Touched

October 1st, 1935. Brown, curling maple leaves swirled across the stone path ahead of Father Eric Brock as he approached the home of Father Dwight Hoffman on the edge of town. The white house seemed lost in the gray sky beyond it, like a single leaf blown on the wind until it disappeared altogether. Sturdy maples stood bare around it, like gray, naked skeletons. Children’s laughter floated on the wind, tickling Eric’s ear and sparking a smile that came all too rarely these days, so rarely his cheeks ached as he watched the little boys tossing a brown ball back and forth in the middle of the gravel street. It’s a different town in a different state, but I could swear it’s the same one I grew up in. He stepped carefully over cracks in the walk where weeds sprouted like a bum’s beard. He wrinkled his brow. And I’ve seen an awful lot of those. Poverty lay all around these days. He’d seen it in the streets of Chicago, seen it creeping like spiders up the walls of buildings as old as the city and oozing into the gutter like filth.

A black weathervane shaped like a rooster spun haphazardly in all directions on the roof, as though confused as to which direction to take. It squeaked like a frightened mouse, testifying to its many years of use. Multiple white envelopes lay stuffed in the open jaws of a broken, tilting mailbox beside the door, most of them about the size of get-well cards. Eric took a deep breath and rapped on the door, half-expecting no one would answer. There was a quiet shuffling and muffled pounding from inside and the door slowly creaked open.

A woman stood there, her back bent as though she’d carried the weight of the world until it had slowly slipped off her shoulders. Her hair was bound tightly atop her head, openly defying the short haircuts which had become so popular. She pointed her finger at him, and it shook like a tiny branch in a gale. She peered at him through squinted hazel eyes.

“You Father Eric?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Eh?”

“Yes, I am.” Eric said, bending and raising his voice.

“It’s a good thing ya’ got here. Father Hoffman doesn’t have much time left, bless his heart. Come in.” She opened the door wider.

“Thank you.” Eric stepped into the warmth which washed over his body like hot, soothing bath water. He unbuttoned his black wool coat, handed her his black felt fedora, and looked around, bag in his hand. A few pictures on the walls, all of them faded and their wooden frames chipped at the corners, a table with only two chairs, no tablecloth and a red couch ridden with holes beside a black, pot-bellied iron woodstove, its pipe sticking into the ceiling. A kitchenette lay opposite these; bare cupboards, and a pump over the sink instead of a faucet. Laundry hung from a line outside the window above it, fluttering in the breeze like so many flags. Two white socks, one pair of gray slacks, one pair of white underwear, one white shirt. Eric frowned. One. One. One. Probably the story of Father Hoffman’s personal life. And mine.

“This way, Father.” The woman shuffled and waddled like a duck ahead of him towards an open doorway.

Hollow steps marked Eric’s path into the bedroom. The scent of kerosene stung his nose as he stepped into the golden light, which shone on a lone figure in his bed. Thin and pale, he reminded Eric of the last page of a book about to turn, and his life seemed to wane with the fading lamplight. With hawk-like features and gray hair, he looked like a deposed monarch condemned to die in a pauper’s bed. Eric sat in a cherry oak chair beside the bed and waited for Father Hoffman to speak. His breathing slowed. Had the aged priest already passed?

Father Eric tentatively placed his hand on the man’s forearm, resisting the urge to recoil from his cool flesh. “Father?”

The cadaver’s eyes opened, slowly, and found their way to Eric’s smooth, youthful face. “Oh, so you’ve come!” He croaked, sounding like a frog with a sore throat. His smile shook, as fragile as his body.

Father Eric sighed. “Yes, Father. The Diocese sent me as soon as he received your letter. He’s very sorry to lose you, and he wishes he could’ve come himself, but….” Eric stopped, and his eyes fell. It all sounded so stilted, so rehearsed. The man was dying. “I’m sorry, too. They briefed me on your service, how you’ve benefited this community, and lived an exemplary Christian life. But the Diocese also told me,” he tilted his head, eyeing the father down his curved nose, “that you both grew up here, in Spring Meadow, and that you used to stick toads down his pants and sing “My Darling Clementine” so much you drove him crazy!”

That same, fleeting smile came and passed again. “He always hated that song! And it was so popular when we were young.” Father Hoffman’s eyes searched Eric’s, as though he was reading the secret pages of a new novel. “So, a handsome, strapping young man like you, has chosen the church as his place in life, eh?”

“I like to think that God chose my calling long before I could have.”

“Well, the Diocese must know what he’s doing, sending you here out of all the others.”

“The Diocese sent me, yes. But, honestly,” Eric’s eyes fell, then rose, “I volunteered.”

“So, this isn’t the most desirable Parrish in Minnesota, eh?” Father Hoffman’s laughter sounded more like a struggle for breath.

“No. I don’t suppose it is.”

“Then why did you choose it?”

Father Eric bit his lip. “I felt lost at the mission in Chicago. But I was born in a small town, just like this one.” His eyes drifted to the window. “And I feel I might have something to offer here.”

“And what do you offer Spring Meadow, young man?”

“The Word of God.”

Father Hoffman nodded. “Centuries ago, the Church forbade the common people from reading the scriptures. It is still widely discouraged today. Ours is not a new movement, but it certainly is gaining more ground than in all the centuries combined. I’m proud you’ll carry on in my place.” His eyes closed, his chest heaved slowly up and down, like a bellows.

Father Eric swallowed. He’d held back, but had he lied? “Father,”

Hoffman’s eyes remained closed.

“Father, do you feel…fulfilled?”

“I’ve run my race, and I’m about to take hold of the prize for which Christ has taken hold of me. Yes, I am fulfilled.”

Eric’s eyes shifted, and he licked his lips. His heart rate quickened. “Yes, but…do you have any…regrets?”

Father Hoffman’s eyes opened and then closed again, tightly, as though something pained him. “Every man regrets.”

“Yes, but what is yours?”

“Lead me in the last rites, Father Eric.”

Eric’s cheeks grew hot, like he was sitting right in front of the stove in the dining room. But was it from impatience, or shame? “Of course.” He rose, extending his open hand upward, downward and side to side. “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell, but most of all because they offend you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. I believe in God, the Father almighty, Creator of heaven and earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord. He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. He descended into Hell. On the third day he rose again. He ascended into Heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen.”

“Amen.”

Eric reached into his bag and pulled out a shining, golden vial of holy oil. He uncorked it, dousing Father Hoffman’s forehead with his fingertips.

“Our Father who art in heaven,” Father Hoffman began, his voice weakening with each word, as though exhausted from running a race against time. “Hallowed be Thy Name.” Eric’s smooth voice joined his, a strange contrast to the raspy tones of his predecessor, almost as though it was an echo of the voice of Father Hoffman’s younger self. “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”

Father Hoffman’s eyelids lowered like the final curtain of a stage play.

“Father, please,” Eric’s mouth went dry as a desert, “I must know.”

“My-my….” Father Hoffman faltered, motioning with his finger towards his nightstand. A tattered, black Bible lay there, beside the lamp. Eric grabbed it and gently placed it on Father Hoffman’s almost motionless chest. Father Hoffman clutched it and his rosary with his paper white, trembling hands, his jaw slackening as he gasped for breath.

“Father…?” Eric furrowed his brow and placed his soft right hand atop Father Hoffman’s rough, bumpy hands.

“Wa…watch….” Father Hoffman gasped, trembling.

A rattling, gurgling sound came from Father Hoffman’s throat, raising the hair on Eric’s neck. Was he dead? His chest no longer rose and fell, and no warmth came from his open mouth. Eric touched his own trembling fingers to his forehead, shoulders and lips, his blood running cold, as though he’d stepped into a brisk Chicago wind in December, only to find himself alone on the streets. He reached over and turned the metal handle which doused the lamp and sat there, darkness and confusion shrouding him like a thick fog.

Watch? What on earth does that mean? Did he give me a clue to what he regretted, or did he simply admonish me to watch for the Lord’s return? Eric wiped his hand down his face, resting it over his mouth. He’d found no answers, only more questions.

____________________________________________________________

Two days later….

Sara Lawrence squirmed on the worn, hole ridden leather seat of her uncle’s green 1920 Chevrolet pickup, only to bump her aunt’s taut side with her elbow.

“Be still, Sara!” Her aunt scolded, sitting straight as a board and rearranging her skirts for the tenth time. Her bearing and temperament evoked images of a queen exiled from her distant throne, doomed to live among country riff raff for the rest of her mortal days. Her nose drooped as though reaching down to scratch her lip, which had grown thin as paper with age, and her skin was as pale and wrinkled as bread dough. A broad brimmed black hat, with mounds of black and white striped ribbon on its elevated crown, rested above brown eyes as narrow and watchful as a hawk’s. Her black dress and gloves suited her current bleak attitude, like an undertaker’s coat to a mortician.

“Sorry.” Sara looked out the window and rolled her eyes. Why did Aunt Hildred have to tag along with she and Uncle Jack when they went into town? When she stayed home, Uncle Jack would let Sara drive sometimes, when she felt up to it, and even walk around Spring Meadow all by herself while he bought feed and groceries. Then, they’d window shop all along main street together, just like when she was a child. Fond memories painted a smile on her face like an artist capturing the beauty of the past on canvas. Then, reality washed it away, like watercolors in a sudden summer rain. Her life hadn’t changed at all. She still lived like a child, depended on her family like a child. But I’m not a child anymore. Am I?

“We’re almost there, doll!” Uncle Jack glanced her way, his icy blue eyes bright as the fine, dove-feather prematurely white hair atop his head. His face sagged around the jaws a little, as if father time himself tugged on his ivory skin. But his grin fought back, those bleached teeth Sara could’ve sworn he’d stolen from a few dozen oysters, and he became the same young man she remembered from her childhood. He put his gray news boy hat on his head, his chin held high as though it was a crown and whistled the tune to Cole Porter’s hit jazz song “Let’s Do It” shamelessly, his lips puckered as though he’d tasted a persimmon as sour as Aunt Hildred’s disposition. Sara smiled.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to sing, whistle, nor hum those sinful atrocities you hear on the radio!” Aunt Hildred said, her narrow eyes mere slits. “You’ll poison Sara’s mind! Songs like that are of the devil. They’re made only to draw young folk away from the Lord with their own passions.”

Sara drew her legs closer together beneath her pine green skirt and hugged her upper body, her eyes shifting, darting, stinging. Passions. Why did she have to use that word? Don’t think about it. Just don’t think about it. She stuck her head out the window, letting the damp, mud scented spring air wash over her face. Green shoots of grass sprang up everywhere in a flat, endless sea of brown all around. Scattered farms lay in the distance like beacons left by a far-off civilization, reminders that life existed beyond the walls of her home, beyond the ever-watchful eye of her Aunt. And beyond them lay the horizon, full of dreams and promise, touching the sky and daring humanity to do the same. The eager light danced in puddles along the road, their spray sparkling like diamonds in midair when met by the wheels of the truck. A robin flew by her window, chirping as if to say; “Hello! I’m back! Remember me?” Sara smiled, her lengthy tresses, as red as the robin’s breast, blowing freely behind her. Shafts of white sunlight chased away the fleeing clouds to dive into her amber eyes and to kiss each freckle which lightly dusted her porcelain nose like sprinkles on a cupcake.

Spring Meadow swallowed the countryside in an instant, replaced with a couple dozen paint chipped, wind worn buildings which stood as unwavering as her aunt, refusing to change with the times until they one day collapsed or blew away on the wind like so much dust. They huddled together, like emperor penguins in the arctic, supporting one another for decades against the fiercest winter winds southern Minnesota had to offer. But they held a rustic beauty, too, like cherished heirlooms passed on to the next generation, telling stories of the past once as exciting to her as any tale of The Great War her uncle might spin.

Rust red bricks held the towns money secure in the State Bank building across from Main Street Grocery in the center of town. The grocery store’s gray false front rose with vain pride to the blue and white sky. People filtered in and out, like ants returning to the hill with their catches and leaving just as quickly with their food, in this case carried in brown paper bags on the arms of busy, flustered matrons. The Five and Ten, Siskow Drug, Bennet’s Clothing and Yard Goods, the gas station, all lined up in a row beside it. Hornung’s Hardware Store, on the opposite side of the street, cast a long shadow on Sara and her family as the truck pulled to a stop in front of it. Goosebumps rose on the skin beneath her black and white striped blouse and green wool cardigan as she stepped into the shadow. She rubbed her arms and bounced up and down on her toes, the heels of her faded brown shoes clicking against the pavement.

“I’m going to the post office, Uncle Jack.” She said, watching out of the corner of her eye as the white, rectangular mail truck, long as a hearse, parked along the curb on the other side of the street.

“Still waiting for that letter, huh?” He stepped onto the sidewalk, gripping the black suspenders of his brown trousers close to the breast of his powder blue shirt.

She nodded, gripping her purse strings tightly, a school of fish swimming in her stomach. I shouldn’t be nervous. My book’s good. I know it is. Billings will publish it.

“Go on ahead, then. I’ll be in the hardware store.”

“Okay!” She kissed his smooth cheek and ran across the street as though all her dreams awaited her there.

“Wait, Sara!” Aunt Hildred shouted behind her.

“Aw, go on with your shopping, Hildy!”

Sara smirked and pumped her arms even faster. Uncle Jack would pay for his defiance later, they both would. But it felt great right now.

HONK!

Sara jumped onto the sidewalk, trembling, her heart racing like a thoroughbred at the track. A red, 1934 Cadillac convertible with its beige top down screeched to a halt not more than three feet from her.

“Hey! Watch it, lady!” A gravelly voice shouted, grating on Sara’s ears like sandpaper.

The gray hair, the thick mustache, and the brown pin-striped suit. It was him. Walt Knudson. The wealthiest farmer in Rower county had almost killed her!

“Sorry, Mr. Knudson!”

A smile replaced his frown, but Sara couldn’t decide which was worse. “No harm done. Maybe we’ll bump into one another again sometime!” His eyes fed on her form like a parasite. He drove away, his car’s engine roaring down the street.

“Maybe not.” She mumbled, tugging on her cardigan and stomping towards the mail truck, exhaust fumes stinging her nose.

The delivery man hefted a square package onto the sidewalk and wiped his skull with a snow- white handkerchief from his pocket.

“Anything for me, Joe?” Sara looked up. Light reflected off his head like sun on a windshield.

“I think there is, as a matter of fact.” He scratched his ear. “Hold on….” He reached into a white mailbag in the back of the truck. “Here it is! What’s inside? A fashion magazine?” He handed it to her.

She read the return address and all the oxygen left her lungs. Billings Publishing, Minneapolis.

“Miss? Is everything all right?” Joe tossed the mailbag over the shoulder of his gray uniform.

Slowly, she peeled back the corner of the brown paper wrapping, revealing her manuscript and a note. Instantly, she crumpled the note in her fist and threw it on the sidewalk.

We regret to inform you that your manuscript, Forever, is not up to our current standards for publication, but we wish you luck in your future endeavors.

Sincerely,

Billings Publishing.

Those words echoed like a sorcerer’s curse in her head as she walked along the sidewalk, the people and cars passing like phantoms and she a dreamer trapped in slow motion, unable to join the world of the living. She dropped the book. It landed silent as a whisper at her feet. And she kept walking.

Two children, a blonde boy and girl about six, pressed their faces against the wide window of Siskow Drug. The boys’ black slacks were frayed in the legs and filled with holes, and the girl’s faded blue dress barely reached her knees. Sara stopped and reached into her brown velvet purse, searching with her fingers until cool metal touched her skin. One dime. She held it before her face. Unlike my dreams, theirs require so little money to come true. “Here.” She held it out to them. They turned, tilting their pale heads. “Have some candy on me, okay?” She squatted and placed the dime in the girl’s hand. “But you must promise to share.”

“We will!” The kids shouted, chittering like chipmunks and running into the store.

“Thank you so much!” A woman approached her, her brown hair cut short, combed flat and curled close to her ears. Her smooth skin only wrinkled with her smile. Her husband stood beside her grinning, though Sara had to crane her neck to see it. The couple followed their children inside, quickly, as though to hide the tears in their eyes.

A tiny smile curled Sara’s lips, then died just as quickly, like a rose in the desert. She walked a little farther, turned a corner and sat on a bench, it’s white paint chipping. She crossed her arms and shivered in the shadow of a naked maple. The Church of Our Savior watched her like God from across the street, it’s tan and white bricks piled into a tower at the front of the rectangular structure, holding a stairway to a bell tower, above which stood a pinnacle which ended in a white cross, starkly outlined against the blue sky.

“What am I supposed to do?” She squinted in the blinding sunlight. “I can’t go on like this.”

“Excuse me,” A man stood beside her. He wore a black wool coat and felt fedora and held his collar closed with one hand, his other held her manuscript. His voice was as sultry as a movie stars, and his brown eyes shone like melted chocolate as he smiled. Crinkles appeared beside them, as though he smiled often. “I believe this belongs to you.”

“Thank you.” Her body heated up from the inside out, like she’d swallowed a mouthful of hot cocoa without letting it cool first.

He tilted his head and looked into her eyes. “Looks like someone worked very hard on it.”

She looked away. “It’s nothing. Four years of nothing. I should’ve thrown it in the trash.”

“Never throw a gift away. God gives them to all of us for a reason.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and squeezed, like they were old friends. “You’ll find it. Just keep searching.” He walked away, his footsteps growing fainter and fainter, like a distant memory. One she didn’t want to lose. She watched him, her brows furrowed, her heart pounding enough to burst.

“Sara! How about some ice cream?”

Jack waved at her from the corner. She looked away and rolled her eyes. “Sure, Uncle Jack.” That’ll help a lot. She rose, clutching her manuscript to her chest, her eyes glued on the stranger’s form. “Sure.” She turned and dropped her eyes on the sidewalk. There were a million things I could’ve said to him. Why didn’t I?

___________________________________________________________

Jack Anderson plodded down the hall with a kerosene lamp in his hand, the scent of roast ham and potatoes, remnants of the evening meal, following him like a stray dog to his wife’s bedroom door. He held his hand up to knock, stopping when déjà vu whispered in his ear, a ghost of the night before and of the night before. Thousands of ghosts of thousands of other nights, laughing at him. He shook his head and knocked twice.

“Hold on! I’m not decent.”

He strummed his fingers on the doorpost, his head tilting against it. “I’m not getting any younger, Hildy.”

“Alright, come in!” She snapped.

He opened the door and stepped inside. “Just thought I’d say goodnight.”

“You could’ve said that without opening the door.” She tied her robe securely at the waist, her back to him.

“Most men don’t have to knock on their wives’ doors before they come in. Most wives don’t have their own separate rooms either, come to think of it.” He spoke as though he were talking about something as inconsequential and impersonal as the weather. Sarcasm’s a tool I acquired to stay alive. He thought, staring at her.

“Goodnight, Jack.” Hildred slammed her brush onto the table, threw back the covers and sat in bed, her Bible beside her on her nightstand. Her room was as stark as she was, with her dresser the only other piece of furniture inside.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Anderson.” Jack inclined his head as though she were royalty and closed the door behind him. Why did I even say anything? He yanked his bedroom door open, scowling, then stopped. Tired light crawled out from below Sara’s door along with murmurs. He smirked and walked towards it, the lamplight chasing away the shadows like angels expelling demons of the night. He delayed knocking for a moment, his heart rate quickening. But why? It’s only Sara.

He knocked twice.

“Come in.” A muffled voice said.

He turned the doorknob and stepped inside the dark room. White, flowered wallpaper clung to the walls like constant reminders of Sara’s childhood. A cherry oak vanity and stool stood on one side of the room; Sara’s bed, bookshelf and cherry oak dresser on the other. Her bedspread was white and flowered to match the walls, and a rectangular wooden radio, curved at the top, sat on her nightstand beside her bed. She lay there under the covers, propped on her elbow, staring blankly at the wall as though she wasn’t even hearing the program.

Bang!

Pow!

“Oh, John, I knew you’d come for me!” A woman on the radio cried.

“Nothing in heaven or earth could’ve kept me away, Mary!”

“But, how did you know?”

“Simple. Once I got the milkman to spill, as it were, finding you was easy as pie.”

Jack rolled his eyes. How corny could those radio dramas get?

“Oh, John! Kiss me, you fool!”

Sara grabbed one of the three dials and turned the volume down, quickly, frowning.

“Something wrong, doll?”

“No! Why should anything be wrong? I love being a failure.” She folded her arms and her lips, avoiding his gaze.

“You’re not a failure.”

“Oh, really? I’m twenty-five. I have no job, no friends, and no chance at a writing career. And I’m not a failure?”

“Is that all that bothers you?”

She looked away. Jack put the lamp down on the nightstand and sat beside her, his hand resting near her legs. “Hey, kid, everything will be alright. I asked around for you. Mrs. Shelby at the Five and Ten needs a cashier. You could give that a try.”

“Oh, sure!” Sara rolled her eyes. Light shone in them, like evening sunlight on a pond. “I should get fired in about two weeks if it goes as well as my cooking job at the diner.”

“Hm,” Jack tilted his head, eyes squinted, “more like two and a half.”

“I’m not as smart as other people, Uncle Jack. The only thing I can do well is create stories. Now if only I could write them.”

“You’re smart enough. You keep trying. And I’ll walk into Henning’s Book Store one day and buy a whole stack of novels with your name on the side in gold lettering. Sara Lawrence,” he waved his hand, “the smartest, prettiest girl in Minnesota.”

“Gee!” She rolled her eyes. “Still giving your little niece pep talks, huh?”

“You’d never have learned how to ride a bicycle without them.”

A reluctant smile curled her cherry lips. “Or build snowmen.”

“Right!” He took her hand. His eyes fell. “Sara,”

“Hm?”

“Who was that man you met in town?” He raised his eyes, his mouth growing dry. Had he any right to ask? Of course, he did. She was his niece. But, still….

She shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t say his name. He just handed me the book and walked away. I’ve never seen him before.”

Jack threw back his head, inhaling and exhaling. The musky scent of her perfume filled him as he inhaled, warming him inside like a fire.

“I can’t imagine why someone as handsome as him stopped to talk with me.”

He widened his eyes as though he’d stuck his finger in an electric socket. “I can!”

“Stop it!” She laughed, smacking him in the arm. “Anyway, he told me not to give up on my gift. I suppose if some stranger believes in me, I should believe in myself.”

“That’s the spirit!” He squeezed her shoulder. “Now, give me a kiss.”

She sat up and wrapped her arms around his neck, her lips pressing against his like warm honey. Gooseflesh tickled his skin. Her breath heated his face as he slowly lowered her upper body back onto the bed, his own upper body hovering over hers.

“Goodnight, Uncle Jack.”

“Goodnight, doll.” His chest heaved, eyes falling. He grabbed the lamp and left like a recovering alcoholic fleeing a bar, and half-closed the door behind him. He watched as Sara rolled over and pulled the covers up over her bare shoulders. He closed the door, but he still saw her in his mind, lying there alone. He folded his full lips. Why don’t I want to leave?

Jack sat in bed later that night, head in his hands. A black and white picture of he and his air force squadron, part of the 27th division of the II Corps Aerial Expeditionary Force, hung on the wall opposite his bed. They stood on a runway, arms on each other’s shoulders, in front of his green and gray SPAD XIII open cockpit plane, smiling like they’d win the war all on their own. Jack grinned. Hildy’s brother, Frank Lawrence, stood right beside him, laughing that know-it-all laugh he’d had since he was valedictorian and star football player at Spring Meadow High. Medals hung on either side of the photograph, covered in dust like ancient relics. The air force Medal of Valor and the Purple Heart. Icons of another time, another life. And a much younger man.

He doused the lamp and lay back, hands beneath his head, and closed his eyes.

November 11th, 1918

Jack’s fighter plane, The Jazz, tilted into the wind, and the sun glistened in Jack’s goggles, stinging his eyes. The raped, gray northeastern French countryside below dwarfed in comparison to the endless blue sky, like a muddy pond beside the ocean. Jagged rocks jutted from stern mountains, reaching up as though to impale he and his wingman, Frank, who flew on his left. Smoldering, skeletal remains of the once lush trees of the Argonne forest reached for them, as though begging for mercy, or perhaps retribution, for their violated ground. The 27th and the 30th divisions of the II Corps A.E.F, under British command, flew like avenging archangels towards the German front.

BOOM!

Jack scowled as yet another American plane tailspinned in a deadly nosedive and exploded upon impact like a comet touching the earth. German anti-aircraft artillery, planted like poisonous, metal weeds in the trenches, hammered an unending barrage of fire into the sky. Jack pulled hard on the controls and banked to the left, his dizzy stomach tilting with the plane. The smoky sky erupted in mocking firecrackers all around. Jack narrowed his eyes and swallowed boiling, hateful bile. If we don’t take out those guns, we’ll all be nothing but the fireworks for a Central Powers victory parade in Berlin. We’ve already lost twenty planes today! He looked at Frank and jabbed his leather-gloved finger downward. Frank nodded. Jack grinned and nodded back. Those guns had to go.

He dived like a peregrine swooping down after its prey, firing a volley of bullets. Frank did the same, flying in tandem with his old friend. German infantry troops fell like tin ducks in a shooting gallery. Jack targeted the first anti-aircraft gun in his crosshairs and fired, vibrating with each spray as though he would shoot out of the cockpit. Mud flew in the air like water from a geyser. Jack squinted. He couldn’t see through it! He turned the plane around and smiled. That gun was finished, and its gunner lay sprawled beside it like a limp ragdoll. Frank swooped by and pointed at the second gun. It smoldered like the dying landscape.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The other two guns met a similar fate

“Woohoo!” Frank howled, close enough that Jack could hear him even in the thundering din.

Allied planes, ground troops, tanks and horseman advanced like a flock of deadly eagles, a pack of ravenous wolves and a herd of proud elephants, all fighting for the same goal. Freedom from tyranny.

“Yeeehaaaaw!” Jack shouted, smiling and laughing until his cheeks and sides ached. He swooped upward, his stomach lurching as though he rode the rapids of a river in the sky. He closed his eyes, just for half a second and breathed in, out. Everything seemed to freeze like a photograph in that instant of truth and clarity. This was what life was all about. Not the farm. Not Hildy. Flying with his best friend by his side for a cause bigger than everything put together. He twirled The Jazz downward as though he would crash and then swooped upward, so low he could’ve taken off the heads of a few of the Kaiser’s bucket-headed cronies if he’d been close enough to their lines. Frank gave him a thumbs up. He returned it.

Two German Albatros D. IX planes swooped down out of the sky like green hawks ready to gorge themselves on American flesh. Jack pointed to them and Frank nodded. Jack banked left and fired, gritting his teeth as the volley flew. One German plane nosedived, violently belching smoke and flame. Jack pulled back on the stick, his stomach flipping backward with the plane as he rose higher, higher; his fingers freezing, adrenaline surging through his veins like wildfire as the wind kissed his face like icy death. He leveled off, his eyes darting in every direction. Where was the other German? Where was Frank?

Boom!

His plane shook, caught in its own private earthquake, and light flashed, blinding him. A burning sensation hit his arm, as though someone held a hot iron to it. His plane dropped out of the sky like a falling star. Jack yanked on the controls, banking upward. He wouldn’t land nose first. But he’d still crash. Jack maneuvered his plane into a relatively flat, open area away from either side of the conflict, and braced himself. His children’s sad eyes flashed like lightning before his mind’s eye. And Sara’s hopeful, trusting face. Then, he saw copper-headed Frank hugging her close before leaving for training. Jack closed his eyes as the ground climbed like an ocean wave to meet him.

Frank.

Will she see either of us again?

Crash!

The world went black as though a grudging eclipse had blocked the sun. Jack blinked, his own unsteady breathing drowning out the cries and thunder of war. Blurry images of bloody battle solidified into a living nightmare. He looked around. The raging, exploding battlefield lay a few hundred yards from his position. Screams flew like pointed darts through the air. Smoke exuded from his plane’s engine like Native American smoke signals. Jack unbuckled his chest restraints and winced. His arm stung like it would never stop aching and blood leaked from his wound like water from a rusted pipe. He hefted himself out of the plane, groaning and gripping his arm. He landed on his side beside it and pushed himself up, ignoring the sickening nausea spinning his head like a merry-go-round and the stinging smoke in his polluted nostrils.

He scanned the skies like a sailor in search of the north star. He swallowed. Only an avenging vulture appeared. The other German plane swooped down. Bullets pelted the ground like hail. Jack dove out of the way, landing in the bitter mud near the deadly cliff his plane rested on.

BOOM!

His plane took a hit, exploding like a Fourth of July firecracker. The German plane veered back towards Jack, it’s haunting, earsplitting hum like a death bell’s toll. Jack started to run, gripping his burning arm and willing his stiff legs to move across the rocky ground and through the maze of black, stick trees.

Where’s Frank? Where….

HUMMMMMMM!

A plane with red, white and blue on its tail and a proud bald eagle painted on its side broke through the smoky fog, headed straight for the enemy plane.

Jack braced himself against a dead tree and grinned. “That’s my pal! Give em’ the axe, Frank!”

A sound like two machine guns firing rang out from both directions as Frank and the enemy pilot fired on each other. It sounded like a tommy gun battle in a gangster film. They missed and passed one another like dueling birds. Then, they veered around for another pass. They fired again. A deadly boom shook Jack’s bones harder than the cannon fire which shook the earth and mountains. Jack’s breath caught in his throat. Frank’s plane went down. Down to the rocky ground below the cliff.

Jack’s heart skipped a beat. He ran back towards the cliff, the German plane a distant memory as it soared back into the fray of battle, now ignoring Jack like a bug that really didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

Jack stared down at the smoky carcass of Frank’s fighter, disorienting vertigo gripping him like a sudden illness and a choking lump in his throat. He shook his head, sweat dripping down his ashen forehead and into his stinging, watery eyes.

This isn’t happening. No. No. No.

He scowled, his blood boiling like a hot spring.

It couldn’t have happened. But it had.

“Frank!!!!!” He screamed. His deep, heart-rending cry echoed against the cliffsides and shook his body like a quake.

Jack’s eyes shot open and he gripped his right arm. Rain pelted the windowpane like rocks and lightning illuminated his trophies as thunder rattled the house, shaking his bed.

“I’m sorry, Sara.” He stroked his arm. It ached like it had been shot yesterday. “Sorry I didn’t shoot that dang kraut dead.”

____________________________________________________________

Sara opened her bedroom door, looked, listened. Only darkness met her eyes in the hall, and the only sounds were the distant thunder and her own rapid breathing. She closed the door again, quietly, and scurried into her bed, her bare feet shuffling against the splintered wood. She pulled the wrinkled covers up over her head and took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Passion flamed images spread like wildfire through her mind. Why does this have to happen?

She knew the answer.

“God forgive me.” She whispered, a school of fish swimming up and down her veins. She’d said it so many times before. But what if she never changed? What if God never forgave? Why wasn’t she like everybody else?

______________________________________________________

Father Eric walked up to the checkout counter of Main Street Grocery, a red basket on his arm.

“Is that all, young man? Uh, I mean, father?” The manager blushed like a violet. Black hair clung to the back of his head, like it was hanging on for dear life lest it suffer the fate of its predecessors. Kind wrinkles crawled from the corners of his eyes like a labyrinth of gopher trails and a lopsided, the customer is sometimes right grin parted his narrow lips.

“It’s all right,” Father Eric set the basket on the counter, smiling, “I suppose I’m a little less conspicuous without my frock.”

“Well, maybe. But the collar gave you away.” He pointed his finger at it. “Let’s see; dozen eggs, eighteen cents. Bran flakes; ten cents. Bread; five cents—” He tapped each price out on the keys of the brown, wooden cash register.

Crash!

“What in blazes was that!” The manager swore, looking towards the back of the store. “Sorry, father, excuse me. But if that new kid’s broken something again….” He squeezed through the three-foot space between the counter and the wall and bounced his way to the back of the store.

Father Eric strummed his fingers on the splintery counter, smirking, and glanced around, leaning against it. Jars filled to the brim with rainbow colored gum drops, licorice, sour balls lined two oak shelves behind the counter. Eric’s mouth watered like he was a six-year-old again. A calendar hung on the wall above the shelves, decorated with a drawn portrait of a young woman in a red bathing suit lying on her side, her hand on her sizable thigh. Her skin was milky white, her lips painted ruby red, her legs, hips and breasts voluptuous. His eyes climbed every inch of her body until they came to her flame red hair, cut short and curled. His heart pounded against his chest, sweat forming on his hands. She looks just like the girl I talked to the other day. So beautiful. So…tempting. I kissed a few girls when I was a boy. But I wonder what it’s like to—.

“Stop it!” He gritted his teeth and looked away.

“Sorry about that, father. I understand it might offend you a bit.” The manager returned and jabbed his thumb at the calendar. “But we laymen aren’t made of steel like you fellows. Why don’t we just make it two-fifty, with the rest.” He sniffed, holding his palm out.

“What?”

“Two-fifty.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Father Eric reached into the pocket of his gray trousers and counted out the money in his hand. “Two-fifty.” He handed bills and jingling change to the manager. Eric shifted his eyes and his feet like a man contemplating robbing the store. Sweat trickled down his back like a rainstorm inside his shirt. Does he know what I was thinking?

“Thank you, father…?”

“Eric. Father Eric Brock. And you?”

“Norman Stein. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Father Eric shook his meaty hand, grabbed his bags, and left, barely noticing the elbow of another customer in his side or even his ear-ache inspiring apology. He kept walking, his footsteps drowned out by the thunder, like the laughter of Satan, jeering, telling him he’d seen his lustful glance. A woman, about the age of the aspiring author, bumped into him. She wore a blue dress and matching scarf over her short, Claudette Colbert hairdo. Revealing lighting illuminated her painted, porcelain doll-like features.

“Golly gee! I’m awful sorry, father!”

Father Eric’s heart pounded like a judge’s gavel in his ears, almost as though condemning him for feeling. Innocent attraction, but still it was there, like a predator waiting to pounce and swallow him whole if he let it. He turned his back on her sorrowful eyes and started jogging down the vacant street, lightning casting ghostly shadows of the trees onto the road ahead of him, their branches like arms reaching out to scoop him up. He ran headlong into them, panting.

Wet gravel crunched beneath his shoes. Father Hoffman’s parsonage lay ahead, beckoning to him like a new friend, one whose ability to shelter and comfort had yet to be proven. But it was all he had. He ran inside and slammed the door shut just as the gossiping rain whispered down the walls. He put his things away and trudged into his new bedroom, his footsteps heavy. The freshly cleaned floor shone like bronze in sunlight. He set the lamp on the nightstand. Then, he knelt, made the sign of the cross, and bowed his head, his hands folded, shaking, on the bed.

“My God, forgive me, I pray. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He licked his lips and furrowed his brow, pressing folded hands against his nose. “I love You, and I honor my vows. Please, please give me the strength to keep them. In Jesus’ Name, amen.”

Thunder crashed again. Father Eric undressed, blew out the lamp, and crawled under the covers, clutching his pillow. Tomorrow would be a better day.

Right?