when he unlocked and opened it. It had stopped raining.

"After you, Miss."

"Thank you, uh -- you know, I don't even know your name."

"Where are my manners. I'm Hugh Daily. And you are?"

"Lizzie Borden," I said, and he tripped over my suitcase.

Chapter One

2006-02-28T10:32:00.000-05:00

I always thought it might end like this. Not quite so violently, of course; women don't generally blow their brains out. An overdose of sleeping pills, sure, or maybe carbon monoxide poisoning. Once in a blue moon some poor distraught dear ends it all with a rope or a razor. But a bullet between the eyes? Naw, that's too barbaric. Women are supposed to be genteel. But considering how often the genteel approach leaves the corpse-in-training on this side of eternity, I thought barbaric was probably the better choice. I'd like to be a success at least once in my life.

I should have known that mine was not to be a normal life the day my father killed himself in front of me, but it didn't really hit home until the funeral. I was five. Everyone kept staring at me. They pointed. They whispered. They scowled. I asked my grandmother why. And she said to me:

"Lizzie Borden took an ax
And gave her mother 40 whacks
And when she saw what she had done
She gave her father 41."

My name is Lizzie Borden.

For those readers not enthusiasts of American criminal history, perhaps I should explain. Lizzie Borden, of Fall River, Mass., was accused of murdering her parents with an ax in 1892. The nation quickly became obsessed with the trial, partly due to the gruesomeness of the crime, and partly due to the breeding and manners of the accused. Could this well-to-do Sunday school teacher be guilty of such a diabolical evil? Was this seemingly harmless Victorian lady truly a maniac? The public just couldn't get enough of it. The fascination spread even to the children, who would recite a disgusting little jingle about Lizzie while they jumped rope and played leap frog, a practice that continued into the beginning of this century. Among the children who learned the jingle was my grandmother, who obviously filed it away for use on her five year-old granddaughter at her son-in-law's funeral.
Now, the curious observer might wonder why my parents would give me such a name to begin with. Was my father a prophet, or was he just crazy? The truth is, he was neither. He was just very bitter.

Richard Arthur Borden, son of Ralph and Gertrude Borden, lived his adolescence and early manhood as master of himself and his carnal nature. As is the case with so many people, his name underlined his character. Richard, from the Teutonic, meaning "strong in rule," and Arthur, from the Celtic, meaning "high-minded." His was a life of contented celibacy while he awaited the woman appointed him since before the beginning of time. In the meantime, he threw his undivided attention into his studies.

He graduated valedictorian from James Buchanan High in Providence, Pennsylvania, then went off to study history at Temple University in nearby Philadelphia. There his brilliant academic record was once again a class above the rest. His record with the ladies, however, was somewhat less awe-inspiring. It seems the college girls at Temple viewed my father as a bit of a geek -- and a bore to boot. Thus he would often spend the weekends at home in Providence. It was during one such weekend that he met and fell in love with Anna Perkins, my mother.

But there were problems from the first. Though Anna was mature beyond her years, her years were still only fourteen. Certain laws coupled with strict parents reigned in the love birds' raging hormones. An ordinary man might have given up hope and moved on. But my father was no ordinary man. Already blessed (or cursed) with the patience of Job, he decided that a four-year wait was nothing compared with the reward. So he waited.

When her eighteenth birthday finally arrived, he proposed, but to his surprise she did not immediately accept. She said she wanted to go to college also, that she would never finish if she had a house to manage, so would he mind waiting just a bit longer? He agreed reluctantly, and off she went to Penn State while he took a job teaching history back in Providence.

On June 29, 1961, his patience finally paid off. Anna Perkins became Anna Borden. Shortly after that, Anna Borden became pregnant. It seemed that good things really were coming to them that wait.

But then came the complications. Anna's trips to the doctor became almost as frequent as her trips to the bathroom. Four months into her pregnancy she was confined to bed. My father took a leave of absence to be with her. For five months he was by her side nearly twenty-four hours a day. To her credit, she never complained. She simply took it all as, "my cross to bear." On February 25th, 1962, she went into labor. Two days later she gave birth to a beautiful seven-pound baby girl. Two hours after that she died of massive hemorrhaging.
My patient father snapped. He disappeared for several days and drowned his sorrows in a bottle of whiskey. When I was due to be released from the hospital, he pulled himself together just enough to come get me.

He arrived still reeking of alcohol, but sober enough to pass muster with the staff. They only required that I be named before my release, and the head nurse handed my father the birth certificate and a pen. He snatched the pen, and without hesitation scrawled "Lizzie" in thick black letters. No middle initial.

I spent the first five years of my life with the man who blamed me for killing his wife, though in truth I only remember the last day. It was my birthday, and he said he had a surprise for me, a present from my mother. I was understandably excited.
He took me by the hand and led me to the work bench in the basement. I giggled at the contraption that greeted me. With bicycle parts and music boxes, and coiled springs and a big fan, and shiny gears and pistons and widgets, it looked like something from Willie Wonka's chocolate factory. There was so much glittering metal, the ax just blended right in. I giggled again. Father smiled at my approval.

"Wait until you see what it does."

He pointed to the green button on the front of the bench and told me to push it. I did, and the machine came to life. Four different music boxes played four different songs in precision counterpoint. The fan blew soap bubbles at the whirling gears and sprockets. A bicycle wheel clicked backwards like a metronome. I clapped my hands and danced in circles. Father rested his elbow on the only empty spot on the entire bench.

"You think that's good? You haven't seen anything yet. Watch this."
He took a picture of my mother from his wallet. The one where her head is tilted slightly to the left. The one that shows so clearly her far away blue eyes. The one with that older-than-I-look half-smile, covered at one corner by her thick brown hair. The one I now carry in my wallet. The one that looks just like me.

Father placed the picture gently onto the spot where he had rested his elbow before. He bent down and kissed the picture. I moved closer, holding my breath in anticipation. Then, with the music winding down and my father's head still on the bench, I heard a snap. A pin flew out of one of the gears. The bicycle wheel that had been clicking off beats so deliberately spun wildly in the opposite direction, and I got my first good look at the ax -- just before it separated my father's head from his body.

Later, the police found a note in his pocket. It was eight words: "And when she saw what she had done."

When I think about it, it's a shame he became a history teacher. The world missed out on a great inventor. He could have been another Thomas Edison.

After the funeral I went to live with my maternal grandmother. Daddy's parents left town shortly after his death. They didn't want to have anything to do with me. Would you want the shame of your son haunting your house?

As her reaction at the funeral might indicate, Grandma Perkins wasn't exactly thrilled to have me around either. She put up with me, not because she cared, but because it was her duty. "No relation of mine is gonna end up in no orphanage." That's what she always used to say. During the years I spent there she never let me forget how much of a nuisance I was, or what a saint she was for allowing me to stay in her home.

You will notice I haven't mentioned Grandpa Perkins. That's because he didn't live there. He had an affair a couple of years after my mother died, and Grandma kicked him out. She didn't divorce him, just tossed his bags and his clothes onto the porch. He disappeared and no one ever heard from him again, but as far as I know they were never divorced. That would have reflected badly on Grandma, and she just couldn't have that. I have often wondered if she got nasty and bitter because of my mother's death, or my grandfather's infidelity, or if that was the way she had always been.

At Grandma Perkins' house there was always food on the table, clothes on my back, clean sheets on the bed, and cold shoulders all around. I can't recall a single bedtime story, and Christmas and birthday gifts were few and far between. On my tenth birthday, for instance, she gave me a toothbrush. I used to try and convince myself that it was benign neglect, but the older I got the more obvious it became that there was nothing benign about it. It was neglect, plain and simply.
Do you know that I was twenty before I ever heard someone say, "I love you." And it turned out that he didn't, either.

I could give a thousand examples of my grandmother's indifference, but I'll hold myself to one. Let's call it "the textbook incident." I must have been about twelve. I got mad at Mr. Holt, my science teacher, because he made us pair off into lab partners. I was never big on partnership, and given that the seventies was the age of protests, I wanted to show my disapproval. I did so by torching my textbook with a Bunson burner.

Mr. Holt was not amused. He yelled at me, then sent me to the principal's office. Mr. Leonard, the principal, wasn't impressed either. He lectured me on safety and having respect for the property of others, gave me three weeks' detention, and sent me home with a note to my grandmother and a bill for the book.

The detention didn't bother me (it wasn't like I'd never been there before), but I was a little nervous about the bill. So instead of telling Grandma, I forged her signature on a very thoughtful apology, stole the money for the book from her purse, took it all back to school and no one was the wiser. I didn't figure the principal would send her a follow up letter.

About a week later, at dinner, Grandma asked me how things were going at school. That should have been a tipoff. She never asked me about anything, especially school. But I missed it.

"Everything's fine."

She raked her fork through her mashed potatoes. Her lipstick left four pink pinstripes. "Is there anything you need to tell me?"
I caught the second cue, but it was too late. I had already missed my mark. Since confessing was pointless, I just kept eating.

"I told you, everything's fine."

She wiped her lips with a napkin and pulled an envelope from her purse.
"Lizzie, this is a letter from Principal Leonard. He said he wanted to thank me for dealing with the textbook incident so swiftly, and he wants to keep in touch so we can work together on any future problems."

There was a long pause. I kept eating like she hadn't said anything. After what seemed like an eternity, she shook her head and sighed.

"Dear Jesus, why did it have to be Anna?"

And that was it. There was no yelling, no lectures, no punishment. It was like it never happened.

Grandma didn't come to my graduation. She said she had some things to take care of, so I had to walk there and back. That didn't me bother much. I cared for her company about as much as she cared for mine, and the school was only a few blocks from her house anyway. As a matter of fact, I wore the gown on the way back. I was so proud of myself for having made it through.

When I got to the house there was a suitcase on the front porch with a letter taped to the handle. I ripped the letter open. It said: "To Lizzie, have a nice life. May God have mercy on your soul." The locks were changed.

So what becomes of a homeless, orphaned eighteen year-old with a name like Lizzie Borden? She ends up a lonely thirty-two year-old, sitting in her bedroom with a loaded twenty-two caliber Smith and Wesson on her pillow, clinging to an old manual typewriter as her only safety.