I Learned the Truth at 17

 

 

When I was a kid, I thought 17 was going to be the most fantastic age. I was wrong.

While it wasn’t horrible, it was not what I had hoped.

I turned 17 near the end of 11^th grade, and most of 12^th grade made up the rest. It’s what people think of as a prime age, when people are dating and attending proms, and generally making high school memories. I wish that had been my experience.

My junior prom was less than ideal. With little to no possibility of a date, and facing the prospect of the humiliating horror of not attending the prom – people allowed to attend the prom stag have no idea of the shame involved in missing the prom at the time,  and we couldn’t attend without a date – my mother negotiated with one of her friends for her son to be my date. All I had to do was call him and ask.

All?  They had no idea what they were asking. I barely knew the boy. He was cute, and I, an introvert, had to make a phone call and speak to him! The hours of rehearsing what I was going to say, what I would say if someone else answered, the calming of my shaking hands, can only be imagined.

Finally, I worked up my nerve, and when I asked him the stammered question, he said, “No, I don’t think so.”

My response? An embarrassed, “Okay, bye.”

In a flood of embarrassed tears, I screamed at my mother for setting me up for such humiliation. How could anyone say he’d go with me, and then have this happen?

Now, not only would I be humiliated before my classmates for not attending the prom, I had embarrassed myself by even having a moment of thinking I could actually experience the same things my peers did. Yet again it was, Mother, they don’t like me.

A few minutes later, the phone rang. It was his mother, who spoke with my mother. Then they wanted me to talk to him. Oh, no! I would probably never be able to look at him again, much less speak to him. It was too humiliating.

My mother finally talked me into – coerced me into – taking the phone. The boy in question told me he would go. According to him – I suspect this was a parental excuse concocted for the occasion – he thought I said the senior prom, and he didn’t want to wear a tuxedo. Since it was semi-formal and only required a regular suit, he would go. He still didn’t sound thrilled, so I thought he’d probably been the victim of the same sort of coercion I’d had to make me talk to him on the phone.

I would be going to the junior prom. I was fine with my mother making my dress – I picked out the pattern and the colors – and I thought everything would be fine.

But this was 17. Since my date was a year younger than I was, he wasn’t quite 16, or at least didn’t yet have a driver’s license. My parents held the archaic notion that the girl couldn’t possibly drive on a date. So, my father drove us there, and would pick us up at the end. At least no one I knew noticed.

Good times the rest of the night, right? Um, no.

My date wouldn’t dance with me on claims of a bad back (at 15?). I managed to cajole him into dancing the slow dances with me, at least.

At one point I went to the ladies’ room. When I came back into the school cafeteria, where the dance was taking place, I was accosted by a couple of my friends, who pulled me out into the hallway.

“Did you know your date is telling everyone he’s in ninth grade?” they asked.

I couldn’t imagine how that would come up in conversation. “He is,” I replied.

“You’re dating someone two years younger than you?” they asked, horrified.

It shouldn’t have mattered. At least I had a date. I should have left it at that. But out of embarrassment at their attitude I said, “No, he’s only a year younger. He was left back somewhere along the line.”

I was in first track, one of the “smart” kids. The idea that I was on a date with someone who had been left back, no matter when, was worse than the fact that he was younger, given the prejudice of the day. It seemed nothing I could do or say met with approval.

When I returned to my date, I asked why he had told people that. He shrugged. It was obviously no big deal to him. Or maybe he thought it was cool being a Freshman at the Junior prom.

That wasn’t the end of Murphy’s Law’s interference in my attendance at the Junior prom.

When the prom ended, my dad was nowhere to be found. My date and I waited inside the school as everyone else went to their cars and presumably, home.

Still, we waited.

I went to the payphone with a borrowed dime and made a reversed charges call home. My father had fallen asleep, and my mother, who “couldn’t sleep if any of us was out,” hadn’t woken him up, since she was probably waiting up asleep.

I was used to being the forgotten child in elementary school, when my father frequently picked me up late from choir practice because he was waiting for my brother to finish gymnastics practice and shower before taking him home. But my brother was in college! I was the only child left at home, and they still forgot me!

We were asked to wait outside because the cleanup crew had to do their thing.

Finally, about half an hour after everyone else had gone, my father arrived.

Being 17 wasn’t all bad. I went to Dorney Park and Seaside Heights in the summer, and had fun despite sunburn – high SPF sun blocks weren’t a thing then.

And then there was Senior year.

Near the beginning of the year we received our school rings. Mass, a day of following superstitious ring-turning traditions and a dance that night were the order of the day.

Knowing this was coming, I enlisted the help of the leader of the church guitar group to which I belonged, to interest one of the other members in asking me to the dance. He, like me, had about a zero chance of a date, so by asking me, he ensured that we both could go.

Finally, my luck was changing. My friends and I sat at lunch taking about who we were going to the dance with, what we were wearing, and all the details involved.

He came to my house for pictures that evening, and then we went to his house for the same before leaving for the dance.

But Murphy hadn’t finished with me yet. Or maybe it was the full moon.

Ten minutes before we reached the school where the dance was held, we came to a red light. My date didn’t notice it was red. He also didn’t notice the car stopped at it until I yelled. Too late. The car slammed into the one stopped at the light, knocking it across the intersection.

These were the days before mandatory seat belts, padded dashboards and airbags. My date had braces on his teeth. His face hit the steering wheel, breaking the braces and sending the wires into his gums. I flew forward, breaking the windshield with my head. My knees hitting the bottom of the dashboard kept me from going through the windshield.

Needless to say, we didn’t make the dance. Instead, we spent the night in the emergency room, which was probably more fun. It was very crowded. The nurses insisted that was due to the full moon.

After being gowned and taken to x-ray, I got to lie on a gurney in the hallway for lack of more private space. At one point, a knifing victim decided to leave, and made it as far as my gurney before he passed out and fell to the floor.

While I was treated with kid gloves, probably due to having come in by ambulance, my date was ignored because his only injury was due to his braces. Apparently, if they touched him and he lost any teeth, the hospital would be held liable.

When my parents arrived, my mother was livid that they were ignoring my date. When they explained why, my mother asked for a wet washcloth. She had my date wipe the blood off his face, then she set about cleaning any blood from his shirt so stains wouldn’t set in.

I had only a mild concussion, so no real cause for concern when there was a blood-stained shirt to take care of.

They let us both go home, and gave my parents a fact-sheet of things to check for.

At the time, concussions weren’t treated the way they are now. I returned to school on Monday. I had 10 years perfect attendance, and I wasn’t about to ruin that over a bump on the head.

My friends asked where I was Friday night. When I told them, they didn’t believe me. They assumed I’d made up a story because I didn’t have a date – and these were my friends! I had to take one girl’s hand and run it across the bump on my forehead before she believed me. (It didn’t show because of my bangs.)

At least Senior prom, when I was 18, didn’t involve any drama on my part. My date for the ill-fated ring dance was also my date for the prom. We arrived without incident – we went with two other friends, one of whom drove. Although he was no more willing to dance than my Junior prom date had been, we sat at a table with friends and had a good time.

There was plenty of drama that night, but none of it had to do with my date or me, so we simply got to watch.

It was nice to have something happen where Mr. Murphy wasn’t invited.

 

Love of My Life

             This is an excerpt of one of my novels.

                                                             Lexi

      It’s hard losing your father. Daddy was my standard of what a man should be. Some of my friends had fathers who were always working, always busy, and often grumpy. That was the ones who had fathers, which was still most of them when I was younger, and a lot fewer by the time I was in high school. But my dad was different.

      Dad wasn’t married to his job. He had a good one, but when he left the office, he was finished with work. Mom and I were his whole world. My dad was the one who took my friends and me to the movies, who came to every hockey game, who was proud to take me to the father-daughter dances at school.

      But now he was dead. He won’t be there for my high school and college graduations. He won’t walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. More important than that, though, he isn’t here now, every day, and I miss him. I wish I’d been a better daughter. I especially wish the last words I’d said to him hadn’t been, “I hate you!”

      “Thomas Christopher Morton,” the headstone reads. “March 12, 1954- September 11, 2001. Loving son, husband, and father. Taken too soon.”

      It doesn’t begin to describe him. He deserves more than a couple of phrases.

      I was born in 1985, in the middle of a snowstorm. My mother always said she and dad were ecstatic. They’d been married for six years, and had been trying for four to have a baby. I guess it’s normal, under the circumstances, to spoil your child. I’m not sure that I really was, though.

      I always had the impression they were hoping for a boy, although no one ever said. Still, parents love the child when it arrives, no matter what it is. At least that’s what Gran said. She’s Dad’s mother, so she probably knows him better than anyone. She never gave me any hint that I was anything but the child they always wanted.

      I would like to have had brothers and sisters. I never understood why my parents didn’t have more children. I once asked Dad, and he said sometimes things didn’t work out that way. Then he grinned and said I probably wouldn’t have as many of the things I had if they’d had more kids. Still, I thought it might have been less lonely.

      I remember when I was very small, Daddy would pick me up and swing me above his head, and then hug me close every time he came home from work. I loved riding on his shoulders, too. When he was home, everything we did was fun.

      I did ask him once, when I was about seven, if he ever wished I was a boy, instead, and he replied, “No, I never have. I’m so relieved you’re a girl.”

      I didn’t quite understand that, but I didn’t ask.

      Although he did typical dad things, like fixing drippy faucets and mowing the lawn, at least part of his weekend usually involved going somewhere, either with mom and me or just me. Since Mom didn’t like the zoo, that was a trip for just Daddy and me.

      Of course, once I was in school, the weekend play dates with Dad decreased because I often did things with my friends. But he was usually available to drive a group of us to the movies. Often, especially once we girls were about nine or ten, he would drop us off at the theater rather than coming with us to see the movie. He’d say he had some errands to run, but he was always there when the movie was over. Sometimes he’d treat my friends and me to dinner afterwards. No one else’s mom or dad ever did that, so he was the popular transport parent.

      Dad was a good sport about things. I remember when I was very little, I had a tea party once with my dolls. It must have been on a rainy weekend, because I made Daddy participate. I have the image of him sitting in one of my much-too-small-for-him wooden play chairs, pretending to drink tea out of a tiny, plastic tea cup etched in my mind. He even carried on conversations with my dolls, pretending they answered him.

      Dad was handsome, too. I guess he was close to six feet tall. He was slimmer than my friends’ dads. Many of them had big round stomachs that dripped over their belts. My dad wasn’t built like that. In fact, he was actually thinner than some of the boys in my high school.

      His hair was light brown, and he had green eyes. I had my mother’s blonde hair, but my dad’s green eyes. The thing I liked about him was that he didn’t have hair all over his chest. My friend, Carla once asked me if he shaved his chest. He didn’t.

      It sounds weird, but I think some of my friends in high school had a crush on my dad. The boys I knew weren’t sure what to make of him. On one hand, he was kind of a pal, the one who could discuss sports and joke, but who became a little distant when they wanted to date me. I had only started dating a few months before Dad died, and there were a few times I was afraid he’d scare them off.

      I think Dad never lost his sense of fun. Sometimes once people are grown up they think they have to act serious and important. They have to constantly show kids that they’re the boss. Dad wasn’t like that. Mom would probably be horrified if she knew some of the things he told me about his childhood.

      He told me all about some crazy things he did as a child. His oldest brother was always getting in trouble. Because his parents had to help Uncle Danny a lot with his school work, Dad could get away with things. No one ever noticed that he did because they just expected that he was the “good child.” He was a good student, and he didn’t get into trouble, so I guess they didn’t even pay that much attention.

      He used to sneak out of the house at night after his parents went to bed. He didn’t simply go downstairs and walk out the front door. There was an access door to the attic through his closet ceiling. He’d go up there. There was a window that had a tree next to it. He would go out through the window and climb down the tree. Once he was out, he’d meet up with friends who also were able to sneak out of their houses.

      “So, I already know that trick. Don’t think you can get away with it,” he said.

      He knew there was no chance of my doing it, since there was no closet access to the attic in my room or any tree close enough to the house. And I wasn’t good at tree climbing, anyway.

 

      Whenever I asked about my uncles, Dad would say they were older, and he didn’t do much with them. Because he quickly changed the subject, I sometimes wondered if he liked them.

      “Of course I do. They’re my brothers,” he’d reply.

      I had met Uncle Danny a few times, and my grandmother had pictures of all three of her sons, so I knew Uncle Frank was real, but I never met him. Dad said he lived in Wyoming. Once, when I said I’d like to go out there to visit him, Dad got a strange look on his face.

      “When you’re an adult, you can make that choice for yourself.”

      “Why don’t you want to visit him?”

      “Some things are better left alone. Besides, I don’t know quite where he lives.”

      “I’m sure Grandma knows.”

      “Lexi, just leave it.”

      Dad and I shared so many secrets, I was hurt that he had one about his brother and wouldn’t tell me.

      The only time we ever saw Uncle Danny was when he was at Gran’s when we were visiting. He seemed to idolize Dad, and acted more like a younger brother. Dad would talk to him, but mainly just to answer whatever Uncle Danny asked. Dad never started those conversations. If Uncle Danny didn’t, Dad would only say hello and talk with someone else. I never knew whether Dad didn’t really like Uncle Danny or just didn’t know what to say to him. I couldn’t imagine Dad not liking someone in the family. He was so kind to people.

      I once asked Mom. She said she couldn’t imagine Dad not liking his own brother. She thought it must be different having a brother like Danny.

 

      Mom and Dad sometimes seemed not to get along. They were okay when I was little, but then when I started school, Mom got a job. She didn’t act happy about it. She worked for a TV station. She started dieting a lot, but I didn’t see any change in her looks. She would complain about the other women who were on air when she wasn’t, and it seemed at times that she took it out on Dad.

      They tried not to say anything in front of me, but when there are only three people living in a house and two of them are arguing, it’s hard not to know it. Dad would try to be supportive, but that just made her mad.

      Most of my complaints concerned Mom, anyway. The first word out of her mouth where I was concerned was usually, “No.” I could usually get Dad to say yes to something she’d said no to, but he always said he’d have to talk to Mom about it first.

      They didn’t fight all the time. Really, it wasn’t a fight. It was Mom complaining. Nothing Dad did was enough.

      When I was little, I didn’t really notice it as much. But as I got to Middle School age, I realized what was going on. I could see Dad wasn’t happy, and I tried to do things with him that didn’t include Mom. I don’t know if he suspected what I was doing, but I know he looked a lot happier when it was just the two of us, or Dad with my friends and me.

      Mom mostly wasn’t self-absorbed. She did things for us. She tried to create a good relationship with me. But you could see that underneath it all, she was unhappy.

      “You have such a nice figure,” she said to me as I entered my teen years. “Always be careful of what you eat so you won’t have to worry when you get older. When you’re a woman, so much of getting ahead is based on how you look.”

      That was so different from what everyone else told me. They’d say education was important, and inner beauty – what comes from being good to others – is what was important. I knew that looks were important, but I wasn’t going to make mine the end-all and be-all of my life. I think Mom was told too much when she was my age that she was pretty, and once she was married, people didn’t tell her that as much. It made her feel like she’d failed.

      She continued to nit-pick, nag and complain in subtle ways. Dad was frustrated. Then things changed. Dad started going to training classes for work. I didn’t know what he needed training in. He was a terrific graphic designer

      He said there were always new things to learn, and he had to keep current with technology. So, he’d go to New York or Philadelphia from time to time instead of to the office. He’d get home a little later, but he’d be home the same day.

      Dad started doing things with me a little more. He said that now that I was in Middle School I was old enough to do things he couldn’t do with me when I was little. He would sometimes go to a movie with me, just the two of us. He would call it our Father-Daughter evening. The evening would involve having dinner together before the theatre. Once in a while we would go to a play instead of a movie. I know he had to leave work early to manage these things, but I guess because he went to his technology workshops, he got to do that.

      When he and I went out, he often let me get something to eat that my mother would’ve objected to, like a large dessert or an expensive main course. Sometimes it was just a junk food meal instead that she never would’ve approved of. I could just hear her telling me I’d lose my figure if I continued to eat like that. Dad would say that we just wouldn’t mention the details to Mom.

      Dad had a knack for making me feel special. He and I had had so much fun together that I sometimes wished my mother never came on our outings. I said that once, and he got very serious and silent. He looked like I’d hurt him.

      “Your mother loves you very much. You’re at an age where you probably don’t see that. She works very hard, and everything she does is for your benefit. If I thought I was raising a diva, I wouldn’t continue to take you places yourself. I don’t like to see you acting like you’re better than anyone else, especially someone who has done so much for you.”

      “She’s always nagging me!”

      “That’s part of her job. And she’s there when I’m not, so she sees things you do that need to be corrected.”

      Lesson learned: don’t say anything bad about Mom to Dad.

      That lesson also let me know how much he loved her. No matter how much she frustrated both of us, he loved her.

      He started once or twice a year going to something farther away, like Boston or Chicago, that kept him away for two or three days. Once he even stayed overnight in New York. It didn’t take long for those overnight trips to become more frequent.

      One of my friends said that maybe Dad was really having an affair. I couldn’t imagine my dad would do that, especially after the way he defended her. He seemed happier for a few days after he returned from one of his trips.

      It didn’t seem to matter to Mom whether or not Dad was happy. She didn’t notice his happiness. I wanted to hit her or something. I was worried that they’d get a divorce. I knew most of my friends whose parents had divorced lived with their mothers. I didn’t want to lose Dad. If I got to choose, I’d go with him.

      “Are you and Mom getting a divorce?” I asked him one day when we were at the zoo.

      “No! What ever put that idea in your head?”

      “You and Mom don’t seem happy. You’re always going away. Mom is always picking on you.”

      He laughed. “Mom is just going through some things. I guess she’s not terribly happy. As for my going away, that’s for work. I honestly need to learn things using the computer and new techniques for design. Things change. If I don’t go to the conferences, I wouldn’t know how to do some things. If I don’t keep up, my boss might think someone younger might be better. You wouldn’t want me to lose my job, would you?”

      “No.”

      He hugged me. “Lexi, I promise, I’ll always take care of you and your mother. I’ll make sure you’re provided for.”

      Well, then, my friend was wrong. I was glad about that. I just wished my mother would get satisfied with her life.

      I did get my way about that eventually. After years of complaining, Mom came home one day and announced she had a new job with a different TV station, and she’d be on-air. We went out to celebrate. It was good that Mom was finally happy.

      Life got back to normal after that, except something was going on with Dad. He had a conference in New York, and when he came home, he was kind of preoccupied. I knew they were talking about something after I went to bed, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying, except when mom said something about not wanting to move and uproot me from school. I wondered if Dad was getting a new job.

      Nothing more was said after that late night discussion that I know of until about two weeks before Dad died. He came home and asked what we thought about moving to New York. His company was merging with one in New York City. Once again, Mom didn’t want me to have to change schools halfway through high school. No one asked me. I thought it would be great, but before I could say anything, Dad said we didn’t have to move, especially since Mom was now in a job she loved. He did say his commute would be longer.

      That was the way he was: Sacrificing for her. She got to be miserable and take it out on us while Dad quietly took on all of the blame without complaint. No one would know if he was annoyed, or if his life had become more difficult. He wouldn’t let on. But by that one statement, I knew. And I hated my mother for that. To me, her sins kept piling up against Dad.

      I longed to experience life in New York, but Mom’s priorities, as usual, came first. They were going to decide without me, just like always.

      Dad was really excited, though, to work in New York City and meet the big wigs in the city. He told me he might get a promotion and a pay raise if everything went well. His boss had told him that.

      “Will we move?” I asked.

      “Probably not,” he said. “If we do, it’ll be after you graduate from high school.”

      “Won’t that make it tough for you?”

      He shrugged as if it was nothing. “I can take the train. It’d be more relaxing than driving to work every day.”

      “Could we visit the city sometime? I’ve never been to New York except on a class trip, and then it was only the Statue of Liberty and Chinatown.”

      “I think I could arrange that. There’s a lot more to New York than that. And you’ll be able to see where I’ll be working. Maybe next weekend,” he said.

      That conversation was on Sunday, September 9. Who knew how much my life would change only two days later.

      Dad was friends with most of the people in the neighborhood. He was always there to lend a hand when someone needed help. He also had friends he kept in touch with from his college days as well as from when he was growing up.

      One friend he’d known all his life was a woman named Marty. I always thought that was a strange name for a woman, but Dad said it was a nickname she used because she didn’t like her real name. As I got older I wondered if it bothered Mom that Dad had a friend who was a woman. She always said it didn’t.

 

      Marty had a son named Christopher who was about seven years younger than I. That meant that, on the rare occasions they visited, he was too young for me to play with. He was a cute little kid, and I was nice to him, but there was very little that the two of us could do together.

      I hadn’t seen Marty and Chris in several years when Dad died. I had actually forgotten about them, so I was surprised when I saw Marty at the memorial service. I guess I shouldn’t have been. Any of his other friends who lived nearby were there.

      Boys and girls I was friends with came to the memorial service, too. Many of the girls cried more than I did. I guess I’d done a lot of my crying when I first heard the news, but as the weeks passed, it seemed less and less real, even though he wasn’t at home. The fact that we were never able to get a body – as far as I was concerned, we didn’t get anything – made it feel more like he’d disappeared than died. Maybe that was just easier for me to cope with. I could keep hope alive if I believed that somehow he’d escaped and was wandering around the country with no memory.

      My father died in the twin towers on September 11, 2001. Why he was there has never made sense to me, but he had been excited to go. He didn’t work in New York yet. Mom said he had gone there with his boss to help with a merger between the company he worked for and another company. I didn’t see why he needed to go. He worked in marketing and design. He wasn’t one of the big wheelers and dealers. But he went, and both he and his boss were killed.

      I forgot my excitement about us eventually moving to the city after I graduated high school. I wasn’t even disappointed that the disaster meant I would have to postpone my trip to New York City indefinitely. Since I wouldn’t be able to go with dad, I didn’t care if I ever went there. I just know that, even though he was killed, too, I’ll never forgive his boss for making Dad go.

      I’ll never forget the night before. Matt Granger, one of my friends’ brothers, had asked me out. I was thrilled. He was a college sophomore, and was going to be home the following weekend.  I didn’t even know he liked me. He was definitely one of the cute guys, and I knew him a little from being at my friend, Janine’s house.

      My happiness was crushed, however, when I announced to my mother that he’d asked me out.

      “No,” she said.

      “What? Why? I already told him I’d go out with him.”

      “Lexi, you’re sixteen. He’s in college. He’s too old for you.”

      “He’s only three years older.”

      “He’s in college. You’re in high school. Why would he want to go out with a high school girl?”           

      “Why? Do you think I’m so ugly no boy would want to be seen with me?”

      “Don’t take that tone, young lady.”

      She always said that when she had already decided not to give in.

      “Mom –”

      “What do you know about him?”

      “He’s Janine’s brother.”

      “And what do you have in common with a nineteen-year-old?”

      “I don’t know! That’s why you go out. To find out.”

      “That’s not the way you do it. You go out with someone because you have things in common. You’re too young. You should be dating high school boys and leave the college boys for when you’re in college.”

      “You make it sound like I’m going to marry him! It’s only a date.”

      “You heard your mother,” Dad said. I was stunned. I was still trying to plan how I could wheedle a yes from him.

      “But Dad –”

      “No. I have to wonder about a college boy who would date a high school girl, especially one he barely knows. It has nothing to do with your looks. Or maybe it has more to do with your looks than you realize. You’re a beautiful girl. We don’t want you getting in over your head.”

      “Dad, I’m not going to have sex on a first date,” I said. I couldn’t believe my fun-loving dad could be so old-fashioned. “Besides, I’ve had high school boys try, and they got nowhere.”

      Instead of them being proud of my level-headedness, both of them looked horrified. I hoped that look wouldn’t make them not let me go out with high school boys, either.

      “You are not going out with a college boy, and that’s final,” Dad said.

      “You’re going to make me call him and tell him I can’t go?”

      “Unless you’d prefer to be rude and wait until Saturday and have me tell him,” Dad said.

      “I hate you!” I said and dashed up the stairs to my room.

      When I had myself composed and had worked out just the right compromise between blaming my wretched parents and being inconsolable over having to break the date, I called Matt to give him the news. Despite my embarrassment, he was understanding and even reassured me, saying that in two years when I was a college freshman and he was a senior, he’d asked me out and they’d have nothing to say about it.

      The next morning my dad was gone before I ever got up for school. I never got the chance to say I was sorry. I’ll never forgive myself for that.

      When I think about my dad, I remember all of the good things: the times we went places together, the way I could confide in him, the stories he used to tell me. I’m sure there were times he disciplined me, but I remember my mom doing most of the discipline things. When I think of the last time I was in his presence, all I can see is what a stubborn brat I was being. My parents were trying to protect me, even though I knew enough not to need protecting.

      I felt I didn’t deserve the consoling I received from family and friends. I had told him I hated him. I didn’t hate him, but now he’d never know that.

      The disaster at the towers was a disaster for the country. But for me it was personal. I was blissfully ignorant all day, only hearing about the events without knowing that was precisely where my dad had gone. Only when I came home from school did I discover that on that beautiful, cloudless late summer day, a nameless enemy had killed my father.

      “He was with Mr. Jackson at a meeting. They had gone up to the observatory in the South Tower,” my mother said. “There was no chance that they survived. There is no way he could’ve gotten out.”

      Mom sounded calm as she told me. Her eyes were red and she looked as miserable as I’ve ever seen anyone look, but she’d done her crying for the time being.

      “You’re sure he was there?”

      “Mr. Jackson managed to get a call through to his wife, which is a miracle. He called after the planes hit. He told her there was no way for them to get out unless helicopters could land on the roof. There was some hope of that happening at the time. He told her he loved her and started to say something about your dad when the line went dead. I guess your dad couldn’t get through on his phone.”

      “He didn’t have it,” I said.

      “What?”

      “I saw it on the edge of the sink this morning and put it on his night stand.”

      The news was full of the day’s disasters, but I couldn’t watch. My dad forgot his phone and couldn’t even call to tell Mom he loved us. Or her, anyway.

      We waited a little over a week before we did anything. By that time there was no chance that they would find more survivors, and it didn’t look like there were many bodies to find, especially ones from the upper stories. Dad hadn’t jumped. He would’ve gone down with the building and likely burned. If they found a finger or a shoe, it would be lucky. I did expect them to at least find his bones.

      Knowing there would be no body, we thought we might have a memorial service. That’s what Mrs. Jackson was doing.

      But we waited. Mom couldn’t bring herself to do it without some absolute proof. We both hoped that maybe what Mr. Jackson was about to tell his wife was that dad had managed to get out, or hadn’t gone up because he’d stopped somewhere. I at least hoped that, if he was in the building, he hadn’t gone up with his boss, and was one of those people taken to a hospital. He could be a John Doe, with no memory. At least, I hoped he could.

      It took several months. The people taken to the hospital had been identified, and Dad wasn’t one of them. The rubble had been sifted through.  They had asked Mom for something with his DNA. She gave them hair from his hairbrush.

      One day, an official brought Mom a package with all that was left of my father: His wallet: charred and dirty, with partially melted credit cards. I wept when I discovered what was in the package. How could that survive when nothing else had? It was something, I guess, something to let us know he had been here.

      I wondered how the wallet could have survived when his bones and other things hadn’t. There was no money in it. I couldn’t imagine that someone had stolen the money out of his wallet. Mom said it had probably burnt. But then, why hadn’t the wallet?

      I still have not been to New York. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the courage to go to see where my father died. But I wonder what he did on that last day. Did he stop in a coffee shop? Did he and his boss ever meet the people he was going to meet? I know he wasn’t in an elevator or on the point of impact floors. His boss called from the observation deck. Dad couldn’t call because he forgot his phone. He couldn’t borrow his boss’s phone because the cell towers went out while his boss was on the phone.      

 

      With her proof, Mom had all of the official documents drawn up. She was given a death certificate, and a few weeks later received a check from his life insurance company. She made preparations for a memorial service and had a plaque mounted on the family plot. I hadn’t even known there was a family plot.

      Dad’s family and friends along with Mom’s family and a lot of my friends came. Anyone who knew dad was there. What surprised me was when Marty came. I had thought Dad had said she lived out west, so I didn’t expect to see her.

      “Of course, I had to come,” she told Mom. “He was my oldest friend. I feel so bad for you.”

      “Don’t you live in Nevada?” I asked.

      “California,” she replied. “But it wouldn’t have mattered if we were in Siberia. I would have come.”

      She was concerned for Mom, asking if she needed anything, if there was anything she could do. Mom assured her we were fine, she had her job and things would be all right. We’d had enough time to get over the shock.

      Marty was upset. She wasn’t so much sad as – I don’t know. It was more like a guilty look than one of sorrow, as if she knew something. Silly, the way people can be misread. I guess everyone’s sorrow looks a little different. Maybe it was just that she wanted to do something for us, and there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t bring dad back, and that’s the only thing that would have helped.

      I would never get over the shock, I thought.

      When the day ended, the friends and family went back to their lives. I’ll never be able to go back to my life. Mine was forever changed on that day. I have to live with the shame of my last words to him. I can only hope he can forgive me, wherever he is.

The Invisible Twin

 This is the prologue of the novel I'm currently working on. Let me know what you think.

1983

            The 1980s. It felt like a new beginning to some, coming out of the chaos that the 1970s had felt like. Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan were the choices of the grownups: The Iron Lady and the Cowboy/Actor.

            But to the youth of the time, music told the tale. Depeche Mode, Duran Duran, Phil Collins, Genesis, Wham, Flock of Seagulls, Bryan Ferry, Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark, and the like breathed something different to a new generation. Even older rockers, like The Who appeared to have seen a new day.

            Boys wearing guy-liner, girls in leg warmers and shoulder pads, all of them sporting big hair held in place with hairspray, danced with abandon to a new age of pop music and pop culture.

            The Evans twins, Brynn and Christopher turned 15 at the beginning of the decade. Their older sister, Amanda was months away from entering Uni, and all was right with the world. The fact that they were twins may have had a small bit to do with their popularity – at least Kit believed that about himself. The boys were about to enter sixth form the following school year, and two years of prep for Uni themselves.

            Identical twins, but not identical in personality: Brynn was good at sports and played on the school’s football team – what the Americans called soccer. Kit spent his spare time with his guitar, singing, and learning the songs from the radio.

            While Kit’s friends were mainly from the music and theatre people at school, Brynn’s were more likely to be athletes, although neither was exclusive to those groups, and their closest friends mingled in both. Brynn could usually coax Kit into going to parties or simply hanging about with his set. But Kit never tried to convince himself that he was any sort of athlete.

            Kit saw Brynn as the talented one: the athletic one, who painted amazing watercolors, wrote prolifically – although Kit’s written work, when he got around to it, was far better technically – and made friends as easily as smiling. Kit, on the other hand, tended to be shy around people he didn’t know well, unless he had guitar in hand and a microphone in front of him. He could be found more often engrossed in a book, albeit up in a tree, than getting up to some of the antics of his brother.

            It was surprising that now, two and a half years later, the nearly 18-year-olds were headed to a party given by Kit’s theatre friends on a Friday night in early March, one where Brynn would be the relative stranger.

            Brynn and Kit were in high spirits. The party had been discussed for weeks among their friends in anticipation. As usual, Brynn joked and made witty comments about their friends. He was never mean. The subjects of his comments would laugh at what he had to say as much as Kit did.

            Kit ran a hand through his dark brown hair, and it flopped on his forehead. Brynn didn’t dare touch his own hair. He wore it sprayed as many of the pop stars did. It wasn’t unusual in 1983 for boys to use hairspray. Kit often did the same, but he’d been running late, and didn’t have the time to get it just so. Besides, he’d heard a certain young lady at the party liked the look of his deep blue eyes looking out from under his tousled feathered haircut.

Looking good for the ladies might be the goal of the evening, but both boys had plans for university in another few years.

            “Your turn is two streets up,” Kit said.

            “Great,” Brynn replied, continuing along the main street.

            Oddly, considering Brynn was the more outgoing of the two – the first born – Kit knew more of the people who would be at the party than Brynn did. But Brynn wouldn’t be a stranger by any means.

            All of the side streets had stop signs, so it was a clear run to the street where they needed to turn. As they started across the one before it, another car raced toward the intersection. The lights caught Kit’s attention.

            “Brynn, watch out!”

            Brynn turned his head and slammed on the brakes a second too late. The other car, ignoring the stop sign, slammed into the driver’s side of the car, slamming it into a light pole that hit just forward of Kit’s door.

            “Brynn!” Kit said. He started to reach toward his brother, but pain in his side and his arm made his breath catch.

            He didn’t like the angle of his brother’s head. Something looked off. He waited for Brynn to make noise, shake himself, or groan, at least.

            No sound came. Kit was afraid to move, not wanting the pain, not knowing what else might be wrong.

            “Brynn!”

           

            Brynn!” His shout turned into a howl as he sat bolt upright in bed.

            The bedroom door opened, and his grandfather entered. He grabbed Kit, who stared into the darkness like one blind, and gradually calmed him down. He sat on the side of the bed stroking the boy’s hair.

            “Is he all right?” the boy’s grandmother asked from the doorway.

            “Nightmare again,” her husband replied.

            He knew well the effects of PTSD – battle fatigue they called it when he was in the war.

            “It’s all right, boy,” his grandfather said gently.

            “It was the accident again?” his grandmother asked. Her husband nodded.

            Mr. Evans was good at getting his grandson calmed enough to sleep. His wife left him to it.

 

            “This was the first one in a long while,” Mrs. Evans said when her husband returned to their bedroom.

            “I was hoping it had stopped for good. I can’t imagine how he’ll get on at university with this still lingering. It would drive any roommate mad.”

            “He still has a few months before he has to decide. And another year wouldn’t hurt.”

            “He’s been anxious to go. I think even suggesting he wait another year would hurt him. We’ll have to see what his doctor recommends.”

            The conversation was put to rest for the night. The morning always made things easier to decide.

Stroke of Fate

 

      Aidan Morgan yawned and stretched as he rose from his bed, touching feet onto the cold, bare floor of his bedroom. He looked out his window through the dim, grey winter light and a slight fog that hovered between the mountains. From there he could see the eastern side of the property, the part of the road that wound back toward the hills and Mr. Richards’ lower pastureland.

      Mr. Richards, staff in hand, rambled along his land examining his fields and coaxing the odd stray sheep to run along back to the others. The man stood for a long time staring off toward the hills. As a child Aidan had enjoyed wandering with Mr. Richards, asking questions of him. He knew every inch of the surrounding hills and valleys. Aidan had thought at the time that Mr. Richards must be the wisest man in the area.

      The boy stretched again and dressed for what looked like a raw day that offered little likelihood of improving. Corduroy trousers, a rugby shirt and a jumper would do, he thought, pulling the clothes out of drawers and his wardrobe. He pulled on a pair of woolen socks, knowing he had the sheep to look after before he’d have any free time to spend with his friends.

      “We’re to have guests this evening,” his mother said as he appeared for breakfast. That was what she called those who stayed at their bed and breakfast. The additional income, combined with a pub attached to the house, kept them just a bit better off than the other sheep herders in the area. It allowed Aidan to have more certainty of a university education.

      “I didn’t know we were open this time of year,” he replied.

      “We’re never officially closed, but we don’t often have requests after October or so. Had it been for any of the last three days, I would’ve said no.”

      Aidan knew his mother kept the three-day Christmas holiday sacrosanct. The twenty-seventh, however, was fine.

      “It’s odd this time of year, isn’t it?” Aidan asked.

      “And American. I gather they’re over for Christmas and decided to see a bit of the country.”

      “Daring that, Americans driving here. This is a bit out of the way,” Aidan said.

      “Probably think the inn is actually in town. Or they could originally be from here.”

      “Or taking the bus,” Aidan replied, chuckling.

      “See that the sheep are properly penned. Mr. Richards said he saw one of ours wandering down by the stream on his side of the road.”

      “That was kind of him. What did he do about it?”

      “He brought it back. He just wanted us to be aware that part of the fence might need mending.”

      Mr. Richards’ pastureland was on the other side of the road that wound down and around the hills between Caernarfon proper and the south.

      The Morgans’ pasture was up the hill behind their home. Although their land extended about an acre farther on the other side of the road, they only used that portion of it as the car park for the pub.  In good weather it would be full. This time of year only the locals, many of whom simply walked, kept the pub from being empty most nights.

      Gwilym Jones and his family came every Thursday for dinner. He never took advantage of discounted prices Mrs. Morgan offered.

      “Your prices are fair and I need no charity. Save it against a time when I may,” he’d say.

 

      Aidan finished his breakfast and prepared to go outside to see to the sheep. His mother bustled about making sure the empty breakfast room was set with breakfast things. Then she went upstairs to clean the en-suite bathroom and make sure everything in the main room was dusted and as it should be. She refilled a container with tea bags and instant coffee packets, and put out fresh packets of shortbread.

      Meanwhile, Aidan wandered the pasture, the sheep moving as he passed. He walked the perimeter of the wire fence and found the break – a cut, actually. Sheep or even a dog hadn’t done this. Humans had. He bound top and bottom of the fence with some cord he’d brought until he could fix it.

      He whistled, and Tally, their border collie ran to him. At Aidan’s command the dog rounded up the sheep. Aidan counted them twice and found none missing. Whoever had cut the fence apparently wasn’t in the sheep stealing business.

      The sheep accounted for, Aidan walked the perimeter again before checking the shed where the sheep sheltered in bad weather. It was empty, but things were not as they should be. It looked like someone had spent the night.

      Aidan sighed. He wouldn’t have a peaceful night tonight. There were predictions of sleet. He wanted nothing more than to spend the night in his own bed, warm and dry.

      He found his father inside the pub directing the delivery of beer. Mr. Morgan looked up as his son entered.

      “Everything all right with the sheep?” he asked.

      “They’re all there. But the fence was cut and needs mending. And the shed has a look of having been slept in.”

      “Help me with the replacement kegs, and when the delivery’s done and we’ll mend that.”

      “Do you think it’ll be cut again?”

      “We’ll keep an eye to it, now it’s been done.”

      “Will we patrol the grounds, do you think?”

      “I doubt anyone will be about tonight. Rough weather. Keep an eye today for strangers in town if you’re there with your friends. You know the sort.” Aidan nodded.

      The man from the delivery lorry, Isaac Adams, entered with a keg on his shoulder.

      “Aidan, is it? How are you boy? Was Father Christmas good to you, then?”

      Aidan laughed. Isaac still spoke to the sixteen-year-old as if he were six.

      “He was good as he usually is. Did he treat you well?”

      “Oh, fine, fine. You know how he is, all about the children.”

      Aidan knew little about Isaac beyond the fact that he worked for the beer company. Occasionally over the years he’d mentioned a wife, and Aidan thought he must have children. But Aidan was seldom about when Isaac made his deliveries.

      “So, did he treat your children well?” Aidan asked.

      “Mine? Och! They’re grown with their own children.”

      Aidan hadn’t expected that. Isaac didn’t look much older than his own father, who was in his forties. Aidan’s sister, had she lived, would just be 21 this year.

      “Your grandchildren, then?”

      “He’ll never finish to see them if you rabbit on like that,” Mr. Morgan said.

      Mr. Adams hadn’t stopped his work while he spoke, and now he was finished.

      “Happy New Year to you, Aidan, lad.”

      “And to you, Mr. Adams.”

      Aidan took a damp cloth and wiped the tables in the pub while Mr. Morgan and Mr. Adams finished their business. Although they’d been cleaned at the end of service the night before, Mr. Morgan liked to be certain of a thorough job.

      That finished, the boy made sure each table had its correct number of chairs and that the salt and pepper shakers were filled. By the time he had finished, his father was ready to set up the kegs under the bar. Aidan helped move them and connect them to the taps. Once everything was attached properly, they went to the pasture.

      When they got their, his father taught him how to make the repair so it was nearly invisible. Once they had finished, he showed his father the place he thought intruders had slept.

      “We run a bed and breakfast and folk steal a place!” Mr. Morgan muttered.

      He rang the local constabulary to alert them to what had happened.

      “Likely hikers passing through,” P.C. Evans said when he arrived to inspect the area.

      “I don’t like that they cut the fence,” Mr. Morgan replied. “It’s one thing to use the sheep shed, but they’ve cost me time and materials for repairs.”

      “We’ll keep an eye. Cold time of year to be living on the land,” the policeman said. “Hopefully, we’ll have no more incidents.”

      Mr. Richards came by and Mr. Morgan thanked him for such a watchful eye.

      “No more than you’d do for me,” he replied.

      They discussed the cut fence and whether or not it was likely that troublemakers would be about.

      Aidan sized up the two men. His father still had a full head of hair, although the curls were salt and pepper now. He was medium height and a little stocky whereas the balding Mr. Richards was taller and leaner, with sharp features that looked to have been shaped by the windswept landscape. Mr. Richards frightened many of the local children, who thought he was strict and as sharp-tempered as he was sharp featured. Aidan had known the man all his life and found him amiable, quick to laugh at a joke, but serious when the need arose. He knew how to drive a bargain or take pity equally.

      Once Aidan had told the police what he’d seen, he went on his way to find his mates in town. Winter carnival provided amusement for the children and teens out of school for the holidays. The town bustled with activity.

      Aidan told his friends about the sheep pen incident.

      “Who’s daft enough to sleep in the open in this weather?” Jason Bond asked, looking at the heavy grey sky that was only slightly lighter at noon than it had been at sunrise.

      “Dunno,” Aidan replied. “And why come to our farm when there are warmer places to kip in town?”

      “So we’ll be on the lookout for someone smelling of sheep, then?” his other friend, Matt Hopkins asked.

      They all laughed. Matt was as dark haired as Aidan, but with brown eyes rather than Aidan’s blue. He was considered the wit of the set. Jason, with his light ginger hair that was always falling in his eyes, was their thinker, taking in information and ruminating over each bit for hours at a time. He’d likely have some theory about the incident by next day.

      They headed toward the carnival grounds, thoughts of anything else replaced by the anticipation of a day of fun.

      Morning rounded into afternoon amid fish and chips and food from the vendors. As the afternoon light faded, Aidan told them he was needed at home.

      “It’s only three,” Matt protested.

      “I need to be back before dark. We have guests in tonight.”

      This time of year?” Jason asked. “So you didn’t close for the holidays?”

      “We closed for the hols themselves. It’s unusual to have anyone now, and since it’s not a huge party, it doesn’t put Mum to much work.”

      “Foreigners?”

      “Americans. I’ll let you know what they’re like tomorrow. At least they won’t sleep in the sheep pen.”

      “Are we on for the panto tomorrow?” Jason asked.

      “Definitely,” Aidan replied.

      They parted company and Aidan walked to the bus stop for the journey home.

      “Ah, good, you’re home,” his mother said. He’d forgotten and used the front door. They generally didn’t when they had guests.

      “Have they come?” he asked.

      “Yes, they’re up in their suite. Apparently spent the day in town and were quite surprised how far we were.”

      “I imagine it’s dearer in town,” Aidan commented.

      “If anything is open in town.”

      His parents knew all of the bed and breakfasts as well as hotel people in Caernarfon. They were likely to know which were open.

      Mr. Morgan had done a check of the sheep pen before it was full dark and found nothing amiss. He hadn’t expected anything wrong in daylight. The landscape was empty of people except for the occasional car and one passerby who’d stopped for lunch.

      “Aidan,” his mother said, coming out of the hallway, “the ladies upstairs need towels. Be a love and run these up to them. I’ve been up and down all day.”

      He took the towels and ascended. He knocked on the door, and to avoid any embarrassment, said, “Towels, Miss.”

      The door opened. A girl nearly his height with large brown eyes and pale blonde hair smiled at him.

      “Hello. Thanks,” she said.

      He smiled. “Anything else, Miss?”

      “No, we’re fine now. Thanks. What’s your name?”

      “Aidan.”

      “Hi. I’m Susan.”

      Aidan nodded.

      “Sue, I’m sure he’s busy,” said the other woman from farther back in the room. She was a bit older, dark-haired and bore no resemblance to Susan.

      “Well, if there’s nothing else?” he said.

      “Oh, no. Thanks. But, when does dinner start?”

      “Half five, Miss,” he replied.

      “Half?” She looked confused. He realized Americans phrased it differently.

      “Sorry. Half past five.”

      “Oh. Okay then. Thanks.”

      He nodded and went downstairs.

      “Everything all right?” his mother asked when he returned to the lounge.

      “Yeah. Pretty one, that blonde. Is that her mum with her?”

      “No. Two different names. I don’t think the older one’s old enough to be her mum.”

      “Dunno. I didn’t get a good enough look.”

 

      Mrs. Morgan had the family’s meal ready for tea. While they ate, she asked about the sheep and Mr. Morgan asked after the guests.

      “Will you check the pen tonight?” Mrs. Morgan asked.

      “I reckon before bed Aidan and I can have a look.”

      “Do you think we’ll be busy this evening?” Mrs. Morgan asked.

      “Not if the sleet comes.”

      “I hope it doesn’t,” Aidan said. “I don’t fancy going through the pen in the sleet.”

      “How are the guests settling in?” Mr. Morgan asked.

      “I’ve heard not a peep since they went up other than asking for towels,” Mrs. Morgan replied. “Although I suspect Aiden fancies the younger one.”

      “Does he indeed?”

      “I only said she was pretty. I think they’ll be down for dinner.”

      “It’s Thursday. Gwilym Jones usually comes,” Mrs. Morgan replied.

      “I hope you have your shepherd’s pie ready,” Mr. Morgan said. His wife laughed. Gwilym, without fail, ordered shepherd’s pie.

      They finished tea and Mrs. Morgan finished preparations for meals for the pub.

      Gwen Owens came by to help with cooking as she did three nights a week. A quiet, middle-aged woman, she’d never married and enjoyed the quiet, behind-the-scenes work of preparing food and cleaning dishes. She’d have been embarrassed beyond all telling if she’d had to face customers, even those who were neighbors. She got on well with Aidan, who never teased her, although some of the town children did.

      Aidan walked through the pub making sure everything was as it should be, and his father brought glasses behind the bar to put away.

      “Kevin Flynn says his parents are thinking of going back to Ireland to live,” Aidan offered. “We ran into him today at the carnival.”

      “Does he, then? I hear there aren’t any jobs to be had there just now.”

      “His dad would still work for the company here, but as an advisor to a shop there.”

      “I wish him good luck, then. I know they’ve sorely missed their homeland,” Mr. Morgan said.

      “I can’t imagine needing to leave your home,” Aidan said.

      “And just last summer you were talking of going to America.”

      “Not by being forced. And I’d go for a visit first to see if I liked it.”

      “It’s different to what they show in the movies, I’ll wager. Ask our guests if you want to know.”

      Aidan laughed. His parents never encouraged bothering the guests.

 

      The women came down to the pub and sat at a table. Mr. Morgan gave them menus and asked if they’d like anything from the bar. They each ordered a glass of wine and looked over the menu. When he brought their wine they ordered.

      Aidan entered the pub and went behind the bar.

      “Go on with you,” his father said. “You can’t be back here.”

      “Just getting a bag of crisps.”

      “Eating the profits, are you? You’ve just finished tea. Go. You know you’re not to be back here during hours.”

      Aidan nicked the bag of crisps and scooted out.

      “Here, take this order, will you?”

      Mr. Morgan handed his son the check. Aidan glanced at the two women, then went the back way to the kitchen.

      Mrs. Morgan and Gwen busied themselves with the order.

      From the kitchen they could hear Gwilym’s booming voice as he and his family made their weekly appearance. They sat in a booth by the window and Gwilym called his greeting over to the bar.

      “Your usual?” Mr. Morgan asked as he took out a pint glass and some glasses for the cokes he knew the two girls would want.

      “I’ll have white wine if you have it,” Gwilym’s wife said.

      “When have you known me not to have it, my darling?” Mr. Morgan asked.

      He reached overhead for a wine glass.

      As he took the drinks to the table, a young couple entered and hailed Mr. Morgan. Thomas Andrews and his new bride hadn’t been to the pub since before their wedding a month earlier.

      “Thomas, about time you showed yourself. Glynnis, is this lad treating you well?”

      “He is.”

      Mr. Morgan took Gwilym’s family’s order, and handed it to Aidan as he returned. He gave the couple their menus and returned to the bar to get their drinks while Aidan took Gwilym’s order to the kitchen.

      It looked like a busy night for midweek. Aidan wondered if the weather would hold so that the later regulars would come for their pints.

      The boy came back quickly to get Thomas’s order.

      Lively conversation arose amongst the local patrons who spoke now in English and now in Welsh. The locals frequently used a mix of the two.

      When the meal was ready, Aidan brought it on a tray and set a plate in front of each of the ladies.

      “Will you have anything else?” he asked.

      “Thank you, no. We’re fine,” The older woman said. The younger smiled and blushed.

      “I saw the blonde flirting with you,” his father said in Welsh.

      Aidan laughed and returned to the kitchen for Gwilym’s order.

      Mr. Morgan went to the ladies’ table to see if they needed any more wine, but they assured him all was well.

      “The waiter asked us already,” the older woman said.

      “Ah. My son isn’t old enough to serve the liquor just yet.”

      “Oh, I guess he looks older than he is,” the younger said.

      Mr. Morgan smiled. He thought nothing of the kind, but supposed she meant it as a complement.

      “If you need anything else, give a shout.”

      Aidan appeared a few moments later with Gwilym’s order.

      “You have yourself a girlfriend, have you?” Gwilym asked.

      “A guest only,” Aidan replied, glad that the Americans didn’t understand Welsh.

      “And I thought I was your one and only,” Morgan, Gwilym’s youngest daughter teased.

      “Ah, but think of it. If we married you’d become Morgan Morgan.”

      Gwilym and his family laughed. Morgan was two years older than Aidan and as a small boy he’d been smitten with her. He’d outgrown that, but they shared a playful fondness.

      “I hear you’ve had troubles with your sheep pen?” Gwilym asked.

      “News travels fast.” Aidan told them what had happened. “The police thought perhaps it was someone passing through. They’ll keep an eye, but they don’t expect a repeat of it.”

      “With the weather turning colder, I’d expect not. If you need help, let me know.”

      “We will, I’m sure.”

      He crossed the room and stopped at the guests’ table on his way.

      “How is everything?”

      “Wonderful,” the older woman said.

      “What language was that you were speaking over there?” Susan asked.

      “Welsh.”

      “Oh. Does everyone speak that here?”

      “Mostly everyone. But we all speak English as well.”

      “That is so cool,” she said.

      He smiled and nodded and returned to the family part of the house.

      Once his mother had ascertained that all of the customers were taken care of, Aidan told her he was going to check the sheep pen.

      It was full dark and the cold bit his face when he first stepped outdoors. He looked at muddy-looking sky. The clouds looked ready to burst. He expected to see snow the next day.

      Aidan trudged around the perimeter of the fence. All looked well, but he noticed the latch on the gate was open. He didn’t remember his father leaving it that way, but he’d mention it later. With people vandalizing things, it wouldn’t do to leave the gate open. He shut it.

      He wandered around the field, making sure the sheep weren’t out. The dog usually investigated whenever anyone came inside the fence, which is what made the previous night’s vandalism so odd. Aidan couldn’t imagine him being silent or even being friendly toward a stranger when no one from the house was there.

      “Tally!” he called. “Come on, boy!”

      There must be a sheep out of bounds for him not to race over to Aidan.

      The boy crept to the shed the sheep stayed in at night. As he entered he saw the dog lying on the floor just inside the door.

      “Tally!” he cried, kneeling down to see if the dog was alive.

      As he touched the warm fur, the crack of something hitting his head hard reverberated through his skull before blackness.

 

      The pain in his head confused Aidan. He didn’t expect to feel pain after death. Perhaps he hadn’t been good enough for heaven after all. Or perhaps he was only on his way to judgement.

      “I think he’s coming round,” said the disembodied voice.

      St. Peter? Surely St. Peter wasn’t a Welshman?

      St. Peter surely would have spoken Aramaic. And he’d spoken in Welsh. Is that what they meant by speaking in tongues?

      He opened his eyes against the glare of celestial light to see the local doctor, Gwilym and his anxious parents staring at him.

      Oh. Not being dead was so much less disappointing than a headache in hell.

      “Aidan,” his mother said, “how do you feel?”

      “My head hurts.”

      The men chuckled.

      “I expect so,” the doctor said. “You’ve had a good crack in the head.”

      “I went to check the pen and didn’t see Tally. He didn’t come when I called, so I went to the shed to check, and found him. Is he dead, then?”

      “No. He was drugged, but he’ll be just fine,” Mr. Morgan said.

      “Someone hit me in the head, and that was the end of it. I didn’t see anyone. Who’s minding the pub?”

      “My son, Gareth is, and Davey Furman came by to help,” Gwilym said.

      “And Sarah stayed behind until our return for the guests,” his mother added.

      “Don’t worry yourself about anything,” Mr. Morgan said.

      “Fortunately, you’ve had no fractures,” the doctor said. “I’ve put in a few stitches to fix the break in your scalp. It’s a hard head you have there, Aidan Morgan.”

      Once they’d made sure everything was all right, Aidan was allowed to return home with his parents.

      A light snow had begun to fall as they went along the winding, deserted road. Aidan wondered briefly if the guests would have any difficulty getting out in the morning, and thought if only it had snowed earlier, he would’ve been alerted by footsteps – or someone could at least have tracked the intruders.

      When the Morgans returned, their friends dashed out to see how Aidan was.

      “I’m fine,” he answered them.

      “A thwack on the head,” Gwilym said, “wouldn’t harm this boy.” The others laughed.

      A policeman stood inside the door. He followed the family into the breakfast room and asked Aidan a few questions about the events of the day.

      We have a man in custody,” PC Evans said. “Mr. Richards saw something out of the ordinary and stopped the man as he ran from your property. He had him when we arrived. I need your memory of what happened. What of the dog?”

      “He was drugged, but the vet says he’ll be all right in a few hours,” Mr. Morgan said. “Apparently they did the same to him last night, which is why we heard no barking.”

      “The man was in possession of some sleep aids. That’s likely what he gave the dog. And he stole some tools. Now that we have him, I trust we’ll have no more trouble here.”

      “Has the bloke said anything?” Mr. Morgan asked.

      “Not much so far. He’s at least guilty of theft and trespassing, and we’ll likely have him for assault as well as damages to your sheep pen.

      Aidan told him all that he knew, and PC Evans went on his way.

 

      In the morning Aidan awoke with a terrible headache. He lay in bed thinking about the previous evening. His father had said they’d gone looking for him when he wasn’t back in half an hour.

      He glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly nine. He jumped out of bed and regretted it almost immediately as the pain became a steady throb. Slowly, he dressed and prepared for the day.

      “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked his mother when he entered the kitchen.

      “That man nearly split your skull. You’re owed a bit of rest after that. I’ve kept watch, and I woke you a few times in the night to be sure you were all right.”

      “Did you? I don’t remember. Are the guests gone?”

      “No, they’re having breakfast. I told them they might want to wait a bit before leaving to let the roads clear.”

      “I didn’t even look,” Aidan said, peering through the window.

      “Not much. Just enough to make a mess for morning traffic. The roads were well gritted last night. You could see if the guests need anything.”

      Aidan walked through the kitchen to the breakfast room. George Singleton, the local plumber, was sipping coffee at the table nearest the kitchen. It had been his habit to do so ever since Aidan’s parents first opened the bed and breakfast. The small table with a single chair was out of the way of guests. He insisted on paying for his coffee, saying it was his job to see the place stayed in business.

      “I heard you came to some mischief last night,” he said as Aidan entered.

      “Yes, but I’m better now. Head just hurts a bit.”

      “They’ve caught the party responsible, have they?”

      “Yes.”

      “And you’ll testify at a trial, then?”

      “I expect I will,” Aidan replied.

      That would be the talk of the town, Aidan suspected. This sort of crime was unusual, and folks would hope it wasn’t a sign of the times.

      “Is everything satisfactory?” he asked the two ladies who sat at the table nearest the gas fireplace that gave a snug warmth to that part of the room.

      “Oh yes, everything is delicious,” the older woman said.

      Aidan asked if they needed anything else, but the older woman said no.

      “I heard you had an accident last night,” Susan said.

      “Just some minor trouble. I hope it didn’t disturb you. Everything is fine now. Are you travelling far today?”

      “To Aberystwyth.”

      “That’s a long drive, but scenic if you’re taking the coastal road.”

      “Have you been there?” the girl asked.

      “I have. It’s a lovely town. Have you lodging there?”

      “Oh, yes, everything is reserved.”

      “Brilliant. Well, then, drive safely and enjoy the rest of your holiday.”

      He turned away from them on his way back to the kitchen so they wouldn’t see the bandage covering the stitches on his head. He hoped his small talk wasn’t too much. No point in longing gazes at a girl he’d never see again.

      “Oh, wait,” the girl called as he started toward the kitchen.

      He turned, an inquisitive look on his face. “Yes, miss?”

      “Do you have a business card or something? If I’m ever in the area again, I’ll want to stay here.”

      He nodded, wondering how likely it would be that she would visit the area again. Still, she might recommend the establishment to a friend.

      He brought a card from the desk and explained how to make the call from America, something he was frequently asked.

      “Thank you,” she said, smiling at him. He smiled back and nodded before returning to the kitchen. Mr. Singleton winked at him as he passed.

      About an hour later, as Aidan finished gritting the walkway from the door to the car park, the ladies settled their bill with his mother and started toward their car.

      Aidan asked if they needed any help. Each woman carried a small, wheeled suitcase.

      “Thank you, no,” the older woman said.

      “Safe journey,” he said.

      The two smiled and walked carefully to the car.

      Once they were safely on the road, Aidan went inside. His mother would want him to rest after his ordeal, and for once he wouldn’t fight it. He had the memory of the blonde American woman looking out the car window, giving him a wave and a smile in the milky morning sunlight to keep him company.