Adelaide Literary Award Anthology 2018: SHORT STORIES, Vol. One

Big Day

By Heather Whited

The windows are cracked open. The bleach smell stings her nose. She
stands at the door to her apartment, now empty of all her belong-
ings, now scrubbed clean.

One last look. A wave of unexpected nostalgia. There had been
happy times, evenings of content. She reminds herself of that. Things
were not all bad. But she is glad to leave, even as anxiety begins to
bubble up in her at the thought of what comes next. She steps back.
After locking the door, she no longer lives in the apartment and for
a moment, it is hard to step away, but she does. She slips the key
under the door and then walks down the stairs, stopping to listen
to the sounds of her neighbors. Someone is playing a flute. A cat
meows at a door.

The sun is hot on her neck as she waits for the bus. When it
finally arrives, the driver smiles and tells her good morning. She
walks to an open seat and a guide dog lying on the floor follows her
with its eyes. The dog is stately and shaggy haired and its owner, a
young man in a stylish, expensive looking printed shirt, handsome.
Briefly, she regrets that she hadn’t seen the man and his dog before,
otherwise she would have requested them, or something like them,
in her simulation. She isn’t sure whether to laugh or be embarrassed
when she remembers that of course, she could have spoken to the
man if she had met him before today as well, learned the dog’s name
perhaps. Still could, I suppose, she thinks looking over at them, but
no. Today is simply too late. She sleeps a little on the ride to her

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father’s neighborhood. She wakes with her face warm from the glare
coming through the window. Her mouth is open and she’s thirsty.

Her father surprises her by being there waiting when she gets
off the bus. Floppy hat. Pants dragging on the ground. He looks old,
she thinks. Tired. His thin, age-spotted hands grip a frayed leash.
His little dog, round and overeager, so unlike the dog on the bus,
sniffs the air joyously, eyes closed, ears twitching. She nods at her
father as she steps off the bus and he nods back. The dog’s tail starts
wagging. She leans down to pet her and feels a twinge of sadness
when the dog nuzzles at her hand and her father coughs in a stilted
greeting. She will miss things much more than she thought.

They don’t talk before they start walking to his house. But she
knows what he’s thinking.

How can she give this up? A warm spring day, a real warm
spring day? She’s glad he doesn’t know how long she stood listening
to a flute and to the meow of a cat earlier today, how she admired
the man and his dog on the bus. She’s glad he doesn’t know the
pause those moments gave her. If he asked her not to go at the right
moment, she thinks she wouldn’t. Perhaps. She would at least con-
sider it, at least be glad he tried one last time. Knowing that makes
her close herself further.

When they get to his house, he makes coffee for the two of
them and she sits looking out the window.

He sets the coffee in front of her and lowers himself into his
chair. The movements of exhaustion and frailty. A pained exhale. A
grimace. Since she decided to move to the simulation, she has been
fighting guilt that she is leaving him like this.

“You haven’t asked me to change my mind,” she says, sounding
much more accusing than she had had intended.

“No use, I figured. You’ve bitten my head off every other time
I’ve tried.”

She nods, takes a sip of her coffee. There’s ease in being around
someone who has known her since the moment she was born. There is
ease in knowing for sure now how the rest of the afternoon will go. He
won’t ask and she won’t stay. She puts the cup down and lifts her eyes.

“Are you angry?” She asks.
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Her father finally looks up at her.
“How could I not be? Look at what you’re doing to yourself.”
She bristles. This same conversation for the last six months. To
hide her face, she lets her hair fall in front of her.
“What am I doing that’s so wrong? I’m going to live where I
can be happy, Dad.”
He waves in dismissal, like he’s batting her words away, and
makes a harrumph in the back of his throat. His childishness exas-
perates her.
“That is not living. Hooked up to some machine, seeing only
what you want to see, disturbing things that shouldn’t be disturbed.”
He refuses to see that choosing to have her mother in the simu-
lation she’ll be living in is a compliment, a testament to the powerful
ache of her death and the beauty of her life. It was the first thing
she told the designer, handing over several pictures of Mom around
age fifty that would be built into the world she was paying to have
created for her. Her mother’s hair had been gray in the pictures, but
her cheeks plump and her eyes bright.
“You’ve put him in there too, haven’t you?” asks her father.
She does not answer, but her cheeks flush. Her father huffs.
She looks away quickly, but not before noticing that his eyes are
bright still too, like the pictures from his youth, memories from her
childhood. She feels scolded as her father begins to speak again, and
frustrated that he’s not happier at the prospect of being reunited
with his wife in this world, not happier for her that she will be at
peace with all she’s ever wanted. He continues to chide.
“He’s married. What right do you have?”
In his vehemence, he spits a little when he speaks and it collects
at the side of his mouth.
“It’s harmless,” she says.
“Harmless? He doesn’t love you. And in this world, you’ve
what? You’ve made him your husband?
The deepening of her blush confirms this before she can say
anything.
“He’ll never know,” she says. “It’s a version of him made of
code. Designed from a picture, from-“

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She won’t tell her father that she recorded a phone conversa-
tion with her boss to get his voice right for the upload. He would be
ashamed of her and right now, he’s more confused than anything.
“It’s not real,” her father says. “You could find someone who is.”
“Really?” she snaps. “Could I?”
The regret is immediate. When she speaks again, it’s more qui-
etly.
“It’s not what I want. Dad, you know how hard it’s been, how
lonely for me. I don’t want to fight any more.”
Her father lets the conversation drop then. He drinks his coffee
and scratches the dog behind the ears and the tension eases. Without
asking, he makes her a sandwich and she eats it quietly. They notice
the time together and stand to leave.
He drives her there. She feels that he starts many sentences, but
replaces whatever words he was going to say with a cough. The dog
sleeps in the backseat, belly to the sun. He makes a detour, drives
them through a park, but still says nothing. She doesn’t protest. He
briefly pauses the car in front of a bakery and asks her if she wants
something.
“No, thanks Dad.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. Thanks, Dad.”
She can smell the food though and she breathes it in deeply.
They arrive at the virtual life center early afternoon. It’s a place
she’s been coming once a week to make deposits on the simulation
she’ll be living in and to work with the designers to create it. The
center is a clean and calm place, but her father stares at the building,
unable to hide that he is horrified. She wishes she could describe the
beauty and the peace of the virtual life she’s cultivated, how kind the
people here are, how much they have helped her. He’ll never see the
apartment she picked out for herself and Kevin, or meet the neigh-
bors she chose from the catalogue of extras she thumbed through
with Fatima, her favorite of the world architects. Her father doesn’t
offer to come in with her, but they sit in silence for the space of
several breaths before she reaches for the door. At least, this version
of him will not.

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“I’ll come see you,” her father says.
“You’ll be there with me already.”
For the last time, she puts her face to the sun and for the last
time, she moves her feet to the door of the building and touches the
hot handle.
She thinks she hears him calling after her, but doesn’t turn
around.
Inside, the lobby is cool. Low beige couches. Tall windows. A
table with glossy magazines that look untouched. The receptionist
looks up from his computer and smiles.
“It’s the big day, isn’t it?”
She nods, smiling herself now, though a bit woozily. He re-
minds her of an actor, but she can’t think of his name now. Hand-
some, tall, and slightly muscular so that he gives a hint of strength
but isn’t intimidating. Dimples in his cheeks. That one. The recep-
tionist comes from behind the desk to give her a hug, a large smile.
He wears a light cologne and his clothes smell fresh from the wash.
The receptionist buzzes her back, where she’s greeted by a nurse and
by a woman from the legal department with a final round of papers
to sign. A blood pressure check, a peek inside her mouth with a light.
Her name at the bottom of several forms. The nurse and the lawyer
both congratulate her and she’s moved to a waiting room. She’s
never been here before, a rose colored, silent room with nothing
in it but a small, well stuffed sofa. Unlike her father’s house, where
she could smell grass from the open window, the lingering scent
of toast from breakfast, the center smells like nothing at all. After
a few minutes, Fatima gives a jaunty knock on the door and pokes
her head in the room
“I heard you’d arrived and I wanted to pop by,” says Fatima.”-
Excited?”
All of her words have dried up since arriving, so she does what
she’s been doing and nods.
“Good for you. Your simulation is one of my favorite so far, I
have to say. I hope you’re very happy.”
She’s never asked if Fatima knows about the man that she
designed to live in this virtual world with her as her husband. And

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Fatima has never let on if she knows what the truth is. Maybe it’s
what everyone here has done; brought with them a person from the
solid world they could never have otherwise. Maybe that’s why they
come.

They hug and Fatima leaves. She’s only alone for a few minutes
before one of the carers in a blue uniform and sensible shoes comes
back to settle her in. Suite 17.

A small room with two windows that take up most of one of
the walls. A plant in the corner. Walls of pale blue. A large, comfort-
able bed. She picked this suite out herself, though the few times she
has been to visit her world for quality control, it has never mattered
where she was outside. There was only one of her and it was in the
simulation, with no idea that anything else existed.

She lays on the bed and the carer hands her the small nodules
that sit on her temples. She puts them on while the carer hooks
her up to the heart rate monitor. He double checks the chart in his
hands and nods at it before looking up at her.

“Ready?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. Welcome home.”
A chirp of machinery and she is gone.
Darkness. A pinprick of light and then a flood of it.
The living room of a large, brick apartment. A warm spring
day. She holds keys in her hand. A man stands at the door to the
kitchen, a washrag and plate in his hand. Her husband, Kevin.
“Good day at work, love?” he asks.

Heather Whited graduated from Western Kentucky University in
2006 with a BA in creative writing. She lived in Japan and Ireland
before returning to her hometown of Nashville, Tennessee to obtain
her graduate degree. She now lives in Portland, Oregon. She has
been published in the literary magazines Straylight, Lingerpost, The

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Timberline Review, A Door is Ajar, Allegro, Foliate Oak, Adelaide
Literary Magazine, Windmill; The Hofstra Journal of Art and Liter-
ature, Chantwood Literary Magazine, Cricket, Storm Cellar, Forge,
Gravel, The Hungry Chimera, The Broke Bohemian, Gival Press,
Wax Paper, and Projected Letters. In 2015 she was an honorable
mention in Gemini Magazine’s annual short story contest. She is
a contributor to The Drunken Odyssey podcast and Secondhand
Stories Podcast.

105



Do Us Part

By Jack Coey

There was an old woman and a nurse in a room. The old woman
sat in a chair holding a cane. There was a tray in front of her with
a partially full plate. The nurse bent over and wiped her face with a
napkin. The nurse believed when old women talked about their lives
it’s a sign they’re about to die. Miss Macintosh started doing that,
and it was making the nurse anxious.

“How about you eat some of your peas?” coaxed the nurse.
“I had a dream about my brother, and I remember when he
died. We were living on Spruce Street, and it was just before my
thirteenth birthday. He was three years older than me, and golly,
did he like fast cars! My father was an engineer for a medical parts
company, and he was sad, I remember, and I didn’t know why
until I got older. My mother was anxious; she was trying to decide
whether to go back to school because she was afraid my brother and
I would outgrow her. She volunteered at the library, and Josh and
I were honor roll students. Josh was an end on the football team,
and only a senior had more catches. My father enjoyed working
in his garden, and strangers would compliment how lovely it was.
He wasn’t around much, and when he was, he was quiet. When I
got older, I figured out he had a friendship with a lady a couple of
houses down.”
She sadly smiled.
“It was on a Sunday morning at two o’clock, I saw the blue
lights flashing in our driveway.”

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The nurse handed her a glass and a pill. She swallowed the pill
and smiled. The nurse took the glass back.
“I always felt warm going into my brother’s room. He had
posters of sports cars, and team banners, hanging from his ceiling
and on his walls. There was a model of the three - masted ship on
his dresser, and baseball bats against the wall, and oh yes, a guitar
too. His bed cover had a New York Jets logo on it. He had a couple
of model planes hanging from the ceiling and good gracious – that
empty fish tank. I remember the open dictionary on his desk; my fa-
ther forbade him to have a computer in his room. After the cruiser in
our driveway, the room became forbidding to me. My father would
avoid it, my mother would stand in the doorway like in some kind
of prayer, and I would close the door.”
“Miss Macintosh, the sun is out. Would you like me to raise
the shade?”
“Thank-you, Evelyn. I would enjoy the warmth.”
The nurse pulled the shade, and sunlight filled the room. Miss
Macintosh raised her face to the sunlight. She closed her eyes, and
let the sun warm her face. The nurse stood and watched her. She
opened her eyes; she was momentarily confused.
“You were remembering your brother,” prompted the nurse.
“Oh yes. Where was I? That’s right. After his death the house be-
came still. We spoke to each other only to meet a need. Josh’s friends
came by to pay their respects, and they sat lined up on the couch,
silent, until they left silent. After a week, no one came anymore. I
turned thirteen, I remember, and my mom talked about hearing Josh
from the yard. Father Patterson came to the house to offer succor.
My father was absent, and I could hear my mother’s voice from Josh’s
room. She spent a lot of time in there, and I would close the door only
to have her open it again. I heard a vacuum sometimes. The funny
part was when my father was at home she wouldn’t go in there. I said
to my friend Curtis one day walking home from school,”
‘My mom is weird since my brother died. She like goes into his
room, and talks to him, but she doesn’t do it when my dad is around.’
‘Crazy,’ was Curtis’s comment, ‘Maybe there’s something in there
that makes her feel better.’

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“I thought Curtis was onto something. I waited until mom was
in the basement doing laundry and I snuck into the room. There
were the team banners, and the photographs, and the empty fish
tank, and I remembered how excited we were when we got fish.”
Miss Macintosh laughed as she talked.
“There were two of them – the first died two days later, and the
second lived till four. Father gave Josh and me a lecture on respon-
sibility, and we felt guilty. “
‘What are you doing?’
“It was my mother and there was a funny look in her eyes.”
‘Josh is in this room and you are not to violate him by being in
here. Please leave.’ “I ran from the room in terror to my room, and
cried hard.”
The nurse removed the tray.
“In the days that followed, I was distracted at school bad
enough so Miss Phillips noticed it, and sent me to see Mrs. Prescott,
the school nurse, who was about a million years old.”
“Oh sure, Abigail Prescott I knew her. Wonderful nurse.”
“I was scared to death, I can tell you. Mrs. Prescott closed the
door, and I sat on an exam table, and she sat behind her desk. I
remember she looked at me for a long moment before she asked,”
‘Would you like to hear a story about your brother?’
“She caught me off guard, and I didn’t know what to say. I
nodded my head not knowing what else to do, and she asked,”
‘You sure?’
“I nodded again.”
‘There was a dance last spring, and the Lewis girl was there – you
know Madeline Lewis?’
‘Yeah.’
‘None of the boys would go near her, and I’ll never forget how
your brother walked across that empty dance floor in front of everybody,
and asked her to dance. I watched the reaction of the other kids, and
I know your brother was teased unmercifully. That kind of courage is
impossible to forget.’
“I didn’t know what to say to her, and we sat in silence, and
I remember I could hear talking from the hall. Finally I whispered,

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‘My mom.’
‘Say again, honey? My hearing is not so good.’
‘My mom.’
‘I know, Betsy, I know.’
“I felt like she understood without me having to say anymore,
and I wondered how she was able to do that.”
‘I want you to go back to class and finish out your day. I’m going
to visit your mother, but that’s a secret between you and me, okay?’
“I don’t know exactly what she did, but I know I felt better.”
“I need to take your blood pressure,” said the nurse.
Miss Macintosh was silent until the nurse was done.
“It was sometime later Mrs. Prescott told me how she sat in the
teacher’s lounge, one day, reading, and inadvertently overheard the
home ec teacher and the industrial arts teacher, sitting on a couch
on the other side of the room, talking. She heard the name Mrs.
Cheever, who everybody knew was separated from her husband,
and then, she heard my father’s name, and couldn’t help paying
closer attention. The home ec teacher was telling the industrial arts
teacher she saw them at a restaurant around midnight, and thought
it odd for my father to be out at that time of night with a woman
who was not his wife.”
Miss Macintosh thought for a moment, and leaned on her
cane; stood upright, walked to the lavatory, and closed the door
behind her. She came back out again, blinked her eyes, and sat in
her chair.
“There was a time I saw candlelight coming from the doorway,
and I looked in, and saw my mother on her knees with her head
bowed. I tiptoed to my room, and lay down on my bed, and thought
about Mrs. Prescott, and how she knew more than she said. I must
have fallen asleep, for the next I knew, I was awakened by something
hovering over me.”
‘Josh sends his love,’ said a voice.
‘Mom, is that you?’
‘I saw Josh; he sends his love.’
‘Mom you’re scaring me.’
‘No, honey, it’s all right.’

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‘Go to bed, Mom.’
‘Josh needs a haircut.’
‘Is Dad home?’
‘Your father is a very important man. I hope you know that, Betsy.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You see how much he works?’
‘Yeah?’
“We heard the front door open.”
‘Good night, honey.’
“I felt a kiss on my forehead, and lay in the dark until the dark
of sleep.”
“Then one day, Mrs. Prescott sent home a note with me. My
mom sighed, ‘Oh God,’ when she read it, and answered, ‘Tell her, I
guess so.’ The next morning, I stopped at Mrs. Prescott’s doorway,
and said, ‘yes’ to a smiling Mrs. Prescott looking over the rims of her
glasses. I got home from school that day, and my mom had the tea
ready at three –thirty when Mrs. Prescott drove into the driveway.
I stood by the doorway and said hello before going into my room.
Mrs. Prescott told me what happened. She said she sat in a straight
– backed chair, and my mom sat on the couch, and she talked about
the golf tournament that weekend.
‘I didn’t think Phil Sheridan was that good of a golfer,’ she com-
mented.
‘Oh Gracious, I always thought he was a duffer,’ my mom said
in a loud voice, ‘Sugar?’
‘No thank-you.’
‘These are Irish biscuits; quite good.’
‘Does Mr. Macintosh still play?’
‘Oh Mercy, no, he’s much too busy.
‘Does Josh play?’
“My mom gasped.”
‘He dabbled in it before giving it up.’
‘That’s right, football?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Several colleges are looking at him.’
‘Didn’t I read his obituary?’
“My mom looked at the floor. Then, she explained,”

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‘My son Josh is away for a visit; I expect him back next week.’
“Mrs. Prescott told me she felt sad. She bowed her head, and
began to speak,”
‘It was the summer of 1965 that my son, Benjamin, went with
his roommate to Alabama to help with voter registration. The boys had
two weeks because his roommate, whose name was Hanson, had to come
back north for football practice; he was a big boy who wasn’t afraid of
much. They lived with Negro families. They were walking a girl down a
country road one night when a pickup truck drove slowly by them and
stopped. Four boys got out stinking of whisky and approached them.
They had grins on their faces as they said the most lewd things to the
girl. One of the boys reached out to grab her, and Benjamin’s roommate
grabbed him by the throat and squeezed until he took back his hand.
The other boys backed slowly away, and they got into the pick-up and
drove slowly away. Two nights later Benjamin disappeared. The sheriff
said he thought Benjamin must have gotten homesick. My husband and
I along with the Hanson family appealed to The Department of Justice
to investigate what happened. They found Benjamin in a shallow grave
with his throat slashed. A couple of weeks later, they arrested two brothers
named Gowrie who were acquitted by an all – white grand jury a month
later. The two brothers lived out their natural lives in peace and quiet. I
had experienced an evil more powerful than a mother’s love for her son; I
was humbled and helpless. I was left with a knowledge most people don’t
have, and everyday I dedicate myself to the healing of my fellow man.’
Mrs. Prescott painfully smiled. The only sound was the wind in the leaves.
‘Would you care for a biscuit?’ asked my mom.
‘No, no, thank-you,’ answered the nurse, ‘I want you to know I
know what you’re going through.’
‘Josh is visiting his uncle in Minnesota, and will be back next week.’
‘Perhaps I’ll come by to say hello.’
‘Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Josh will be tired from his
travels so I don’t want to plan any activities for him, maybe later on.
Are you sure you wouldn’t want to try a biscuit?’
‘No, no thank-you,’ answered Mrs. Prescott as she got up to
leave.”
Miss Macintosh stopped talking and looked at her nurse.

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“Do you want to lie down and rest for awhile? There’s no need
to go back to these memories, is there?”
“Yes, yes, I must tell the story.”
The nurse knew then.
“I guess Mrs. Prescott was being told by a number of people that
my father and Mrs. Cheever were being seen together at times and
places when and where they shouldn’t have been. She told me how she
saw Mrs. Cheever across the aisle in church one Sunday morning. Mrs.
Cheever had her head tilted back, and her eyes closed like she was in
some kind of reverie. Mrs. Prescott told me she felt disapproval. She
said she thought, ‘Poor Mrs. Macintosh can’t distinguish between what’s
real, and what’s not, and this one is pretending to be something she’s cer-
tainly not.’ Father Patterson came to the pulpit and invoked a prayer.
Mrs. Prescott said she tried minding her own business, but couldn’t re-
sist the temptation to observe Mrs. Cheever who was praying very de-
voutly. ‘I don’t believe her,’ thought Mrs. Prescott. Next came a hymn
which Mrs. Cheever sang with gusto while looking to her left and
right. ‘Oh, she’s looking to see if others notice,’ thought Mrs. Prescott.
Father Patterson began his sermon. His theme was being faithful.
‘Humph!’ spouted Mrs. Prescott. After the sermon was a prayer and
final hymn executed by Mrs. Cheever with fervor. After the service,
there was a social in the basement, and the congregants gathered for
coffee and doughnuts. After a few minutes, Father Patterson came into
the room, and Mrs. Cheever, urgently, came to stand by his side. ‘My
Gracious, the woman is shameless,’ thought Mrs. Prescott. She watched
as Mrs. Cheever wrote a check for the church’s restoration fund, and
when she handed it to Father Patterson, he beamed.
‘I wonder if he knows how she carries on,’ thought Mrs. Prescott.
She sighed, put down her coffee, and headed for the door.”
They listened to a siren in the distance.
“Could you get me my sweater, dear?” The nurse went to the
closet and took out a sweater, and put it over Miss Macintosh’s
shoulder.
“Thank – you, dear. I saw Mrs. Prescott again when Sabrina
Sterling wrote a bad word on my paper and Miss Phillips saw it,
and pointed,

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‘You write that?’
‘No,’ I answered.
‘That is your paper.’
‘Yes.’
‘I want to start this project so I want you to go see Mrs. Prescott,
and sort it out with her.’
I was embarrassed, and looked down at the floor. She went to
her desk, and gave me a pass. I left the room, not looking up, and
Mrs. Prescott was surprised to see me. She left me to go talk to Miss
Phillips. She came back in and closed the door.
‘So what happened Betsy?’
‘Sabrina wrote a bad word on my paper.’
‘Yes?’
‘She’s mad at me because I’m friends with Curtis.’
‘Oh, Sabrina Coates or Sterling?’
‘Sterling.’
‘You didn’t write it?’
‘No.’
‘All right, Betsy. I’m going to send you back to class, and I will
talk with Miss Phillips.’
‘I don’t want to go back.’
‘Why not?’
‘Nobody likes me.’
‘That’s not true. I like you.’
‘I mean kids don’t like me.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true.’
‘Sabrina was trying to get me into trouble.’
‘Have I told you you are in trouble? So I guess it didn’t work, did it?’
“I didn’t know what to say to that. Then, she said,”
‘Sometimes Betsy when people are mean to us the best thing to do
is to let them know they don’t bother us.’
‘Is it true a man killed your son?’
“I remember poor Mrs. Prescott jerked her head back liked I’d
slapped her in the face.”
‘Yes Betsy, a man killed my son,’ she whispered.
“I remembered hearing voices passing in the hallway.”

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‘That’s what Curtis told me.’
The nurse folded a blanket from the bed, and went to the closet.
‘The world can be a cruel place, Betsy. My job as an adult is to
teach you in the face of cruelty you have to be brave. You have to believe
life can be better than it sometimes is, and when you get to be old like
I am, you will know, it’s the only way to live that makes any sense. Do
understand that, Betsy?’
‘I think so.’
‘I hope you will think about it in the days to come.’
‘Your son was brave and it didn’t make any sense.’
“I remembered Mrs. Prescott smiled sadly, and she said,”
‘You’re right, Betsy. Benjamin is with me always and the courage
with which he lived inspires me to make the world better than it is. He’s
not here in body but in spirit.’
‘That’s like mom and Josh. Mom talks to Josh all the time.’
“I remember she looked at me not knowing what to say, and I
couldn’t figure out why. It was only when I was older I realized being
in denial, and dying helping others isn’t exactly the same.”
“Isn’t it more about how they lived…?” asked the nurse over
her shoulder.
She spun around when she heard the cane hit the floor.

115



A Dog for Sidney

By Darrell Case

Until she was eight, Sidney Garrett’s life was perfect. At least she
thought so. Her mother Marilyn didn’t have to work, so was always
there when Sidney came home from school. Under Marilyn’s patient
watch, Sidney was learning to cook and keep her room neat, plus
help with the household chores. Once a week mother and daughter
would have what they called “girls’ night out.” They never missed
unless the weather was too bad. They would go shopping, eat at a
nice restaurant, and go to a movie. At the end of the evening, Sid-
ney’s father would greet them at the door and ask about their time
together. Then they would gather in the kitchen for ice cream and
to show him Sidney’s new outfit. Sidney loved her father, but always
cherished those special times with her mother.

A few days after her eighth birthday, upon arriving home from
school Sidney was surprised to see her father’s truck in the driveway.
As she entered the kitchen, her parents looked at her dolefully. Her
mother’s eyes were red and puffy. Tears coursed down her father’s
cheeks. Sidney was sad to see her mother upset, but her father’s tears
frightened her. She didn’t remember ever seeing him cry.

“Sidney, come sit down,” her mother said softly. “We have
something to tell you.”

Sidney’s father stood up from his chair and turned away.
Arms outstretched, he leaned on his palms against the refrigerator
and hung his head. Trembling, Sidney took his seat and faced her
mother.

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Marilyn Garrett took her daughter’s hands in hers.“I have
never lied or hidden the truth from you and I’m not going to start
now.” She took a deep breath. “The cancer has spread.”
Sidney suddenly felt chilled. She couldn’t breathe. Tears sprang
from her eyes and ran down her cheeks.“They…they’re going to op-
erate, right?”
“No, honey, they can’t. It’s too late.”
“No! No! NO!” Wrenching her hands away, Sidney ran
screaming from the kitchen. Racing up the stairs, she ran into her
room, slammed the door, threw herself on the bed and sobbed. Her
mother, her best friend, was going to die. No hope, no cure. Ev-
erything that had been so important just an hour ago now meant
nothing. She drifted into a fitful sleep rife with nightmares.
The soft knock on Sidney’s door was followed by her mother’s
gentle voice. “Sidney, honey, dinner’s ready.” Seeing her standing
in the doorway, Sidney tried to burn her mother’s image into her
mind so she could never forget it. Pushing herself upon her elbows,
the tears returned and her voice cracked. “I’m not hungry.”
“Oh, honey.” Marilyn crossed the room and sat on the edge
of the bed. “I know. It’s going to be hard for all of us. But God will
see us through.”
Sidney’s breath caught in a fresh rush of tears. She turned on
her back and put her hand over her eyes. “If God’s so all powerful
why doesn’t He heal you?”
Her mother’s expression was soft, almost angelic. “I don’t
know, Sidney. He has a reason and a purpose for each of our
lives.”She gathered her weeping daughter into her arms. When the
tears stopped, they walked arm-in-arm down the stairs.
The next two months were tragic for Sidney. Her mother was
either going into the hospital or just coming home. At the beginning
of the third month she came home for the last time. Never a robust
woman, she had lost half her weight.
One afternoon Sidney came home to find a strange woman
sitting in the slipper chair beside her mother’s bed.
“Hi, sweetheart. This is Mrs. Janis. She’s going to be helping
us out.”

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Sidney stared at the woman. Mrs. Janis smiled at her. She stood
up and held out her hand. “Hello, Sidney. Your mother has told me
a lot about you.”
Sidney had known this was coming. Her best friend, Susan,
lost her mother two summers ago. She told Sidney these people only
showed up at the end. Sidney backed away.“You’re from hospice,
aren’t you?”
“I’m only here to help, honey.”
“Don’t call me honey. Don’t talk to me!” Sidney looked at her
mother’s pale, shocked face, heard her labored breathing. She couldn’t
even get out of bed. Her mother was dying and that outburst would
probably hasten it. Ashamed and overwhelmed with grief, Sidney
turned and ran from the room. Mrs. Janis didn’t follow. She was wise
enough to know the girl would have to work this out on her own.
Normally Sidney loved following the animal trails in the woods
that bordered her parents’ property. Today she wasn’t even aware
of the creek or the late spring wildflowers. Last year she had gone
with her parents to her great aunt’s funeral. It was hardly a happy
occasion but she soon forgot it. Now all she could see through the
blur of tears was her mother’s coffin being lowered into the ground.
Sidney wanted to die along with her.
Oblivious to the briar scratches on her legs, she stumbled on
and suddenly found herself on the Nobles’ property. In the center of
the10-acre tract on the other side of the woods was a two-story farm-
house that had been abandoned for years. Making her way through
the overgrown yard, Sidney sat on the front porch steps, crossed her
arms over her knees, buried her face and wept.
He heard her from inside as he worked stripping drywall. At
65,this type of labor was the last thing Vance Turnbull saw himself
doing. After 35years teaching college students, he had been inching
toward retirement. Then Gladys developed Alzheimer’s. Vance re-
signed and fought the fight with her, watching over her day and
night, lovingly caring for her as she had for him throughout their
married life.
She lost the last battle last year. The funeral was grueling, but
Vance stayed by her side to the end. At the funeral home, mourners

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shook his hand or patted his back and told him how sorry they
were. He held in his sorrow at the cemetery and on the numbingly
solitary drive home. That night, sitting in the dark and deathly quiet
living room, he dissolved in tears as the weight of losing her came
crashing down.

Vance wasn’t sorry for Gladys. If there was a shred of joy to be
found in his broken heart, it was that she was with the Lord. She was
enjoying her new life in heaven, untouched by the disease that took
her life. It occurred to Vance that he had lost the real Gladys long
ago. When his weeping finally ended, he felt cleansed.

Over the next few months, it became clear to Vance that he
could stay in their house no longer. He lived there with Gladys
for 40 years, and she inhabited every inch it. At first Vance found
comfort in sensing her in every room, but as time wore on it grew
steadily more depressing. Giving away, the hospital bed didn’t help.
Sleeping in the guest room only deepened his sorrow. There was
nothing to do but move.

The house sold quickly. Wherever Vance went from there,
it had to be in the country. He didn’t care what the place looked
like. One evening during an internet search, he came across the
farmhouse. He called the realtor the next morning. Yes, it was still
available. Vance drove the hundred miles to see it. The house was in
much worse shape than the photos depicted. The realtor explained
that the pictures were taken two years earlier, right after the fore-
closure.

Always the visionary, Vance saw the farmhouse for what it
could be, not how it was. Estimating the cost of repairs and improve-
ments, he made an offer far below what the bank was asking. They
countered with one he could manage. Two weeks later, he moved
in and began renovating. He cleaned out the master bedroom first,
enough for it to be habitable. He set up a card table in the spare bed-
room on which to place the coffeepot, hotplate and microwave. On
the third night, he dedicated the house to the Lord and the memory
of his beloved Gladys. Although Vance’s grief eased as the days and
weeks passed, his dear wife lived on in his dreams. He wouldn’t have
had it any other way.

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Pulling down the stained drywall in the kitchen, Vance heard
something and paused. Stepping to the window, he saw a little girl
sitting on his back steps. She appeared to about eight or nine. Her
blond hair was in a pigtail. She was crying. Not wanting to frighten
her, Vance opened the door just a crack. Pushing his nose into the
opening, Ramie forced his way out.
Sidney felt something warm and wet on her cheek. Startled, she
raised her head and stared into Vance’s Sheltie’s soft brown eyes while
the dog lapped at her tears with his scratchy tongue.“That’s Ramie,”
a gravelly voice behind her said. “He can’t stand to see a lady cry.”
Sidney jumped up and brushed off the seat of her pants.“I’m…
sorry,” she said, more embarrassed than frightened. “I didn’t know
anyone lived here.”
Vance stepped out. Leaning on his cane, he eased down onto
the wooden steps. Ramie snuggled up against the elderly man, who
wrapped his arm around the grinning dog. His tongue lolling to the
side, Ramie kept his eyes on Sidney.
Patting the dog, Vance gave the girl a sympathetic smile. “I just
moved here last week.” Sidney’s eyes brightened a bit as she studied
the old man. With the smile crinkling his face, his whitish-gray hair
and slightly sad brown eyes, he looked like a kindly grandfather.“I’ve
been so busy I haven’t had time to meet my neighbors.” Vance held
out his hand to Sidney’s one solemn shake.“My name is Vance and
you’ve met Ramie.”
At the sound of his name, the dog jumped to his feet and went
to the girl, wagging his tail and nuzzling her arm. Sidney let out a
little giggle and rubbed his head.“I wish I had a dog,” she said wist-
fully. “We had one, but he died last summer. He was already old
when I was born.” Her eyes welled up again.
“It’s hard to lose someone or something you love,” Vance said.
“Ramie has been with me for six months now. He’s good to have
around. Keeps me from getting too lonesome.”
“Don’t you have any family?” Sidney asked with childlike
forthrightness.
“Ramie is my family now,” Vance answered, his face creased
with sadness.

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“Where’s your wife?” Sidney pressed, then wished she hadn’t
as tears sprang to the elderly man’s eyes.
“She went to heaven.”
“My mom’s going to heaven,” Sidney said, wiping the tears
from her cheeks. “I wish she wouldn’t.”With a loud sob, she bolted
from the steps and ran into the woods. Hesitating only slightly,
Ramie started to follow.
“Ramie! No, boy,” Vance said sharply. “She needs to be alone
now.” He stared for a few moments at the tree line through which
Sidney had fled, then took the dog inside and returned to his work.
Picking up the hammer, Vance swung it viciously at the dry-
wall. “Ooooh, I hate you, Death,” he shouted as he yanked the claw
through the crumbling sheetrock.“You take a loving wife and a little
girl’s mother. You have no heart, no pity.” He swung the hammer
again, obliterating what was left of the wall. He would feel it in the
morning, but right now he didn’t care.
Halfway home, Sidney dropped onto a decaying log and wept
until she had no more tears. She felt helpless. What could she do?
“Go home.” She loved her mother; she would not let her go through
this alone. As she came near the house, she saw a light in her moth-
er’s bedroom. Straightening her shoulders and forcing braveness
onto her face, Sidney entered the house.
Vance’s mind whirled with the memory of that last night at
the hospital when Gladys breathed her last. With tears streaming
endlessly down his face, he had held her hand, leaned over her and
whispered, “I love, I love you, I love you.” The anguish of her funeral
and burial came rushing back. He shuddered as his impulse to crawl
into the casket and be buried with her overwhelmed him as it had
that day. From out of nowhere came the same crushing loneliness
that had followed him out of the cemetery.
Back home he had wandered through the rooms, feeling her
inescapable presence everywhere. There in the knick-knacks she col-
lected over the years. In the closet full of her clothes. He took the
items she loved and stored them away. He emptied the closets and
drawers and gave everything to Goodwill. With those last heart-
rending acts, he said a tearful goodbye to his Gladys. Now he would

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finish out his life as close to heaven as the little village of Barker, New
York, could get him. This old farmhouse had seemed to beckon to
him. Now he worked to make it his own.

Late that night, Vance stirred and laid his hand on the other
side of the bed. She wasn’t there. He was glad he was alone so no one
could see his tears. Roused from his sleep, Ramie whined and laid his
head on Vance’s knee. Rumpling the dog’s coat, Vance whispered,
“I’m never alone as long as you’re around.”

Switching off the radio beside the bed, Vance listened to the
wind rustling through the trees. What a change from the city with
its constant din of traffic and sirens. A stiff breeze blew through the
open window, rattling the blinds. Rain was coming. That was fine
with Vance. The roof on this house was sound, less than five years
old. Getting up to close the window, Vance caught a glimpse of light
through the swaying trees from what he thought must be Sidney’s
house. He sighed. “Lord, be with her. Show me a way to comfort
her and her family.”

Back in bed, Vance turned on his side and closed his eyes.
Ramie circled a few times before lying down with his body against
Vance’s back. Reaching down to pat him, the elderly widower whis-
pered sleepily, “Thank you for being my friend.”

The next morning as he tore away the drywall in the living
room, Vance stopped in mid-swing. He looked at Ramie, who was
lying across doorway threshold watching him work. Now almost
fully grown, the pup had been such a blessing to him. After his
wife, Ramie was Vance’s best friend. When it became apparent that
Gladys was dying, the dog would lie next to Vance each time he
knelt in prayer. The night after the funeral as he sat weeping in the
living room, Vance could have sworn he saw tears in Ramie’s eyes.

“A puppy, that’s what Sidney needs,” Vance told his friend.
“Not a grown dog like you, but a puppy that can grow with her
and comfort her in her sorrow. Yup, that’s what she needs.”Ramie
raised up on his haunches and cocked his head. How to convince the
girl’s parents of that, Vance wasn’t sure. “I don’t even know them.”
He told the dog. Ramie let out a little yip of agreement, bringing a
smile to Vance’s lips.

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Vance worked through the day, taking frequent breaks. By eve-
ning, the house was ready for the contractors. The place looked like a
bomb hit it. Down to the studs, the morass of exposed wires, vents,
two-by-fours and pipes presented a starkly uncomely appearance. The
hardwood floors would be striking only after the old paint was removed
and several coats of varnish applied. Vance shook his head. Why anyone
would paint beautiful oak flooring battleship gray was beyond him.
After a supper of soup and a sandwich, Vance settled down to
find a contractor. His first two calls went unanswered. Finally on
the third, the man thanked him for thinking of his company, but
explained it would be two to three months before he could get to
the job.“I’m sorry, where did you say you live?”
“Out on Old Post Road,” Vance answered. “Don’t know why
it’s called that.”
The man chuckled. “There used to be a big old concrete post
down where the 7-Eleven is now. Been gone for years but the name
stuck. Say, listen, there’s a guy who lives near you. Name’s Rick
Garrett. He’s honest and does good work. You might be able to get
him. May not be able to put in a full day, though.”
“Why is that?” Vance asked, pretty sure he knew the answer.
“His wife has cancer. Last I heard they were going to bring in
hospice. She hasn’t got long.”
Vance thanked the man and ended the call. He hesitated to
call Sidney’s father. Just picturing the family’s misery ripped open
his heart again. He thought of Gladys’s expenses from the doctors
and hospital. Though their insurance paid most of the cost, he still
ended up with a hefty bill. If he hadn’t saved for both of their final
expenses, he would have been really hurting.
Punching in the number, Vance waited. By the fifth ring he
was about to hit the end button.“Garrett Construction. How can
I help you?”
“Yes, Mr. Garrett, this is Vance Turnbull. I purchased the
house just down the road from you. I’ve been doing some renova-
tions but I’m afraid I’ve reached the limit of my expertise.”
“Yes. I saw that someone bought the place. It’s a good, solid
piece of property.”

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“You know the house then?”
“Sure. As you probably know, the house was vacant for years.
But it’s structurally sound with a good roof and the siding is less
than ten years old.”
“That’s what I understood from the realtor. It’s the interior that’s
a mess. It looks like someone turned a whirling dervish loose inside it.”
Garret laughed. “Well, Mr. Turnbull, I’d like to help you. But
I’m not taking on any long-term contracts now.”
“I understand. One of the other contractors I spoke with ex-
plained your situation. I lost my wife just recently.”
“Then you know what my family is going through,” Rick Gar-
rett said, his voice softening.
“To a certain extent. My wife had Alzheimer’s. She wasn’t
aware of what was going on around her for a long time.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been very difficult for both of you.”
“It was. However, she’s in heaven now, free of the disease. Mr.
Garrett–”
“Call me Rick, please.”
“Rick, forgive me for being forward. But I know how medical
expenses can eat up your income. Because of the proximity of our
homes, I’d like to propose that you work on your own schedule.
When you need to be with your wife and family, there won’t be any
problem with the delay on my part. In other words, work when you
can. Whether it’s for an hour or five, I’d be very grateful.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Turnbull.”
“Vance.”
“Vance. Can you give me a day to think about it?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. I’ll call you around this time tomorrow. Good
night, sir.”
Sidney spent every spare minute with her mother. She became
Mrs. Janis’s best helper. As Marilyn grew weaker, Sidney helped feed
her, assisted with changing her bedding, read to her, and prayed
with her.
After talking it over with Marilyn, Rick decided to take Vance’s
job. The first day he worked for two hours, taking only a short break

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to drive home and check on her. One morning in June, Rick left
on a home check and didn’t return. Later that day he called to tell
Vance that Marilyn was gone. She passed away just before noon
with Rick and Sidney by her side. Rick would return to work the
following week. Vance told him to take as much time as he needed
and assured him of his prayers. Promising to inform him of the
funeral arrangements, Rick ended the call.

Picturing the heart-broken little girl, Vance kneeled, wept and
prayed for her and her father. It had been hard enough to lose his
wife. How much more difficult it must be to lose a parent. At his
side, Ramie placed his paw on Vance’s arm and whimpered. Hug-
ging the dog, the elderly man sobbed into his fur.

The funeral was somber, yet peaceful. The pastor spoke of Sid-
ney’s mother’s love for her husband, her child and her church. She
was devoted to the Lord, he said, and always cheerfully eager to help
others. “Heaven is sweeter because of this dear woman,” he said as
he closed the service. Except for dropping off the meals he bought
at the restaurant for them, Vance left the family alone. They needed
time to grieve without interference.

A week later Rick arrived at the farmhouse with Sidney in tow.
As he and Vance spoke, she played with Ramie.

“I can start on the upstairs tomorrow. That’s the soonest I can
get someone to watch Sidney,” Rick said as he watched his daughter
throwing a ball for the dog to fetch.

“Why don’t you bring her along? Ramie could use the exercise.
And she can bring some toys in case she gets tired of playing with him.”

“You’re sure it won’t be an inconvenience?” Rick asked, al-
though he looked relieved.

“If there’s anything this old house needs it’s a child playing on
the front lawn,” Vance said, his face crinkling with a smile.

The following afternoon, right after school, Rick pulled along-
side the farmhouse with a small trailer hitched to his pickup. As soon
as Sidney’s foot hit the ground, Ramie bounded out to greet her. As
Vance and Rick worked, she played ball with the dog, served him
imaginary tea, and decked out a very tolerant Ramie in one of her
old dresses. As work wrapped up for the day, Vance broached the

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subject with Rick.“I don’t know what I would have done without
that dog. He was such a comfort to me when I lost Gladys.”

“This has been one of the most difficult times I’ve ever gone
through,” Rick said as he joined Vance at the window. Below them,
Sidney’s laughter rang out as she ran in circles with Ramie two steps
behind her. Vance could sense Rick stiffening when she abruptly
stopped, knelt on the ground and opened her arms, catching the
dog in them and hugging his neck. The men could hear her sobs.

“She does that quite a bit,” Rick said sadly. “She’ll be playing
or doing something else and she’ll suddenly just start crying.”

“It will probably go on for a while,” Vance said. “You know,
Rick, dogs are great absorbers of sorrow.”

For the next hour, the two men worked in silence. At five, they
went looking for Sidney and the dog and found them curled up on
the back porch asleep.

“I hate to wake her. She looks so peaceful. She doesn’t sleep
well since…” Rick’s words trailed off.

“I have a friend whose dog, Ramie’s mother, had a litter about
six months ago. In fact, that’s how I got Ramie. I spoke with the guy
yesterday. He has one left,” Vance said.

“Vance, I appreciate that. But between with the hospital and
the funeral I just can’t afford to buy a dog right now.” Ramie stirred
and pushed himself up on his haunches. Wagging his tail, he ap-
peared to be smiling.

Vance spoke softly so as not wake the sleeping child. “Rick,
from what I’ve seen, you do excellent work. Your prices are rea-
sonable. When you’re finished with the house I want to give you a
bonus. But I’d like you to have part of it now. Will you let me give
Sidney that puppy?”

Rick kept his eyes on his daughter as he thought. “She loved
old Ollie. Sure would be great to have another dog around. She
needs a good companion.”

“Wonderful. But please don’t say anything to her just yet. He
may have already sold the pup.”

Nodding, Rick approached the sleeping girl and picked her
up. Stirring, Sidney wrapped her arms around her father’s neck.“I

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dreamed about Mommy,” she murmured against his skin. “She had
on a white robe. She was smiling. She said she loves us and misses us.”

“We miss her too, sweetheart.” Carrying her to the truck, Rick
turned to Vance. “Thank you, my friend. Let me know what you
find out.”

Three days later, the two men were working in the living room
when a pickup pulled into the driveway. The sign on its side read:

Drew’s Kennels
Excitedly distracted from playing with Ramie, Sidney dropped
the ball and ran toward the lanky man as he stepped out of the truck.
Overjoyed to see an old friend, Ramie made a mad dash around
her. Dropping to one knee, the man ruffled Ramie’s ears, laughing
as the dog yipped and enthusiastically licked his face. Smiling and
chuckling, Rick and Vance watched from the porch.
“You must be Sidney,” the man said. “Ramie and I are old
friends.”
“He’s my friend too.”
“Yes, I know. My name is Drew. Your dad asked me to bring
you a gift.”Straightening up, Drew opened the passenger door and
reached in.“Come on. It’s okay.” He turned and watched Sidney’s
eyes and grin widen as he held out the wriggling puppy. He set the
dog on the ground. After taking a few tentative steps, the pup looked
back. “Go on,” Drew said with a wave of his hand. Kneeling, Sidney
opened her arms wide. “Come on boy, come to me.” With an eager
“rolf, rolf,” the pup bounded into her arms. Within minutes, Sidney
and the two dogs were happily at play.
Rick and Vance grinned at each other. Drew joined them on
the porch. “Rick, I’d like you to meet Drew Pierson.” The two men
shook hands. “Drew bravely suffered through two of my classes.
Drew, Rick’s helping me rebuild what I tore up.”
“Thanks for bringing the pup,” Rick said. “He’s exactly what
she needed. As I’m sure Vance told you, she just lost her mother.”
“Yes, he did. I’m so sorry,” Drew said softly.
“Let me get my checkbook,” Vance said.
As Vance turned toward the door, Drew caught his arm. “No,
I can’t let you do that. Rick, when Vance told me about Sidney, I

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knew this dog would be perfect for her. The mother dog died three
weeks ago. The pup’s been lost without her.”

“God answered my prayer even before I asked Him,” Vance
said.

“Mine too,” Rick said.
Sidney tossed the ball between the two dogs. Ramie started for
it, then dropped to the ground on his belly. The pup saw his chance.
Chasing it down and grabbing it in his mouth, he proudly carried it
back to his new mistress and dropped it at her feet. Watching from
heaven, Sidney’s mother smiled.

129



The Intricacies Of Intimacy

By Alexandra Lapointe

“Intimacy,” George started, “is a fundamental yet perplexing aspect
of human existence. While its necessity is evidently straightforward,
each individual possesses unique preferences on the matter. Some
prefer simplistic yet stable intimacy patterns while others lust for
intense, erratic styles. There’s no telling which inclination, out of the
hundreds of complex variations, is most appropriate, or beneficial
rather, for human life. Therefore, I don’t think it’s pertinent for you
to suggest that my approach to maintaining intimacy is strange.
Sure, it might be more uncommon than other methods, but it isn’t
strange to say the least.”

“Well I suppose I misspoke. I meant to say your approach is
uncommon. I’ve never seen anything like it.” The man across the
bar swirled his drink in his hand and watched the ice clink together.
Besides the light hum of the staticky television that hung overhead,
the muted chatter of the few other bar inhabitants was practically
the only background noise.

“Would you like my card? I’m open to male and female cli-
ents,” George said, reaching towards his left back pocket of his tat-
tered jeans for his wallet.

“I don’t think so. My wife wouldn’t approve,” the man said,
glancing at the clock mounted on the wall in front of him.

“It’s nothing sexual. There are certain rules that I insist my
clients follow stringently. It’s all laid out in the consultation paper-
work,” George said, worried that he had begun to sound more like
a tacky infomercial than a respectable businessman.

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“I’ll have to take a rain check. But if I’m ever in the mood I
know where to find you.” The man downed his drink, slapped a few
crisp dollar bills on the counter and made his way to the exit. George
sighed as his eyes followed the man until he left the building and
was out of site. He was aware that he made people uncomfortable
while talking about his business, but he had successfully recruited
several clients from the very bar stool he sat on that night. George
looked around at the few other casual drinkers who huddled in the
darkened corners of the desolate bar.
Now that his only potential client had left for the evening,
George could officially relax. He pulled out the sweat rag from his
jacket pocket and dabbed his forehead. His ex-girlfriend had given it
to him on the night she broke things off with him. He hadn’t taken
it too personally, since he was only still with her for the convenience.
She had ranted about his colossal sweat glands and recommended
a doctor for treatment before collecting the last of her possessions
and slamming the door behind her. Apparently, their relationship
had reached the level of comfortableness where he could eat dropped
food off the ground but not the level where he could sweat around
her. The only aspect of their relationship he missed after she walked
out the door was her occasional pity grocery shopping trips to stock
his empty fridge. Although it did remind him of her every time he
used it, he still kept the sweat rag with him at all times. He found
it quite useful. He looked under his pits to assess the damage but
surprisingly the sweat hadn’t seeped through his jacket yet.
Once he was satisfied with the lack of perspiration on his face,
he placed the sweat rag back into his jacket pocket in a crumpled ball.
He took the last sip of his drink and stood up. Exiting the dimly lit
bar, he became hyperaware of his tipsiness from the Old Fashioned
he had been sipping. When recruiting, he often lost track of the
number of drinks he ordered and by the end of the night stumbles
out of the bar like a shameless drunk. He wasn’t by any means an
alcoholic. In fact, he didn’t particularly enjoy drinking whiskey, but
instead chose to drink it for a more symbolic reason. To him, an
Old Fashioned represented manliness. It was Don Draper’s drink
of choice, arguably one of the most virile men in the advertising in-

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dustry. George felt like the associated masculinity impressed others
and often started conversations. Besides, when one is in the cuddling
business it’s essential to have a proportional balance between fem-
ininity and masculinity. Too much of one side could be disastrous
for one’s brand.

George felt the few lingering drops of whiskey tickle his throat
as he walked down the cracked concrete sidewalk towards his apart-
ment. The night was charmingly serene. He preferred the twinkling
stars and luminous moonlight to guide his path over the artificial
buzzing street lamps. Crickets could be heard in the distance, per-
forming a symphony of sounds for the select few bystanders who
occupied the streets of Portland in the early morning hours. George
tried to control his stumbling but found it increasingly difficult to
walk. Inevitably, he encountered a declivity in the sidewalk. Unable
to maintain his balance he toppled over, twisting his arms and legs to
brace the fall. Ashamed of his mental state, George knew laying on
the ground for a few minutes to regain some clarity would be more
beneficial than standing up and trying to walk again. So, there he
laid, among the weeds sprouting through the cracks in the sidewalk
and the bugs scurrying around his limp body. He felt the weight
of his business cards in his wallet poke into his body as his weight
rested on them.

George looked up at the building in front of him. It was a
quaint townhouse with a bright red door that seemed oddly out of
place. Although his memory was muddied by the alcohol, he still
managed to recognize the house as belonging to a former client,
Claire. He chuckled at the coincidence and recalled the moment of
her first consultation.

He had been sitting at his desk in the tiny office space on
Central Ave, patiently waiting for his receptionist to bring his po-
tential new client down the hall. He had heard her enter the building
thanks to the remarkably thin walls. He shuffled the papers on his
desk and reached in his pocket for his sweat rag. Dabbing the sweat
off his forehead, he stuffed the rag back in his pocket and folded his
hands. He heard a knock on the door and stood up calmly. When
the door opened, a young woman filled the doorframe. She was

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wearing a pinstripe skirt and black blouse. The bleakness of her outfit
drew attention to her fiery red hair which was tucked neatly into a
bun on the top of her head. She walked in surprisingly timidly which
refuted George’s assumption that she had a dominant personality.

“Please, take a seat,” George told her, ushering her to the
armchair opposite his desk. She sat down and pressed her legs to-
gether tightly, tensing all her muscles. George sat across from her
and stared. She hadn’t spoken a word since she entered, puzzling
George by making her intentions unclear. George decided to delve
into the consultation, longing to reach the end of the dull silence
that engulphed the room.

“Have you ever used a professional cuddling service before?”
George asked. She stared blankly at him, almost as if she didn’t un-
derstand the question. Her hands folded together in her lap.

“You’re not what I expected,” Claire said, clearing her throat.
George blinked rapidly, not knowing how to respond.

“Are you referring to the juxtaposition between my apparent
masculinity and the innate femininity of my job?” George asked.

“I suppose. Tell me, why have you started a cuddling busi-
ness?” she asked.

“Well, I was an assistant professor at Portland State University
teaching Introduction to Human Interaction: Intimate Relation-
ships and Sociology of Marriage and the Family. After about ten
years of teaching I left the university for “creative differences” in my
teaching techniques and decided to pursue my own business venture
in the cuddling business. You see, through teaching and educating
America’s next generation, I learned a great deal about the needs
and desires of individuals. Interpersonal relationships intrigue me
despite the fact that I haven’t been able to maintain one myself for
longer than one year. I decided to enter a profession that not only
improves the mental health and stability of other individuals but is
also beneficial to me as well.” George concluded his brief speech,
satisfied with his response. Claire, on the other hand, didn’t seem
so convinced.

“You can’t tell me that your business venture wasn’t partially
sparked by sexual intentions. Failure to cultivate and preserve rela-

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tionships on your own, I’m sure you thought that a cuddling busi-
ness attracts lonely individuals begging for attention, which is an
easy way to acquire potential mates,” Claire said.

“I don’t mean to sound crude, but I was, for many years, a
professor teaching about intimate relationships. I have enough in-
telligence on the subject to be plenty capable of finding potential
mates without the aid of a business,” George stated. Slight irritation
came through his voice.

“Relationships require more than just intelligence, I’m afraid.
The more strenuous part, I’ll argue, comes from the maintenance of
the relationship, not the initial discovery,” Claire said.

“Yes of course. Nonetheless I believe that my intellect and spe-
cialization on the intricacies of intimacy allows me to separate my
sex life from my business. I am not, although it seems you are trying
to prove this, a man looking for an easy way to find sexual partners.
My primary goal is to provide non-sexual intimacy for individuals
to improve their mental health. Cuddling has been proven to reduce
stress and anxiety. Similarly, I have several clients who suffer from
PTSD and rely heavily on my services. Naturally, many people tend
to believe, as do you, that my motives are of a sexual nature. This, I
believe, is due to the excessive emphasis of sex in our culture. There
are plenty of outlets for one’s sexual needs, Miss Wilder, however
my business is not one of them,” George said. He sat back in his
chair and it creaked. Claire remained speechless for a few seconds.
The creak of his office chair was left ringing in his ears. The air con-
ditioning kicked on, throwing the silence off balance. Claire opened
her mouth to speak again, this time slower and less accusatory than
before.

“I apologize for voicing my presumptions. You have to under-
stand, I need to be fully aware of this businesses’ intentions before I de-
cide I am in need of your services,” Claire said. George nodded his head.

“I do understand your concerns, Miss Wilder. I have similar
conversations with many of my first-time clients. I believe you will
feel more comfortable once you read the waiver that I have laid out
for you,” George said, picking up the papers that were on his desk
in front of him. “I have a few questions to ask you, if that’s alright.

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As you found the need to test my intentions, I must do the same
to you.”

“Go ahead,” Claire said. George took his glasses out of the top
drawer of his desk, unfolded them and gently placed them on the
bridge of his nose. He glanced down at the papers in front of him.

“First, some formalities. Date of birth, and address please,”
George said, picking up a pen.

“February 10th, 1988. 104 Creek Crossing Drive,” she stated.
“Ah, are those the new townhouses that were just built? The
ones with the vibrant red doors?” George had seen them periodically
on his way home from the bar.
“Yes, that’s the place,” she said.
“Alright, I’d like to share with you our rules and ask for your
preferences next. First, no touching any parts that would be covered
up by a swimsuit. No touching lips, however noses are fair game.
Under no circumstances should you ask or initiate sexual activities
of any kind. While cuddling, stay clear of watching movies with
sex scenes. Dirty talk is not acceptable under any circumstances.
Do you understand the rules?” Claire nodded so he continued.
“You can choose between thirty-minute sessions or ninety-minute
sessions. Once you sign the waiver I will give you a list and de-
scription of each of our cuddlers and you will able to choose your
preference. You are free to change your preference at any time. Do
you understand?”
“Yes, I do,” she said.
“Excellent. Now, are you inherently dominant or submissive?”
George asked.
“In what way?” Claire asked.
“Essentially I’m asking if you prefer big spoon or little spoon,”
George clarified.
“Little,” Claire said.
“Do you prefer to watch television during cuddling or listen
to music?” George asked.
“Television,” Claire responded.
“What you watch on television has to be approved by both you
and the professional cuddler. Is that understood?” George asked.

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“Yes,” she mumbled.
“Do you prefer to talk while cuddling or remain silent?” George
asked.
“Talk,” Claire stated.
“Excellent. If you have any more questions, feel free to call or
email my office. Now if you could sign here, I’ll provide you with
the list of cuddlers and you can decide your preference and schedule
an appointment with my receptionist,” George said. He handed
Claire the papers and she read them over carefully, as if she was a
lawyer studying caselaw. She took the pen he offered her and signed
the bottom slowly, seemingly still unsure about the commitment.
“Thank you for your time,” Claire said, standing up from the
chair and handing the signed papers back to him. He took them and
shook her hand, leading her to the door. He handed her the list of
employees and without muttering anything else, she walked out the
door. He shut it behind her.
George had many new client consultations on a daily basis, so
at the time his meeting with Claire hadn’t seemed out of the ordi-
nary. But as George laid on the concrete staring at Claire’s house to
sober up, he recalled the time when he began to suspect Claire was
different than his other clients.
He was at the bar that he frequented for recruitment purposes.
That particular night, there were no potential clients in site. In fact,
the only other individual in the bar was an elderly man with an ox-
ygen machine tube in one hand and a drink in the other. George had
strategically decided to go to the bar that night because he figured
that Christmas Eve would attract the loneliest individuals who could
benefit from professional cuddlers. But he was wrong. It seemed
that most everyone in Portland had a family to occupy their time.
Nonetheless George didn’t have anywhere else to be so he stayed at
the bar sipping on his Old Fashioned.
It wasn’t until hours later when George decided it was time
to head home. However, just as he made the decision, a woman
sat down on the barstool directly next to him. He turned to look at
her, puzzled as to why she chose the seat closest to him while all the
others were unoccupied.

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“I am not surprised to see you here, George,” Claire said, after
ordering a Sex on the Beach from the bartender.
“Alone on Christmas Eve?” George asked. He hadn’t seen
Claire since the consultation.
“We both are, aren’t we?” Claire said, staring at him.
“Typical of two individuals suffering from intimate relation-
ship droughts,” George said, recalling the fact that he had been
single for almost a year now.
“I never said I had trouble with intimate relationships. I believe
that’s just you.” Claire smirked and gave the bartender a few dollars
when he slid her drink across the counter.
“Why would you seek a professional cuddler then?” George
asked. Claire took a few sips of her drink and mixed it with her
straw.
“I suppose companionship is what I seek the most,” Claire said.
George gulped down his Old Fashioned and asked the bartender for
another.
“Why not join a book club then? Or plan game nights with
your co-workers?” George asked. Claire tucked a piece of her red
hair behind her ear.
“There is something you must understand about me. I thrive
on unpredictability. Each and every time I attend a cuddling session,
my mind is conceptualizing every possible outcome. I can fall into
these stranger’s arms and fall asleep to the sound of their breathing,
or I could brush up against them in such a way where they have no
choice but to lean over and kiss my lips. Of course, I understand
that some possibilities are possible, and others are not, due to the
restrictions of the service. However, I’m not necessarily yearning
for the sexual possibilities, I just bring them to mind and my dull,
humdrum of a life turns into one of intriguing fantasy. I’m seeking
a person to open my mind to life’s excitement, not just unzip my
pants,” Claire said, leaning slightly away from me as if she just ad-
mitted a terribly embarrassing secret. She bowed her head over her
drink.
“I believe you just admitted that your intentions are marginally
sexual. At least in your head,” George said.

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“Well of course. If anyone tries to sell you the idea that cud-
dling is not sexual at all is just trying to suppress their desperate
desires,” Claire said.
“I beg to differ. Several of my clients only seek relief from
anxiety and stress,” George said.
“Yes of course. But how exactly does cuddling relieve stress? By
opening the mind to the possibilities of having an intimate partner
to touch and make love to without the burden of an actual relation-
ship,” Claire said.
“I believe you might be attempting to generalize your own
needs to the rest of the population,” George said.
“I believe you underestimate innate human selfishness and sen-
sual desires,” Claire said.
“I’ll tell you what, let me prove to you that not all needs
are sexual,” George said. Claire nodded without saying anything.
George stood up, paid for his drinks and led Claire out the door of
the bar. They walked together through the brisk winter night. They
didn’t say a word to each other. Instead, George walked quickly,
determined to prove Claire wrong. Claire, clad in a tight skirt and
high heels, struggled to match his pace. The click of her heels echoed
off the tall buildings that surrounded them. Shortly after their walk
began, George found himself stopping at the townhouse with the
bright red door.
“This is your house, yes?” George asked. Claire nodded. She
reached in her purse and retrieved her ring of keys. He followed her
up the stairs to her front door. She fumbled with the key in the door
and finally pushed it open. It creaked loudly when she opened it and
again when she shut it behind him.
“What is your plan now?” Claire asked. Admittingly, he could
sense that he was feeding into her lust for unpredictability. However,
he calculated his moves very deliberately.
“Where is your bed?” Claire looked at him in slight bewil-
derment. She led him up the stairs and into her bedroom. George
looked at the bed resting against the wall.
“Take off your heels,” George instructed. While she was re-
moving her shoes, George took off his loafers and climbed into the

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bed. It smelled of overbearing flowery perfume. He laid on his side
and waited for Claire to join him. Silently, she looked at him again,
unsure if she should follow him onto the bed. Her moment of hes-
itation passed as she took her position as the little spoon and con-
formed to the shape of his body. They remained in their positions
for a great deal of time, not making any noise. He inhaled the fra-
grance coming from her hair, wrapped his arms around her stomach
and gently squeezed her closer. He felt the heat radiating from her
body, relaxing his pounding heart. He matched her breathing so that
together they were moving up and down in synchronization. He
closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment, feeling her hands tighten
around his. After a few more silent moments, Claire turned around
so that she was facing George and kissed him gently on the lips. Her
lips hovered over his for moments afterwards. There was a moment
when both their lips were inches from each other’s but neither of
them pulled away. George opened his eyes and leaned away from
her.

“I think you’ve missed my point,” George said, slightly irri-
tated that his efforts proved pointless.

“But don’t you see the importance of unpredictability? I can
feel your heart beating faster. That’s what living is about, George.
Excitement,” Claire said, sitting up in the bed. George scoffed and
left the bed, smoothing out his cotton shirt and putting his shoes
back on.

He wanted to say much more to her in that moment. He
wanted to lecture her about her juvenile eroticism and the flaws in
her opinion. After all, he was the expert in the field, not her. Instead,
he decided to say nothing and leave her house. Now, staring at the
red door from the ground, George didn’t regret remaining silent
like he did after leaving her house. He knew that no matter what he
said, she wouldn’t come to accept his expert opinion. Besides, he was
contradicting himself by trying to prove that one form of intimacy
was a more appropriate answer than another. He knew she had some
truth to her statements. When she kissed him, he restrained himself
greatly from jumping on top of her and continuing. But life, as
George often told himself, was much more than unpredictability.

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He was convinced that one needed both unpredictability and pre-
dictability to remain sane. Therefore, as a predictable end to his day,
he stood up from the disheveled sidewalk, brushed himself off, and
headed home to an empty house.
Alexandra Lapointe is a recent college graduate who writes fiction
short stories in her spare time and hopes to pursue a graduate pro-
gram in writing and publishing. Her story “My Friend Sindsman”
was published in the August 2018 edition of Adelaide Literary Mag-
azine. She resides in Rochester, NY with her family.

141



Hit Men Have Feelings Too

By Edward D. Hunt

Boston’s North End

After dropping his boss, Albee, at home in Milton, Tony Gazzo
returned to the North End. Albee Parillo after becoming more suc-
cessful had moved to Milton away from this Italian conclave. He told
Tony he wasn’t needed tomorrow and that he would be spending
time with his family. Tony’s schedule was somewhat unpredictable,
but for the most part he worked the hours Albee worked, picking
him up in the morning and dropping him off at night. Tony was
mostly a bodyguard, an enforcer and a driver but he was trusted with
other assignments as well. He was often the one to give others in the
crew assignments. If he said it, they knew it was coming from Albee.

Tony got along with the rest of the crew but really wasn’t close
to them. He really didn’t make friends. He kept to himself. He did
have one redeeming quality that Albee valued very highly, he was
loyal to Albee, willing to die for loyal. Not something you come
across every day.

On the way back in the car from Jamaica Plain, Albee talked
about his concerns with some of their “business” partners and the
possible exposure they might have if as rumored there may be a fed-
eral investigation underway. Albee wouldn’t be sharing this unless he
thought Tony was going to have to get involved. He didn’t need to
say that, Tony understood. Albee stressed how delicate the situation

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was and in how many areas they and their partners had and have
some common interests. Hopefully they could clean up their own
mess but Albee wasn’t betting on it.

Tony was one of the few people Albee confided in. He knew
anything said would never go any further and he knew he didn’t
have to explain it in too much detail; Tony would get it.

Driving in the North End was always challenging, but even
more so when something was going on at the TD Garden. It was
summer so no Celtics or Bruins but there was a full concert schedule.
Tony remained calm, there was no place he had to be and no time
he had to be there. Utilizing a narrow side street he finally got to the
small parking lot behind the commercial building where he parked
for free. Albee had arranged it and he wasn’t sure of the exact own-
ership but somehow Albee was involved.

His apartment was three buildings down on the third floor
above a small coffee shop that was open late. The apartment was
small but expensively furnished. Typical male décor with leather
furniture and dark woods and a seventy inch large screen television.
It was always neat and extremely clean with gleaming hard wood
floors and well maintained oriental carpets. No one was allowed to
enter the apartment when he wasn’t home. He cleaned it himself
and had an elaborate alarm system. He really didn’t have anything
valuable and except for two hidden hand guns, there was nothing
incriminating in the apartment. He had several safe deposit boxes in
local banks under various names where he did have a lot of money
and valuables stashed. He also owned a small cabin in New Hamp-
shire under an alias that even Albee wasn’t aware of. He had enough
money stashed in multiple accounts that if he had to make a quick
exit he was prepared.

Instead of going directly upstairs he decided to eat downstairs.
He sat at the counter as was his habit. Gina always worked the counter
and the other waitresses worked the floor. In addition to working the
counter, she handled the cash register. The owner, Louie trusted her
and no one else. They were related somehow. She was the only waitress
on tonight. The restaurant wasn’t busy but she was. She was always in
motion, finding something to clean or organize during down times.

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Without being asked, Gina poured him a cup of black coffee
and placed it in front of him. She nodded at him in response to his
smile. She wasn’t attractive. Tall, skinny, with pockmarked skin, she
always kept her long wild hair tied back when she was working. She
rarely said much and seldom smiled. He knew she was on some sort
of medication and he knew when they were adjusting the dosage
because she would mumble to herself. She would probably be unem-
ployable anywhere else or at least anywhere where customer contact
was required.
There wasn’t much on the menu, a few sandwiches and a few
daily specials scrawled on a blackboard. Most people just came in
for the coffee and the Italian pastries.
“Still have some beef stew.” She said this without looking up
from under the counter where she was rearranging the condiments.
She knew he liked the stew. She looked up long enough to see him
nod which prompted her to set him up with a napkin and silverware.
He watched her walk away to go get his stew. Tony Gazzo
wasn’t attractive either. He was big and intimidating with very pro-
nounced features. A large nose and big lips with a receding hairline.
Close to forty he could easily pass for much older. He knew he
scared people which was a plus in his line of work but he really never
understood why he scared people when he wasn’t trying to.
His personal life was pretty limited. To meet his sexual needs
he had brief hookups with strippers and other professionals who
were afraid to say no to him. He knew they were afraid but he had
never forced them and if they truly acted reluctant he backed off. His
needs were minimal so it wasn’t that much of a hardship.
Most of his time not working was spent by himself watching
Netflix and HBO. He liked the “Game of Thrones.” He also liked
to read westerns. Mostly Louis L’Amour.
The other waitresses pretty much ignored Gina; they talked
with her about work related issues but never anything else. They
didn’t seem to be trying to be mean or hurtful, they just didn’t have
anything in common with her. Gina acted like she didn’t take notice
but Tony was sure that she did; he knew that she was intelligent.
During slow times she sat on a stool near the register reading books.

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Most people from the neighborhood who came into the restau-
rant gave Tony his space. Rarely did anyone sit on the stools right next
to him, and even those he knew would only nod or briefly say hello.
Gina was different, she wasn’t afraid of him. Whether it was be-
cause she didn’t highly value the life she lived or she sensed a kindred
spirit; she seemed comfortable around him and comfortable saying
whatever came into her head. When it was raining she told him he
should be wearing his raincoat and offered him her multi-colored
umbrella which he politely declined. She also would warn him on
what to eat or not to eat. “Stay away from the meatloaf.” No one else
in his life talked to him like this or took any interest and he found
himself looking forward to it.
He was almost finished with the beef stew and she had re-
filled his coffee cup without being asked. Tony thanked her and she
smiled slightly in return.
Two young wannabe wise guys entered and sat down seven or
eight stools away from Tony. Both had said, “Hi, Tony,” on their
way in. They lost their swagger when he stared back at them and
nodded. They were kind of loud and had probably been drinking but
Tony ignored them until they started making comments about Gina.
“Would you?” The shorter one challenged his friend.
“Not even with a bag over her head.” The other one snorted
his response spilling his coffee.
“Well, what about in the dark, and nobody else would ever find
out?” The short one persisted, well in earshot of Gina.
“Shit no, not even with your dick!” They both laughed at that.
They were still laughing and didn’t even notice Tony until he
sat down beside them and took a knife out of his pocket. Snapping
open the knife, he pressed the blade into the neck of the last one to
speak. “Say something else and I will cut out your tongue before I
slit your throat.” Tony said this in a monotone which made it even
more frightening. Neither one doubted he would do it.
“Jesus, Tony, we were only screwing around. We didn’t know
she was a friend of yours!” The wise guy without the knife pressed
to his throat spoke up, the other one was blubbering and couldn’t
be understood.

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“Leave and don’t come back.” He put the knife away and they
both jumped up and headed toward the exit.
Gina had ignored them and continued to keep busy throughout
all of this but now she stopped and looked at him. He nodded at her
and she nodded back.
Two weeks later he stopped into the Coffee Shop right before
closing and ordered coffee. She was the only waitress on again and
she was busy restocking the shelves, and refilling salt and pepper
shakers and napkin holders. When she was topping off his coffee she
hesitated for a moment and then looking at him directly said: “I can
come up for a while if you’d like.”
Looking back at her, he considered it and what she possibly
meant. “Okay,” he nodded in response.
She brought up some left over pastries and he made a pot of
coffee. She looked at all the books on his bookcase and his cd player
and his music. She didn’t sit down until he brought her coffee and
then they sat together on his leather sofa side by side.
“Do you want to watch something on television?” She asked
this picking up the remote not waiting for him to answer. “Is there
anything you would like to watch?”
“Not really, you can pick something.” Tony was trying to be
agreeable. He was awkward at best in social situations.
She settled for a movie “Our Souls at Night” which wouldn’t
have been his first choice. It was a love story about an elderly couple.
She explained that she had read the book it was based upon
by Kent Haruf and she had really liked it. He nodded, not
really caring what they watched.
He was starting to dose off by the end of the movie. She turned
off the television, picked up their coffee cups and plates and brought
them to the kitchen.
She came back into the room and bent over and embraced him,
saying she should go. He nodded in response and stood up as she
picked up her oversized handbag and her sweater.
“Maybe we can do this again Saturday?” she looked at him
expectantly.
“Yeah, sure…that’d be good.” He was nodding again.

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She kissed him on the cheek.



Providence, Rhode Island
Tony Gazzo hadn’t been back to Providence since before he

went to prison; more than seven years ago. Coming back from
New York, he had been struggling with the urge to go by the house
and see if she was still there. At Albee’s request Tony had made a
problem for their friends in New York disappear. It wasn’t the first
time and Tony had a reputation for being very good at what he did.
Albee always gave him a bonus for this kind of work but Tony would
have done it for nothing.

Tony stayed away from Providence, too much history. He had
done a lot of damage here, on his own and on Albee’s behalf. Prov-
idence had been his home. Tony really didn’t have any emotional
ties to Providence or to any other place. In actuality, he didn’t really
have any emotional ties to anyone or anything. Something with this
woman from his past that he couldn’t explain. Maybe something
with Gina, he didn’t know yet. Probably the closest tie he had was
his connection to Albee and that was forged years ago when Albee
aligned with a faction that was battling a group that included the
man that Tony held responsible for killing his father. His father was
a small time bookie and while he wasn’t able to articulate his feel-
ings, he did feel something when his father had been gunned down
coming out of a Chinese restaurant. Tony was only fifteen and was
on his own after that. His mother had died during childbirth and
it had always been just his father and him with a hired housekeeper
or two. He was always different but his father seemed somewhat
oblivious to the fact and accepted him the way he was. His father
got really angry whenever anyone suggested that there was anything
wrong with him. At school some therapist diagnosed him as possibly
having some form of highly functioning autism but his father wasn’t
having any part of that. Tony was always a big kid and strong and
the few kids who made fun of him paid a price. At thirteen he beat
a fifteen year old badly enough that he needed to be hospitalized and

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