Horace sat in a small booth at Frenchy’s Diner and worked on his cheeseburger. Grant, his best friend, usually joined him; however, he had to take his wife into Phoenix for a doctor visit, so Horace ate alone. The day was pleasant. A slight breeze blew, which cooled down an otherwise hot afternoon. Horace enjoyed the quiet time to himself. That is, until Travis Klein, an acquaintance from his neighborhood, walked through the door, spied, Horace, and decided to join him.

 “Hello Horace. Mind if I join you?” Travis asked, as he took a seat across the table.

“Yes. But go ahead anyway.” Horace replied.

Horace wasn’t to particularly fond of Travis. Over the years, Travis has shown himself to be an opinionated, righteous, windbag. Horace knew that, once Travis opened his mouth, the peaceful feeling he enjoyed would cease. It didn’t take long for Travis to prove Horace right.

“How about those elections?” Travis muttered.

“Let’s not talk politics.” Horace said. “You know we don’t see eye-to-eye, and I don’t really want an argument. I just want to enjoy what’s left of my burger.”

“So be it.” Travis responded.

Horace hoped Travis would move on, but good fortune was not in the cards. Travis ordered a plate of fried chicken with fries and a large pop. Horace commented on his order. “Didn’t Doc Aundebay recommend after your last heart attack that you eat healthier?”

“It wasn’t so much a heart attack. More just a murmur. Don’t worry about me.” Travis quipped.

Horace promised he wouldn’t. Travis sat quietly for a moment, scanning the faces in the diner. He caught a glimpse of a couple who had recently moved into the area. The middle-aged couple sat at a nearby table. He was dressed in white pants and shirt, and wore a red turban. The woman was dressed in a similar colored, floor length, saree. They looked quite elegant, and somewhat overdressed, compared to the others in the diner.

Travis nodded toward the couple and said to Horace “There’s that Arab couple. Don’t know why they come here.”

Horace replied without looking back “Maybe they’re hungry. Or maybe it’s because this is America. Just a guess.”

“We got too many Arabs around here. They should go back to Iran or Iraq or wherever they’re from.”

Horace grew impatient with Travis. “Just so you know Travis, Iranians and Iraqis are not Arabs. Those two countries are not on the Arabian Peninsula. You need to know a little about geography before you start talking. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“Well, they’re Muslims anyway. I thought we were at war with them.”

Horace shook his head. “They’re wearing turbans. Not Muslim dress. I actually believe they are Sikhs.”

“What’s the difference?” Travis asked. “They’re not like us. I mean, look at his beanie. And what’s with that dress she’s wearing. It’s just a fancy burka. Why do those men make their woman wear clothes like that? What are they trying to hide?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask Sister Mary Rachel next time I see her.” Horace replied.

“What makes you an expert?” Travis asked.

“Well, for one thing, I read. And I watch more than one TV station.”

“We got too many immigrants in this country. It’s getting where you can hardly find true Americans anymore. People like us, who have been here since the beginning.”

Travis was really showing his ignorance, and Horace wanted it to stop.

“That would be the indigenous people. Besides, aren’t your grandparents immigrants themselves?” Horace inquired.

“Yeah, but they were different. They were from Germany. We’re not at war with Germany.”

“Not any more. That’s it. This conversation is over.” Horace announced. “Finish your cholesterol-rich chicken by yourself.”

Horace stood up and walked to the front counter to pay. He looked over at the Sikh couple and smiled. He then looked back at Travis, shot him a nasty look, and mouthed an unpleasantly. He paid his bill and walked toward the door.

Horace was almost out the door when he heard a commotion. Travis started to rise when he suddenly grabbed his chest and fell to the floor. Horace knew that this was no murmur. He started back to the table, but before he could reach it, the Sikh man rushed to Travis and began administering CPR. The woman immediately called 9-1-1.

After a minute of chest compressions, Travis’ eyes opened and he started breathing again. The Sikh man waited by Travis’ side until two EMTs arrived. The Sikh filled the EMTs in with details.

“I noticed he was looking quite pale. I was going to ask him if he was all right when suddenly, he collapsed. He had a heart attack for sure. Mild, but he needs to be evaluated.”

Larry, one of the EMTs responded. “Thanks Doctor Gurneet. He’s lucky you were here.”

The EMTs loaded Travis into their ambulance and drove off to the hospital. The patrons in the diner all applauded Doctor Gurneet as he sat down to finish his meal with his wife. Horace smiled again at the couple, and then made his way out the door.

Two weeks later, the neighborhood held a Happy Hour. Horace and Grant were there with their wives. A tired looking Travis showed up. Horace hoped Travis would not notice him. Travis looked over and walked toward Horace. Instead of stopping, he walked past Horace and over toward the Gurneets. He extended his hand, and smiling, thanked Dr. Gurneet for saving his life.

Michael was a shy and quiet kid. He mumbled and had a slight lisp, which made him sometimes hard to understand. In short, he had a problem with pronunciation. This became apparent to his father at an early age.

Michael and his second grade class went on a field trip to the local zoo. They spent the day viewing the different animal exhibits and leaning about animals, habitats, and world geography. After dinner that evening, Phil, his father, asked him about what he learned.

“We saw tons of really cool animals. Like lions and a hippo and lots and lots of monkeys.” he exclaimed.

“What was your favorite animal?” Phil asked.

Michael responded “A frickin elephant.”

Phil didn’t quite know what to say. He didn’t like Michael using the word frickin. To him, the word was a less offensive substitute for an obscene word. Phil had to correct Michael.

“Michael. I don’t want you using that word anymore. It’s not a good or proper word to say.”

Michael objected. “But dad, that’s what I saw. A frickin elephant.”

“That’s enough. If you keep using that word, you’ll get some time-out.” Phil told him.

Michael looked partly discouraged and partly defiant. “Look dad. I’ll show you.”

He fetched his backpack from his room, pulled out a flyer from the zoo, and handed it to his dad.

Phil read the flyer. Sure enough, on the second page was a picture with a caption: Jumbo – African Elephant.

He was relieved that his son wasn’t saying frickin. Phil apologized for the misunderstanding.

Michael smiled as he took the flyer from his dad’s hand. “That’s okay dad. I guess I didn’t pronounce it well.”

The situation was defused and hopefully, a lesson learned.

That is, until Michael added “She sure was fucking huge!”

Michael spent the next hour alone in the corner.

Boise, Idaho is a bustling metropolis. Over 225,000 people call Boise home. Boise was once my home. When I moved there in 1989, the population was a bit over 125,000 residents. Boise is growing. In 1989, the city had five major high schools. Now there are seven, not including private schools. The two standout high schools for years were Boise High School and Borah High School. Boise High is nationally ranked for academic performance. Borah High is a sports powerhouse, claiming dozens of state championships in both football and basketball. They are and have always been rivals.

I raised my three children in Boise. All went to and graduated from Boise High School. As a parent and an outsider to the high school life, I felt the rivalry between Boise and Borah High Schools. When, in 2005, my daughter Janie had an English assignment to write a fable, I joined in the fun and helped bolster the rivalry.

Janie came home from school one afternoon, and after dinner, started working on her homework. She told me about the fable assignment. I helped with a few ideas and then she got busy and wrote her fable. I was bored and interested in the assignment. I wrote my own, signed it “Anonymous” and asked her to turn it in with hers. As far as I know, she never did. Here for the first time in print is my fable.

The Goat and the Donkey

Many years ago, a goat and a donkey met while traveling across Oregon. They were both heading to Idaho to start new lives. As they walked across the high desert plains of Eastern Oregon, they shared their hopes and desires for their new lives in a new state.

The goat started the conversation. “When I get to Idaho, I am heading to Boise.” the goat exclaimed.

“Why Boise?” asked the donkey.

“I want much out of life and feel Boise is the place for me. I want a good education. Maybe I’ll go to college. After that, I’ll land a good job. I also want to find the right mate, get married, and have children. Boise has all I need to achieve my dreams.”

The donkey responded. “I’m more of an adventurer. Settling down can wait. I want to enjoy the beauty of the great Idaho outdoors. The first thing I will do is climb Borah Peak. At over 12,000 feet, it’s the tallest mountain in the state. I’ll summit the mountain and then look for more adventures in the Gem State.”

When they arrived at the border, near Ontario, they wished each other luck and parted ways. The goat headed southeast toward Boise while the donkey due east toward Custer County and Borah Peak.

The goat made it to Boise. Over time, he graduated from school and went on to Boise State University, where he earned a degree in Business. He found a good job, met a wonderful woman, married, and had three lovely children. He found all he hoped to find.

The donkey also made it to his destination. He began his ascent of Borah Peak, hoping to make the summit, where he could look out over the Sawtooth Mountains of Central Idaho. He was close to the summit when he lost his footing, fell off a ledge, and tumbled four-hundred feet to his death.

The moral of the Story is . . .

Smart kids go to Boise. Dumb asses go to Borah.

It took me almost twenty years to write this fable a second time. I showed it to my daughter. She smiled when she read it. When I asked her what she thought, she remarked “Go Braves!”

The week turned out to be mostly uneventful. Almost boring. At this point in my life, and at the time of year, however, nothing is boring; it’s more a time of relaxing and enjoying the slow times. The week then was just right for an old, semi-retired guy like me.

Monday morning’s work was sparse. I read a few e-mails, hopped on one call, and reviewed one document. I was finished early and spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon resting in the yard, reading, writing, napping, and eventually, enjoying a mojito. Tuesday was quite similar, except I found time for evening Pickleball. The rest of the week days were carbon copies of the first two days.

For the most part, each day began with a cup of coffee and a writing assignment. I belong to a writing group and our assignment was to write something interesting each day. That turned out to be a problem. My days were so laid back that not much in the way of excitement materialized. No deadlines to meet or doctor appointments to make; and except for one situation on that Friday, not much to write home about.

Friday morning started with a bang; or should I say crash? A car traveling down our road swerved to miss a squirrel and hit our backyard fence. No one was hurt and the damage wasn’t too extensive. I few fence boards that separate our yard from our neighbor’s yard and the street were broken. My neighbor Dave and I heard the commotion and went out into our yards to investigate. I peered over the fence into the street and spied the car, an older Toyota Camry, on the grass meridian. A young woman, no more than twenty-years-old, sat behind the wheel. She was visibly shaken and in tears. I jumped the fence and approached the open driver window.

“Are you alright?” I asked.                                                                                

She responded between sobs. “Yes. I’m not injured. But I hit your fence and I think I ran over a squirrel.”

I surveyed the damage as Dave approached. Katie, the woman in the car, slowly climbed out of the driver’s seat. Dave happened to have a clean tissue in his pocket and offered it to Katie. He spoke next.

“I’m glad you’re safe. Can’t say the same for the squirrel.” He pointed toward the fence at the newly deceased rodent. “I wouldn’t fret too much about him. We have too many squirrels around here. They’re nuisances.”

Katie accepted the tissue and wiped away her tears, smearing her makeup. “My husband’s going to be mad when he hears about this. We’ll have to file a claim and our insurance will go up again.”

Dave and I agreed that there wasn’t much damage to the fence nor her car. “What do you think Dave? We can fix the fence. And the car barely has a scratch.”

Dave agreed and we assured Katie that we don’t want any money and won’t report the accident. I helped her by slowly backing her car off the grass and into the street. She thanked us and offered us twenty dollars.

Dave smiled. “We don’t need any money. I’m sure that between Gabby and me, we have enough old boards laying around to fix the fence. It’ll give us something to do this week.”

Katie thanked us again, climbed back into her car, and slowly drove off.

Dave and I checked out the damage one more time, swore we would fix the fence during the weekend, and parted ways. As he was heading toward his house, I yelled out, “I’ll make a temporary fix this morning. Mainly to keep Howard out of the street and out of your yard.”

Howard is my nine-year-old terrier mix. He stands about a foot-and-a-half. The broken boards in the fence created a gap that was approximately a foot-and-a-half high. Howard loves to explore and I thought it would be a good idea to keep him from exploring Dave’s yard or the rest of the neighborhood. Retreating to the garage, I found a few two-by-fours and patched the fence as best I could. The bottom of the damaged section could be moved, but only with determination, and Howard usually wasn’t that determined.

The Friday incident was definitely the highlight of the week. Saturday and Sunday paled in comparison. For me, both were lazy days that consisted of drinking coffee, writing, reading, more napping, and more mojitos. Late Saturday afternoon, just as I was returning from a walk with Howard, I saw Dave and his young daughter Jane in the backyard. Jane, a bubbly young girl, played with her pet rabbit Floppy. Floppy was a tired, old lop-eared hare. Floppy didn’t hop much anymore. She mostly sat around the yard nibbling on grass. The three of us chatted for a while. Jane put Floppy back in her cage, she and Dave said goodbye and went into the house for dinner, and I retired to my easy chair. Another quiet day was in the books.

Monday morning started a new week. With it came an unexpected end to the previous week. I rose early and let Howard into the backyard to get exercise and do what dogs do after an evening in the house. I made a cup of coffee and sat down at the dining room table. I opened my laptop and began to read the day’s news. Twenty minutes later, I checked the back door to see if Howard was done. Howard sat on the back porch. Mud covered him from head to tail. He had something in his mouth. Taking a closer look, I realized he had Floppy in his mouth. Floppy was also covered in mud. And quite dead.

“Drop it!” I yelled. Big mistake. Howard dropped what was left of Floppy at my feet and ran into the house, scattering mud as he went. I stood there in disbelief. Howard must have shown enough determination that morning to move the temporary boards that held the fence together. He must have seen Floppy in her cage, somehow opened it, and decided to play with Floppy. Damn dog.

I knew Jane would be heartbroken. I also knew Dave would hold me accountable if he found out Howard was responsible for Floppy’s death. My first task then was to reassemble the fence so no sign of entry into Dave’s yard from our yard was noticeable. I picked up the cold, muddy carcass from my porch and took poor old Floppy into the kitchen. I had to come up with a plan to somehow get Floppy back into their yard in a way that deflected all suspicion from Howard and me.

I cleaned up Floppy first. After washing her in the sink, I borrowed my wife’s hairdryer and dried Floppy’s fur. Other than being dead, she looked pretty good. Next, I located Howard, dragged him into the front yard, out of sight from Dave, and gave that dirty dog a bath, something he hates more than cats. With both animals clean, I sat down to plot my next course of action. I decided that I would sneak into Dave’s yard in the middle of the night and place Floppy back in her cage. Jane would find Floppy the next morning, which would be sad, but at least she nor Dave would suspect Howard of foul play.

Late that evening, I climbed through the broken fence, careful not to make any noise. I gently placed Floppy in the empty cage, retraced my steps back to the fence, climbed under, and fixed the fence to make it look like no one had gone through. I thought to myself, “Howard is not going out in the morning until this whole situation is over.”

Tuesday was quiet. No sign of Dave nor Jane. Howard stayed by my side the entire day. That evening we went for a walk. As we approached the yard, I saw Dave standing in his driveway.

“Good evening Dave. How are you?” I asked, hoping to avoid a long conversation.

“I’m doing alright. A little sad and a lot angry.” he replied.

“What’s up?”

“Jane’s rabbit Floppy died this weekend. Jane has been sad all day.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I stated. “I know how close she was to Floppy. What happened?”

“She died Saturday night, probably of old age. We buried her that night. That’s not the worst thing though.” he added.

“What could be worse than having your pet die?” I asked.

Dave looked quite angry when he replied. “Jane was just starting to come to terms with the loss of Floppy. Then this morning, we went into the backyard. There was Floppy. Some sick son-of-a-bitch must have dug her up and put her body back into its cage. I better not find out who would be that heartless.”

I’m hoping the coming week will be quiet and boring. Maybe I’ll fix the fence.

I met a girl once. Her name was Renée. Back in 1981. She was my first wife. Not when I met her, of course. She was just a girl then. She was cute, funny, and outdoorsy. She was a hard worker and a decent cook. She also was a churchgoer.

I wasn’t a churchgoer. I wasn’t against church. I just didn’t go much. All the different flavors of religion were confusing to me. Some more than others. I knew that Baptists liked to soak people. I guessed that Methodists had some sort of method to their madness. I assumed that Quakers somehow quaked a bit. The church that Renée attended was Adventist, as in Seventh-Day Adventist. The Adventists church was quite confusing.

Back then, all that I knew about Adventists was that they couldn’t watch college football but they could watch professional football. I knew this since elementary school. I had a friend named Melvin, who was Adventist, and had to spend Saturdays in church instead of in front of a TV, watching USC or UCLA (I grew up in the suburbs of Los Angeles). He was different from my friend Danny, who was Mormon, and could watch college football but not professional football because he had to spend Sundays in church. Then there was my friend Martin (later to be called Eli), a Jewish kid who didn’t watch college of professional football, mainly because he just didn’t really like football.

Back to Renée. I decided I liked her, and in an attempt to woo her, I told her I would go to church with her. I also decided to learn as much as I could about Adventism. One day, before the upcoming Saturday, I drove into town and to the city library. I found the religious books section, gazed at the books on a shelf, and found a short book about western religions. It didn’t take long to find the section on Adventists: the religions were listed alphabetically and Adventism was near the front, between Abenaki and Anabaptist.

I found out several odd things about Adventists. First, they didn’t eat meat. My feeling was that, if God didn’t want us to eat meat, he wouldn’t have invented the steak knife. Second, they didn’t drink coffee. I wondered how people were supposed to sit through three hours of church service on Saturday mornings without coffee to keep them awake. Third, they didn’t drink alcohol. That was quite confusing. Apparently, they could watch football on Sunday but couldn’t drink beer while watching. How un-American.

One thing I found out though wasn’t so bad. One of the early converts of the Adventist church was John Harvey Kellogg. He bought into the ‘eating no meat’ idea and invented breakfast cereals. As a child, I spent Saturday mornings watching cartoons and eating Frosted Flakes® (instead of sitting in church for three hours, wishing I drank coffee). I liked John Harvey Kellogg.

Overall, the Seventh-Day Adventist religion seemed pretty weird, but it didn’t change my mind about attending the following Saturday. I let Renée know by telling her sister, whom I worked with at a nearby restaurant. I couldn’t call Renée because I didn’t have a telephone. I lived in a remote farm in the mountains of North Idaho and didn’t have many of the luxuries of modern living, such as a phone, a television, and often times during the winter, running water. Through Renée’s sister, plans were set. I’d pick up Renée at her house in Hope, attend church, and hopefully, take her out afterwards for tea and cookies (both safe bets).

Friday night arrived. I grabbed my best clothes from my closet (living on a farm and working in a restaurant, I didn’t have much need for nice clothes) and made sure they were pressed by placing them between my mattress and box spring. I found a pair of decent-looking boots and spit-shined them (my past military experience finally paid off). I was ready for the morning.

Saturday morning came early. I took care of the three S’s (shit, shower and shave – more from my military days), donned my go-to-church clothes, grabbed a pair of socks from the hamper (no one would see my socks, especially in winter), and laced up my boots. Off to Hope to pick up Renée and drive into Clark Fork, home of the small church.

Several elders greeted us in front of the church. By elders, I mean old people. Renée and I, both in our twenties, were the outliers. The average age of most of the other parishioners was around Jurassic. The scene was straight out of the Old Testament. Some of the people in the pews might have actually been around in the Old Testament. They seemed nice though and welcomed me as a newcomer. Not knowing what to expect, I followed Renée into the nave and found seats in a pew near the back.

We sat there for about thirty minutes waiting for the service to begin. I was glad I wasn’t an Adventist yet and relied on the three cups of coffee I had that morning to keep me awake. Finally, the pastor arrived. We all stood. He welcomed the congregation, we sang a few songs, and then we sat and listed to his sermon. He spoke of Jesus, the second coming, and our need to ask for forgiveness through communion.

I was familiar with communion. I’d seen it once or twice in Catholic Church as a kid. I never went through First Eucharist, otherwise known as First Communion, thus I never got to wander up to the alter to eat the wafer and drink the wine. I did, however, know what was involved. What I didn’t know was how the Adventists practiced communion. I soon found out.

Near the end of the sermon, the pastor said it was time for communion. On cue, everyone in the pews stood at once. I stood up next to Renée. The entire congregation filed out of the nave. Women walked one direction toward the foyer. The men wandered off toward the lunchroom. I watched as Renée left my side and followed the other women. I didn’t know a soul in the building except her, but reluctantly followed the throng of men. Elders herded us into an auxiliary building behind the church. I approached the door and met the pastor. He greeted me with an outstretched hand and a smile on his face.

“Welcome, brother. You must be the new person.”

I shook his hand and replied. “We sir. First time here. First time in an Adventist church, to be honest.”

Still smiling, he looked me over, peered deeply into my eyes, and said, “I’d like to wash your feet.”

I was confused, and a little (okay, a lot) creeped out by his request. He looked serious. “Excuse me?” I responded.

“Just as Jesus washed the feet of Peter and Judas, we partake in the practice of washing away sins by washing feet. And I’d like to wash yours, brother.”

He really wanted to wash my feet. I said yes. We found a vacant chair. He instructed me to remove my shoes and socks. I did. First off was my spit-shined boots. After that, the pair of socks I grabbed from my hamper. The dirtiest, smelliest, holiest (as in full of holes) pair of socks I owned. The pair no one would see.

He saw them. I could tell that he smelled them too from the way his smile disappeared. I think every brother in the lunchroom also smelled them. The pastor muttered something about cleanliness being close to Godliness as he quickly washed my feet. He finished and I hurriedly put on my socks and shoes. I thought I was done with the ordeal. Not quite. His smile was now a bit of a grimace. I stood up and started for the door. He looked once more into my eyes and said, “Now it’s time for you to wash my feet.”

He was serious. He sat and removed his perfectly shined loafers and matching, clean socks. I humbly knelt at his feet, grabbed a sponge from the bucket of water, and washed his feet.

On our way to get tea and cookies, Renée explained what happened.

“Adventists perform communion every thirteen weeks.” she said.

“Why thirteen?” I asked her.

“It has something to do with testing, suffering, and rebirth, I think. I’m confused too on that one.”

Later that evening, when I got home, I grabbed my wall calendar and leafed through the months. On every thirteenth Saturday, I penciled in “Wear clean socks.”

This is from a writing prompt that was assigned to our writing group in Mesa, Arizona. The prompt was “When I die, I want . . . .” When I heard the prompt, I instantly thought of an old, bad Irish joke –

Q. What’s the difference between an Irish funeral and in Irish wedding?
A. One less drunk.

I wrote this Limerick.

Dying I do not fear.
Someday it will be here.
I’ll laugh at my death.
As I take a last breath.
So please don’t shed me a tear.

I’ve waited my life for this day.
When my body would just fade away.
Now what would I wish.
Since I’ve reached the finish.
Here are the words that I’d say.

I’ll start with a pint of stout.
Pour me a whiskey I’d shout.
I’ll drink till I smile.
It might take a while.
It’ll be Heaven, no doubt.

I’d wish for me friends to be near.
All of them hoisting a beer.
They’d offer a toast.
To their newly dead host.
And all would be in good cheer.

My family would be by my side.
Their anguish I pray that they hide.
I’d hope they don’t cry.
When they tell me goodbye.
Cause it’s been one Hell of a ride.

I hope that wherever I go.
There’s lot of sun and no snow.
I’ll lounge all the day.
In my beach chair I’d lay.
Until my tanned skin would glow.

These are the things I’d want most.
When I die and become a ghost.
So please grab a glass.
Every laddie and lass.
And to me, drink a last toast.

Beatrice died a rich woman. Through wise investments and not giving in to her children’s demands, she had accumulated a fortune. Her three estranged children knew that their mother had money, which they wanted.

Beatrice’s children gathered for the reading of the will, in the office of Beatrice’s lawyer. They were sitting around an oak table when Mr. Lawton appeared, carrying an old wooden box. A brass keyhole adorned the front and tarnished handles were on both sides of its lid.

The lawyer also carried three skeleton keys, and an envelope containing Beatrice’s last instructions. The keys looked similar except for the bits that protruded from the end. Different bits meant only one might open the box. Mr. Lawton opened the envelope and read the instructions.

“To my children: Whomever opens this box will inherit my money. However; if none of you open the box, my money goes to a charity of my choosing.”

Mr. Lawton distributed the keys. Yancy, Meredith, William grabbed their keys and held them with anticipation of newly found riches. Yancy, the first-born child, went first. “I am the oldest. Surely, the money is mine. Don’t worry. I will share what I think you both deserve.”

He inserted his key into the lock and twisted it to the left and to the right. The lock didn’t open.

“Step away.” Meredith said, as she brushed her brother to the side. “Mother adored having a daughter. We spent hours partaking in things only mothers and daughters could. When I open the box, I will consider sharing a portion with my brothers.”

Meredith went through the motions with the key. She forced the key right and then left. The lock wouldn’t open. With a sigh of frustration, she sat down, waiting for William to open the box, hoping that he will share generously.

“Mother always had a special love for me. As the youngest, I was closest to her heart. I’m sure she wanted me to inherit her money.”

William gently moved the key to the right. He then turned the key to the left. Once more, the lock didn’t open. With anger in his eyes, he threw the key onto the table and yelled. “What was mother thinking? She had three loving children who cared for her, even though we didn’t see much of her these past several years. Now she has left us out of her will.”

“How could she?” cried Meredith. How shall I raise my family without the money I deserve?

“Now all will be lost to some charity.” Yancy replied. “This is no way for her to show us the love we showed her.”

The reading was over. The three angry children grabbed their coats and left. On the table sat the useless key. As soon as they were gone, Mr. Lawton sat down in front of the box. He held the handles and opened the lid. He reached in and extracted a piece of paper. It contained the name of Beatrice’s favorite charity.

Four in the morning was much too early for Michael to rise, but he couldn’t sleep. He had been restless when he went to bed the night before, and sleep didn’t come easily for him. Rather than staying in bed, he stood up and, in a semiconscious state, ambled to the kitchen. He made a cup of coffee and moved to the dining room. In the darkness of the early morning, he drank his coffee while thinking about the events of the past two years.

“You’re up early.”

Michael looked up and saw Laura, his wife, sitting on the couch in the adjacent living room. Michael grabbed his coffee, walked toward her, and sat on the couch a few feet away.

“Couldn’t sleep. Lots on my mind. You know what a lousy couple of years it’s been.”

“At least you have your health.” she joked.

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t. Just fade away. Be with my loved ones.”

“Don’t talk like that!” she demanded. “You have too much to live for. You scare me sometimes.”

“I know. I’m sorry. The kids are young and needy. My boss is old and needy. This house is somewhere in between and always in need of something.”

Laura sat for a minute, looking into Michael’s sad eyes. She replied “And don’t forget me. I’ll always need you.”

“Thanks. I’ll never forget you. You know that.”

“Today’s our anniversary. I know you remember that.” she added. “It’s been two years.”

“Yes, I know. I still wish I could have been with you that night. Things would be different now. A lot different. I shouldn’t have let you go to the party without me.”

“You can’t change the past, honey. Just the future.” She paused again for a minute, and then said, “You look tired. Go back to bed.”

Michael stood up and walked toward the bedroom. He turned to watch Laura, mesmerized by her beauty. Between yawns, he replied, “I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

Michael climbed in bed, and in a few seconds, he was fast asleep.