Live & Learn By Cara Swann Five short stories about living and learning from life's lessons. Features women characters struggling with modern-day issues. Index Of Short Stories Shadows: A young woman learns something important about her new marriage Homeless Hannah: A young man scorns an old bag-lady, unaware of her real identity Evergreen: A dying novelist reflects on her life Loved One: A young woman finds that burial rituals sometimes conflict with needs of the living Circle Of Friends: A woman learns the hard way not to fall for the wrong man SHADOWS Another bleak, dreary morning. The month of February could be so gray, so dim. A slight shadow from day's dawning crept beneath the windowshade and ran slender threads of light across the patchwork quilt, gradually illuminating the couple lying peacefully in sleep. The old four-poster bed was cozy and, as on previous mornings, the two were deep in slumber, oblivious to the new day. Slowly, as though emerging from a fathomless dream, Belinda turned her head and opening her eyes, glanced at the now vivid shadows of light dancing across the multi-colored quilt. Soon, she knew, the alarm would sound, the harsh buzz stirring Johnny to wakefulness. Almost always she awakened before the alarm and enjoyed the silent space to think and reflect as she watched the light shadows. It was a precious time to her -- listening to Johnny's rhythmic breathing, snuggling close to his warmth, and savoring the comfort of their love. All so beautiful until a few weeks ago when the doubts began to creep into her thoughts! Ah, those nagging little doubts -- better put them aside for this morning lest she become depressed again. Impulsively, Belinda abandoned the bed and slipped into the living room. She looked around the familiar scene -- two glasses half empty of soft drink, overflowing ashtrays, the TV flickering with the sound off. Everything was exactly as they'd left it last night, their heated argument interrupting the movie they'd been halfheartedly watching. Johnny's angry words echoed in her memory: "Belinda, for the last time, I need some space to be alone sometimes! To have my own interests!" He'd then stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. As she stood there silently contemplating that painful parting, she couldn't help wondering if this was the end? What did this mean about their love? Was it over? Was the romance gone? Why did Johnny insist on time alone instead of enjoying the exclusive togetherness they'd shared? In the one year of their marriage, neither had ever expressed the desire for privacy, other outside interests. She thought they both cherished their love as a special, sacred bond, so all-consuming that nothing could intrude into this euphoric realm. Ah, but now... it was changing, their relationship fragile and strained, tension and worry always shadowing them. Johnny was awake now, beginning his usual routine: a shower, a shave and quick cup of coffee before leaving for work. Belinda dutifully began the coffee perking, put two cups on the kitchen table. The small apartment was suddenly almost like a prison, confining -- not the tiny haven she'd once thought it to be. When Johnny came into the room, his blue eyes had a sheepish, wary look but the wistful grin and good morning kiss he gave her seemed to indicate he wasn't still angry. And she felt relieved, glad last night's heated words had not kept him away more than an hour. He sat down, sipped his coffee, staring at her solemnly and then said, "Hey Belinda, I never want us to argue again like last night. Uh, I said stuff I didn't mean..." "Oh? Then you don't really need space?" She leaned forward, thinking how this could make everything all right. But his face clouded, and he stiffened as he stated flatly, "No, I still need space. I just want you to understand we both need space sometimes...other interests, privacy... to be individuals." Belinda felt as if a knife was twisting in her heart; he hadn't changed his mind, he still wanted to get away from her! Their love was dying and there was nothing she could do to save it! Why, why was this happening? Johnny finished his toast, took the last sip of coffee, stood, then bent to give her a light kiss on her cheek. "See you this afternoon." And then he was gone, dismissing her as if she'd accepted his demands for 'space'! The door closed behind him and she felt despair settle over her --and she suddenly had to get out of the cramped apartment. She grabbed her coat from the closet, slipped it on and went out into the gray morning, thinking she needed to find a job; maybe all this free time wasn't good for her? At least when she worked in the insurance office, the days were busy, full of activity. The past year without employment had been nice, she'd enjoyed her freedom...but now, the idea of long, boring days ahead seemed like a long stint in solitary confinement. Driving along the streets of the small town, Belinda became aware of the dank, spiritless wintry landscape; the early morning sun had disappeared, and thick low clouds spit out a drizzly rain...tall, thin treelimbs naked and stark. The gray landscape only added to her already dark mood; she drove aimlessly, thinking she could visit friends, drop in on her mother but somehow those diversions didn't appeal to her today. Finally, Belinda decided she'd go back to the apartment, try to come up with a plan for finding an office job. As she drove along the street, she saw the corner market and pulled in, remembering they needed some milk. The young girl behind the counter was cheerful, smiling brightly and commenting, "Looks like rain again, doesn't it? Belinda was too self-absorbed to reply, only nodding and starting out the door, her head lowered, mind spinning with worry. But just as she exited, she saw a small gray bird flying in blindly toward the plate-glass window, hitting it with force and falling limply to the sidewalk. She stopped, momentarily stunned at the wild flight and savage end to the bird's life. Quickly, she went to see if it was indeed dead...but as she got closer, she realized the bird was only stunned, in shock yet breathing and had its eyes open. Since no one else was around, she scooped up the tiny bird, holding it in her hand -- the feeling of fragile life so precious, so tenuous. Back in the car, she gently put the bird on the seat beside her, thinking it might not live. But if she could get it home, put it in a quiet, safe place, it might get better, recover fully. Or she could call someone, ask for help -- maybe a Vet could offer advice, even see it if necessary. The bird was utterly still, its eyes wide with a strange fear; she kept watching it, one eye on the street as she drove back to the apartment. Then she picked it up, felt is body tremble, a sure sign it was alive, and hurried inside. Gently, Belinda lay the bird on the sofa, hurrying into the bedroom, wondering if she had an empty shoebox , which would make a good secure place for it to recover. As she opened the closet door, Belinda heard a fluttering sound from the living room, and spun around, hurrying back to find the bird flying around wildly in the open living room; it was going in circles, darting up and down, frantic to flee. Obviously, it had regained consciousness and was in danger of hitting a wall, so she grabbed up a towel from where Johnny had left it, thinking she'd toss it over the bird, capture it before it killed itself. But no matter how close she got, the bird eluded her; it flew into the kitchen, round and round, disorientated. Belinda stood still at last, watching as the bird flung itself toward the window; then spun away, diving under the doorframe and soaring into the bedroom, hitting a window and then flying through the room, back into the living room. She took up her pursuit again, but soon realized it was futile: the more she pursued it, the more elusive it became. Exhausted and discouraged, she slumped down on the sofa, watching the bird come to a crashing halt as it hit the wall, fell to the floor where it lay breathing hard. How stupid she'd been, Belinda chided herself; she shouldn't have captured the bird, brought it here. Yet she'd been honestly trying to help the bird, rescue it...to save it, protect it, let it recover. But the bird needed freedom to survive, and captivity would kill it. As she saw the bird moving, preparing for another attempt at escape, Belinda suddenly had one of those odd, piercing insights that sometimes come when you aren't even concentrating on solving your problems. She suddenly understood what Johnny had been trying to tell her: He needed some freedom, she needed freedom; they both needed freedom to grow and develop as individuals, apart as well as together. To confine their love, to capture each other in a tight enclosed circle without other outlets, would suffocate and smother them both. Their relationship would die as surely as the bird would die if trapped, limited, confined. Oh how wrong she'd been, Belinda thought! Johnny wasn't trying to end their love, he was only seeking to expand their horizons as individuals -- and this very personal growth would sustain and enrich their relationship as the years unfolded. What a mistake she'd made in doubting their love! Belinda saw the bird lift off the floor, and she got up, opened the living room door wide.... giving the bird its freedom, its chance to survive. And as the flutter of wings beat against the winter wind, Belinda stood and watched the bird soar into the misty morning --free at last. -The End- HOMELESS HANNAH Daniel Connor dashed through the rain-soaked dusk in cold January gloom, upset by the sudden downpour; he feared he'd miss the bus, but as he slipped inside the dingy cement-blocked building, he saw others still waiting impatiently. A few older, weary-looking men, the town winos, were probably loitering, but several women were obviously ready to board the next bus. He asked at the ticket counter, was told the bus had been delayed north of town, so he sat down on an empty wooden bench -- a torture device used as a church pew in a previous incarnation. Squirming around uncomfortably, he managed to position his duffel-bag as an impromptu leg rest, then searched his pockets, took out a handkerchief and wiped his damp face. How he hated these dreary bus rides back to college, he reflected, looking around at the unsavory group clustered near the doorway. The bus station had a reputation of being a temporary shelter for the homeless, and he never failed to encounter an odd assortment of misfits here. They were a sad yet repulsive sight; and, hoping to avoid any further contact, he removed a paperback book from his bag and began reading. * * * * * Mad Hannah cursed loudly as she shoved through the bus station doorway, ramming headlong into Curtis, knocking him sideways as she fell into the welcoming warmth of the room. Damn, it was cold out there, near freezing and she hoped she could sneak into the restroom, hide out for the night. Curtis had recovered, indignantly clutching his tattered coat tightly to his skinny chest, declaring, "Jesus, Hannah, you could kill a body with that shove, and phew! that sour smell!" "You should talk, you old drunk! You stink worse than..." Just then Hannah caught sight of a young man staring at her with a repugnant frown; his thin lips were curled slightly, his nose tilted upward as if he smelled something foul. She thought about telling him off too, but as he shifted his eyes away from her, she saw his profile...and suddenly, Hannah was aware of who this young man was. She'd known him a long, long time but he didn't know her. Curtis belched loudly, leaned into Hannah's face, "You got any good stuff in that there paper sack, huh Hannah?" She shoved him aside, eased along the edge of the room, her back to the cement wall, eyes never leaving the young man's face. He was so handsome, so healthy...and she was in awe of his arrogant attitude; he looked above all this filth and degradation in the bus station. Haughty, that's what he seemed to her. Hannah clutched the paper sack against her, guarding it with her life: It held all her meager possessions and she would never part with it. In that sack, she had the only remains of a past long gone, a personal history that was better forgotten. Except for one bright memory. * * * * * Daniel saw the old hag, Mad Hannah, looking at him with unfocused, glassy eyes; he'd heard all the rumors about her being crazy, dangerous. In fact, his dad said that Hannah had drifted to their small town after leaving Birmingham, where she'd lived on the streets, a mean, violent existence. If she'd lived like that, she had to be highly volatile, a sick, disturbed woman. He wondered why they didn't put these folks in mental institutions? All that ACLU-liberal-bleeding-hearts prattle put crazies out on the streets, Daniel thought, shaking his head and turning away from her gaze, trying to read the open pages before him. * * * * * Hannah approached him from behind, her lips moving silently in a litany of indecipherable words...whispering to herself: "I knew it was you, I knew it was you...my one bright memory, I got proof in my bag...I know you." * * * * * Daniel whipped his head around, smelling the rank, sour scent before the woman touched him, saw her hand reaching out shakily. He jumped to his feet, backing away, unable to prevent a scowl of disgust from crossing his face; she probably had AIDS, and might even bite him if she got hold of him! He grabbed up his bag, exclaimed, "Lady, back off!" * * * * * Hannah nearly collapsed, feeling almost faint with an intense moment of brilliant clarity: Her own son was afraid of her, disgusted by the very sight of her! She slumped down onto the bench, her head falling forward limply as several women came forward, one asking if she was okay? * * * * * Daniel went to stand near the doorway, looking back only briefly at the wretched middle-age homeless woman. He'd never understand how a person got in her shape, but figured it was certainly their own fault. Besides, his parents always told him that, being adopted, he shouldn't feel sorry for less fortunate people. Hadn't they sought solutions for being unable to have a child? Hadn't they found him, adopted him, learned to accept there were always alternatives to giving up? * * * * * Hannah felt confusion creeping into her mind again, clouding her thoughts...but for just one instant, as she looked up to see the young man heading out the doorway to the waiting bus, she knew with perfect clarity that she'd done the right thing all those long, long years ago in giving him up for adoption. Her son, that's who that young man was...or was he? It was all so frustrating now, and she tried to remember why she'd come here, if she was looking for her son or if she was just tired of living on city streets in Birmingham... -The End- EVERGREEN Carrie Holms had lived an unconventional life--especially for a lady born in 1900. But today, a fine autumn day when sunlight shimmered through scarlet, golden leaves in the trees, she was dying, and she knew it. A nurse sat in a chair nearby, reading; the room was eerily quiet, only a shuffle of the pages being turned. Carrie looked around, her eyesight not sharp, but still good enough to make out treasured objects beyond the canopied poster bed, glistening mahogany of an antique chest, wardrobe and dresser, the rare, valuable paintings on walls; awards for her work--novels shelved in order of publication in a bookcase, and a wicker stand with framed photos of cherished people. "Miss Holms, are you ready for an injection?" Carrie looked at the young, pert nurse, her beauty and freshness accentuated by a crisp white uniform. Briefly she remembered her own youth, the casual way she'd taken it all for granted, never appreciative of those fleeting moments. "Miss Holms?" Carrie managed to whisper, "No, not now. I feel comfortable." "Fine, but if you need something for pain, don't hesitate to ask, okay?" "Yes," Carrie murmured, adding, "please leave me alone for the afternoon dear?" "But I'm supposed to stay here just in case..." the nurse began. "Please dear, I just want to lie here and look out the windows, think about my past..." Carrie reached a hand for the girl's arm. "Please?" A warm clasp of hands, and the girl nodded. "I'll be just outside the door if you need me." Carrie sighed, watching her go out the door, softly closing it behind her. She felt she might never see the girl again, for in her very soul the life was ebbing gently away and she wanted these last hours alone to reflect. Closing her eyes, Carrie thought how fortunate she had been to live for ninety years on this earth and have had such a full, rich life. Regrets? Maybe a few: that she'd never had any children, that perhaps she'd devoted herself to writing, blindly ignoring family, conventional lifestyles and opting instead for the wanderlust and fulfillment of a successful career as a novelist. True, there had never been a marriage either, and Carrie had often caught a furtive look of pity on strangers' faces when she'd signed autographs, but they didn't know how she had lived, how she'd loved and been loved in return. These precious memories now came calling like a sharp scent of evergeen on a winter morning, and Carrie followed the beckoning of yesterday willingly... Carrie's first love, that innocent spark of attraction, was a boy who lived on a neighboring farm; the difference between them was nothing when they were together. Carrie's father, a lawyer, had owned over five-hundred acres, and she'd been told how prominent they were in the rural north Alabama community. When she announced she planned to date Andrew Jeddings, her mother was aghast. Andrew Jeddings was the original misfit, undisciplined and poor, but he was tall, darkly handsome, possessing an animal magnetism that Carrie could not resist at sixteen. He'd ride to the far field on his black horse, and she'd mount behind him; off they would go on a secret rendezvous, spending stolen, wickedly delightful moments in the piney woods, cool in summer on a bed of moss beside a gurgling creek. She had meekly protested his advances at first, but then began to think it was natural, right to be with Andy--he was so ardent, so persistent and she was curious to a fault. When Carrie told Andy she was leaving for college, ending their two-year affair, he was heartbroken. He'd asked her repeatedly to marry, but Carrie couldn't do that. In her heart, she'd realized her destiny was to be a creative writer, and the school teachers who'd encouraged her talent were not to be betrayed. Remembering now, Carrie could hear Andy's plea, "I love you Carrie! Dammit, you can't go to Tuscaloosa, to that university! Some other boy will steal you away, see how pretty you are." "I must Andy," she had soothed, stroking his dark wavy hair, fearing it would be the end of their relationship. "You're so beautiful, my pretty, sweet Carrie with your thick black hair, those wide wonderful blue eyes. Carrie, I'd move a mountain with a teaspoon to get to you," Andrew had said. Carrie opened her eyes now, looking out the bay window at the fluttering, falling leaves and wished she'd used that last line in a novel...but never had, out of respect for what it had meant to her alone to hear that expression of love from Andrew. It was one of the beloved last memories inside her heart on this, her dying day. Inevitably, Andy had married another, and Carrie had attended the University of Alabama, graduated with honors and had several short stories published in popular mainstream magazines. During those college days, there had been Darren Kendall, another love, but not as intense or ardent. He was blond, thin and physically unlike Andrew in every way. They'd met the first year, both freshmen, and discovered their mutual desire to become writers. Inseparable companions, they studied together and had fun together; they partied, wined and dined and read poetry by candlelight into the wee hours of the morning. Darren was introspective, quiet by nature, but he had finally declared his love during their senior year. Carrie had been surprised, but secretly pleased for she'd loved him all along. The last quarter, they'd talked about making love, danced around the issue and had still not taken the leap by graduation. But that summer, Darren told Carrie he was going to Paris to study; she was eager to accompany him, but not as his wife, as he suggested. So they went as lovers, making love for the first time aboard the ship crossing the ocean. It had been slow and easy, very gentle, not at all like the wild, unbridled passion she and Andrew shared. Both their parents had agreed to support them for one year; if, at the end of that time, neither had published, they were on their own financially. In Paris, they took a flat and began writing in earnest; Darren also attending classes. Carrie diligently wrote a novel, shunning the appealing attractions outside their very door, except for impromptu gatherings of writers at a cafe to discuss craft. A select group of friends, later very successful and critically acclaimed, helped refine her efforts. The roaring twenties were underway, and Carrie hit the market perfectly with a hilarious account of two scandalous lovers tossing convention to the winds in her novel; it sold outrageously--and made her an overnight sensation. However, Darren's novel was too serious, too literary for popular tastes; he did publish, but it died in the first printing. Although Carrie remained loyal to Darren, his ego suffered and she saw that their relationship was suffocating them both. When she finally got the courage to tell him she was going back to the states, alone, he broke down and cried, "Carrie, my god, I want to marry you! You can't leave me, you can't! "Darren," she had calmly told him, "if I don't, you'll always resent me. We are different kinds of writers. You will always compare your work to mine." He craddled his head in his hands, saying, "If only you'd stay with me, someday I'd give you with world." And now, as Carrie lay quietly in the dim, close room, she recalled those words with a stab in her heart; how beautiful and simple they were, yet how deeply they expressed Darren's love. They'd parted, and later Darren had won awards for his literary merit, serious and noteworthy, but never as popular as her work. And she'd never seen him again, for she'd instinctively known her destiny was not with one man. During the depression years, Carrie had moved to south Alabama and bought an old ante-bellum home in an isolated area near the Mobile Bay. She had the house restored to perfection, and enjoyed her solitary walks through the high-ceilinged rooms, the cool hardwood floor underneath her bare feet in summer. Her novels continued to sell, and she worked feverishly, saw her family occasionally and tried to be content without a lover. When she turned thirty-five, Carrie was to attend a party in New York for her latest successful novel. Her agent and publisher had insisted she be escorted by a man they wanted her to meet, Kevin Lind. It was near Christmas, Carrie reflected, and the snowstorm struck without warning: Kevin had come to her hotel room, but they'd never made it to the party. Her exact age, Kevin was a doctor, tall and redheaded, with the most magnificently green eyes she'd ever seen--he exuded masculinity and kept her mind alert with his astounding intelligence. Thus, it had begun; and they'd traveled back and forth, seeing one another often. But Kevin was married, and had two small children; whatever else Carrie was, she could not be a homewrecker. Although the affair had been tragic and doomed, they nevertheless felt compelled to spend time together when possible. Often that spring and summer Kevin came to her home, and they went sailing or swimming or just stayed indoors making love over and over. He was an insatiable lover, and met her own passionate demands; she felt at the peak of her sexuality with him. Kevin would lie beside her, and whisper huskily, "Those long, long legs, you could drive a man wild with your looks, Carrie." And she'd smile, knowing her mature beauty was stunning--the luxuriant raven hair, the bronse tanned skin, the feel of her healthy body beneath his like a poem of breathtaking wonder. He'd always said, "You like fine things, silk and satin, lace and mink...but darling, if I could only be yours, if we could marry, material things wouldn't matter." Carrie would put a finger over his mouth, and say softly, "Yes but it's not meant to be." The afternoon light was fading as Carrie looked toward the bay window, remembering that when the end came for her and Kevin, it hurt worse than the others. He'd told her that his wife was about to leave him, that she didn't know about Carrie specifically, but strongly suspected there was another woman. His last words still rang in Carrie's ears: "I know it has to end, but oh darling, I'd run every step of the way from New York to Alabama to be with you. If only it wasn't for my family, my obligations..." Carrie wiped away a tear, and then thought of her forties--a time she felt her attractiveness slipping slowly away, losing it to the thief of time. But then just when she'd decided romance was out of the question forever, Carrie had met Joseph Mitchell; he was a young reporter who came to interview her for an article. It was an instanteous attraction, even though he was only twenty-five and she was forty-five; they'd chatted formally, and he'd asked for some photos later. When he returned to her home that night, she'd devilishly tempted him by wearing a revealing outfit: he'd been awkward, shy and that boyishness had touched her, as well as his offbeat sense of humor. Joe was not handsome in the conventional sense, but he had a rugged, athletic appeal, brown curly hair and penetrating brown eyes she found irresistible. He was sweetly romantic, and courted her like a lovestruck schoolboy, bringing candy and flowers (with funny notes inside), treating her the way a lady wants to be treated. When they made love, Carrie felt like she'd been ready for this innocent, tender, funny man-boy; he was gentle and yet an accomplished, sensual lover. For two years, they kept up a steady affair, seeing each other regularly --for picnics, boat outings on the bay, trips to New York or abroad. Although he never lived with her, Carrie almost felt married to him for they saw each other constantly. It ended of course because Joe wanted to marry, have children. Carrie had her work--her only child, only marriage. He'd been hurt, cut to the core, but when they said goodbye, he told her, "Carrie Holms, you're the lady of life. I'll never forget you. I only wish we'd met long ago..." "Don't," she told him, looking into his sad eyes. "We've had the best of it, and our memories will last forever." Now, as Carrie saw the sunset flaring behind the maple trees, she savored those men, those loves. Oh, there had been one other man--Ross Perkins, and he'd come to her when she was sixty--they'd rarely made love, preferring companionship and traveling together. Never marriage, for Ross was an elderly bachelor, and he'd understood her need of privacy and seclusion at times for writing. A dear man though, Carrie reminisced, thinking of the time she'd asked why he loved her and he'd said, "How could I help loving such a wise, wonderful woman?" Ross had died of a heart attack seven years previously, leaving Carrie alone to face her last days of aging. The dark was complete outside, and Carrie could see her reflection in the bay window: gray-haired, frail and wrinkled, thin and tiny in the immense bed. The nurse knocked, looked in and asked, "Do you need anything?" "No, nothing dear," Carrie replied, staring at the photos on the stand--each man, just as she remembered him, looking back at her with eyes of love. The nurse retreated, and Carrie then turned again to the dark window, but now she imagined she saw a lively, vital, beautiful young woman--herself as she had appeared to those lovers long ago. Conventional people had called her scandalous, a wanton woman, even an eccentric recluse because she dared live alone, enjoy her work exclusively, and yet have lovers. Thinking back on it now, Carrie realized she didn't regret a moment she'd spent devoted to art or loving and being loved--it had made her life worthwhile. As she closed her eyes, she thought of the satisfaction her work had brought and what each man had told her, the candid, simple statements they'd made, those evergreen memories the last thing on her mind as she sighed, a final breath slowly dying on her lips as she murmured, "I close my eyes, and the world dies." -The End- The Loved One Inside the tiny box-shaped southern church, the mourners openly shared their grief; they sobbed, cried and prayed for the soul of their departed loved one. When they spilled out of the worshiping place, their weeping was audible for some distance; leaden autumn skies released a dismal, soaking rain that drenched everyone as they hurried toward the cemetery, the sickly-sweet scent of excessive flower arrangements trailing them like an over-ripe stench of cheap perfume. There had been no expense spared, the luxurious silk-lined casket for the corpse carried by pall-bearers who bent slightly with the burden of anguish and grief, wearily trudging toward that open, hollow gravesite where mourners stood beneath opened umbrellas, their sad eyes cast downward now in mute witness to mortal death. * * * * * The little girl had lost her sight; she couldn't understand exactly why. A disease, the doctor said, an incurable progression that destroyed her eyesight by age five. She had lost the ability to see, to cherish the beauty of this life. No way to regain that precious gift, except if someone donated their eyes. But there was a shortage, no one cared to give away their eyes, even when they no longer needed them. * * * * * The mourners surrounded the open earth; a handful of dirt was tossed on the lowered coffin, the thud heard by all. The bereaved wife said to her daughter, "At least Jack was put away right. A man never had a finer funeral..." Looking around at the gaudy spectacle, the daughter nodded agreement. Surely, they'd spared no expense on her father's burial. Of course, there would still be the headstone; it would cost plenty too, the daughter knew, but this was a custom, a sacred ritual. It had to be this way, simply because it always had been in the South. * * * * * The boy hurt badly; since his kidneys had failed, he'd been forced to endure the machine. It was his most dreaded ordeal -- the hooking up to a kidney dialysis machine that cleansed his system. Sometimes he almost wished he'd die, but the doctors held out one hope: a kidney transplant. Only fourteen, just beginning to live, and now that life was in jeopardy. His mother kept encouraging him, hoping someone would donate a kidney in time to save his life. * * * * * One by one, the crowd thinned at the gravesite; slowly, they went their separate ways. The daughter stood beside her mother who was sobbing softly. "Mom, you know I wish you'd at least considered the doctor's plea for donating dad's...." "Don't start Susan! Your dad was dead set against that sort of mutilation. He always said God made us whole and He meant for us to leave this earth in one piece, not all chopped up and..." "But..." "No buts! It's not right, that's all. Just look at this outpouring of grief, the way family and friends have sent flowers, been here to help. Your dad had lots of Christian charity in his heart, and these people knew it." * * * * * Holding her sister's limp, lifeless hand, the woman sobbed and wondered why their prayers hadn't been answered? Mary had been frail, fragile for so long, but they'd hoped and prayed to find a suitable heart donor for years. Maybe it just wasn't God's Will? Still, as she dropped her head onto the hospital bed, she couldn't help being overwhelmed by the tragedy of her sister's death; Mary had fought so bravely to live, and she had three young children now orphaned. * * * * * It was a windy March day as the workmen fought desperately to erect the gigantic marble tombstone. The daughter watched from the shelter of the church, her lips thinned into a bitter line of grim regret. Soon there would be another mound beside her father, and it had all been so unnecessary! She turned away from the window, slumping down in a pew, thinking about how her mother had spent every cent of savings to pay for her father's funeral and ordering the headstone last fall. Without employment and medical insurance, her mother had avoided health care during the winter months...hoping the cold she had would get better. But it turned into the flu, and then, eventually, pneumonia. By the time the daughter intervened, it had been too late -- her mother died within a few hours of being hospitalized. As she stood, glancing out at the glowing sunshine, the daughter thought it sad, ironic and doubly tragic: Her father, with his set ways and ritualized ideas of religious burials, had wasted funds, cost her mother's life and created a fight between her and her only brother. However, she had won the battle at last, convincing her mother that only good could come from donating her kidneys, heart and corneas to those who needed them. Modern life presented moral delimmas, and tested long-held religious beliefs -- but Susan felt justified in persuading her mother to give the gift of life. It was fundamentally right to help others, Susan had said to her mother, and she'd agreed...saying that was the basis of all religion anyway. * * * * * She blinked, trying to focus --the light was brilliant. But slowly her eyes opened, and the doctor asked, "Can you see, Mandy?" "Yes...oh yes!" The little girl's voice was full of joy, gratitute and awe; light was a gift she'd never thought to have again. -The End- Circle Of Friends Susan felt tense; the seventy-mile drive from Montgomery had knotted her shoulders, cramped her legs, and she longed for a good jog. The small car, an Accord, was a gas-saver, but left much to be desired in the way of comfort. She stared at the bleak interstate highway ahead, a steady stream of late afternoon traffic heading home from the city. As the miles slipped past, she found herself in a lovely area of rural countryside, the trees brilliant-colored in autumn sunlight. When the sign for a small town appeared at the next exit, she impulsively took the off-ramp. The two-lane was narrow, skirting through rolling acreage of open fields, light traffic. When she saw a sign for the turnoff to a nearby park, she didn't hesitate to take it -- maybe she could get in a quick jog to relax her tense muscles. Afterward, maybe a meal at a local restaurant, a motel room for the night before continuing her trip. Thick loblolly pines surrounded the small rustic park, shadows falling with the approach of sunset...but it looked inviting, almost deserted except for a few boys halfheartedly playing on a basketball court. She got out, went around to the trunk and unlatched it, grabbing her Reeboks. The jeans and pullover had been comfortable for the drive, and now she slipped on the shoes, then locked up the car. At a nearby cement picnic table, Susan looked off at the park, noticing the pond where a few ducks and swans were lazily swimming along the shoreline. A dim trail circled the pond, the path leading into the pines. A good two-mile jog, she estimated, stretching and beginning her warm-up exercise, groaning with relief as she felt her body unwinding. "Hello." Startled, Susan swung around to see a man in sweats staring at her. "Oh, you surprised me!" She was suddenly aware she was in a strange place, not her small home town -- where she'd always felt utterly secure. Porter, Alabama was much like what she'd seen of this town though, and she tried to remain calm. "I'm sorry. I saw your car pull in, thought you might have car trouble?" Susan sighed, feeling relieved that indeed it seemed all small towns had helpful citizens. Smiling, she said, "No, actually... I'd been driving a long while, and wanted to take a break, get a little fresh air and exercise." "A jog?" He lifted his eyebrows quizzically, a slight grin of amusement on his face. She shrugged. "I guess it seems odd, but yes, I usually run at home and...thought this looked like an ideal spot to unwind." He nodded, still staring -- and Susan found herself studying him intently, aware that he was a handsome man in the classical sense: Tall, with the muscular leanness of a runner, a strong-featured face, reminiscent of Indian heritage, broad forehead, deep-set brown eyes, square chin. Only a tiny dusting of gray in his black hair near the temples. He smiled slowly, said, "You chose a good place, this is where I run every afternoon." "Oh?" "Yes, I come here on my way home from work." "So, you do live in...?" She'd forgotten the name of the small town on the sign. He said quickly, "Foxglove. And you? Where do you live?" "Porter, about eighty miles north..." "Yes, I'm familiar with Porter." Susan saw the young boys leaving the basketball court, laughing and joking around as they headed off along the highway. She said, "Looks like we have it all to ourselves now." "Well, shall we start?" "Yes...uh...?" "Oliver Scott." They started off along the straw-littered path, jogging slowly as a chill wind swept through the pines. "I'm Susan Brown," she said, outdistancing him as they entered the wooded copse. * * * * * And that's how they met: Susan Brown, a thirty-five year old divorcee, owner of a health club in Porter, Alabama -- and Oliver Scott, a married man of forty-five who was the principal owner of a small successful business in Foxglove. Neither of them particularly wanted a romantic involvement -- but there was an undeniable attraction from that first moment. And because of it, Oliver purposefully neglected to mention his wife and thirteen-year-old son. Thus Susan agreed to dinner with him that evening, after which he got her phone number and address. * * * * * Resuming her trip the next morning, Susan was confused; she knew she didn't need this kind of involvement, no way! For the past five years since her painful divorce from the high school sweetheart who left her because she couldn't give him a child, she had avoided men, period. Coming from a family of merchants in Porter, she'd had the resources available to start her own small health club, Body World. It was thriving, mainly due to her fitness programs -- aerobic sessions, and classes on healthy eating/nutrition. It had come naturally for her -- she'd been a sport's enthusiast since high school. Won medals in swimming, track and field events and even invaded the all-male baseball team of the local church. Known for her sunny good-looks, tall, trim with auburn hair and flashing green eyes, she exuded good health. Yes, she'd built a business out of her own fitness passion, and was proud of her independent success. Though there had been no man in her life, she had close, good women friends: Marie Cross and Louise Printer, both working with her at Body World. She valued their friendship, enjoyed their company...and didn't miss having a man in her life. Yet her mother never failed to point out this glaring absence with disgusting regularity. With a toss of her head, she tried to put Oliver Scott out of her mind. Who needed all the heartache anyway? * * * * * Indeed, she'd successfully dismissed the man from her mind until Wednesday afternoon when she found a letter from him in her mailbox. Noting the return P.O. Box address, she wondered why not his home...until, back inside the house, she tore open the envelope to read the most tender, beautiful romantic letter she'd ever received. Old-fashioned it seemed, and she held it to her heart, thinking: "He's getting to me, darn it!" Much to her dismay, the letters continued to arrive almost daily. And every time, she swore she'd not get so emotional over the next one, but always did. By the second weekend, she finally sat down and composed a carefully guarded letter to him -- inviting him for a visit to her home. And when he arrived, she wondered why on earth she'd been so slow to accept her feelings for him. Emerging from his Volvo, dressed in a three-piece charcoal suit, he was incredibly handsome, very attractive. As arranged, she took him on a tour of the fitness center, noticing how both of her friends gave him admiring looks. He seemed impressed by her business, chatting with a few customers about to start a class of aerobics. Back outside in the brisk fall air, they got in his Volvo and he said, "You are an impressive woman. I admire your ambition, your success." "Thank you," Susan replied, feeling a dreaded blush (something she hasn't felt since high school!) heating her face. "You are intelligent, as well as beautiful," he added, starting the car. "Where to now?" "There's a very nice restaurant north of town, I'll give directions..." Normally, Susan knew she would be wary; but somehow, as they drove along, she found herself at ease, somewhat surprised at her easy acceptance of him. During the meal, they talked intimately. He told her about his childhood on a farm outside Mobile, his devoutly religious parents, six brothers, his time in the Air Force, his attendance at Georgia Tech, the degree in electrical engineering, starting his own business -- omitting only his marriage. Susan was charmed, captivated; she vaguely wondered why he never married, but decided not to ask right now. Afterward, they went back to her house for a drink. And when he took her in his arms, she was astonished by the overwhelming erotic feelings that had her trembling with passion. It had been so long since she'd been kissed, thoroughly kissed, that it spun her into a state of ecstasy, rendering her vulnerable, willing. Inevitably, they made love -- over and over, and she was delirious with renewed ardor, thinking he'd spend the night. * * * * * So she was shocked when, around midnight, Oliver insisted he must leave, head back to Foxglove. She had prepared wine and cheese; they were sitting before the crackling, glittering fireplace, watching the flames twist, the logs burn. "But you're welcome to stay here," Susan insisted, snuggling closer to him beneath the shared afghan. "Believe me, I'd like to." Oliver kissed her lightly on the forehead. "But I have unfinished projects I must work on tomorrow." "Sunday? Don't you ever take time off?" "Sure, I came here today. It's just that one of my recent designs on a transformer is giving me headaches." "And you can't get it off your mind?" She laughed, touching his face. "I'm the same way when I dream up a new idea for my club." The firelight shadowed his face, his deceptive smile; he removed her wineglass, slowly lowering her to the floor, pulling away her silky robe. Susan allowed herself to believe she had stumbled upon a man she could easily fall in love with. * * * * * Monday morning, Marie and Louise pumped her for explicit details about this new man in her life. Sitting in the office, going over account books, Susan tried to joke about it, hoping for a light-hearted approach. But Marie, with her uncanny knack of intuition, asked, "And he's only a friend? Come on, you're falling for him, I can see that little sparkle in your eyes. A dead giveaway!" "And why not?" Louise asked, sighing. "He seems perfect for you, Susie." "Maybe. But if he's such a perfect catch, how come he's never been married?" Both women, who resembled one another with their pert, pretty blonde tanned appearances, widened their baby-blue eyes, mock surprise on their faces. "That's right. Apparently never married. I mean, at 45 that strikes me as strange." Louise shook her head. "So what? He's a bachelor...but a very eligible bachelor I bet. Maybe he just never found the right woman?" Susan closed the ledger with a loud clap. "Even so, he might want children -- and that lets me out." She got up, went through the door to the gym. "Poor Susie," Marie said, "she really got burnt when Jeff split." * * * * * November arrived with a blustery wind that swept the dry, fallen tree leaves across the yards, down the street, the trees soon shedding their colorful cloaks to reveal stark, naked limbs etched against a leaden sky. The love affair caught fire; Susan and Oliver spent at least one evening a week together, always in Porter. Susan finally let down her guard, she'd opened her heart to Oliver's gentle ways, his clever wit and stimulating conversations. The more time they spent together, the better she liked him as a man. He was intelligent, well-read, a sensual lover who had a streak of playfulness -- even enjoyed sports, having won medals in earlier running marathons. However, Susan did worry about telling him of her first marriage; but once she confided in him, he was amazingly empathetic. Yet when pressed for his feelings about having children, he became guarded. This caused her anxiety -- and abruptly she told him she didn't wish to see him for two weeks. * * * * * The day before Thanksgiving, Susan impulsively drove to Foxglove; she hoped to surprise Oliver, invite him to spend the holiday with her, meet her parents -- who were eager to see this mysterious man in her life. She found Foxglove to be smaller than Porter, by only about 5,000 less in population; but the town was quaint, picturesque. As she drove along the streets, searching for SCOTT ELECTRICAL DESIGN, she was frustrated not to locate the building Oliver had often described. She could have phoned his office in advance, but had wanted to surprise him by her arrival. She pulled in at a service station, told the young attendant her problem, and he gave her quick directions, which she followed easily to find the faded brick building with a canopy over the aging sidewalk. Pulling into the parking space, she shut off the engine, hesitating. Would Oliver be happy to see her, she wondered? Was this a mistake? She nervously rummaged in her purse, took out her compact, gazing at herself in the tiny mirror, applying fresh lipstick. When she looked up, she saw the wide wooden doors opening, and Oliver emerge from his office; she reached for the door handle, but suddenly saw an older woman right behind him, then a teenage boy. They started off down the street in the opposite direction, Oliver placing an arm across the woman's shoulders...the boy saying something... She rolled down the window, could hear the boy's laughter, then his voice as he exclaimed, "Mom! I already asked and dad said it's fine, right dad?" Oliver was nodding, the dark-haired woman shaking her head as the boy dodged ahead, hurrying along and urging, "Hurry! Or we'll be late!" Susan was shocked into a trancelike state, unable to move, watching as they disappeared around the street corner, unable to fathom what she'd just witnessed. Married? Oliver was married? Or was he divorced, merely having a visit with his ex-wife and son? She saw his familiar Volvo at the stoplight down the street, and waited until it was out of sight, then got out and went into the office. It only took a few casual questions for the young, pretty secretary at the front desk to explain that yes, Oliver was married, that was his wife and son who'd just left the building... The drive back to Porter was passed in a daze of disbelief and growing embarrassment at her stupidity... the first shock wearing off, and her anger, outrage surfacing as she arrived home, thinking of what kind of story she'd have to tell her parents now that she'd learned this information. * * * * * The day after Thanksgiving (which Susan had spent alone and miserable) Oliver phoned, all warmth and tenderness. Hearing his voice, she started crying, but managed to firmly say good-bye, slamming down the phone savagely. He called back immediately, but she didn't answer the phone. When the ringing continued relentlessly, she unplugged the phone. Monday she got a long letter from him, his bewilderment at her withdrawal only making her realize what a great actor he'd been during their time together. She cried buckets over the next week, tearing up each letter unopened as it arrive daily, burning the earlier ones in the fireplace. At last though, she squarely faced a painful, wrenching question: WHY? Why didn't he tell her he was married? And the answer was very obvious: He had no plans to leave his wife. * * * * * The next Monday afternoon she wasn't surprised to see Oliver's Volvo parked outside the health club when she came out the door; there had to be a confrontation eventually. She walked directly to his car, got in and silently stared at him. He moved to touch her, but she flinched, edged back. "Don't!" "Please darling, you've got to tell me why you won't see me! What has happened?" He loosened his tie, adding, "You know I love you, Susan." She swallowed, pressing her lips together firmly, then said with quiet calm, "As much as you love your wife and son?" His face flushed, he stammered, "How... did...you...?" "I drove to Foxglove the day before Thanksgiving. I...I...I saw you all as you left the office together." "Darling, let me explain..." She held up her hand. "No. There's no need for lies. Or explanations." "But it's not what you think! Ellen and I stay together only because of our son, Kenny. We..." "Please stop." Susan looked at him sadly, wisely. "Whatever your current situation, you are married, living with your wife." "Yes but..." "Let me finish. I've done a lot of soul-searching about this, Oliver. Don't think I don't love you, I do." She paused, took a deep breath, feeling the tears in her eyes. "You see, no matter how I feel about you, I cannot continue to knowingly be involved with a married man." He clenched his fists, grimacing. "My decision has more to do with my loyalty to women, all women...than anything else. I'd feel like a traitor to my own sex, a backstabbing hypocrite. I respect a wife's position, and I cannot break up a home." "But we're not happy! We may divorce..." Susan slowly opened the door, looking at him seriously. "If you ever do, then I might reconsider. But not now." He made a futile gesture with his hand, watching helplessly, hopelessly as she got out and turned away, never glancing back as she walked out of his life forever. * * * * * It wasn't easy, by any means, and Susan cried herself to sleep many nights after the loss of Oliver. She suffered depression, sorrow, grief at what she'd felt only beginning to happen between them, a beautiful romance, love. Yet it was all based on a false premise, and that soured it somehow in her memory. She knew that someday she'd consider it an experience that made her emotionally stronger -- but more importantly, it had given her insight into how women could refuse to participate in hurting one another by honoring each other as sisters. It had been, Susan knew, a profound lesson about why women had struggled so hard for sisterhood in the feminist movement: Women needed to be a circle of friends, not enemies. -The End-