Wolf - Jean Wong

It was my mom. She’s like phobic about fur and tails—breaks out in a rash soon as she sees a paw. When she gave me the watch out for the wolf blah blah, I go whaa? Was she talkin’ husky or malamute? There’s no wolves around here. There's like Michigan Wolverines or writing checks to Save the Animals, but wolves? Give me a break. First, I can't go out with Russ, then she won't drop me off at the mall, then she says I can't take a walk in the f... woods on account of the wolf.

Then, the thing about picking flowers for grandma. Grandma lives in a condo. She wouldn't be caught dead living in the woods. And there's no flowers in the woods, at least not in our woods. All I've ever seen was some moss, maybe a mushroom.

No, the reason I went into the woods was to get away from my crazy mom. She's sitting there watching TV all day long. Then starts to rag at me about all the violence, how it's not safe to go anywhere, how she doesn't want to go into a movie theater anymore, and even like McDonalds is a danger zone. She can see I'm avoiding her and got my door locked. She starts hollering that she wants me to clean up my room. That's when I just opened the window and slipped into the woods.

I don't really like this nature stuff. I mean fresh air, colors of the leaves, blue sky—pretty boring. You can't shop in the woods. Yeah there's a couple of squirrels, birds and stuff, but no one you can really hang with.

So when I first saw him I thought cool. He looked like a biker dude with his jeans jacket and metallic scarf. And his tail was like, gorgeous. I had a little difficulty understanding him at first, but I figured that was just due to the inter-specie communication. It was only later that I realized it was on account of his over-sized tongue. 

Anyway, there he was resting under a tree, kind of laid back, elegant, a black serene Buddha type with red ruby facets radiating from his eyes. I stopped when he gave a low growl, but then the sound of his voice came out low and mellow, “My, my what a lovely coat you have on. So hard to find a suitable red nowadays, don’t you think?”

It really wasn’t a coat. It was my sister’s jacket, the one she never let me wear. And the part about the hood. There wasn’t any. They got that mixed up with the other girl, the one up north in Lake county—we were similar ages, only she was a year older, fourteen.

“Yeah... whatever,” I said, noticing how the two teeth on each side of the front of his mouth were so much longer than the others, the one on the right more crooked and yellow- brown. “Do you ever get toothaches,” I asked, not really knowing what else to say.

“Why are you interested in my teeth?” He cocked his head and his left ear pricked stiff and high.

“I dunno know,” I said. “They're pretty sharp. They look like someone filed them.” I wondered what he would do if he had to chew some gum, though I figured he wouldn't have any trouble eating flesh.

His stomach made a slight rumble. A sour smell rose from the ground and his large eyes turned small and hard.

“And your eyes,” I whispered, feeling pinned down and mesmerized as he stared at me. At the same time, his mouth opened showing a crimson tongue so long I couldn't help wondering how it could fit in his mouth.

“My eyes?” he said so softly I strained forward to hear him.

“Yes,” I said, “Your eyes are...so...” I could feel my own tongue twisted and tangled in my mouth. I couldn't seem to form any words but at last said “...so big.”

His eyes then relaxed and twinkled. His dark lips managed to curl into a friendly grin. “You can see so much better with big eyes, don't you think my dear?” he said with a chuckle that reminded me of my Uncle Edgar.

His fur turned grey and brown in a ripple of waves as a strong breeze shot through the air. He gave a drawn-out sigh, stretched and raised himself up to a tremendous standing position, much taller than I imagined. I gaped at this lanky form, bigger than any creature I'd ever seen. He came towards me, his front paws curved and drooping in an almost comical way as he walked on his hind legs. I've only seen a wolf, maybe on TV, but dogs come from the wolf family and they always walk on all fours. Then I noticed he was limping.

“What happened to your leg,” I asked.

He gave a short yelp and fell to the ground. I rushed to help him and in a flash I felt his hairy paw reach out and grab my arm.

After that I don't remember so good. Maybe he wasn't really a wolf. Maybe he was a guy with a dog. I don't like to talk about it all that much. Everyone wants me to tell my side of the story, but if you'd been there, you wouldn't feel like thinking about all the details. Still I can just be closing my eyes  and I'll see blue-black gummy folds of a long lip or clumps of dry, stiff fur floating in mid-air.

Mom says the police came later and shot him dead. But mom will say anything to get attention. My shrink says I could remember if I wanted to. I don't see the point. People like to yak so they can shake their heads and feel righteous and be glad that nothing happened to them. Guess that's what fairy tales are for. 

                                    ***

Foghorn -Michael James

In the summer when my son Ian turned five, I completed the building of small, sturdy boat quite capable of venturing out in calm weather a few miles out of Bodega Harbor. I had brought back from a trip to England one of the little outboard motors, called the British Seagull, which had been designed and built to take such small boats across to Dunkirk to rescue members of the B.E.F. pushed from the continent by the German army. It was one of those timeless pieces of brilliant engineering like the Spitfire, much simpler of course, and therein lay its genius. If you gave it the correct fuel and enough air, it would run for a lifetime, yet one person could lift it and mount it on the transom of a dinghy without help.

So one foggy morning this “can-do” little boy, who was game for anything physical, and I launched the boat in the harbor and set off for southern latitudes and sunny climes in this cockleshell of a craft, no thought in my mind of meeting up with anything more threatening than nice Pacific swells and a gently rising breeze. 

The foghorn out on the headland, long since removed, warned us every few minutes to keep our directions clearly in mind, though we were close enough to the water to be ever conscious of the on-shore roll of the swells originating as they did far to the northwest of us. Its sound gradually faded as we rode westward.

At this remove in time I don’t remember if we had fishing in mind or were just adventure-bound to see how the dinghy would behave on the ocean. Neither do I remember how concerned the little boy’s mother was to allow him out in a boat small enough to keep in a car garage. Neither of us was in the least concerned about our safety, though we followed all the maritime rules.

When we had been motoring for half an hour, I cut the engine to allow Ian to absorb the tranquility of the ocean early on this Fall day, to feel the rhythmic rise and fall of the swells, to hear the lapping of the waves against the hull. We let the atmosphere sink in, find bottom in our souls, spread out inside us and fill us with its blessing. Then I heard an unfamiliar sound.

It was as if the ocean had taken a vast breath and let it out with a rush. Then silence. I thought I must have been hearing things, but no, Ian said, “What was that, Dad?” Then I remembered there was a group of rocks nearby, south-west of the harbor entrance, though we should not have been anywhere near them. The current, which is southward bound, may have taken us far enough from the headland to allow us to hear waves splashing against the rocks.

“Whoosh-- a giant exhaling!” 

“Humpbacks!” I told my son. “We’re out in the middle of their migration. With any luck you’ll get to see one up close.” 

I started the outboard and motored in the direction of the sound. The fog was thinning though visibility was to still be measured in yards.

Suddenly the surface of the sea ahead of us turned solid and a glossy island rose above the water. I turned the boat sharply to avoid running into it, and shut down the engine to an idle.

“Whoosh,” and a plume of spray shot up into the air above the whale’s back. Ian jumped to his feet in excitement and I had to tell him to sit down and hold on in case we were struck by the whale. Another surfaced more distant, followed by several other sounds of whales breaching. We seemed to be in the middle of the pod; so to avoid collision I turned the boat and headed back the way we had come. Soon the sound of the foghorn told us we were nearing the headland and to look out for the  entrance to the harbor.

                                                          ***

A Blues Song

Mama was wise;

she used to say, 

"Pick your fights

very carefully."

Oh, don't go away, don't go away.

Don't go away more than ever.

My heart and I couldn't stand it.

Mama was so wise.

Cloudless days and dusty roads;

issues forgotten still come to haunt.

Sleepless night and tossed-about sheets:

The well is deep with lonesome.

Oh, don't go away, don't go away.

Don't go away more than ever.

Mama was so wise.

The road goes on around the bend,

and doubles back on itself again.

What was once familiar now seems new:

What was is never quite what it was:

change has that trick of behavior.

Oh, don't go away, don't go away.

Don't go away forever:

My heart and I couldn't stand it.

Now, I am so wise.

***

On the Edge - In the Middle - Beverly Koepplin

Life on the edge

Race around the corners

Flash some flesh

Press some flesh

Party smile on 24/7

Forget birthdays, anniversaries

Rock long and hard

Leather and studs

Two-thumb texting

Selfies with stoned faces

Flirt with danger

Bail bondsman on speed dial.

Life in the middle

Cruise the straightaways

Nurture the flesh

Hugs all around

Smiles from the eyes

Tradition abounds

Slow soft songs

Lace and soft wools

Pen gliding on paper

Family photographs

Flirt with grace

Mother is always first.

Life on the edge, life in the middle.

Quality vs. quantity, or quantity v. quality?

Find a balance, find your road,

walk the shoulders to avoid the ruts,

one foot on the edge, one foot in the middle,

and never forget that life is a dance

wherever you plant your feet.

                  ***

Why I Am Afraid of Fire - Joan Brady

For Wolo: 

(Baron Wolff Erhardt Anton George Trutzchler von Falkenstein) 1902 – 1989

I have always been afraid of fire. When I was a child I would scream and run from the room whenever candles were lit. I hate fireplaces, wood burning, the smell, the heat, the flames. Always have. Always will.

It all started when I was four...or was I five? I do know it was summer 1940’s, North Beach, San Francisco...back when we lived at the top of telegraph hill, and WW II was still happening, and we could look down at the docks from 

where we were and see the gray ships packed in close together...and the air-raids...and children all wore metal identification tags around their necks.... just in case.

But this is about fire...and the fire that happened across the street...the one that burned up Wolo’s studio. He was a cartoonist who worked for one of the local newspapers...and he was a puppeteer, and he wrote children’s books...but a lot of people didn’t talk to him because he was German and...as my mother explained...he was “one of those men who like men and that’s not a very nice thing and we don’t talk about it...maybe when you’re older.”

But he was a friend of my uncle who was a journalist, and who liked people, and who had a ‘special friend’ named Barbara who was also a friend of Wolo’s...so, as far as my uncle was concerned,  he was okay...and my mother...she loved my uncle/ her brother...and didn’t like to say ‘no’ to him...even when he came and asked to “borrow” me because Wolo had a new book he was sending to his publisher, and he needed a child to try it out on, and he liked me...and, “yes,” my uncle would say, “ I will stay there with her”...and my mother, she did try asking my father to say “no” but my father said...”if I wanted to go she should let me, and that she shouldn’t interfere.”

And so my uncle would take me across the street to Wolo’s...and I remember a long wood paneled room with puppets lined up in a case against one wall...so many puppets...and there were drawings/illustrations (always animals) tacked up on the walls (Wolo’s books never had human beings in them)...and Wolo would read to me, and sometimes he would pretend that one of the puppets was reading to me...I liked that best...and my uncle would sit there and listen...and for that time...and for only that time...for me...there was no war...and there was only magic.

But then one early morning...when the sky was still dark...Wolo’s building caught fire...right beneath where his studio was...and people ran out into the street.... 

and I woke up and I stood outside...and I watched the building burn...and burn...and then Wolo was gone.... and some said it was arson...but there was a war on, so not many questions were asked...and then there were the stories I heard about him (had to eavesdrop on the adults to hear them...I did that a lot...they thought I was too young to understand)...but what my mother said was he was “not right in the head” because of the liking men thing, and that she had heard he did “sexually inappropriate puppet shows at those parties he goes to...and, besides that, he was German...and what the hell was he doing here anyway...” and my uncle...he talked about how Wolo had left Berlin for Hollywood in 1922...and was doing OK...especially after he designed this puppet...Mortimer Snerd...for this Edgar Bergen guy...and how Wolo’s father was a Baron...

but he was also a Nazi...and that Wolo had been put on an “undesirables list “ ...and that he would be killed if he went back.

But...also...because he was also a member of some of the groups that believed everyone should have food on the table, and a warm place to sleep at night, and health care, and stuff like that...no matter how little money they had...our government sent men to Wolo’s door...and they told him he was going to be deported because he danced under a red star...and so he fled to San Francisco...and lived underground...and wrote children’s books to stay busy... but then...after the war started...they forgot about him because they were busy with other things...so he started to become visible again...and to publish his children’s books...and to work as a cartoonist...and he rode around North Beach on his blue motor scooter with animals painted on it...and some people talked to him, and some people didn’t.

After his studio burned down, I never saw Wolo again...but I did still see his scooter parked in North Beach...here and there...for oh so many years...and I did hear...when the fire happened there were people who came and ran into the flames, and saved the puppets and the art and Quigly...the dog that belonged to Barbara...who was my uncle’s ‘special friend’ (“I’ll explain when you’re older,” my mother would say)...and no one was killed... although all the ‘stuff’, stuff was lost...but art isn’t stuff...it’s another kind of thing...and North Beach was a place where people looked out for each other in once-upon-a time-times...but I still remember the screaming and the flames and the dark and ...and waiting for the fire department to come...and how....ever since then....I have always been afraid of fire.

                             ***

Red Labyrinth - Dave Lewis

Enrico Coliseum was a hard working, honest, sober, citizen with another unusual trait, he had a dream of being an actor.  Enrico’s dream looked real when he was accepted into the local theater group.  The group was a collection of amateur and semi-amateur thespians who had acting dreams similar to Enrico.  They planned to produce a sequence of plays to provide roles for all of the dreamers. A  big disappointment to Enrico was that there never seemed to be a part which the directors felt would fit him. The unfilled roles  were of doing the actual work and chores, needed for a play’s presentation.  Enrico was gracious in undertaking most of those duties. Enrico was actually the most critical element in the success of the whole theatrical undertaking though he was mostly unrecognized and unthanked. 

The biggest production of the year used-up most of the available cast but left Enrico out in the wings because he was essential for all of the grunt work.  Additionally he  inherited a new responsibility:  Enrico had to get permissions for several issues to support the proposed play production,  1) a permit to use the city auditorium, 2) a city permit to sell snacks to the patrons at the production, 3) a city permit to sell wine to the patrons at the production, and 4)  a notice was to be published in the local paper.

Unfortunately, the city had just implemented an automated system that replaced the experienced, speaking, live bodies who formerly interfaced with the public.  The conservative new Mayor had adopted this approach to meet his campaign promise of lowering taxes and reducing the size of the city government. By getting rid of most of the city staff except for cronies and coffee-fetchers he did cut down the payroll. He hadn’t counted on the fact that he now needed more sophisticated computer infrastructure and the essential computer boffins. He managed to cover the skimpiest measure of these needs from park maintenance budgets.

The beginning of Enrico’s permit path started at the city phone tree, a general menu of all the departments the city previously directed with humans. Now each function  had a code number and a caller was directed to press a number to access them in a second segment.  The second segment had a list of  third level functions that had to be accessed to get to more specific information. Usually a query was expected to find its goal with an average of five subdivisions, each of course had nine choices. The final payoff was not an answer but the email address of a specific computer sub-program that was supposed to lead to an automated answer to the inquirer’s  needs.

It took Enrico many frustrating hours to get through all of the phone dialogs.  Enrico found that it was necessary to have two phones and a recorder to complete that part; one phone to listen, and one phone to punch in all of the numbers as the phone-tree wasn’t very patient. The instructions were too fast. The recorder could replay them without a fresh start. Communications were difficult because the phone instructions required all one’s attention and number-punching facility to get through the system. Enrico had a flash back to a high school science project that was to train a rat to navigate a labyrinth with penalties of electric shocks and rewards of rat-treats. He noticed that he was sweating profusely after the first hour in the telephonic phone tree labyrinth and he remembered that his rat had died of a heart attack in half that time in the rat maze.  Enrico had to next encounter the major complications of the forthcoming computer labyrinth.

The computer’s first instruction was to fill out and submit a form with all the possible identification data – name, address, age, sex. how often, race, weight, eye color, phone number, email address, driver’s license number,  etc. Usually the already overworked computer responded to this within 55 minutes.  The result was an identification password, to be used to address a specific question to the computer.

When Enrico succeeded in getting his first computer contact he was eventually rewarded with his identification password. His name, Enrico Coliseum, had been scaled down to six characters: Cap E, dot, cap C, lower case o, l and i or “E.Coli”.   It did have an association of which the computer was not aware! Every time Enrico addressed the city computer as “E.Coli” he was immediately assigned to the Health Department  computer program which ordered him to report circumstances and perform sanitation requirements.  After his fourth re-excursion through the computer warnings, the computer sent a message to the police department that someone was not obeying Health Department regulations. Enrico ended up in court but his only penalty was lost time.  The judge was sympathetic because his staff was trying to deal with the same computer on a number of issues.

Enrico still had a deadline but he did a little rule stretching for the first time in his life and out-did the computer:

First, Enrico had the play accepted under the auspices of a church. The play theme did kind of fit so he didn’t feel too guilty. Churches got free use of the auditorium too, so the actors saved $100 per showing which would have exceeded historic revenue. 

Second, Enrico worked a percentage deal with the owner of a taco wagon.  The taco wagon already had a city and a county license and the novelty of those products at an evening play attracted so much attention that attendance blossomed on the second showing.  The cut Enrico had negotiated exceeded any previous snack results. 

Third was the wine. Although sales law required purchase of a liquor permit for each showing, Enrico found it was legal to just give it away.  It was arranged to provide a glass of either red or white in exchange for a theater ticket stub. The free glasses went down quickly creating a thirst and an exuberant mood.  Ticket stubs were available for sale at $7 each for people needing a second, third, or fourth glass. The wine supply was exhausted the first night but was doubled on subsequent nights.  Enrico set the limit at that level, as he calculated that the average blood alcohol content would be .06% and the number of designated drivers would be in short supply with more wine. 

Fourth was a requirement for newspaper notification.  This was a no-brainer since three columnists of the local paper covered the events  plus the weekly glutton-column that covers all social events involving either food or wine.

Enrico’s techniques were soon on the grape-vine and emboldened the senior community.  Many seniors were still using dial phones and had no computer training nor inclination. They had been unable to communicate with the town.  A California Bare Flag group was formed which captured the mayor, stripped him down to his skivvies, wrapped him in several spools of red duct tape and carried him out beyond the city limits.  The police found him there after a tip.

The Mayor was hard to find because the outer roll of duct tape was sticky-side out and there were so many autumn leaves stuck to him he was well camouflaged.  Similar leaf pile accumulations were common after blowers were outlawed.

The mayor resigned in a snit thinking he’d be urged to reconsider. Didn’t happen. The city’s Aldermen stepped back a term, rehired staff, re-instituted the taxes and modified the charter to eliminate authority concentration by a single person.

Enrico got a starring role in the next play.

                             ***

Madam Bailey - Michael James

Madame Bailey’s wartime parlor is the front room of her council house on Hugh Road, up half a dozen doors from the back of the shops where it T’s into the High Street. Across Hugh Rd is the Londonderry Arms, which is already well attended this Friday evening. The Midland Red buses stop here on the way to and from Birmingham along the High St, so she is singularly well placed to welcome visitors at all hours. She has one now reading the sign on her front door which offers spiritual guidance and aid, with special rates for women with “boys in uniform.” Just inside the front room, to the left of the door, sits a table for two with a lamp and a large, glass ball on an embroidered cloth.

“Good evening, Madame Bailey. I’m Edith and I’m an evacuee from the East End. We got bombed out a fortnight ago.” 

“Good evening, Edith. Sit down, please. How can I help you? Oh, wait a minute.... Do I hear the voice of someone dear to you trying to get in touch?”

“That would be me mum. She died after that last raid. A bit of shrapnel ‘it ‘er in the ‘ead.” 

“Oh, I am sorry. You must be very sad. Do you have a message for her?” 

“Not really. The old thing was on the booze so much after dad was called up she ‘ardly ever knew who she was talking to. And she never ‘ad a good word for me when she did see me, always calling me a lazy sod, and me doing all the cooking and washing. ‘Course I have to do that and more where they billeted me now. But I don’t mind it ‘cause they work all the time too; they run the grocery shop in the High St. and they ‘ave a little girl.”

“Oh, the Pendreys. I know them well. Win comes in here often. She had a nasty car crash just after the black out began. Her husband ran into a car parked on the side of the main road out to Hagley with no lights on. And of course, Win’s car had only small slits across the headlamps. You can’t see much with them.”

“Well, that must be why she has funny spells and turns nasty on me. I dunno what to say to ‘er.” 

“I’ll get in touch with her guardian spirit and ask that she put the brakes on her outbursts. Would you like that?” 

“Oh yes, if it works. I came in to see if you could tell me ‘ow me dad’s doin’? We ‘adn’t ‘eard from ‘im for ages and ‘e wouldn’t know what ‘appened to us or where to send a letter to.”

“Ah, yes, let me look....Your father isn’t on the other side, so he must still be all right. Let me listen now.... Yes, he sends his love to you and tells you to stay strong and brave. Things should start to look better soon. At least you have enough to eat now, he says, since you’re living with the Pendreys . Wait....Here comes a message for your mum from him. He says for you to ask me to tell her he is all right, though cold, tired, and hungry most of the time. She will be beyond all that now so he won’t have to worry about her. She can send messages through us to him if she wants to. Well let’s leave it at that for now, dearie. I’ll see you next time. That’ll be fifteen shillings.”

“Fifteen shillings? Cor blimmey! That’s a whole week’s wages for me! Can’t you make it less for a poor gel what got bombed out?”

“All right, luv. How about five bob?” 

“Here it is. Ta.” 

The front doorbell rings indicating another customer entering as Edith turns to leave. A youngish looking lad enters sheepishly. He has evidently been drinking, for he is unsteady on his feet.

“I’m Madame Bailey. Who are you?” 

“Uhm, I’m Peter Jones. My mates and I were having a pint across the street after work and they ganged up on me and dared me to come and see you. They said I should get you to tell my fortune and that they’d pay for it.”

“I’m not a fortune teller! I am a psychic healer and spiritual guide.” 

“Oh-ah. Well perhaps you can tell me if our factory’s gonna get bombed.” 

“Where do you work?” 

“Oh I can’t tell you exactly. “Walls have ears,” you know. It’s over in Walsall on the other side of the railway lines.”

“You’ve already been bombed several times, haven’t you?”

 “Yeah. Hey listen, can you call up the dead? ‘Cause one of our mates got it in the last raid and I’d like to see if I can get him to give me the nod to go out with his girl? She’s a looker.”

“Oh, now I’m going to be a pimp?” 

“Why d’you take it like that? Can’t you just help a bloke out?” 

“Wait... Sh-h. How long ago was your friend killed?” 

“About ten days.” 

“He wants to tell you there are lots of good looking girls where he’s gone, so don’t be afraid of getting killed or of going out with Dolly.”

“How’d you know her name?” 

“It’s written all over your face.” 

“Crikey, you give me the creeps, you do. I’ve gotta go. How much?” 

“Two quid.” 

“Here. It’s all the change I collected from me mates. Ta-ta.” 

“Ta-ta, luv”. The young woman turns her back on the front door, pours the change into a tin, pulls aside a bead curtain in the back of her parlor, and moves through a doorway into the kitchen. She hums to herself as she goes about making a pot of tea. She takes two small cakes from a tin labeled Digestive Biscuits, places them in the saucer of her tea cup, and sits down to await the moment when the tea will be properly steeped. As she reaches out to grasp the handle of the teapot, the front door bell rings again. She covers the pot with a tea cozy and walks to open the door.

A smart-looking army officer is standing there in the dusk, obviously a little uneasy as he looks up and down the street, then follows her into the parlor.

“How can I help you, young man,” asks Madame Bailey somewhat severely. 

“Would you be related to Alice Bailey whose books are published by the Lucis Trust in America, by any chance?” he asks quickly as if concerned she might vanish before his eyes. He has a German accent particularly noticeable in making “th” sound like a “z” and the “r’s” gutteral.

His hostess sits at the small table and motions for the soldier to do the same. While she smooths her hair back using first the left then the right hand, she looks at him steadily out of both eyes.

“She was my mother,” she answers simply. “Have you read her books?” 

“Two of them,” is his reply. “Can you help me? I have a rather peculiar request.” 

“Tell me.” 

“I want to ask forgiveness of someone I wronged who subsequently died. I have to find out if there is any way I can obtain her pardon before I go to the front, which could be quite soon.”

“Did she die in childbirth or after?” 

“I gave Gretchen some laudanum to put in her mother’s nightcap so we could spend the night together without being bothered by her. The woman kept on drinking alcohol after the nightcap and never awakened. The drug was revealed in an autopsy and the girl was charged with murder and convicted of manslaughter. While in prison she gave birth to our child which she suffocated. She saved the state the trouble by hanging herself in prison.”

“What is your name?” 

“Heinrich Faust. And yes, I’m from Germany. I got out in ‘37 through my business connections in Switzerland.” 

“Let me be frank with you. I sense that you don’t have a lot of time to waste with illusions either of your own making or of others, so let’s dispense with them altogether.” (She pauses.) 

“Heinrich, do you understand me if I say there’s no such entity as a dead person, that in fact, the phrase is an oxymoron?”

“No, I cannot say I do.” 

“All right, try it this way: A person is a living creature of the specie homo sapiens, briefly, a living human. The word includes a body, a personality, and some other attributes. A cadaver is not a person; neither is a ghost. So call the dead whatever you want but not “people.”

“What then, “spirits”?” 

“Have you ever met a spirit, a ghost?” 

“No.” 

“Neither have I. Look, Heinrich this is my place of business; here I make my living, such as it is. People come in here prepared to communicate with the deceased and I enable them to do so, or at least to think they do. But if I took myself seriously, I couldn’t operate as a business; I’d get caught up in people’s griefs and illusions. I’d have to carry their loads, have to commiserate with them, and that would include you. You can see how limiting that would be for me.”

“Then you are unable to help me.” 

“That is correct. However, I can give you some advice which may help you in the difficult times ahead. It would be essentially the same as your priest would give you.”

“And that would that be?” 

“To ask forgiveness of the whole universe, including of yourself and Gretchen. To go on asking without expectation until you feel it has been given and you are free of guilt. And, incidentally, to give up the notion that you’re going to make sure you get killed in action by volunteering for dangerous missions. Ist das klar, Heinrich?” She rises and stands next to the door. Heinrich rises also and lays a pound note on the table.

“Ja, alles klar. Vielen dank, Fräulein Bailey! Just one more thing. Asking forgiveness of the universe, is that like begging forgiveness of sins in a confessional and saying fifty Hail Marys, then receiving absolution? Because if it is, it won’t do for me. I need a forgiveness that is beyond mind, that reaches deeply into my soul, that touches the core of my being.”

“It’s not like a confessional at all. This requires hard work, weeks of application, long sessions of prayer burning the midnight oil. Your guilt won’t be shrugged off with a glib confession.”

“Oh; what then?” 

“May I suggest a prayer my mother taught me which appears in her books? Say it morning and evening.”

“Please do.” 

“It’s called the ‘Great Invocation’ and it goes like this: 
“From the point of light within the mind of God Let light stream forth into the minds of men. Let light descend on Earth.

From the point of love within the heart of God Let Love stream forth into the hearts of men. May Christ return to Earth.

From the centre where the will of god is known Let purpose guide the little wills of men -- The purpose which the masters know and serve.

From the centre which we call the race of men Let the plan of Love and Light work out And may it seal the door where evil dwells.

Let Light and Love and Power restore the Plan on Earth.

They shake hands quite formally and in silence. He bows his head quickly to hide his emotions, then leaves, appearing to Miss Bailey to be deeply moved. She smiles to herself as she picks up the money and puts it in the tin. Then she goes back into the kitchen to drink her tea. It is still warm. And so is she, visited by thoughts that she might have helped someone turn an awkward corner in his life.

                            ***