POP PLAYED THE PONIES

              

                                            POP PLAYED THE PONIES

                                                               BY

                                               MARGARET MENDEL

       Pop died suddenly.  There were no warnings. He had slightly elevated blood pressure and the doctor said he was pre-diabetic but with diet and standard meds there didn’t seem to be anything to worry about. I guess when you time’s up, there’s not much you can do about it.

       Pop was a barber. He owned a barbershop for over forty years, working Tuesdays through Saturdays all those years, taking only two weeks off in the summer.  In the last couple years, he and mom had begun to take one-week vacations in the winter.  The cold was getting to the both of them and a little relief from the bitter temperatures in February made it easier for them to wait for the warmer days to swing around. Besides these vacations with mom, Pop never took time off from work. He was never sick a day in his life, never complained, and always seemed happy.  The news of his passing came as much of a shock to mom and me, as it did to everyone who knew him.

       At Pop’s funeral the family sat in the front rows, while his friends and customers sat in the back rows. There were more than a hundred men in those back pews.  Many of them were old-timers from the neighborhood. Some were retired and they’d come into the barbershop to hangout, passing the time, retelling old jokes, sometimes catch up with gossip and sometimes they came by to spread a bit of juicy information. 

       Looking out on to those back rows I couldn’t help but notice the different shades of gray hair: there was salt and pepper gray, yellowish gray, white with streaked gray. There were a couple old customers with dyed brown or charcoal black hair. Some men were in different stages of baldness. One guy had a thick hairpiece perched on top of his head that looked a bit like an inverted birds nest.  Pop had clipped the hair of every one of those men. He shaved them. I always thought the funniest part of Pop’s job was snipping the hair that grew from inside their ears. The men in the back rows talked softly. Some of them sat quietly lost in thought and I wondered if they might have been a bit concerned about which one of them might someday soon be joining their dear barber.  Pop always joked around with these men.  They were his buddies.  Once when I was out walking with Pop we ran into one of his old customers and Pop said,  “Why don’t you come by the shop? Your hair doesn’t grow as fast as it used to, but your neck needs a shave.”

       Looking at the coffin, draped in flowers, I wanted to shout, to shake that fancy coffin mom purchased for Pop. I want to do anything to bring Pop back.  I wanted the whispering men sitting in the back rows to make more noise: to holler out, for us all to stomp our feet, to break furniture.  I wanted them to grab Pop with their voices and pull him back to us. Instead they sat thoughtfully and talking softly. An angry hotness spread down from the top of my head with a ferocious heat, sliding down my forehead and onto my eyes, it felt as though my face had melted, leaving nothing but a hot lump of expressionless flesh. I could not cry.

       Mom was pale and drawn. Her eyes were dry and red. I knew the pillows on her bed were soaking wet with tears. She was a private, proud, silent woman.

       When the funeral service was over, one of Pop’s friends came up to me. I noticed fuzzy growth of hair coming from the sides of his neck. “How do you do?” he asked. Taking my hand in a gentle but manly manner, he introduced himself. “I’m Arnie Swartz. I’m very sorry about your father.” He then handed me an envelope. “This belonged to him.”

       I opened the envelope. There were two, one hundred dollar bills and several receipts from the Saratoga racetrack. “What’s this?” I asked.

       “It’s from the last race your Pop bet on,” he said.

       I was confused. Pop never gambled, or bet on a horse race. “This must be a mistake.”

       “Oh, it’s no mistake. He asked me to make the bet when I went up to Saratoga last week. He could have placed the bet himself with a bookie, but he liked having someone placing bets personally for him at the big races.”

       This didn’t make any sense. I had never known Pop to bet on anything. Then Arnie said, “Your pop and I used to go to the track on Mondays, when his shop was closed.”

       It was as though he was telling me about a stranger.

       “Please let me know if your mother needs anything.” Arnie put his hand on my shoulder. “Your father was a great guy and he’s going to be missed.”

       Two of Pop’s regulars stepped up to me after Arnie walked to the other side of the room. “There was none better than you father,” one of the men said. The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I could not understand or hear what anyone said to me. My head was spinning. It felt as though I was falling into a pit. It was a terrible day.

       Mom nearly passed out in the car as we drove back from the cemetery. There were a few old friends of the family, who in their own depression over Pop’s death, made things worse with their sad faces and crying. I had never thought too much about death, until now. I was not prepared for this and I knew I’d never stop missing Pop.

       Mom had retired from teaching school two years earlier and now there was no place she had to be each day. She would not get out of her housecoat. She sat in the kitchen for hours looking out the window. Or she took long naps. She no longer went out with her friends during the day. After much talking, she agreed to enroll in classes in a senior center during the day. She went, saying,  “It won’t make any difference. Things will never be the same again.”

       I knew what she meant. There was an ache and a profound emptiness in my life. And I could not stop thinking about Pop’s secret horse racing bets. I couldn’t understand why he never told us. I thought I knew him. Now that he was gone, I not only missed him, I felt confused and left out. So, one Monday, instead of going to work, I went to the racetrack. It was not premeditated. I just did it. The weather forecast had promised rain but there were no clouds anywhere. The sky looked a freshly polished bright blue and as I drove out to the racetrack I felt excited.

       I parked my car and walked through the entrance gate of the Belmont Racetrack. I could not believe how many people were at the racetrack on a weekday. The strange thing was that many of the men looked like Pop. Several men even had the same kind of jacket Pop used to wear. I felt spooked and a little out of place. I was about to leave when someone called out to me, “Hey, how you doing?” It was Arnie. He came up to me, shook my hand and asked, “How have you been? How’s your mother? I meant to stop by. I just don’t seem to find the time to socialize. What’re you doing here?”

       “I thought I’d get a look at horse racing. I’ve never been to a track before.”            
       “Well, I’m glad I ran into you. The horses aren’t so good today, but it’s a pretty day to watch them run. Your Pop would sometimes sit and watch and wouldn’t bet at all.  Said he had to get the ‘feeling’ before he would bet. He wasn’t like some of the guys here who bet on anything, even on how many times they’ll lose during the day.” Arnie was holding betting slips in his hand. He fanned them out and began counting them.

       “How do you bet?” I asked.

       “You fill out one of these slips with the horse and race you want, take it to the window, give them money, then it’s up to the horse. That’s it. Nothing fancy. You got a horse you like?”

       “I don’t know anything about horses. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

       “Well, let’s get your feet wet,” Arnie said. He walked me over to one of the betting windows. He marked a couple forms, placed two twenty dollar bills on top of the forms and slid them through the window. “That’s all there is to it. Now let’s see what these horse can do.”

       We had a couple drinks. After a while I looked at the racing form. “Did Pop have a favorite horse running today?”

       “As a matter of fact, there is one of his favorites running in the ninth race. Her name is Runs Pretty.”

       I looked up the ninth race. Runs Pretty was favored to win. “What makes her so good?” I asked.

       “Your Pop liked her mother and grandfather. So, when Runs Pretty started to race, he went down to the track to get a closer look at her. He said she looked like a winner, that she had what they call the ‘eye of the eagle’.”

       “Pop was really into the horses, wasn’t he?” I said and felt a deep sadness.

       “Why don’t you bet on Runs Pretty? You got plenty of time,” Arnie said. He handed me a betting form. I carefully made my mark so there would be no mistaking what horse I wanted.

       When I finished marking the form, I asked, “How much did Pop usually bet?”

       “He never made any bet more than twenty bucks. Said he didn’t like to lose more than a couple haircuts at a time.  That was his measuring stick, I guess.  We all do something to keep from betting all our money when we come to the track. I’m sure he would have put twenty on Runs Pretty.”

       I took a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet, handed it to the man behind the window. This bet was different from the one I’d made earlier. There was a strange sensation pulsing in my hand as I pushed the betting slip through the window. For a moment I wanted to take the money back. I wanted run form the racetrack even though I could feel myself slipping deeper into Pop’s secret world. I hesitated for a moment and then took the betting stub from the cashier. Arnie watched me. Our eyes met. We said nothing.

       Arnie and I walked out onto the platform to view the track. The day was still bright and the eighth race was just finishing. The other races I had bet on with Arnie’s recommendations had all lost. I had only bet a couple bucks on those races. They had not been very exciting. When the ninth race began I expected to have the same experience.

       Yet, as the horses readied for the ninth race, my heartbeat quicken. I asked Arnie which horse was Runs Pretty. He pointed her out to me, number six. She was a long legged, sleek brown beauty. The other horses were also brown, but there was something different about this horse. She looked majestic and proud, with her head held high. Her shiny coat sparkled in the afternoon sun. I could see why Pop liked this horse. Arnie handed me a pair of binoculars and I took a closer look at her.

       “She’s a beauty, isn’t she,” I said. I did not expect Arnie to answer me. It was as though the words slipped out in a sigh.

       Once the horses were in the starting gate and settled down, a bell sounded. The horses took off with a startling fast gallop. I looked through the binoculars and located number six. Runs Pretty stretched her legs in a stride that demonstrated her power. She was beautiful to watch.

       “Go!  Go!” I said. At first it was like a thought, or a wish for her to win, to win for Pop. Within seconds my voice became louder and I was shouting with the crowd. As she raced down the track with her powerful stride, I found myself screaming, “Go Runs Pretty. Go!” She was magnificent and the louder I shouted, the faster she ran. She was going to win the race. She was a horse length ahead of the rest of the pack, and her power was not letting up. Runs Pretty was not running, she was flying.
       My heart was racing with her. I was breathless as she came into the stretch. The blood pounded in my ears. I shouted as loud as I could.  Runs Petty’s sleek brown body stretched with unbelievable majesty and her powerful strides took her over the finish line, the winner!

       The jockey slowed Runs Pretty to a joyous trot and then he stood up in the stirrups and it looked as though Runs Pretty was dancing for us as we cheered her on. “You were right, Pop,” I thought as I watched her circling the field in a triumphant prance.

       I was exhausted.  It was as though I had run the race myself. 

       “She’s some thriller, isn’t she?” Arnie said. “I’m glad you got to see her perform.”

       We walked to the betting window. Collecting the money from my bet I felt the cold sweat on my back. Arnie gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Well, you did good today, kid. Want to stick around for some more?”

       I shook Arnie’s hand. “No, I think I had enough for one day. Maybe I’ll see you again out here.”

       “Maybe you will,” he responded.
       I walked to the parking lot feeling confused. I was both sad and elated. The sky had begun to turn gray. It looked as though the rain that had been promised would come after all. A chilly breeze ruffled my shirt. I shivered. Goose flesh covered the back of my neck like a collar.  I was alone in the parking lot, yet I felt cramped and crowded, and I was having difficulty breathing. Then tears began to flood my eyes. I had a lump in my throat and I felt as though I wanted to gag.  By the time I reached the car, tears were streaming down my face. I wanted Pop to be with me. I missed him. I no longer cared that he had not told me about his horse racing buddies. I just wanted him with me. I cried for a while, then dried my eyes, put the key into the ignition and started the car. I drove through the parking lot feeling weak and the lump in my throat felt huge as I tried to swallow it down. Then I remembered the beautiful race Runs Pretty had won and I thought, “Pop, you would have been proud of her today.”
       I drove out on to the expressway as the rain began to hit my windshield.

POOR DEVIL

   

                                                        POOR DEVIL

                                                                    BY

                                                       MARGARET MENDEL

            Amy gripped the steering wheel. Her palms were sweaty. The driving wasn’t difficult. The destination was only a couple hours drive north of San Francisco, a pretty straight run up Highway 101. It was the excitement and anticipation of what was yet to come that made her palms sweaty.

            It was dusk. She saw a scant edge of the moon coming up over the top of the trees. Her pulse quickened. Tomorrow would be a mature full moon and a special day, Halloween.            

Exiting onto a gravel road she made a turn at a familiar rundown gas station. A few miles later she took a little known turn-off onto a desolate back road that traveled deeper into the forest.          

            She looked in the rearview mirror. Jeff was still behind her in his beat up Chevy. She thought she’d lost him at one of the junctions. He caught up though and now only disappeared from time to time in the road dust her wheels kicked up.

            At this point she knew Jeff was most likely wondering what he’d gotten himself into. Though he acted like he’d won the lottery when he’d stumbled onto her bakery, The Crescent Moon, about a month ago. That day he was fallowing one of her waitresses who was coming in for the early morning breakfast crowd. Amy recognized his type right away, a sleazy bastard with no-good intentions. He was exactly what she was looking for. That first day he showed up, she gave him a free cup of coffee. The next visit, and she was sure he’d be back, she synched his interest in sticking around, with a free cinnamon roll. That was all she needed to do to keep him coming back. From that day on he came around every day mooching off her generosity.

            She looked down at the odometer. In exactly two miles she’d turn off the old gravel road, maneuvering her Land Rover onto the deeply rutted driveway, just wide enough for her vehicle to negotiate.

            When she turned off the road, Jeff slipped right in behind her.

            Vines, scrub brush and low-slung boughs of pine trees scratched against the side of her Land Rover. It was not the most comfortable part of the drive, though it was the most exciting. Her heart raced when she saw a quickly moving shadow skitter into the deeper forest. She’d been down this road more times than she could count. Though each visit turned out different, it was always rewarding.

            Tonight, along with other goodies, she brought a bottle of expensive handcrafted California whiskey. If Jeff got a little edgy about the location, though she didn’t think he would, this would calm his nerves. Well, that and the light dose of sleeping potion she whipped up and added to the bottle before packing a picnic dinner for them to eat at the campfire tonight.

            The moon now hung above the trees, casting a soft silver light as they drove out into an open field thick with weeds and tall grass. Their headlights streamed out into the open space. A dense forest encircled the field.

            Jeff got out of his car, walked to the driver’s side of Amy’s Land Rover. She opened the door, handed him the basket of food. “So, what do you think? This far enough off the grid for you?”

            “How’d you find this place?”

            “Old friends of the family homesteaded here years ago.”

            “You could do a lot of hollering up here,” Jeff said. “No one would hear a thing.”

            Amy did not flinch. “I reckon,” she responded and then took the bottle of whisky out of the front seat. “There’s a load of dry wood in the back of my car. Why don’t you get a fire started?”

            The night grew damp and chilly by the time Jeff got a roaring campfire going. A thick bank of fog slowly slipped over the trees. It slid down onto the open field, creeping toward them. The fog blotted out the promise of a beautiful moonlit night and the moon now hung in the night sky like a dull smear.

            They set up their tents, Jeff’s a well-worn military type, while Amy’s tent was a bright yellow nylon, water repellent, an expensive item she’d recently purchased.

            Amy opened the food basket. “How about a little dinner?”

            The fog grew so heavy they could hear it falling like raindrops from the leaves in the surrounding forest. She handed Jeff a Brie sandwich on a croissant, a container of cucumber salad with sour cream dill dressing and a giant chocolate chip-oatmeal cookie, a cookie Amy’s bakery made famous years ago.

            Amy uncorked the bottle of white wine then poured them each a glass.

            Jeff took a large bite of his sandwich, downed a gulp of wine, and then said, “So, you’re pretty sure about harvesting mushrooms up here.”

            “I’ve been doing it for years,” she said.

            During the last month, Jeff had told Amy all she needed to know. He was perfect, a nomad, and a loner living off the grid. He made a meager wage following the mushroom season, first going in to Canada early in the spring, traveling down through Washington and Oregon in the middle of summer, ending up in California in late summer and early autumn.     

            It was what he had not told Amy about himself that most intrigued her. She sensed his wicked tread the moment she laid eyes on him. Her waitress picked up on it too.

            The Amy knew there was more to him that his mushroom harvesting lifestyle. When he wasn’t drooling over her waitresses, she caught an evil glint in his eyes. There was an innate anger inside this guy that no kindness could ever wash away. There was a morally bad seed in him that she understood, a devilishness that she could live with, and an immorality that she had been searching for.   

            Amy kept him titillated with her tales of major secret mushroom harvest spots along the northern coastline of the Pacific Ocean. He swallowed her every word and now he was good and hooked. She knew the greedy son-of-a-gun would follow her anywhere.

            “I didn’t want to say anything until now,” Amy said. She leaned over and hoisted up the bottle of whiskey. “Tomorrow is my birthday.”

            “And it’s Halloween,” he said. “I’ll bet you had a lot of fun when you were young.”

            “I still do,” Amy said. She opened the bottle of booze, poured a hefty two-finger portion and handed it to Jeff. “You’re going to help me celebrate this year.”

            “My pleasure,” he said. He took a big swallow, not waiting for Amy to pour a glass for herself. He then hoisted the half empty glass, “Happy Birthday, Amy, and here’s to trick-or-treating!”

            Amy did not pour herself a glass. She secured the lid on the bottle, set it behind her. There was a slight rustling of leaves in the trees near where they were camped. Amy sat perfectly still, the excitement nearly more than she could stand.

            Jeff drank the remainder of the whiskey in his glass. He yawned, stretched, and rubbed his hands together. “I am way too tired to do any more talking.”

            “See you in the morning,” she said.

            It sounded like Jeff tried to respond, though all he managed was a mumbling as he crawled off to his tent. The last Amy saw of him was the tip of a couple fingers when he zipped the tent flap closed.

            The clean up was nothing more than tossing the biodegradable packaging into the fire. Amy crawled into her tent. She waited. Her hair was wet from the fog. She snuggled her icy cold fingers under her armpits. She hadn’t expected to fall asleep and she had no idea what time it was when she awoke and heard something scratch on the other side of the tent near her head. She opened her eyes. It was so dark she could not figure out if her eyes were still closed. At first she thought she might not be awake and that she was dreaming.

            Something brushed against the tent again. The pulse in Amy’s neck beat fiercely. She lay frozen in ecstasy. They were here. They had come. Footsteps circled the tent. The shrill sound of a bird, or perhaps an animal, she could not tell which, called in the distance. Then everything went silent, and she heard footsteps running back into the forest.

            Jeff was sitting on a log when Amy crawled out of her tent in the morning. A pot of coffee bubbled on the open blaze.

            “Morning sleepy head,” he said.

            Amy nodded. She stretched and squatted near the fire. “I don’t eat breakfast,” she said.

            “No problem. Coffee’s enough. I’m pretty anxious to see that mushroom field you told me about.”

            They drank their coffees in silence while the morning fog slowly evaporated. As streaks of sunlight stabbed out through the mist, the temperature warmed. The musky aroma of dry weeds and grass filled the air. A hawk flew overhead. Insects coming to life after the cold, wet night, buzzed near where Amy stood.

            “I want to show you something before we start the gathering,” Amy said. “There’s a small cemetery on this property. It’s been here quite some time. You can hardly see the names carved on the head stones.”

            Jeff followed Amy as she slogged through the dense weeds making a pathway for them to walk. She pointed. “There. See?”

            The headstones slipping sideways in the ground were badly pitted and weatherworn. So overgrown with weeds and vines that the little graveyard would have gone unnoticed had Amy not pointed to it. A small brown bird flitted across the field, sat atop one of the gravestones, nervously fluttering its wings, and then flew away.

            “Your folks?” Jeff asked.

            Amy smiled. She heard the crackle of weeds as the sun dried the dew from the brittle stocks.

            “It’s sure old looking,” Jeff said. “I wonder if anyone remembers them?”

            Amy turned. She walked toward the woods. “I do,” she whispered. A warm swath of sun grazed the back of her neck as she took one step, then another, moving slowly, cautiously out of the sunlight, and into the damp darkness of the forest.

            “How far do we have to go,” Jeff asked.

            “A little ways. It’s not far.”

            Amy brushed aside some undergrowth, stepped over gnarled roots sticking out of the ground, picking up her pace as she neared where the mushrooms were always in bloom.

            “I know some people who’d give their eyeteeth to know about this place,” she said. “It’s just enough off Salt Point Reserve, where everyone clambers to get their allotment of wild mushrooms, that no one would think to come here. But I’ve been here a couple times already this year. There’s going to be a bumper crop. Trust me.”

            In a short while they arrived in an area where the trees thinned out. The ground was covered with ripe heads of mushrooms. The forest was deathly quiet, no bird songs, no sounds of insects, and there was no whispering breeze blowing in the tops of the trees. Amy knew that Jeff paid no attention to this. His only concern now was the harvesting of mushrooms.

            “Told you,” Amy said. “With what people pay for these babies in the Bay Area, you’ll make a killing with this location.”

            Jeff wasted no time. He took out his harvesting knife and began to gather the mushrooms. He called out to Amy, “They’re perfect, ideal for the restaurant trade. From the looks of the way they’re growing, there’ll be even more to come in the next month, hopefully before the colder weather sets in.”

            They had filled several baskets with the luscious beauties when the sky grew dark. Amy heard the nearly imperceptible soft crunch of footsteps on the forest floor.           Feathery plumes of fog drifted down from the tops of the trees.

            Jeff looked up from his harvesting. “I hear something,” he said. “Someone’s singing.”

            “I don’t hear anything,” Amy said. She turned her back to Jeff. She heard the singing. She knew the time was near.

            Fog slowly slid down from the tops of the trees in thick sheets of gray mist.

            “I don’t freak out easily,” Jeff said. “But, this place is giving me the creeps. I thought I saw someone dancing around that tree over there.”

            Amy didn’t say anything. She didn’t move.

            Shadows played in the dimming light. The fog grew denser. The wind in the treetops blew strong.

            Thunder rolled off the Pacific Ocean. Lightening cracked overhead. The large figure of a man stepped from behind a tree. “Who the hell are you?” Jeff snarled. He dropped the basket. Mushrooms scattered across the forest floor. He pointed his harvesting knife at the man. “What do you want?”

            Jeff looked at Amy.

            She smiled. “It’s okay. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

            Fog swirled through the trees. Amy’s eyes turned as black as coal. She opened her mouth. She chanted words from an ancient language.

            Jeff ran, first in one direction and then in another. He was surrounded by shadowy figures emerging from behind the trees, slipping out of the fog, moving closer and closer toward him, and each one with empty eye sockets blindly looking at him. They kept coming, their faces emotionless and haunted. Jeff stood his ground. He lunged his knife at first one shadow and then another. They closed in on him. Amy’s chanting grew louder. Jeff’s arms went limp. They fell to his side. He dropped the knife. His body slumped to the ground. 

            The sky grew dark as midnight. The earth beneath Amy’s feet rumbled with great verbosity. A bolt of lightning struck the ground near where Jeff lay.

            Amy knelt down. She touched Jeff’s temples. The pulse was young, strong and healthy. Amy had made this transition many times. The ancestors would help with conversion as they always did. The old baker’s body was worn out. She suffered from human disease; the seeds of cancer grew in her gut. The body needed to be replaced.

            Jeff’s eyes fluttered open, though he could not see. His vision had been taken away. He would remember nothing. His mind would become, as Amy the baker’s mind had been, a useless aspect of the psyche, a withered appendage no longer needed. His mind would remain dormant while his body became the instrument of a spiritual world he knew nothing about. In the end he would get his mind back, though only when the body was discarded in his old age.

            Amy had slipped into many bodies in the time since she had come into existence. There were never excuses or questions why things were the way they were. Thunder rumbled overhead. Lightening lit the sky. She placed her hand on Jeff’s chest. His heart was strong. There was no turning back. The ground rose up. The ancestors chanted.         Amy took Jeff’s face into her hands; she cradled him to her bosom. “I will be you,” she said. “Though you will not be me.” How many times had she said this to a host who would receive her spirit? She, and her ancestors, who had been released through a gaping crack in the crust of the earth deep in the woods, was united in their effort to join the world. They were entities without bodies, hungry to live. On Halloween, a time when the unthinkable is possible, they floated up from the darkest reaches from inside the earth, from a place that had trapped them before the creation when the universe was still a gaseous mass, drifting wild and angry.

            The ancestors lifted Jeff’s limp body to a standing position. They leaned him against a giant tree. Still in Amy’s body the spirit stood in front of Jeff. There would be no transition without the ancestors; together they pulled the energy from the earth. The ground hissed; steam seeped up through the forest floor, a primal gas, and a vapor smelling of sulfur filled the air.     

            The spirit could feel the dizzying sensation of the changeover. The transition from one body to another was always slightly jarring. Though it had happened so many times that each change amounted to not much more than the blink of an eye. Time was irrelevant. For all the sprit knew it could have taken eons to make the switch. Though one thing was certain, this was the only plot of land that made such a transitions possible. In this hidden spot the spirits became the unruly, raw universe, only here did they have the power to make life new again.

            The spirit loosened itself from the old baker’s body. The ground snapped with an electrical charge. Condensation poured down from the dew-drenched trees. A trembling hand of Amy’s tired, cancer-ridden body reached out; touched Jeff’s chest. His body went rigid. Air rushed into his lungs as though he had been holding his breath. The baker’s knees buckled under her. She slumped to the ground, falling into a deep peaceful sleep.       

            Jeff opened his eyes. He looked down at Amy lying on the ground.

            The spirit remembered luring Amy to this spot with stories of great patches of mushroom and blackberry harvests. Amy was young and vital all those years ago. She had been a good host, though the energy that trickled out was dull and uneventful. The spirit needed a new body and could vigorous, wild energy surging up. The life force was strong.    

            Jeff took a deep breath. He picked up the car keys that had fallen from his trouser pocket. He walked out of the woods, gathered up his camping gear and slipped into the worn seat of his old Chevy. The engine started right away. He would now exist in this body for as long as the flesh would hold to the bones.

            Amy got up from the ground. She thought she must have blacked out. Thankfully she hadn’t hurt herself when she fell. Her joints ached in this damp, foggy weather. Her gripping belly wasn’t feeling so good either. She looked at the mushrooms scattered on the ground around her. Gathering them up, she thought about all the yummy things she could make with them. Perhaps an autumn mushroom pie would be an interesting dish to serve in the bakery. A little savory would be a welcomed change.

            She couldn’t remember how she’d found this desolate place, though instinctively she figured the way back to San Francisco. It was a shame that she chose Halloween to take this long trip because she so enjoyed giving out cookies to the trick-or-treaters. The trip was a good one after all because she was right; the mushroom pies were a big success.

            A week after her mushroom excursion, Amy just didn’t feel like herself. In fact, since she’d returned with the mushrooms, nothing seemed right. She couldn’t remember where she’d put things and had to ask the waitresses every time she needed something. It was as if she had to relearn the old bakery. She couldn’t figure out what in the hell was wrong. Most of all she couldn’t believe how old she’d gotten. She didn’t even recognize herself when she looked in the mirror. “I guess that’s what happens when you get old,” she told a customer early one morning. “The geriatrics catches up with you when you’re not looking.”         

            The business was as good as ever. Some customers seemed to be addicted to her chocolate chip cookies. They could never keep enough on the shelves. The autumn mushroom pies were a big success. Though try as hard as she could, the directions back to that lovely mushroom grove totally alluded her.     

            Several weeks later, a waitress brought in a newspaper. “Looks like that guy you kept giving coffee to a while back is wanted for attacking women.” She handed the paper to Amy.

            Amy looked down at the sketchy drawing of a man on the front page. “Never saw him before in my life,” Amy said.

            The waitress gave Amy a funny look. “You’re kidding, right? Well, I remember him,” the waitress said. “He was always hitting on me. The guy gave me the creeps. Don’t know why you were so good to him. I’m just glad he doesn’t show up here any more.”

            Amy glanced through the long article about this man named Jeffry Brooks, wanted for multiple attacks on women, mostly in the Pacific Northwest. A drifter, he was suspected of perhaps not only attacking woman, but of killing several young females. It seems he’d spent some time in the Bay Area and one of the women he accosted in the Mission District got away. She gave a pretty good description to the police. Amy had no idea what the young waitress was talking about. From the look in that guy’s eyes, Amy wouldn’t have given him the time of day, let alone, dish out free coffee. He certainly looked like trouble.           

            Several days later it was all over the news. Jeffery Brooks had been apprehended in a campground in northern California. The police found weapons, traces of blood on the back seat, crates of fresh picked mushrooms and a bottle of whisky with a hefty portion of a sleeping powder.

            The waitress showed Amy the article. “It was that guy, Jeff. I tried to tell you he was no good. Looks like he’s going to be locked up for a very long time.”

            Amy gazed down at the photo in the newspaper of the wild-eyed, angry young man as he was being apprehended. Her hand twitched. For an instant her mind went blank. There is no death penalty in California, so she knew that if this guy was found guilty, he was most likely going to be locked up for life.

            She didn’t know how to explain it, though something strange about this man kept gnawing at the back of her brain. It might have been the mention of the mushrooms in the article. A shiver crawled up her back when she thought about the traces of human blood in the back seat. Though there was so little time to worry over other peoples’ lives; hers certainly seemed to be getting shorter each day.

            The timer on the oven went off in the back room. Amy stood up. The cookies were ready to come out. She sighed, looked down at the picture of the desperate young man on the front page one last time, then folding the newspaper she mumbled, “Poor devil.”

VENGEANCE IN CADMIUM BLUE

                                                VENGEANCE IN CADMIUM BLUE

                                                                            BY

                                                           MARGARET MENDEL

            Georgia stood at the kitchen window; her hands wrapped around a coffee mug, watching Bill back his motorcycle out of the garage. He had no idea she knew. Dumb as a nail, her husband had only three talents: fixing cars, drinking beer, and trying to get his hands on any female that walked by. But this time he’d gone too far and it would take more than apologies to right this situation.

            She took a sip of coffee and dumped the dregs into the sink. Bill revved up the motorcycle, kicked his bike into gear and drove up the street. Georgia stayed at the window for a short while longer observing the changing hues in the sky as the late summer sun rose over the house across the street knowing that tonight she’d put her plan into motion.

            If it hadn’t been Mary Ann this time, she might have let her husband keep this fling. Bill never stayed long with his girl friends. But everything Mary Ann did recently made perfect sense to her now, and that woman sealed her fate, as far as Georgia was concerned, when she opened her arms to a man who thought he’d turned lying and prowling after women into an art form.

            Georgia removed the breakfast dishes from the table, put them into the sink, and turned off the kitchen light. She remembered how excited she was last year when Mary Ann moved into the area and set up an artist studio in an old farmhouse on the edge of town. A College graduate and touting many gallery exhibitions, Mary Ann impressed everyone and it didn’t take long before a handful of weekend amateur painters signed up for her classes. Georgia had always wanted to learn to paint and she spent most Sunday afternoons now sitting in the sunny backroom of the farmhouse with the rest of the painters learning watercolor techniques. But Georgia’s recent discovery that May Ann was doing some learning of her own with Bill made her realize that this woman needed to be dealt some meanness, too, not just Bill. 

            A little over a week ago, the solution came full-blown to Georgia while she was practicing a painting technique. It was as if the poison from dealing with Bill all these years came rushing up from the bottom of her gut. She felt weak in the knees. Her hands trembled. She put down the paintbrush. Her vision blurred and in that moment she knew exactly what she would do.

            She rustled around in the bottom of her handbag, took out a bubble wrapped package, opened it and removed several empty syringes with long, strong and shiny needles. Her heart raced. She hurried to the pantry where she’d stowed a pair of heavy-duty work gloves, protective goggles she purchased yesterday at the hardware store, Pyrex baking dish, and a handful of rags. She put everything into a plastic bucket and carried it out to the garage.

            The place was a mess. Bill’s workbench on the far wall was cluttered with greasy tools. Spare auto parts scattered across the floor made it nearly impossible to walk without banging her anklebone into something. Dusty spider webs fluttered in the corners.

            A tingle of excitement wiggled up her spine when she saw the pile of car batteries lined up against a wall. She took a few breaths to calm herself then knelt down next to the discarded junk.

            Corrosion spilled across the tops of the batteries like a thick layer of coarse salt. The area smelled of sulfuric acid. She put on the gloves, secured the goggles over her eyes, and cautiously slid a screwdriver under a cap on one of the batteries. She had researched this process on the Internet, and though she hadn’t found anything that fully explained how to do what she intended to do, she knew enough to get the project underway.

            It took only a few minutes to pry off several caps on one of the batteries. She slowly, carefully tipped the battery and turned a flashlight beam into the opening. It was just like the guy on the Internet said. The fluid was there but the inner workings were dark and corroded. She lifted the syringe from the Pyrex baking dish, and though it was awkward wearing the work gloves, she managed to stick the needle of the syringe into the acid and slowly pull back the plunger until she saw fluid oozing into the glass barrel.

            Her hands were as steady as they had ever been and when the syringe was nearly filled, she carefully laid the instrument back into the baking dish and then she lowered the other needle into the dark cavern of the battery, extracting more fluid.

            A slight breeze blew into the open garage door. A car drove passed the house. There was no reason for her to hurry. She could feel her hands were sweating inside the gloves as she cleared away the clutter from one corner of Bill’s workbench. Lifting the baking dish from the floor Georgia placed it on the wooden surface. The glass syringes sparkled in a beam of sunlight that streamed through the only window. The off-colored fluid in the syringes looked harmless and Georgia stood still for a moment admiring her handiwork. Then her heart raced as she reached into her sweater pocket and felt the tubes of watercolor paint; Cadmium Blue, Payne’s Gray, Hooker’s Green, Dark, and a handful of half empty tubes of paint that she’d absconded with from Mary Ann’s work area.

            There was no doubt in her mind what she would do. Her momentary hesitation wasn’t a faltering in her courage, but a time to appreciate what she was about to do.         Mary Ann had brought this on herself, it wasn’t only that she was sneaking around with Bill; it was the way she nagged and embarrassed Georgia in class. At first Georgia thought it felt like a stern master teaching tough lessons. But nothing pleased Mary Ann and though she found fault with every student in the class, she in particular used Georgia’s work as examples of what not to do.

            Georgia put the tubes of paint on the bench and removed the lid of the Cadmium Blue. Carefully holding the tube steady in one hand, she picked up a syringe and carefully inserted the needle into the opening of the tube and slowly pushed the plunger down, releasing a small amount of acid into the paint. She pulled the needle out of the tube of paint. Mary Ann, too busy to buy the paint her self asked Georgia, well, really ordered her to purchase the tubes of paint for her. This was the way things had been going for nearly two months, Mary Ann saying, “Get me this. Get me that.” It was as though shagging Bill had given her ammunition and a reason to be even meaner to Georgia.

            She screwed the lid back onto the blue tube, then removed the lids to the other paint tubes, and gave them each an injection of acid. When she finished there was still a bit of acid remaining in one of the syringes and Georgia gave the Hooker’s Green another dose of the battery acid.

            Mary Ann demanded that the paint be delivered before noon. But knowing how urgently she needed the new paints to finish the canvases that she’d been scheduled to exhibit at a local gallery, Georgia deliberately stalled. She had her own deadline. She needed to pack, though she’d decided long ago what she’d take with her. The bank wouldn’t be open for a couple more hours, but she’d get there early and withdraw what she’d figured was her share of the savings. And then there was the special food to prepare for Bill: a big pot of Irish stew; dense, chewy brownies; and his very favorite, a Key Lime pie.

            The phone rang a little after noon.

            “Where are you? Where’s my paint?” Mary Ann ranted into the answering machine and then hung up.

            Georgia smiled. “They’re right here. Not to worry my dear Mary Ann, I got just what you need.”

            The late afternoon light turned dark and dreary. Gloria watched the six o’clock news and then decided that it was time to deliver the tubes of paint.

            “Where the Hell were you,” Mary Ann said when she opened the door.

            “I had business to take care of. I couldn’t get here any sooner.”

            “You wasted an entire day for me. I swear, Georgia, you have such little regard for other people.”

            Georgia did not apologize and handed over the three new tubes of paint, then said, “Do you mind if I go into the studio? I forgot something the last time I was here.”

            “Hurry up. I have some place to go.”

            “A date?” Georgia asked.

            “Yes.”

            “Someone I know.”

            “Doubt it.” Mary Ann turned her back to Georgia.

            “I’ll be just a minute,” Georgia said and walked to the back of the house where Mary Ann taught her class and had set up her painting studio. Georgia quickly took the half-used tubes of paint from her pocket and dropped them onto the cluster of other paints.

            Mary Ann stood at the door waiting; her tight jeans squeezed in at the waist made her soft stomach bulge over the waistband. In the last couple of months it looked like she’d gotten sloppy about taking care of her grey roots. They needed touching up, and the years of using cheap bleach had left the ends of her hair dry and brittle looking. She was certainly no beauty, and the entitled look on Mary Ann’s face irritated the hell out of Georgia, and made the incident that had changed everything flash across Georgia’s mind. A surge of blood pulsed in her temples. It wasn’t the way Mary Ann criticized her, or the way she blatantly screwed around with Bill, good riddance’s to that old boy, she thought. But, the last straw was what she had done two weeks ago.

            It happened in the middle of a Sunday afternoon lesson. “What the hell are you doing,” Mary Ann shouted from across the room. Bev, the woman who usually sat next to Georgia, looked up startled worried that she had been picked out for criticism. Then Mary Ann stood in back of Georgia, glaring down at her painting. “Some people are just hopeless,” Mary Ann said. Georgia detected a tone of glee in her voice. If Mary Ann had left it at that there might not have been a need to get back at her. But then Mary Ann grabbed a paintbrush and began to smear paint across Georgia’s canvass, using colors that were totally uncalled for, paint that ruined the intent of Georgia’s composition.

            “There,” Mary Ann said. “Isn’t that better? Some folks just don’t have a color sense and, well, I wonder if it’s possible to teach some people to paint.”

            Mary Ann stood in the doorway, the new paint tubes clearly clutched in her hands. Georgia wondered if the tubes of paint felt warm? Would they bulge, perhaps even explode? She sighed disappointed that she wouldn’t be around to see the results of her handiwork.

            Georgia got into her car. A full tank of gas, the trunk of the vehicle packed with clothes and the few possessions she didn’t want to leave behind, her paints, a big wad of money from a joint savings account and Georgia was off on an adventure. She’d given it a lot of thought. Anything she’d left behind could be thrown in the dumpster. She’d even written a congenial note for Bill. At first, she thought she’d just write out in big letters, GO TO HELL. But decided against that. She wanted it to seem as though she was on an impromptu trip to visit her sister. She wanted it to seem natural and she wanted time to get settled before anyone might come looking for her.

            It took Georgia four tanks of gas and seven day to get her to where she wanted to be. She turned off the cell phone and only listened to her messages in the evening when she was bundled up in a motel. The first call came from Bill the night she’d left, asking if she knew when she might return.

            Georgia understood what he was hinting at. “Go for it Bill,” she said after he’d hung up. “You better enjoy yourself while you can, sweetheart.” She couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

            There were no calls for almost four days. Then she listened to a message miles and miles away from her old life. It was Bill. He sounded awful. “Georgia, I need you. I’m sick as a dog. I think I have cancer of the gut. You have to come home. Why don’t you answer you phone? Georgia, are you there? Please.”

            The phone went dead. Georgia turned up the sound on the TV. “Oh, you’re going to survive,” she said. “You idiot. You don’t die from a bellyache.”

            She had no intentions of returning to her old life and she had no idea what lay in front of her. But she’d left enough food dusted with a tasteless laxative powder to keep Bill miserable for quite some time. The sugar, easy to contaminate, was the first food she messed with. The Irish stew and brownies was a no brainer. Then she doctored everything she could think of with orange and lemon flavored laxative powder. And that Key Lime pie, well that, she was particularly proud of. “No, Bill,” she said, “You aren’t going to die. You’re just going to feel like it.”

            It didn’t take Georgia long to settle into a comfortable cottage in a small mountain community near the California-Oregon boarder. Then one evening her curiosity got the best of her and she wondered how things had gone for Mary Ann. There was no reason for her not to call an old friend from the painting class. She opened the address book in her iPhone and called the woman who often sat next to her.

            “Yeah, Bev, it’s me, Georgia,” she said.

            “Where are you?”

            “I needed a vacation, some time away to think. You know how it is.” Georgia had watched this woman cringe every time Mary Ann said something. Frightened and lonely, Georgia knew that this store clerk would still be in the class.

            “Yes, I understand,” Bev said.

            “So, how are things in the class?”

            “It’s just awful what happened to Mary Ann. Did you hear?”

            “No, I’ve been out of town.”

            “Mary Ann developed a terrible skin condition. It got so bad she couldn’t hold a brush in her hands. And then something happened to her canvases. They just disintegrated. They looked so bad the gallery owner took them out of the show. Mary Ann was going to sue them but then she got this skin condition and no one has heard from her since.”

            “That’s awful,” Georgia said and she tried to sound as sympathetic as she could, but knew it probably wasn’t very believable.

            “I miss going to the class,” Bev said. “You coming back any time soon?”

            “Don’t think so,” Georgia replied. “Well, it’s been nice talking with you, Bev. Take care.” She hit the off button and slipped the phone into her jacket pocket.

            Georgia went out onto her small deck where she’d set up an easel and a table for her paints. The light was just right, a late afternoon amber glow washed across the foothills in the distance and there was a hint of a Cadmium Blue in the upper portion of the sky. 

 

           

               

             

                                      

             

             

THE COMPETITION

                                                         THE COMPETITION

                                                                         BY

                                                        MARGARET MENDEL



I put a crime in motion when I heard I wouldn't make it as a runner-up in the piano competition. At first it was only a mental crime.

Losing sucks though and it kept eating at me until I decided to do something about it and a plan came full-blown into my head.

If they hadn't decided to have me turn the pages of sheet music for the remaining contestants I might have just gone off, licked my sorry ass wounds and let it go at that.

But when I got the call from a secretary with what she called the invitation, I knew that it could have only been the brainchild of one person, Philip. This guy has been nothing but a pain in my side since he was admitted into the music program last year.

I saw through him the minute he waltzed into the classroom, expecting everyone to treat him like he was a genius on a keyboard. I couldn't believe how anyone with an ounce of common sense could swallow his line of bullshit. Yet, it didn't take long before all my friends were following him around like they were puppies.

Philip was probably the richest kid in the program. Most of the students were well off with parents who were lawyers, doctors or worked in the financial world. I was the odd man out. I was the lucky son-of-a-bitch with talent but no money. My status in the program was scholarship student. No one else worked but me and I scrapped together spending money working part time as the I-Phone and app go-to-guy in an electronic store. But Philip not only dressed and acted like an entitled brat, he smelled rich.

Then there was the matter of Philip's fragile health. Diabetes. And after only being in the music program for a couple of weeks, people who I thought had normal intelligence were looking after Philip like he was an invalid, fetching him lunch on rainy days so that he didn't have to go out into the bad weather and running errands for him during his practice sessions.

The biggest joke was that he wore an insulin pump that contained his medication hooked to his belt. It looked like an old time beeper and he got off on showing people the damned thing. He'd lift his shirt and the girls would all go, "Euuuwwww," and then turn away. What made the thing repulsive was that one end of a thin plastic tube was attached to the pump while the other end of the tube was inserted into his belly and secured in place with adhesive tape.

I didn't take any interest in Philip's health issue until I learned that an I-Phone app regulated his insulin pump. Now, that I found fascinating. He said his diabetes, Type 1, was difficult to regulate, and because he needed to take five to seven and some times more shots of insulin a day, that this apparatus attached to his belt delivered the doses of medication that he needed to keep him from going into shock. He called it his artificial pancreas.

He was constantly fiddling with the I Phone app to adjust the insulin pump on his belt, fine-tuning his intake of glucose and insulin, especially when he was eating a candy bar. He'd put the cell phone on the table and let everyone watch the numbers and graphs scroll across the iPhone screen displaying the magical delivery of drugs to his system.

Often he'd leave the I Phone on a table and walk away, not because he trusted that the students wouldn't steal the thing, but he left it there thinking it would be entertaining. Then he'd come back grinning, pick up the I Phone and head off to class.

A miserable darkness hung over me after I'd been eliminated from the competition. I was angry and the only thing I could think about was striking back at someone and the more I thought about it, the more I focused my rage on Philip.

Until Philip came along I was pretty much seen as the wonder kid, rising up from the slums, with a missing dad and a natural musical ability. I knew everyone saw me as a novelty. That didn't bother me. I felt special. But with Philip it was different. Even at lunch the way he said, "Pass the salt," the tone in his voice, the impatient outstretched hand, made me feel like he was destined to always be top dog.

I Googled diabetes and learned that Philip probably ate enough sugar and carbs just while he was in school to make him sick every day of the week. But he defended his candy bar and greasy burger diet by saying that he could eat pretty much anything that he wanted because the I Phone and the insulin pump on his belt regulated the sugar and carbohydrates.

For a guy who claimed to have everything under control, he sure played the drama queen with his daily dizzy spells. And then there were the angry outbursts that he blamed on a sugar imbalance. He'd bang on the table when he made a mistake in class and then storm out of the room, or he'd curse at the person sitting next to him. Everyone forgave him this bad behavior explaining it away as the imbalance of insulin and sugar in his blood.

The biggest joke was when he came to school looking ghostly pale, but I swear his pallor was due to make-up because his skin had an unmistakable pasty theatrical look. I thought that if this guy wasn't a mental case, he sure as hell was a master of manipulation.

I wondered how long Philip could keep up this game. Though after a year it didn't look like anyone was getting tired of playing nursemaid or making excuses for him. Even as the competition drew near, I thought surely everyone would begin spending more time practicing and less time catering to Philip. Fat chance, the closer we got to the competition the more Philip needed looking after and the less time my friends spent rehearsing.

I felt sorry for the students who swallowed Philip's lies and that's what they were; lies, all lies. As the saying goes, know your enemies and though Philip wasn't exactly an enemy he sure as hell wasn't a friend of mine. Philip knew I had his number, too. In the beginning he tried to buy my friendship with special concert tickets. He brought me little gifts, delicacies to eat but when that didn't work he stopped trying. The next thing I knew he maneuvered me out of what used to be my circle of friends, friends who used to text me all the time, people I got deals for at the electronic store.

This competition, a school-sponsored affair, runs for several days and I didn't consider turning sheet music a consolation prize for being one of the first out of the running. The reality is that all the students but one will end up losers.

But, I knew who was going to win. He knew it, too. Had his teeth whitened for the big day and even got a manicure. Not only were Philip's fingers going to sparkle as they romped across the keyboard, now he was going to have a glittering smile to die for.

Yeah, I'd put my money on Philip to make it into first place. He's been pulling all the right strings, kissing up to the instructors, and even in a subtle way he intimidated the stronger competitors. The other day I saw him consoling Gabi, a brilliant pianist but a pretty delicately balanced student who does a lot of crying. I heard him telling her not to worry, that she'd do just fine if she focused more on having fun and not worrying about the outcome. How very Zen of him, I thought.

Gabi and Philip thought they were alone. The chilling look in Philip's eyes unnerved me. He reached a hand out to her, whispered something in Gabi's ear. She put her head on his shoulder. He kissed her gently on the cheek, and when he saw that I was standing in the doorway, his eyes cut a mean triumphant glint in my direction.

The competition is for the graduating class and is part of our final exam. There are no bad musicians in the program but the judge's ears scanning for mistakes will eliminate a contestant for the slightest imperfection, if the rhythm is off, or if there is a slip of a finger, a pinky striking a chord out of sequence. I know where I fouled up. I could have done better but in my excitement I rushed the middle section.

By the time we reached the last day with only six competitors remaining, I was still turning the sheet music. I was expected to stand perfectly still while the musicians took their bows, then follow behind as they headed back stage.

Philip was scheduled to perform next to last after the intermission. And just before he made his appearance I heard a commotion back stage, a loud bang and excited talking.

I stood stone-faced next to the baby grand piano, waiting for Philip to make his entrance. Finally he showed up. He looked as confident as ever though there was something about his body language, stiffness in his neck and I could see from the hard jaw line that he was clamping his teeth tightly together.

The piano bench was too high and he spent more than the normal amount of time adjusting it before he sat down. He slipped the sheet music onto the stand and rather than having the first page of music already for him to play, I had to flip past the introduction pages before he had the beginning of the sonata in front of him.

As usual Philip dressed casually. He wore dark trousers and a loose fitting silver silk shirt that shimmered in the glow of the overhead lights. He took a deep breath, lowered his head and then ever so slowly placed his hands on the keyboard, though he did not strike a chord. It was one of those breathless moments staged by concert pianists to prepare the listener. It's a trick to make the audience think that they are listening before they hear a single note.

Philip played quite beautifully, displaying the same dramatic showmanship that had become his trademark, arching his back periodically and raising his face skyward seeming to seek music from the heavens.

Then half way through the sonata, sweat began to form on his temples. He raised one hand, the fingers trembling slightly, but he executed the next string of chords with perfect timing. He still had more than half of the sonata to finish and the sweat dripped from his temples, running down the sides of his face. Several drops dangled momentarily on his chin before dribbling down his neck and onto the collar of his silk shirt. His fingers raced across the keys hitting every note flawlessly but now instead of sitting with arched back, he slumped over the piano, nearly brushing his nose against the ivory keys.

I kept up with him, turning the pages without him having to say a word or make any indication, and though his body began to tremble as if he were chilled, the music could not have been any more perfect.

And then he leaned forward, and turning his head in my direction, I could see his dark eyes were frighteningly glazed over and feverish. They looked so strangely lifeless that if I did not know better I would have thought he had gone blind.

I wondered if I should do something; perhaps even stop him from playing. He blinked, shook his head furiously, flinging droplets of sweat across the keyboard and onto my hands and shirt. But, he kept playing, playing. His face had gone deathly pale, while his hands flew across the keys with more majesty than I have ever heard.

Then when we reached the final page he looked at me and a frighteningly sardonic smile came onto his face. His newly polished teeth glistened, his face now nearly green with fatigue and ill health, yet he played the last line of notes as beautifully as if he'd been given a gift from the gods.

Mercifully the sonata was finished. For a brief moment he slumped forward and while the last note hung in the air, in one graceful gesture Philip slipped from the piano bench and fell to the floor.
The audience totally dumbfounded clearly did not know what to do. Some people applauded while others gasped. The stage manager, one of the judges and a couple of teachers rushed onto the stage. Lying half under the piano Philip was pulled and dragged out into the middle of the floor, lifeless, soaked in perspiration.

Several large men from the audience helped carry Philip back stage where the nervous energy ran wild. No one knew what to do, though someone had the sense to call 911. The remaining contestant, Ruth, a solidly build German, looked totally bewildered. One of the judges stepped back onto the stage, assured the audience that everything was under control and introduced the final musician.

Ruth walked to the piano, and though I've heard her play many times, I had no idea how she would do after all this excitement. Actually I didn't know how I would make it through this last performance. I could not concentrate, the image of Philip's last minutes at the piano kept flashing across my mind, and I couldn't help but wonder if he was laughing at me.

Thankfully the competition ended, and as I suspected, Philip took first place. Though he remained in a coma for several days, I think the school worried that they might have been awarding the first prize to a dead guy.

But Philip pulled through and it didn't take long before he was back in the practice room pounding away on the piano keys. He and I never talked about that last performance. We passed in the hall, brushed against each other in the auditorium but we never said as much as 'scuse me'.

I secured a teaching position and a seat in the Chicago Philharmonic and made plans to leave New York right after the spring commencement. I heard Philip was heading to the LA area. Several other students were considering going with him. That last week of school, though no one had said anything until then, there was some whispering about what had happened that last day of the competition.

It was just as well that I made plans to leave the area. My dislike for Philip had pushed me to a place I thought I could never go. Now everything reminded me of what I had done.

I don't know if I thought harming Philip would make me a better musician. But, I do remember thinking during the intermission on that last day of the competition, as I watched him eat several hand-rolled truffles from an anonymous admirer, that all my troubles would be fixed if only I could slip his I Phone into my pocket. Then it happened as though it was supposed to be. Philip trotted off to converse with one the judges, leaving the I Phone unattended.

I'm not a natural thief. Any way, I never thought I was until that last day of the competition when I found myself in the bathroom, Philip's I Phone in my hands. At first, I fiddled with the thing, I had to hurry, there wasn't much time, and then I found it, his pancreas app. My hands were sweating like crazy and it was difficult slipping my finger across the I Phone screen, making adjustments, ignoring the warning that kept blinking on the cell phone.

The stage manager called my name. The intermission was over and I had to go on the stage before the next musician. I quickly scrolled across the app and then shut it down. I came out of the bathroom, and bending over the table, pretending to grab a truffle, I let the I Phone casually slip onto the table and then I hurried out onto the stage and waited. Waited for Philip to make his appearance.