Deadly Nothingness

A Novel By

Joseph T. Carrieres

Chapter 1

Descent into Hell

Evil is never a mere abstraction; its most terrifying incarnations are wholly human and intensely personal.

Though she believed neither in Heaven nor Hell, Barbara Eriksson invited Satan to live in her home.  His name was Michael Wilhelm and he was her father.  Barbara's mother Ann had died two months earlier and her hapless father's life had spun out of control.  When she had visited his home in Baltimore a month after her mother's passing, she was shocked by conditions in the residence.  The kitchen, living room and his bedroom were cluttered with dishes, food containers and endless empty bottles and cans of liquor.  Michael had always been a heavy drinker, but his consumption had clearly escalated.  Barbara realized if she left him on his own, he would be completely buried in his own filth within a few more months and probably dead as well.

She knew there was little she could do about his level of drinking, but she did have the ability to provide a decent environment for him.  He had never been a good father, but she felt it was the least she could do.  After all, she was married to one of the wealthier men in the world and providing creature comforts was simple enough--there were always servants available to tend to every physical want.  She consulted with her husband, Lars, and he had no issues with the decision to move her father into their house.  With his usual efficiency, Lars arranged for the move, had Michael's home cleaned out and repaired, put it on the market where it sold immediately, then placed the proceeds into his father-in-law's bank account.

       Though she had invited him to visit numerous times over the years, Michael had never been to her home in Arizona.  She picked him up at Sky Harbor Airport and drove him to his new home in Scottsdale.  The Eriksson home was a lavish structure built in a Spanish Hacienda style.  Lars had given his wife complete say over every aspect of its design and furnishing, and she spared no expenses.  Located on one hundred acres north of the city proper, the Eriksson's privacy was assured not only by the size of the property, but also by a ten-foot wrought-iron fence surrounding the entire estate, as well as the latest in security equipment.

       They approached the home after passing through two electronic gates, the first of which opened to their private road off of Scottsdale Drive, the second leading through the fence to the residence itself.  Michael's eyes opened in amazement as they stopped in front of the massive front doors on a circle drive of hand-laid stone.   A couple of servants appeared to handle the luggage and drive the car around to the garage away from the house, a building large enough to be a home in itself and which housed some ten vehicles as well as motorcycles, dune buggies, a large boat, and several jet skis.

       The two-story home had a massive foyer floored with Saltillo tile and the room itself soared to the full height of the building.  Stairways made of intricately carved wood led to the second floor on each side, while the door directly ahead of them opened the way to a huge living room, which also rose to the second level.  The furniture and artwork were pure Southwest and displayed Barbara's penchant for Native American paintings and pottery.

       She proudly gave her father a tour of the residence.  The section of the home they were in faced north and contained the foyer, the living area, dining room, the kitchen and laundry facilities.  Built in a squared U-shape, the building cupped a central courtyard dominated by a swimming pool built entirely in a natural boulder style.  The east wing housed a gym downstairs, a game room and den while upstairs there were four suites with bathrooms, including Thor's room and Michael's new dwelling along a central hallway.  The second story of the west wing was essentially dedicated as the master suite with his and her bathrooms and room-sized closets for the extensive wardrobes Barbara and Lars required.  Lars also had an office at the north end of the wing, outfitted with every item he might need to oversee his extensive business interests.  The first floor of their wing featured their library containing thousands of volumes as well as a movie theater which comfortably seated fifty people.

       The area south of the pool was intentionally left open, with several pathways leading to over two  acres of lush vegetation, trees and grassy areas one of which was set up as a playground for Thor and his playmates and outfitted with every kind of equipment a child could hope for, including a tree house which was a small home in itself, fully furnished with electricity and plumbing.  There were no servants' quarters, both Lars and Barbara, while not wanting to cook and clean themselves, also didn't want their privacy infringed upon.  Apart from special occasions, all of their workers were gone by five in the afternoon.

       They finished their tour and had returned to the living area when Thor wandered out from his afternoon nap.

       "Hi, sleepy-head," Barbara exclaimed.  "Come and say hello to your grandpa."

       Thor rubbed his eyes and eyed the newcomer with some suspicion.

       "Look at him," Michael said, "The boy is a little cherub."  He approached Thor, leaned down and pulled him into an embrace, which Thor resisted.

       "Now, now, don't be shy, I'm your grandpa and I haven't seen you in a long, long time."

       Michael kissed him on the forehead and Thor wrinkled his nose in disgust.  His grandfather's breath reeked of something disgusting.

       "You smell funny, grandpa" he said in the candid manner of a child.

       Barbara shook her head.  "Dad, were you drinking on the plane?  It was only 8 am when you left Baltimore."

       Michael shrugged.  "Sorry, I couldn't sleep last night, so that helped a little. It wasn't easy leaving there, you know, especially with all the memories."

       She nodded in understanding and patted him on the shoulder.

       "Let's get you settled into your new room."

       Bringing Michael into their home had been the right decision.  A month after he arrived, Barbara and Lars were discussing it before they drifted off to sleep.  Always affectionate, Lars was holding his wife in his arms and lightly stroking her back in a manner he knew was soothing to her.

       "It looks like your dad is settling in quite nicely; I have to admit I'm a bit surprised."

       "Why is that, were you worried?"

       "I suppose so, especially after you told me how he was handling himself back at his house after Ann died.  I was just worried about how he would adjust to being here."

       Barbara shrugged.  "Well, he's basically pretty quiet and keeps to himself.  He is drinking a lot, but he doesn't start until the afternoons and he's never gotten mean from it.  He just winds down and ends up going to sleep by nine or ten.  He does tend to get up and wander around in the middle of the night, but that seems to be when he eats.  Karen tells me she cleans up a bit each morning from his forays into the kitchen."

       "How about Thor?  How is he adjusting?  He seems to be awfully quiet lately."

       "I think that's natural.  Thor has never been good around new people and he seems to be a bit afraid of my dad.  He's also just very absorbed in his private activities.  When Jen's kids have come around to play, they haven't been getting along very well.  Thor has gone into one of those phases where he seems to want to tease them all the time--and you know how well he can do that."

       Lars drew a deep breath and cleared his throat.  "Maybe this private tutoring is not working out too well.  I think he just needs time to be a kid and have fun--this whole genius thing might be overrated."

       Lars had touched on a sore point for both of them.  Their son had begun speaking in full sentences before he was one, and by the time he was two, he was reading books at the second and third-grade level.  Now he was doing math and learning Spanish and his intellectual progress was not just astonishing, but somewhat disconcerting to both of them.  They both were concerned he would never have the chance to simply enjoy being a little boy.

       "That's been on my mind as well," Barbara admitted.  "I'm meeting with Dr. Samuels this week, I'm going to bring it up with him.  Our son has an entire lifetime to learn and explore, but he only has one short childhood.  I don't know if I want to steal that away from him.  It seems as though the ones who tested him are far more anxious to push him ahead than we are."

       Lars squeezed her.  "If you want to slow this whole thing down, I'm right there with you."

       Neither of them yet knew it, but their son's future was already out of their hands, stolen away by Ann's own father.

       Michael had never been caught, there had never even been a whisper of suspicion that he was aware of.  He had been molesting boys since he was a teenager, as he himself had suffered as a child at the hands of a neighbor.  He had proficiency for picking out potential victims as well as a special facility for keeping them quiet about his involvement with them.

       The second he laid eyes on his grandson, his twisted libido flared into full passion.  Whatever moral qualms he might have felt when he first gave in to such desires had long since been completely extinguished, they were no longer even a slight hindrance.  The only reservation he felt about this situation was the greater risk Thor posed than his many previous victims.  He noted from the start the extraordinary intelligence Thor possessed.  Without being obvious, he observed his grandson's behavior in as much detail as possible.  Within a short time, he realized Thor not only had an innate brilliance, he was an accomplished liar and manipulator who employed those skills without hesitation, often for no apparent reason or gain, but simply because he enjoyed doing it.

       He lied to his mother and father about his daily activities, seemingly tailoring his responses to what they might want to hear.  They believed they had the perfect son, so he provided them with that illusion and was rewarded by their approval.  Even though he often made life miserable for his tutors, he was also able to manipulate them into providing glowing reports to his parents about his behavior and progress.  He tormented the house staff relentlessly and with total impunity, seemingly realizing they couldn't complain to his parents--though he would then tell his parents how much he loved the help, often in their presence and Michael could see how they had to hide their revulsion.

       After a couple of weeks of such observations, Michael was ready to act, the anticipation of the forthcoming conquest already pushing him past any point of hesitation.  Awakening one night after a few hours of alcohol-induced sleep, he sat up in bed and poured himself a generous portion of his favorite single-malt scotch while noting that it was just after 2 am.  As he relished the smooth burn of the distilled liquor down his throat, he knew with a thrill of certainty that this was the night.

       Thor awoke groggily, something nagging at his awareness--a stench all too familiar.  When his eyes focused, a wave of fear swept through him.  His grandfather was sitting on the bed beside him, leaning over, his face mere inches from his own.  He shrank away, pulling the covers tightly to his neck.

       "What's wrong, grandpa?" he managed.

       Michael stared at him unflinchingly, menacingly.

       "You're what's wrong.  You're a filthy little liar and you're in big goddam trouble."

       "I don't know what you mean..."

       Michael shook his head in disgust.  "I saw what you did today.  You climbed up on that counter in the kitchen, stole some of that candy, and then lied to your mother when she asked if you had taken any.  Didn't you?"

       Thor started to tremble and couldn't respond.  Michael grasped him by the shoulders and shook him roughly.

       "Answer me, you little bastard!  You lied to her, didn't you?"

       Thor managed to shake his head and started to whimper.

       "Shut up!  Don't cry like a baby or you'll really make me mad.  You lie all the time and I'm sick of it, do you hear me?"

       The old man was pressing Thor's shoulders deep into the mattress and he could only manage, "Sorry...."

       Michael released the pressure and stared at Thor with contempt.

       "You're not sorry at all and I know that.  But you will be, because now you're going to be punished."

       "I don't want a spanking," Thor implored.

       "Oh, it's going to be worse than that, because you've been really bad."

       Michael stood up and Thor realized with a shock that his grandfather was naked from the waist down and was stroking a full erection with one hand.

       "Now, I want you to touch me just like I'm touching myself."

       Thor's eyes widened in horror.  "No, that's bad, I don't want to.."

       Michael leaned down, thrusting his face close to his cringing grandson's.

       "You WILL do it, goddammit, or do you know what will happen?"

       The old man raised his other hand and in it was a huge, gleaming knife.  He ripped the covers loose from Thor's hands and viciously gripped him by his genitals.

       "If you don't do what I say, I will cut your penis off and you'll bleed all over the bed.  After that, I will kill your mother and your father.  Then I'll come back and do this."  He released his hand, then slapped his palm over Thor's nose and mouth, pressing him back into his pillow.  The young boy panicked and struggled for breath, but the grip was relentless.  When he was on the verge of losing consciousness, Michael released him and Thor sucked in huge, gasping breaths--but only for a few moments. The helpless boy was subjected to the same brutal treatment twice more before Michael finally relented and allowed him to breathe freely.  Thor was completely drained and in near-shock.  He could no longer put up the slightest resistance and Michael was soon coaching him into doing precisely what the twisted old man desired.  Later, when Michael was finally satiated, he cleaned up, then came back and sat beside the traumatized boy.

       "Listen to me, Thor."  The boy stared straight ahead without responding, so Michael slapped him lightly to get his attention.

       "If you ever tell anyone about this, I'll let your mother know exactly what kind of liar you are.  No one will believe you.  Then I'll come back and do what I said I would do.  Do you understand?"

       Thor nodded meekly, completely subdued.

       "Good, because you better remember what I've said.  The other thing is that your punishment is not over.  I will come in here whenever I want and do this again and you if you whine or complain, I will just hurt you more.  Don't forget that--ever."  That night was the beginning of two years of absolute horror for the young Thor Eriksson.

       The following morning, Thor awoke from a troubled slumber to his living nightmare.  He went down to the kitchen and realized with absolute revulsion that his grandfather was already up, chatting with his mother.  He was about to turn and go back to his room when Barbara spotted him.

       "Hi, baby, what's wrong?  You don't look well."

       "I, I had a bad dream, I was scared."

       "Ah, come here, everything is all right," she held out his arms and he sought refuge in his mother's arms and started to cry.  She was immediately concerned because Thor almost never gave himself over to tears, unlike most children his age.  She lowered herself to her knees and took him into a tighter embrace.

       "Don't worry, honey, it was only a dream, I won't let anything hurt you."

       Over her shoulder and through his tear-blurred vision, he saw his grandfather standing behind the counter, brandishing a knife.  He sobbed more convulsively, but managed, "I'm OK, I'm OK," even while he felt sick that his mother had invited this man into their home.  Of course she didn't know, but she should have and now Michael might kill everyone, Thor was convinced of that.

       Months passed as the secret torment continued in the Eriksson household.  Thor's misery multiplied as his grandfather's abuses escalated from fondling to oral and anal penetration.  He began to numb himself for each encounter, deadening his feelings, trying not to care.  He was partially successful in that, but only by diverting his emotions into a deeper anger and growing hatred which slowly began to manifest itself in other ways.  To those in the household, he seemed to suddenly become the most introverted, passive child in the world.  The staff and his tutors were delighted because he became the most complacent child they could hope for, though he apparently lost all interest in his academics. 

       He refused to play with the children of his mother's friends, calling them "stupid kids."  He spent a great deal of time alone, reading voraciously both on the computer and in the library.  He also spent hours in the back area of the estate, exploring and hanging out in the tree house.  Lars made special efforts to spend time with his son, and Thor seemed to respond to that, taking to training in baseball, football and tennis with alacrity.  His physical agility matched his mental prowess, and Lars was proud of that, though he was often struck by the fact that his son was not yet even four years of age. Following his dad's lead, he started to use the facilities in the gym, devising his own routine which he followed with a "ferocious intensity" as his mother put it.

       Yet his mother was now deeply troubled following a recent incident.  A few afternoons earlier, she had gone in search of Thor when one of the staff told her he had wandered into the flower gardens near the tree house.  She strolled back and rounding a curve in one of the paths, saw her son bending over something near the path.  She approached casually and his level of concentration prevented him from noticing, plus the fact that he had headsets on so loud that she could hear it from yards away.  As she neared, his activities became more apparent.  On the grass in front of him was a glass jar with the lid fastened tightly.  Inside were a number of bees and a crumbled batch of dry leaves.  Thor was focusing the light from a large magnifying glass on the leaves, creating a dense smoke which was suffocating the bees.  Barbara was horrified and literally slapped the glass from Thor's hands, causing him to jump to his feet with a yelp.

       She yanked the earphones away by the wires.  "What in the world are you doing?" She demanded.

       Thor flushed heavily and struggled to respond.  "Just an experiment, that's all."

       She was indignant.  "That is no experiment, young man, that is absolute cruelty.  I can't believe you are doing that to those poor insects.  Let them out right now."

       Thor unscrewed the lid and dumped the contents.  Only one of the bees managed to fly off.

       "Look at that, you killed almost all of them.  There is no excuse for this, Thor--go to your room right now, and I mean NOW!"

       The boy sprinted to the house.  He felt no shame at all, merely unbridled anger.  Those were not the first creatures he had ever killed, nor would they be the last.  He would simply have to be more careful not to let his mother find out.

       A few nights later, Thor and his parents were in the office of the boy's counselor and psychologist, Robert Samuels.  They had sought his services a couple of years earlier when it became apparent how gifted their child was and he had worked for some years with such exceptional individuals.  When they had settled in, Barbara was nervously shaking a crossed leg while Thor sat quite impassively between her and his father.

       Robert smiled and spread his arms outward in a gesture of welcome.

       "So here we are in a family counseling session.  Do you know what that is, Thor?"

       The boy shrugged and nodded.  "I think so.  It means everybody is worried about me because I killed some bees."

       Barbara frowned, but the statement elicited a smile from Lars and Dr. Samuels.

       "Well, that might be a small part of it, but your parents are also concerned about other things.  Can you guess what they might be?"

       Thor made a wry expression.  "Mom has said that I'm a lot quieter than I used to be and that I don't like playing with other kids much anymore."

       Barbara patted his leg and nodded.  "That's some of it, too, but I don't mind that so much.  You just seem so serious now, darling, and I want you to have fun.  You are almost like a grown-up in the ways you are doing things now and I sometimes wonder if you're having fun and enjoying life, because you should be.  More than anything, I want you to be happy."

       "I like swimming with you and playing sports with dad.  That's fun."

       Lars nodded enthusiastically.  "He's a hell of an athlete already, Robert, you should see him throw a baseball or hit a tennis ball or the touch he has shooting hoops.  I've got to get him started on golf next, he might be ready for the PGA Tour by the time he's thirteen."

       "Those are all great things, no doubt," Robert responded.  "Still, maybe we should talk a little bit about something you already mentioned, Thor.  Do you understand why your mother was upset with what happened the other day?"

       He dropped his head and nodded in apparent shame.  It wasn't what he was feeling at all.  He had no idea why his mother was so worried about insects that didn't matter to anyone--and it WAS an experiment.  He had been completely enthralled watching the creatures die, wondering exactly what was happening that made them change from living beings to dead little pieces of tissue.

       "We talked about it, and I feel bad.  I know that people sometimes kill animals for food, but to kill them just to see what happens is wrong.  Mom says the world is full of animals that are trying to live just like we do and that it's cruel to take that away from them for no reason."

       The Doctor's eyes narrowed and he observed Thor intently.

       "And is that what you believe, too?"

       "Yes, I do.  I wasn't really trying to kill the bees.  I was more interested in the smoke I was making with the magnifying glass I wasn't thinking about how it might hurt them and I feel bad that it did.  I won't do anything like that again, I promise."

       He said it with such apparent sincerity that everyone else was moved to make comments of approval and praise and Barbara's disposition markedly improved.  After some discussion about slowing down Thor's studies, Lars and Thor left while Barbara lingered to speak with the psychologist.

       "You're still somewhat troubled, aren't you?" Robert noted.

       "I suppose so.  I mean, my first reaction after finding him with the bees was thinking about serial killers who had started out as children by tormenting animals and that sort of thing."

       Robert laughed.  "I think you've watched too many crime shows.  That has happened in a few cases, but it's not the rule.  All boys have some capacity for thoughtless cruelty.  I remember shooting my sister's poodle with a BB gun when I was a little older than Thor, and it seemed like a lot of fun at the time.  I haven't turned into Ted Bundy."

       Barbara giggled this time.  "As far as we know.  Maybe you have a secret life..."

       The psychologist chuckled and gave her a quick hug.  "Now get home and stop worrying so much.  You have a wonderful son, you should celebrate that."

       The next morning, on the far reaches of the estate, Thor watched in fascination as a horned toad went into its death throes as the result of a large pin he had pushed through its head.  A bit later, he observed black ants and fire ants battle to the death when he dumped a cluster of the former onto a colony of the latter.  He was starting to realize that death was nothing to fear, it was the final act of every living being.  Using the same magnifying glass he had employed on the bees, he watched intently as a squad of the fire ants overcame and dismembered one of the intruders.  As he saw it succumb to the methodical and overwhelming assault, an idle thought entered his mind:  Grandfathers die too.

Chapter 2

The Good Son

       Humans have an unfathomable capacity to withstand the most horrific losses and still move forward with meaningful lives.

As Thor watched the last of the ant battle, another gifted young boy sat on the back porch of a modest home a few miles away, his head cradled in his hands.  John Patrick McDonough had just returned from the Veteran's Memorial Cemetery where his father, Daniel, had been laid to rest, one of the relatively few American casualties in the opening weeks of the First Gulf War.

       Friends and relatives were still gathered inside, including his mother, Theresa, his older sister Gwen and his younger twin brothers, Chris and Curtis.  Now that all the formalities of the funeral mass and burial were over, John wanted just a little time to be alone in his grief.  He cried for a long while.  When the tears passed, he tried to pray, but found himself unable to do so.

       As if on cue, Father Tim Adamson appeared and sat silently beside him for long moments.

       "You know, there are going to be a lot of times like this in the next few years," the priest finally said.

       "What do you mean, Father?"

       "Quiet moments where you'll be all alone, thinking about your father and missing him just like you are right now."

       John nodded, beginning to tear up again.  "I was trying to pray, but I can't right now.  I don't know why God took my dad away, Father.  Why would he let this happen?

       The priest shook his head slowly.  "Johnny, I wish I could answer that for you, but I don't understand it myself.  If I could give you a real answer, I would have to be God myself.  The only thing I know is that I miss Dan more than anyone I’ve ever missed in my life.”

       "You were best friends like Willie and me, I liked the way you talked about it in the sermon."

       "Just like you and Willie.  We went to school together our whole lives, but then we chose to do different things when we grew up.  Dan wanted to get married and raise a family.  I decided to make the whole Church my family so I became a priest.  When your dad was killed, I lost a part of my family, too--he was truly my brother."  Father Tim’s eyes fogged, causing John to begin weeping again.  They both succumbed silently to the sorrow before John finally spoke again.

       "Father Tim, what do we do now?  I just feel so sad like I don't want to do anything."

       "So do I, and nothing will change that for a while.  But there is something special you can do."

       "What's that?"

       "Be there for your family, Johnny.  You're the man of the house now and they're going to depend on you."

       "I'm only seven years old, Father."

       "I know, but you're growing up fast.  You are so much smarter than other kids your age and you have a strength of character I've never seen in someone your age--except maybe Willie.  That's probably why you're best friends.  I don't mean you need to go out and get a job and take care of them, but you need to be strong for them.  Your mom and Gwen are having a very tough time dealing with this loss, I'm worried about them."

       Thor started sobbing again.  "Gwennie told me she wanted to die the other night, Father, and my mom can't seem to stop crying when she's alone and doesn't think anyone is watching."

       The priest put his hand on the boy's shoulder to focus his attention.

       "Then you do this--I know how much you love everyone in your family, but now they need your love more than ever.  Don't just tell them how much you love them, Johnny, show them.  Let them talk to you about your father, they need to do that.  The sadness about your dad will never go away completely--but you can love each other more every day and that will help you more than anything, I promise you.  And don't forget the twins.  They don't really understand what's happened and you are going to end up being one of the biggest influences in their lives as they grow older.  Be the best older brother you can be, they already think you're the greatest person in the world."

       The priest embraced him briefly, and then left him to his own thoughts.  He wasn't alone for long before Willie showed up and took the same spot the priest had occupied.

       "Hey, Johnny."

       "Hi, Willie."

       "I saw Father Tim out here talking to you."

       "Yeah, he always has good things to say, it helped.  Hey, Willie, was it like this for you when your father died?"

       Willie shook his head.  "Not really.  I was only four and my dad was never around.  I was just upset because my momma was crying so much.  Your dad was more like a dad to me than my real father was and now you're the brother I never had before."

       "You wanna walk down to the park?" John asked.

       "Sure, whatever you want."

       "I'll let my mom know, then let's head out."  John was glad to have a friend like Willie and in that very moment, in spite of all the misery of the past couple of weeks, he realized there was hope ahead.  He would not give in to the darkness that overshadowed everything right now, he would fight it--and help his family fight it as well.

       John took Father Tim's words to heart.  The funeral had been on a Saturday and his mother would return to work on Monday morning at the hospital where she worked as a registered nurse.  Without being obvious, he watched his mother's routine very closely on Sunday morning, especially when she prepared breakfast and he noted exactly how she brewed her coffee.

       That evening, he went to Gwen's room to enlist her help because he thought it would be good to get her involved as well.

       "Gwennie, I need your help with something."

       She was lying on her bed watching television, but clearly not interested, still in a deep depression.

       "What's that?" she asked.

       "Mom's going back to work tomorrow so I want to do something special for her in the morning to make it easier."

       That sparked some interest on his sister's part because she and Theresa had such a close bond.

       "What are you thinking?"

       "Well, I watched how she made breakfast for herself real close today, so I'm going to have her coffee ready for her when she comes out.  She eats oatmeal and yogurt every day, so I was thinking maybe you could make that for her and we'll make sure the paper is in the house and at the table, too-- we'll get the twins to take care of that."

       "OK, that sounds cool.  You'll have to wake me up, though."

       "No problem, I'll set the alarm on my computer and I'll let the twins know, too."

       The plan was carried out to perfection.  Theresa, who always ran late, was in particular trouble on this first day back to work and rushed downstairs after dressing to make her coffee and grab something to eat.  All her kids were waiting for her, the table set, the paper unfolded next to a steaming cup of coffee.

       "What is all this?" she asked, even though she realized at a glance what was happening.

       The twins were jumping up and down with excitement.  "We got the paper, we got the paper."

       For a moment, John thought she would burst into tears, but a huge smile spread across her face instead.  We've all cried enough lately, he thought as she opened her arms to hug everyone.

       "I love you guys so much!" she exclaimed.  "We're going to be all right, I promise.  Well, if Marissa gets here soon, where is that girl?"

       The doorbell chimed in the middle of her question, their summer babysitter had arrived, a cute teenage girl who was the object of considerable affection on John's part, though he would never admit that to anyone.  John ran to let her in before the twins could horn in.  He opened the door to be greeted by her winsome smile.

       "Hi, sweetie, sorry I'm late, is your mom mad?"

       John shook his head.  "Nope, she's late and still eating breakfast."

       Marissa went into the kitchen, the twins immediately clamored for hugs, which she granted, then she went over to Theresa and embraced her as well.

       "I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to talk to you yesterday after the funeral."

       "That's OK, Marissa, I'm just glad you were able to be there."

       "Is everyone doing all right?  I can't imagine how hard this must be."

       "It is hard," Theresa agreed, "But we're getting through it.  We're going to keep living and loving more than ever--my kids are already reminding me about that."

       "I love these kids," Marissa exclaimed, "They are the best!"

       "Yes they are--and so are you, dear, thanks for all your help this summer."

       After some quick hugs and kisses, Theresa left the house and plunged back into her work life.  John was happy to see Marissa give Gwen some extra attention; she must have realized how much the young girl needed it.  John busied himself with the twins most of the day, though thoughts of his father were always running through his head.  As usual, Willie stopped by and they spent some time playing video games with John's brothers before heading to the back yard to shoot some hoops.

       Mid-August seemed to arrive in a flash.  Theresa took a day off from work to take Gwen and John to their first day of school at St. Catherine's grade school.  Gwen was beginning the fifth grade; John was now a second-grader.  Both had gone to the same school the previous year, so they were excited to see old friends.  After she dropped them off and started to drive away, the twins were hanging out the back windows, yelling and waving goodbye.  John and Gwen waved back enthusiastically.

       John was thrilled when his teacher allowed them to select their own seats when they first entered class, and of course he and Willie chose to sit side-by-side.  They would spend their entire schooldays making the same choice whenever they could.  Some years later, their bond would generate hatred far beyond the conception of either child.

Chapter 3

A Precocious Killer

Evil is often rooted in a desire for justice which corrupts even those with pure intentions.

       A year later, Barbara and Lars Erickson were once again meeting with Dr. Samuels, this time with a new set of concerns.

       "It's hard for me to understand what's happening with him," Barbara began.  "A couple of years ago, it seemed like he was going to be another Einstein by the time he was eight or nine, but now it's like everything has ground to a halt, or even gone backwards.  We dropped the tutors on their recommendation simply because he wasn't learning anything new."

       Lars nodded in agreement, adding, "But whatever interest he previously had in academics seems to have transferred over to physical activity.  He can't get enough sports and he has become absolutely obsessed with the martial arts--He even has a private instructor three mornings a week.  I can't keep him out of the gym, either and I'm really worried he's working his body beyond its capacity."

       Robert Samuels listened closely as they explained their concerns.

       "I know you're both very concerned and I understand that.  However, one thing we all realize is that your son is no ordinary child in many manners.  The intellectual plateau he seems to have reached does not worry me in the least, nor should it bother you.  I've seen other cases where children show exceptional abilities in their early years, then they level off as they grow older.  Thor also seems to have just lost interest at this point in developing those capacities, nor do I think we should push him.

       As far as his level of physical exertions, that is probably less of an issue than you might realize.  If he's eating healthy and getting enough sleep, his body will let him know when he's pushing it too hard and he will just naturally cut back.  I can't see someone his age developing a full-blown obsessive-compulsive complex, though it wouldn't hurt if you keep a chart of his activities over a couple of weeks for me to take a look at--and if you wouldn't mind, get his weight daily for me over that period as well."

       Lars nodded his agreement then hesitated before opening another topic.

       "The other thing is the whole social interaction.  He has started playing more with the kids of friends who come by, but he just doesn't seem engaged.  There were times when he used to tease them quite a bit, but now he seems more like a babysitter, even when the kids are a couple of years older than he is.  I hate to say it, but he even comes across as seeming superior."

       Robert shrugged--"Which he is, in almost every way, we all know that.  Intellectually and physically, he runs circles around the other kids, I've seen that.  Yes, it might engender feelings of being elite, but humility will come with time as he realizes those advantages don't necessarily make him a better person.  That's where having great role models like you come into play.  After all, Lars, you are one of the wealthiest men in the world, but I've never seen you lord that over others.  Then again, that's why I have no qualms about charging you top dollar for my services," he finished with a laugh.

       That sparked smiles from both Barbara and Lars.  "You are worth every penny, Robert," Barbara said, "We're fortunate to have found you."

       His parents and Dr. Samuels had almost everything wrong about Thor.  He had lost none of his interest in furthering his intellectual pursuits, he had simply decided to make them completely private and tailor them to his interests.  He had been reading extensively about child prodigies and had come to the firm conclusion that he didn't wish to follow in the path many of them had taken, such as being in college at eleven years of age and being viewed as a complete freak by one's peers.

       His physical exertions sprang from another source--rage and hatred--all directed at and caused by one person, his grandfather.  His fascination with death had expanded as well.  The torture and dissection of animals had progressed to more complex creatures, including birds and even desert hares.  He was also beginning to have fantasies about killing Michael

       Still, almost all of those fantasies involved the same kind of brute force he was using on animals, and he knew he could never get away with something like that.  He had read enough about killers in society to realize he would always be a pariah, regardless of what his grandfather had done to him.  He was also still convinced that his grandfather would carry out his threats if he tried to do something to him and didn't succeed, so that also dampened his enthusiasm.  The most enjoyable vision he could conjure was watching Michael die of a heart attack, begging Thor to call 911 for an ambulance as his life slipped away.

       Just after his fifth birthday, Thor overheard a very interesting conversation between Barbara and her father.

       "So what did the doctor tell you?" she asked, which immediately caught Thor's attention.  He moved quietly into a position just outside the living room where he could hear every word more clearly.

       "Ah, this damn sleep apnea has gotten worse.  They're going to give me some kind of breathing machine with a mask which I'm supposed to wear every night to keep me breathing properly."

       "It's gotten that serious?" she asked.

       "Yeah, a few times I woke up thinking I was suffocating to death before I could catch my breath again.  The drinking makes it worse, of course, but I told him that's not an option.  A man has to reserve a few vices, even if they kill him."

       Barbara shook her head in resignation.  "I won't even comment on that, I know better.  Still, it sounds like the best course--I hope you follow through and actually use the thing."

       "I'll do my best."

       Thor made a beeline for the family library and pulled out a medical volume, quickly looking up the subject.  He realized that someone could actually die from severe sleep apnea and an autopsy might simply indicate death by heart failure resulting from the medical condition.  He carefully replaced the volume while his mind began to run at hyper speed--especially if the condition were made worse by the use of alcohol and drugs.

       When Michael made another one of his visits to Thor's room that night, the boy's disgust prompted him to plan more quickly than he might have otherwise.  He had reached the limit of what he could tolerate from the sick bastard now that a solution seemed to be at hand.

       The old man's routine was completely predictable.  He watched television in the living room every evening while drinking beer, then by nine he retired to his room where he put himself to sleep with a bottle of  The Glenlivet 12- year old single malt scotch--a supply of which was always at hand on the nightstand beside his bed.  When he woke around 2 or 3 am, it was either to forage in the kitchen or torment Thor with his attentions.

       Thor decided to act within the first couple of hours after Michael fell asleep, while he was still intoxicated.  Yet he wasn't sure how deeply his tormentor might be sleeping and he realized he had to find a way to ensure his grandfather wouldn't wake up.  He knew his mother had sometimes used a sleep medication called Ambien and recalled how she had taken it one night after having a couple of drinks and that it seemed to knock her out.  Lars had carried her to bed, commenting that she should never use the pills when she had been drinking.

       The next day, Thor devoted all his time to preparations, becoming so excited he could scarcely concentrate on the tasks at hand.  When his mother was out shopping, he went to her medicine cabinet and took out five of the Ambien tablets from the prescription bottle.  Even if she missed them it would soon become apparent who had taken them.  He then went to the gym and removed some straps and cords from several pieces of equipment.  Finally, from the kitchen he retrieved a large plastic freezer storage bag and took all the components to his room and put them under his bed, except for the Ambien tablets.  A bit later on, after seeing Michael retrieve a full beer from the refrigerator and settle in front of the television, John made a quick trip to his grandfather's room and with no hesitation dropped all five tablets into the already opened bottle of whisky on the nightstand, swishing it a few times to help them dissolve.

       Thor then went to his room, sat at his computer and waited for the evening to pass.  A rising fear gripped him--not of what he was planning to do, but that he would somehow be unsuccessful or get caught.  If he ruined this, the thought of his parents' reaction was terrifying.  At nine, he undressed and got into bed, fully awake and watching every minute tick agonizingly by on his bedside clock.  He normally was up later and his parents were surprised when they came in to say goodnight.  Both of them were always in bed by ten, and tonight was no exception.  After they had hugged and kissed him and left, he waited until eleven before quietly leaving his room, creeping down the hall and slowly opening the door to his grandfather's room.  He quietly approached the bed, checked the bottle of scotch and realized it was now empty.  Growing braver, he tapped lightly on his grandfather's arm, eliciting no reaction.  He pushed harder and called his name out quietly with the same lack of response.  Thor finally shook him quite forcefully and when Michael did not move, he realized with a thrill of excitement that his time had come.

       The boy ran back to his room, dove under the bed and gathered the items he had stashed there earlier.   He had turned off the hall light on the way back to his room, and now carefully poked his head out the door to ensure no one was around before sprinting down the hall back to his grandfather's bedroom.  He entered quietly, afraid that the old man might somehow be rousing himself, but he was in the same position as when Thor had left, snoring slightly.

       A wave of nausea and near-terror began to sweep over the boy, so he sprang into action before he lost his nerve.  The cords he had brought with him had wrist and ankle loops for use on weight equipment which could be tightened, yet wouldn't leave marks if the old man began to struggle.  He slipped one onto each wrist and ankle, then stretched out the old man's legs and arms, lashing them to the poles at each corner of the bed.  Michael didn't show a hint of awareness.  Thor double-checked each cord to make sure they were tightly secured, then pulled the plastic bag from his pocket with hands that were now badly trembling.

       He couldn't hesitate now, everything came down to this.  He jumped up on the bed, lifted his grandfather's head, slipped the plastic bag on it, then gathered the slack around the neck, making a nearly airtight seal.  Within just a few moments Michael began to labor for breath, but there was none available.  Thor steeled himself because he was sure his grandfather would awaken and go into a rage as he realized what was happening and he had to be sure to keep the bag tightly around his neck, no matter what.

       To his surprise and relief, Michael did not even recover consciousness.  He did struggle weakly, vainly, his arms and legs flailing just a bit, but to no effect.  He never opened his eyes and Thor suddenly found himself wishing that he would so Michael could understand what was happening and who was doing it to him.  As his grandfather's struggles subsided and then stopped, Thor watched him closely, waiting for the moment when all life drained from the body.  Even after all movement stopped, Thor kept the bag over his head for several long minutes.  He had to be sure.  His mother had taught him to feel for a pulse, and when that was completely gone, he removed the bag and watched intently for another couple of minutes.

       Finally, assured that Michael was dead, he moved even more quickly than he had when he entered.  He untied the cords, released the straps from the lifeless limbs and placed them on the floor with the plastic bag--all evidence that had to be removed.  He carefully picked up the empty bottle of Glinlevit by the neck, took it to the bathroom and flushed it out several times--he didn't want any traces of the Ambien to remain and who knew if the cops might test for something like that.  Thor had seen enough crime shows to think they might check every slight possibility.

       In the drawer of the nightstand, there was another bottle of the scotch, which John opened and then poured a small amount into the original bottle before screwing the lids back on each and carefully wiping the neck of each bottle where he had handled them--he wasn't going to leave any fingerprints, especially on liquor bottles.  He took a quick look at his grandfather's wrists and ankles, there wasn't a mark on them, just as he had hoped.  As a final touch, he folded his grandfather's arms on his chest and pulled up the covers.  He wanted it to look like he had died peacefully in his sleep.

       Back in his room, he tore the plastic bag into small shreds and flushed every bit of it down his toilet.  Then, using the stairs at the end of his hall, he crept down to the gym and replaced each wrist and ankle strap and their cords on the equipment from which he had removed them.

       As he finally eased into bed, a range of emotions flooded through him.  There was a strange sense of exhilaration, tremendous relief that he would never be tormented by Michael again, and a huge anxiety that he had overlooked something and would be caught and punished for what he had done.  It took a long time before he finally fell asleep.

       The following morning, he rose early, went down to the dining room and found his parents already having breakfast.

       "Good morning, baby. Come give me a hug."

       He complied and smiled as his dad ruffled his hair while he was in Barbara's arms.

       "So what are you up to today, son?" he asked.

       "I think I'll go out to the tree house for a while.  I left a book up there that I've been reading."

       "How about we play a little catch when I get home tonight?"

       "Yeah, I'd like that."

       "Great, I'll be back by six."

       Nobody mentioned Michael, he always slept in late then wandered down an hour or so before lunch to have his first beer of the day.  Their maid Karen brought in Thor's favorite cereal and he sat down to eat with his folks.  Following the meal, he went directly to his tree house where he decided he would wait until his grandfather's body was discovered.  He couldn't read, of course, he was too keyed-up about the forthcoming developments and anxious that he may have done something wrong.

       Just before noon the intercom in the tree house squealed to life and he heard his mother's voice.

       "Hey, lunch is ready, why don't you come on in?"

       Thor pressed the send button. "OK, mom, I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

       Now he was really knotted-up because nothing seemed to be happening.  A sudden horrible fear seized him.  What if he came in to eat and found his grandfather sitting at the table?  By the time he reached the back door, he had almost convinced himself that was going to happen, and he was nearly petrified.  To his utter relief, only his mother was sitting at the dining room table when he entered.

       "Hey, sweetie, will you go up and let your grandpa know some food is ready?  He's usually up by now."

       "Aw, mom, do I have to?  He's always kind of grumpy when he first gets up."

       "Please, baby.  My knee has been hurting me lately and I don't want to go up those stairs if I don't have to.  It'll only take a minute, just run on up real quick."

       Thor didn't want to protest too much, that might look suspicious.  He decided it was time for an acting job.  "OK, mom, I'll be back in a minute."  He trudged upstairs on the stairway in the foyer, then reluctantly approached Michael's room.  Another wave of near-terror engulfed him as he opened the door and timidly approached the bed.  The old man lay just as he had left him and Thor could tell he was dead just from looking at his pale, ashen face.  He took a few deep breaths, steeled himself, then bolted back into the hallway down the stairs and into the dining room.

       "Mom, mom!  Something's wrong, grandpa wouldn't wake up!  I'm scared."  Thor burst into tears, something he had mastered some time before, but which he rarely used.

       His mother was in an instant panic and bolted to the second story.  Thor retreated to the living room and huddled on a couch, rocking gently.  Within just a few minutes, he heard a siren outside and there was a hubbub of activity and voices when the front door was opened.  Karen came in, sat beside him and hugged him.

       "What's wrong?" Thor asked meekly.

       "Ah, honey, they're taking your grandpa to the hospital."

       "Is he OK?"

       "I don't know they didn't tell me, let's wait for your mom, I'll stay with you."

       A short while later, Barbara entered the room, motioning for Thor to come to her, tears streaming from her eyes.  Thor ran to her and fell into her embrace as she began to sob.

       "Baby, grandpa is gone--he died in his sleep."

       Thor hugged her more tightly.  "I'm sorry, mommy. I love you."

       Thor had a few more anxious days until the results were released from a routine autopsy which he heard his parents talking about.  His grandfather's death had been ruled accidental, caused by a combination of his sleep apnea as well as a high level of alcohol and a significant amount of Ambien.  There was no mention of foul play at all, much to Thor's relief.

       By the time a memorial service was held at the mortuary the day of his grandfather's burial, Thor was feeling great.  There was an open casket and his mother asked him if he wanted to say good-bye to Michael or if it would bother him too much. Thor was actually anxious to take one last look at what he had done, and Barbara was slightly troubled by the length of time Thor spent in front of the casket.

       Thor gazed down on the face of his long-time abuser and felt a thrill of empowerment.  You'll never hurt me again, he thought, and no one will ever know what I did.  He couldn't remember the last time he felt so happy.

Chapter 4

Evil, once embraced, becomes intoxicating to those who are concerned only with their own desires.

       The golden retriever, only months old, loped clumsily through the back gardens, eagerly exploring the inviting wonders of this strange new world.  Every few steps he stopped, lowered his nose and sniffed at some unseen attraction in the grass or flowers.  Thor watched him closely, struggling to contain his rising excitement.  He left the puppy to explore and went to the garage to gather some equipment.  He returned to the back yard a few minutes later with a tool box, opened it, then began to arrange some items on a grassy area.  The dog was still busily exploring its new domain.

       "'C'mere, boy come on!" Thor called, slapping his thigh.  The young animal's ears perked up and he charged over to Thor, tail wagging. 

       "That's it, you trust me already, don't you?"  The puppy cocked his head, tongue lolling out one side of its mouth.  As the retriever watched with curiosity, Thor took four large tents pegs and drove them firmly into the lawn in a rectangular pattern.  He then tied a length of nylon rope to each of the pegs.  By the time he was done, the puppy had wandered off again, but it took only a short whistle to bring him running.

       Thor reached down, grasped a thin foreleg, and flipped the puppy roughly on its back in the middle of the pegs, his action provoking a yelp of pain and surprise.  Holding the animal in place with a knee to the chest, Thor firmly lashed one of the ropes to the leg he was gripping.  Then, seizing a back leg, he tied a second cord to it, curled the loose end around the peg diagonal to the one where the first leg was lashed and cinched it tight--very tight.

       The golden retriever cried out and began to struggle violently.  It was too late.  Within moments, Thor had bound the two remaining legs and the dog was nearly immobilized.  Thor stood back and surveyed his handiwork for a few seconds.  It reminded him of the manner in which he had bound his grandfather to his own bed a couple of years earlier.  "All right, boy," he announced, "it's time to see what you're made of--and what I'm made of."

       Reaching into the tool box, he extracted a heavy-duty staple gun.  He examined it momentarily, knelt beside the puppy, pressed the instrument firmly against the animal's flank, then had to use both hands to squeeze the trigger, firing a staple into the tender flesh.  The beast stiffened, then howled sharply as the pain registered.  Thor studied the reaction, then placed a second staple in the puppy's rib cage.  The pitiful creature writhed in agony and redoubled his howling, which now eerily resembled a hoarse human scream.

       "Oh, yes, that hurts, doesn't it?" Thor commented.  "Don't be such a cry-baby, we're only getting started.  Thor shot the next staple into the puppy's testicles, causing him to gag and choke as his body shook with spasms of agony.  The boy was pleased with himself.  This was turning out to be far easier and more pleasurable than he had fantasized.  He felt not the slightest twinge of pity for the creature he was torturing.  Having the puppy's fate completely in his hands gave him a similar sense of the power and control he had felt after taking his grandfather's life--without any of the fears and anxiety he had then experienced.

       It wasn't just power, but the ultimate power--that over life and death itself.  He leaned over and planted a final staple in the dog's left eye, who thrashed his head wildly and literally screamed.  The noise was becoming tiresome and Thor punched the dog heavily in the stomach, leaving him gasping and moaning.  The boy next produced a large pair of pliers from the toolbox.  Slowly, relentlessly, he twisted and jerked each nail loose from the puppy's paws.  By the time he was done, each limb was bleeding profusely while the beast could manage no more than ragged whimpers.

       "Uh-oh," Thor commented, noting the crimson pools forming in the grass.  "I can't have you bleeding to death."  He took a mini-butane torch from the toolbox, lit it and adjusted the flame to a pinpoint of blue.  As he applied it to the first paw, the fur flared briefly and the flesh sizzled immediately.  The dog vomited and released its bowels.  When Thor finished cauterizing the last foot, the golden retriever had lapsed into merciful unconsciousness.  The boy went into the house and fixed a sandwich, without any concerns.  His parents would be gone until the evening and the staff  had the day off.  Though he was only seven, his parents had developed a deep trust in his ability to care for himself on the well-secured estate.

       When he returned, the miserable animal was awake again, trembling violently.  Thor was mildly surprised at the amount of punishment the animal was able to absorb.  Now refreshed, he resumed his torture with a renewed vigor.  With the same pair of pliers, he proceeded to snap the delicate bones in each of the puppy's legs, the crunch as they gave way was somehow thrilling to the boy.  Though the dog attempted to cry out, only a thin hiss of air marked his protest of the treatment.

       Thor stood and leisurely stretched.  He had grown bored, especially since he was now getting so little reaction from his victim.  "Time to die, boy," he said calmly.  Kneeling over the puppy, he grasped him by the throat and watched intently as he choked the last sparks of life from the young body.

       He carefully cleaned all of the gear, throwing out the cords which were stained with blood.  After placing the dog's corpse in a garbage bag, then placing it within a second and then third one, he put it in the large dumpster by the house, making sure it was covered by other garbage.  He then returned to the back and washed down the lawn until there wasn't the slightest sign of blood.  As he rolled up the hose, he was somewhat disappointed.  He didn't experience nearly the satisfaction he had felt after killing his grandfather.

       The sun had dipped below the horizon and brilliant bands of red and gold streaked the desert sky.  Barbara Eriksson was unable to appreciate the beauty of the scene.  From the air-conditioned comfort of the living room, she noted the reading from the temperature gauge in the pool area still topped 100 degrees and she silently cursed the Arizona heat.  Lars and Thor seemed to thrive in torrid weather, but she had learned to dread the approach of May.

       Shaking her head in disgust, Barbara turned away from the patio door and went upstairs to check on Thor.  She was pleasantly surprised to find him already reclined in his oversized bed.

       "It looks like someone's tired tonight."

       Thor grinned impishly, a sight that made him irresistibly cute.  "I played outside all afternoon," he replied.  "My eyes are really dry and tired from the sun."

       "That'll do it," she agreed.  "How about if I tuck you in?"  She carefully adjusted the sheet around him, sat on the bed and kissed him gently on the forehead.

       "Oh, Thor, I forgot to ask you, but Mrs. Lady called earlier--you know them, they live in the big place down the road.  Their golden retriever somehow got out of their back yard this morning.  You didn't see any sign of him wandering around the fence in the back, did you?"

       "No, mom.  I hope he's not lost.  That's a nice puppy."

       "Yes, he is.  Anyway, you get some sleep.  I'm sure they'll find him soon.  Goodnight, honey."

       "'Night, Mom."

       She paused to admire her blond seven-year old, and, tired as he was, he quickly took advantage of her delayed departure.

       "Mom?"

       "Yes, dear?"

       "Does God exist?"

       Barbara knitted her brows in puzzlement, because the question surprised her.  "Who's been talking about that?" she asked, trying to appear nonchalant.  Thor instantly read her interest and struggled free of the covers she had so carefully arranged around him.

       "Well, Jimmy Garcia keeps saying that God made everything in the universe and that he can do anything.  He also said that if you do bad things and don't pray to God, you'll go to Hell.  Is any of that true, huh?"

       Barbara sighed.  "Haven't we already talked about this, Thor?"

       "Yeah, sort of," he admitted.

       "Honey, have I ever lied to you?"

       "'Course not."

       She sat beside her son once again, reached out and gently stroked his hair.  "Then listen carefully, because it's important for you to understand this.  God is just like Santa Claus.  Some people believe in him, but he's not real."

       "Yeah, but even a lot of grownups believe in God, they talk about him all the time."

       "You're absolutely right.  And a thousand years ago, most adults believed in dragons and thought the world was flat.  Just because a lot of people believe in something doesn't make it true.  People who believe in God are mostly afraid to be in charge of their own lives, and we don't want you to be like that, son.  God is just another fairy tale, and you're too smart to believe in such stories."

       "So Hell isn't real, either?"

       "Of course not.  They just use that to try and scare other people into believing in God like they do."

       Thor pondered the implications.  "Then what happens to us when we die?"

       "Every living thing dies, honey, and it's nothing to be afraid of.  When we die, it's just the same as before we were born--We're just not here anymore.  That means life is very, very precious, and we need to make it the best life we can.  That's what we want for you."

       "So I should try and have as much fun as I can?"

       Barbara giggled.  "Sort of.  But as you get older you'll find that your idea of what is fun will change a lot.  That's part of growing up."

       "Some people think it's fun to hurt others," Thor said solemnly.  "Like Hitler.  He thought it was fun to kill the Jews, didn't he?  I read that some of his doctors used to do experiments on them just to see how much pain they could take."

       This unexpected turn in the conversation alarmed Barbara, though she muted her reaction.  "Oh, but they were wrong, so wrong.  Hitler was a sick and very evil man, Thor.  Everybody has the right to a happy life, and men like Hitler take that away from them without any reason."

       "What if the people are already unhappy?  The women that Jack The Ripper killed lived terrible lives in a dirty place."

       Barbara's alarm turned to horror and she couldn't mask it.  "Where in the world did you learn about Jack the Ripper? she demanded, a hard edge in her voice.

       "Just a book.  It wasn't that bad.  It was even kind of funny because he kept tricking the police and..."

       "Thor, I never want you to read books like that again, at least not until you're much older.  Do you understand me?"  The iron tone in her voice caught him off-guard.

       "I'm sorry, Mom, I won't," he lied, putting on his meekest face.

       "I'm glad, because I want you to see the good in people, not how terrible a few of them can be.  Can you understand that?"

       "You and dad are really good.  I want to be just like you."

       That put her much more at ease and she kissed her son again before leaving.

       Thor didn't fall asleep for a long while.  He realized he didn't really understand his parents and he was sure they didn't understand him.  Although they realized he possessed exceptional intelligence, they had no concept of how advanced he was.  His greatest feat had become hiding his intellect from others.  Occasionally, he couldn't resist showing off a bit, but that always seemed to lead to problems.  All talk of advancing him in school had died and Dr. Samuels himself was convinced that Thor had merely had an extraordinary early jump in development which then sharply leveled off.

       He should have known better than to bring up anything about Hitler or Jack the Ripper.  His mother became paranoid when he showed any interest in such subjects, especially since the long-ago incident with the bees.  For the most part, he presented himself to her just as she wanted to see him.  He had become very good at reading her reactions and his enthusiasm tonight had muddled his judgment.  He would be more careful in the future.

       "There is not, my mom told me so," Thor said smugly.

       Jimmy Garcia considered this for a moment.  "Then your mom told you a lie."

       Thor's temper flared.  "You better take that back.  My mother doesn't tell lies.  She says believing in God is just like believing in Santa Claus.  I'll bet you still believe in Santa Claus, don't you?  He's not real, you know."

       "You're a big, fat liar," Jimmy yelled.  "I don't believe you."

       "Too bad.  That just means you're stupid.  Only stupid people believe in things that aren't real."

       That did it.  Jimmy threw himself at his tormentor, but Thor avoided him easily, throwing the boy to the ground where he began to thump him soundly.

       "Fight, fight!" the cry went up, and everyone came running, but it didn't last long.  The on-duty teacher was observant, and only moments later, he pushed his way through the kids and hauled the two boys to their feet by their collars.

       "All right, what's the problem here?"

       "He started it," Thor said.  "All I did was argue with him, then he tried to tackle me."

       "It's Thor's fault," Jimmy countered.  He says there's no God or Santa Claus.  He called me stupid, so I got mad."

       "March yourselves to the principal's office right now, you can discuss this with Mr. Simms."

       Thor assumed a truculent look for a moment, then thought better of it.  As they trudged toward the office, Thor could sense the teacher's eyes following them.  Without turning his head, he said, "Jimmy, you're such a baby.  If he hadn't stopped it, I would have beaten you up."

       "I'm not scared of you."

       "Oh, yeah.  Well fuck you!"  Thor had switched to his power vocabulary, something other seven-year olds still feared using.  Jimmy drew in his breath sharply.

       "You're in trouble now.  I'm going to tell Mr. Simms."

       "Then you're a son-of-a-bitch squealer, too."

       Jimmy didn't argue with that.  Nobody wanted to be known as a squealer.

       When they walked into the reception area in front of the principal's office, Mrs. Wheeler, a dour secretary looked up from her magazine with displeasure.

       Thor took the bold approach.  "Mrs. Wheeler, we were sent to see Mr. Simms.  We were fighting on the playground."

       She stared them down for long moments and though Jimmy averted his eyes, Thor met her gaze without flinching, causing her habitual frown to deepen.  Very deliberately, she pressed a button on the intercom console on her desk.

       "Yes?"

       "Mr. Simms, there are two young men out here who have been sent to see you.  They evidently have been fighting on school grounds."

       "Send them in."

       Thor glanced at Jimmy and saw that the boy was terrified.  Thor felt strangely excited at the prospect of confronting the highest authority in the school.  Though the boys would not have realized it, Mr. Simpson had set up his office in imitation of what he thought was the power position of a corporate executive.  He sat behind a large oak desk, and the only light in the office streamed in from half-drawn blinds, obscuring any visitor's vision and hiding his face in shadow.

       The boys stopped before his desk and waited for the principal to speak.  He remained silent, allowing tension to build, or so he thought.

       Thor broke the silence.  "We're here because we were fighting.  I told Jimmy that there is no Santa Claus and no God, so he got mad and started the fight.  I was starting to beat him up when the teacher stopped us."

       It peeved Mr. Simms that Thor had seized the initiative in the conversation and he was also disturbed by the report, being a devout Mormon.  "What do you have to say, Jimmy?"

       The frightened boy could scarcely speak, his voice quavering.  "It, it was like he said Mr. Simms.  I got mad and started to fight.  He shouldn't have said those things."

       "You may be right, Jimmy, but that's no reason to start a fight.  I'll have to call your parents."

       "Yes, sir.  I'm sorry."  He was near tears.

       "I know you are.  But you, Thor, are another matter.  You don't seem sorry at all."

       "I'm not," Thor replied steadily. " I didn't do anything wrong."

       Thor's defiance disconcerted the principal--It had a maturity to it that Mr. Simms had never before seen in a child this age.

       "You were fighting, you don't call that wrong?"

       "I was just defending myself."

       "Perhaps, but you made him angry by what you said."

       "I have a right to my opinions, and so does Jimmy.  Even if we disagree, that's no reason to start a fight."

       The principal was perplexed by Thor's sophisticated use of language and reasoning.

       "What grade are you in?"

       "Second."

       "You speak like someone who is much older.  You're in Mrs. Matthews gifted class, aren't you?  Do you think that makes you smarter than other people?"

       Thor shrugged.  "I don't know, maybe--I always get good grades in everything."

       "So if you're more advanced than your classmates, why did you find it necessary to torment Jimmy?"

       "He started it by talking about God.  All I did was tell him I don't believe in him.  That's what my mom told me, and she would never lie."

       "I'm sure she wouldn't.  However, you realize that most people in this country do believe in God.  I believe in God.  You should respect that."

       Thor shrugged again.  "I don't care if other people believe in God, but I have the right to express my own opinion, don't I?"

       "Of course you do.  But since you seem to be ahead of the other children in many ways, maybe you should try to be sensitive to the way they see things.  I'm sure you want people to like you, don't you?"

       "Sure, Mr. Simms."

       "Then sometimes we need to be careful about the things we say, especially if we know it will upset others and even if we don't think the same way.  Do you think you can do that?  It's all part of growing up and getting along with people."

       "I'll do my best." he replied, all the while thinking to himself, he's not even going to punish me!

       "Good.  Now I'm still going to have to let your parents know about this, Thor, but I think you understand things better now--I don't see any reason for either of you to be in here again, do you?"

       "No, sir," they answered in unison.

       "So shake hands and go back to your classes."

       As they left and walked back in silence, Thor's mind was working furiously.  It was suddenly hitting him how different he was not only from the other children, but from most adults as well.  Almost all of them believed the fairy tales about God.  He was one of the few who knew the truth.  It wasn't popular, though--in fact, it was very upsetting to other people to even hear such views.  Therefore, the best thing for him to do was to keep his beliefs to himself.  Besides, it gave him a sense of pride to realize he knew truths that even most adults didn't understand.

       Another thought struck home with force, something he had realized for a long time, but which was now more evident than ever.  It was only people like Mr. Simms who could punish him for behaving improperly.  If he wanted to, he could do anything he wanted as long as he didn't get caught.  Anything.  Exciting possibilities began rushing through his mind.

       When he got home, he faced the inevitable lecture from his parents. He showed proper contrition but still had his television privileges removed for a week.  He laughed about that, because he rarely watched it, and they were all over the house and in the tree house as well.  He could have watched it three times as much as normal and his parents never would have known.  They were so oblivious.

       Jimmy Garcia loved the walk home.  After school, he invariably followed the same route.  He walked north from the school, then made his way across a mile of vacant field to his neighborhood.  A deep gully cut through the middle of the open grounds and he would often stop there to play.  He had dug a fort in one of the earthen banks, a small cave he had reinforced with scraps of lumber.  He hadn't shown to even his best friends; it was his little secret.

       This was a late fall Arizona day like most others--flawless.  He whistled happily as he left school.  Although he enjoyed classes, his mood improved even more when the school day came to an end.  He stopped at the second house from the end of the street to reach through a fence and pet a cocker spaniel who knew his routine and always seemed to be waiting for his attentions.  Then he crossed the street and out into the field.

       After a leisurely stroll of just a few minutes, he reached the wash and slid down the embankment near his private retreat.  As he neared, ne noticed someone had been around.  Four large stakes had been driven into the bottom of the wash, each with pieces of rope attached.  The boy wondered who had put them there.  Maybe they were survey markers of some sort and something would be built here, ruining his fort.  He was worried they may have already discovered his hideaway and he rushed over to look inside.  As he squatted and bent down to enter, someone came out.  Jimmy let out a yell of surprise and fear as he fell back.

       "Hello, Jimmy," Thor said with a grin.  "Nice little cave you have here."

       Jimmy's terror increased and he shrank back further against the opposite bank, staring at his former tormentor.  "Wha, what are you doing here, Thor?"

       "Waiting for you."

       The boy's throat had gone dry.  "What do you want?"

       "I brought a present for you," Thor said pleasantly.  And sure enough, in his hand was a gift-wrapped box.

       Jimmy relaxed just a bit.  "A present for me?"

       "Yes, it's a surprise.  I wanted to make up with you for our fight last year."

       "Oh, that's nice of you.  I was really scared there for a minute."

       "There's no need for that.  Here, open it up, it's really cool."  Thor approached, holding the present out with his left hand, his right arm casually tucked behind his back.  As Jimmy reached out to take the present, Thor's right arms swung in a rapid arc and Jimmy had no chance to duck the small trophy bat that slammed into his temple.

       His head throbbed, and he was sick.  He struggled to open his eyes, but was so dizzy he couldn't focus on anything.  After he blinked rapidly and shook his head, images began to steady.  He was tied down to the four stakes he had noticed when he first came into the gully.  His mouth was taped securely, and he couldn't speak.  Thor stood directly over him, smiling cruelly.

       "Good, I was afraid you weren't going to wake up there for a minute.  I can't take long doing this, but I did want you to know what was happening.  I'm going to kill you, Jimmy, partly because of what happened last spring, but mostly because I just want to see how it feels.  Believe me, this is going to hurt you a lot more than it's going to hurt me."

       Jimmy was crying, his muted wails plaintively released through his nostrils.  Thor laughed.  "that sounds funny, Jimmy.  I've never heard anyone cry through their nose before.  You should at least have waited until I gave you something to cry about."

       Thor swung the bat, slamming it into Jimmy's right shin.  The child tried to scream.  Thor began raining vicious blows down on all the clothed areas of his victim, inflicting horrible punishment.  After just a short time, Jimmy went into shock and ceased reacting.  Thor straddled him and choked the remaining life from the boy, his eyes never leaving his victim's face.  When he was finished, he stood over Jimmy, breathing heavily from his exertions.  His exhilaration far surpassed that which resulted from his efforts on the puppy.

       It was even better than killing his grandfather, because he felt none of the fear that had plagued him at that time--he was in total control.  It was the most thrilling thing he had ever done.  He chuckled as he imagined the reactions of the first person to come upon the scene.

       Working carefully but quickly, he removed all evidence from the scene. Thor untied the body from the stakes, and pulled the stakes from the ground.  He retrieved a bag he had hidden in the fort, put on a pair of cloth gloves, then sprayed and wiped each peg, the hammer, and the present thoroughly with a small bottle of cleanser and cloth in the bag.  He smoothed the ground around the body and in the fort, then followed the gully up into the hills above the field, checking a few times to see if anyone was in view in the fields above--all clear.  He crossed several rocky outcrops where no footprints could be left which he had mapped out earlier.  In the scrub brush between two rises, he found the hole he had previously dug.  He dumped the bag there, covered it over, then rolled a large rock on top.  Using a small mirror, he carefully checked himself over, finding no trace of blood.  Thor had taken care to strike the boy only where he had clothing to prevent any blood spatter, and the first blow to the head had been to Jimmy's temple, where he had a thick growth of black hair down to his shoulders.  If he had broken the skin anywhere and caused bleeding, none of it had transferred onto him.

       Now he began to experience some anxiety.  He wasn't sure exactly how much time he had taken and it was important to get home as quickly as possible.  He raced down a ravine leading north, over another rise, then cut east to the street where he had left his bike.  It was a private road which serviced the residences of a privileged few and which passed very close by the Eriksson estate.  It was the only reason his parents allowed him to bike the five miles to school.

       His bike was hidden behind the desert shrubs where he had left it and he mounted quickly, then began the ride home with the greatest speed possible.  One large luxury car did approach from the north during his trip home and he slowed and waved casually as it passed before picking up his pace once again.  When he was near his residence, he left the road on a desert trail which led to the back of the property, let himself through an electronic gate which had been placed there for his convenience, then released the bike on the run onto a grassy area as he bolted for the tree house.

       His cell phone buzzed just as he closed the door behind him and he took deep breaths before answering to calm himself.

       "Hi, Mom," he said casually.

       "Where are you, baby?"

       "Up in the tree house."

       "What, you don't even have time to come in and say hello to your mother when you get home?" she teased.

       "Sorry, I have some homework I wanted to get done right away so I got distracted."

       She sighed.  "OK, come on in for a snack when you want and maybe you can spare a few moments to say hi to your mother..."

       "Aw, mom, I really am sorry, I love you.  I'll come in pretty soon."

       Before he went into the house, Thor took a quick shower, changed clothes and then spent a few minutes cutting up the tennis shoes he had been wearing into small pieces, then flushing them away.  He had bought them a couple of weeks earlier, and they were two sizes larger than he actually wore.  That was just in case the police found traces of his shoe markings in the area, which they probably would.  As he watched the last of them swirl away, he began to wonder what community reaction would be like.

       Monica Garcia was irritated.  It was almost dark and Jimmy had not yet returned home and dinner was ready.  The boy often lost track of the time when playing with friends, and it was one of her pet peeves.  She made a couple of quick calls to the parents of some of his best friends, but no one had seen him.  When another hour passed and he still wasn't home, a deep unease replaced her aggravation.  She made still more calls with no more success than her earlier ones.  When her husband Armando arrived, she was in a near panic and they went into a full scale search for their son.  When that came up empty, they called the police.

       "You want me to go up with you, Sarge?" detective Bill Valdez asked?

       Sergeant Dean Harbinson shook his head.  "No, I'll take care of it.  Jesus, I hate this part of the job."  He opened his door and slowly walked to the front door of the small suburban home.  A bicycle had been carelessly thrown down in the front yard.  He noted it was about the right size for an eight-year old boy.  He rang the doorbell and stared at the bike, thinking of his own son.

       The door opened immediately and he was greeted by a woman whose face would have been very pretty had it not been so masked by worry.

       "Hello, Mrs. Garcia?  I'm detective Harbinson with the Scottsdale Police Department.  Is your husband home with you?"

       "No, he's still out looking with everyone else, I stayed home just in case my son shows up.  Have you found Jimmy?"  She appeared to almost choke on her anxiety, and Dean's heart dropped.

       "Yes and I'm afraid I have terrible news for you.  There's no easy way to tell you this, Mrs. Garcia," he said as gently as possible, "but we found Jimmy's body in a field not far from here."

       Monica collapsed in hysterical wailing and Sergeant Harbinson went about the awkward task of trying to comfort a stranger whose life had just been shattered.

       Of course the story was front page news the following morning, under a headline that read, "Scottsdale Boy Brutally Slain."  A thrill coursed through the young murderer as he saw the paper in his father's hands and read those words.  He showed no interest, however, until his father brought it up.

       "This is terrible," Lars said.  "Thor, wasn't Jimmy Garcia a classmate of yours?"

       "He still is, we're in the same class with the same teacher."

       "I'm afraid he's dead, son.  He was murdered yesterday not far from his house in a vacant field."

       Thor feigned shock.  "I can't believe it, he was sitting near me just yesterday afternoon."

       "I'm sorry son.  It says that he was killed on his way home, and of course with a nut like that on the loose, every child is at risk.  That means we're dropping you off and picking you up at school.  No more bike riding."

       "Aw, dad, I'll be careful."

       "Absolutely not, this is settled.  We're not taking any risks with you, son."

       In spite of his careful planning, this was a consequence he hadn't even considered.  He suddenly began to worry about what else he might have overlooked.  Maybe I shouldn't have killed the little bastard.

       Although an autopsy determined the cause of death, the police were unable to determine what type of instrument had been used to beat Jimmy.  There were no fingerprints, no fragments of cloth nor any other forensic evidence at the crime scene.  Other footprints were found in the area, but they appeared to be those of another child.  The person who had strangled Jimmy was assumed to be an adult, it had required a good deal of strength to apply the kind of pressure to his throat that had killed him.

       Scottsdale Police devoted an enormous amount of manpower to the case.  Within a week of Jimmy's death, every child in his class was being separately interviewed, including Thor.  When he was asked to go down to the teacher's lounge, he knew what was coming because other kids who had gone through the procedure had spread the word.  He wasn't worried because he realized it was routine--they were simply trying to gather information from anyone who might have seen Jimmy that day.  Thor entered the room and a formidable-looking man nodded at him and motioned for him to take a seat.  A woman and a uniformed police officer were present as well.

                   "Hello, Thor," the large man began.  "I'm Detective Turow.  I'm part of the team that is trying to track down the person or persons responsible for the death of your classmate, Jimmy Garcia.  Now don't worry about all of this, we're just here to ask a few questions and we hope that somebody might remember something that will help us out--OK?"

       Thor nodded, flashing a friendly smile.

       "Good.  First off, did you know Jimmy very well?"

       "About the same as everyone else, I guess.  We didn't hang out together or anything.  We even got in a little fight last year and we got in trouble because of it."  Thor figured he should offer that information, it was probably something they had already found out and he wanted to defuse it as an issue.

       "Ah, your principal mentioned that.  He said you are a very intelligent young man as well."

       Thor shrugged.  "I guess so."

       "What was it you and Jimmy were fighting about?"

       "Mmmm, it was something about Santa Claus and God, I think, and he didn't like it and tried to grab me."

       "Jimmy's sister says he was afraid of you after that."

       A seed of doubt began to grow in Thor's mind.  Do they suspect me?  "I never noticed that, because we stayed away from each other after the fight."

       "Do you remember where you were after school the day Jimmy was killed?  Did you happen to see him on his way home walking with anyone?"

       "I didn't see him that day.  I rode my bike home like I used to do every day, then did some homework in my tree house until my mom called me to come in.  My parents won't let me do that anymore, they say it isn't safe."

       "They're right about that.  Just a couple of more questions, Thor.  I see you're wearing tennis shoes today.  They aren't Keds by any chance, are they?

       "No, they're Adidas."

       "Do you own any Keds sneakers?"

       "No, I only wear Adidas and Nike.  My mom buys all my shoes for me and those are the kinds I like."

       "Do you know your shoe size by chance?"

       "I think it's size 7, but I'm not sure.  I keep growing."

       "Could we take a quick look, if you don't mind?"

       "Sure," the boy replied, untying one and pulling it loose.

       The detective glanced inside--size 7, then handed it back.

       "One last question.  Can you think of anybody that would have wanted to hurt Jimmy Garcia for any reason at all?"

       Thor shook his head vigorously.  "Nobody.  I mean, even though we had our little fight, I knew he was a nice guy and he had lots of friends.  I can't think of anybody in the world who would want to do something like this to him."

       "Thank you for your help, you can go back to class now, Thor."

       "You're welcome and I sure hope you catch whoever did this real soon.  I don't want it to happen to anyone else."

       "We'll do our best."

       After Thor was gone, the three police staffers looked at one another.

       "What do you think?" Turow asked, directing his question to the woman.

       Criminal psychologist Brenda Philips brushed back a strand of hair.  "Smart kid, but I didn't see anything unusual about him."

       "Yeah, dammit.  After we talked to his principal earlier in the week, I thought there might be something there.  We've come up with a big zero with all these kids.  Nobody saw nothin'."  Turow would remain obsessed over the case for the rest of his career, never obtaining any satisfaction.  An eight-year old boy had outwitted Scottsdale's finest.

Chapter 5

Love is the single greatest value in Human Life--it transcends even survival instincts.

       He must be crazy, John thought.  He's only eleven years old, and he's in love.  William Paul Johnson was staring at the golden-haired Marie Sanders in the next aisle where she was seated directly in front of John.  He liked the vantage point because he could watch her without her being aware of his attentions.  At the moment, she was deep in concentration on the paper before her, pen flying nimbly over the page.

       "Mr. Johnson, I assume you have completed your assignment?"

       Willie snapped to attention and glanced sheepishly at his teacher, her penetrating gaze confirming his worst fears--she knew where he had been staring, and why.  Shielded by Marie, John was jabbing a finger toward her while grinning at Willie.

       "Yes, yes, Sister Rose," he stammered.  The nun was one of the few remaining members of her religious order who still taught at the Catholic grade school which they had founded some decades earlier, and she was all business.

       "Then I would like to see it, I'll grade it right now." she replied, beckoning Willie forward with a tiny motion of one gnarled finger.  Willie rose instantly to comply.  Reaching her desk, he carefully handed his paper to her, being certain to maintain a proper attitude of courtesy, if not servility.  It paid no dividends to risk evoking Sister Rose's wrath.  She would always win--God was on her side.

       Willie stood stiffly to the side of her desk, hands crossed in front of his crotch in an unconscious gesture of self-protection.  His stomach knotted as she pulled a red pen out of her desk drawer.  Willie noted that every item inside was meticulously placed.  God's universe was one of order, and sister Rose emulated it perfectly.  She began going through his answers one by one, poising the tip of her pen by each number in preparation for making a dreaded check mark.  Glancing up, he saw John craning his head around Marie, eyes and mouth wide open in mock horror.

       The nervous boy held his breath as the pen moved from question to question.  When she passed the eighth one, he allowed himself to begin breathing again.  He should have known better than to break the magic spell he had woven with the effort.  On question nine, the red pen flashed and a large red check appeared on the page, while sister Rose clucked her tongue in concern.  Even worse, she made the same motion on the final question, and Willie felt the blood rushing to his face.  His only comfort came in the fact that his black skin made it undetectable to the other children, all of whom were watching the scene with interest.

       She slowly looked up and Willie had to avert his eyes, unable to bear her gaze.

       "Willie, this isn't up to your usual standards.  Eight out of ten is only 80%.  That's a "C" in my class, as you know."

       He had trouble finding his voice.  "Yes, sister.  I'm sorry."

       "Perhaps you're allowing yourself to be distracted," she commented, glancing over at Marie.  "Maybe you need to be moved to a new seat."

       The ultimate humiliation.  Sister Rose knew everything, just like God.  He had no reply and stared down at his shoes.  The nun let him agonize for a few more moments.

       "Well, maybe that won't be necessary.  But I do hope you'll put the effort into your schoolwork that I know you're capable of doing.  All I ask is that you do your best."  She held the paper out to him.  "You may return to your seat.  Make the corrections in the last two answers before I collect all the papers."

       "Yes, Sister Rose."  As he walked back to his desk, he could tell Marie was watching him, but he dared not meet her eyes.  She had no idea how he felt and he could only hope that she hadn't caught the subtleties of Sister Rose's remarks.  He would have to be much more careful now that he had confirmed that Sister Rose could all but read his mind.  Life in St. Catherine's Grade School was not easy, but even so, Willie loved it, especially since he was there with his best friend.  He suddenly dreaded recess, for he knew John was going to tease him unmercifully and a quick glance revealed the wicked grin which was the precursor to that activity.  He would have to take his medicine, it would be his turn to dish it out another time.

       John Patrick McDonough awoke, fully alert.  He loved Saturdays and the freedom they offered.  He bounced from his bed, ran to the living room and flicked on the television, tuning in "The Real World" on MTV--one of his favorites.  He plopped down on the couch, where he intended to spend a couple of hours before going outside to play.

       A few minutes later, the twins wandered in, rubbing their eyes.

       "What's on?" Chris asked?

       "The Real World," John informed him.

       "This show sucks," Curtis objected.  "We want to watch cartoons."

       "No way.  I was up first and I'll watch what I want.  Besides, I'm older, so go watch the TV in your room"

       "Not fair!" Chris retorted, immediately siding with his twin.  "We want to watch something else on the bigscreen.  That's two against one."

       "Well, this one is bigger than you two," John said, patting his chest.  So be quiet because I'm trying to watch this and you're pissing me off."

       Curtis ignored him, walked up to the TV and changed to another station.

       John tried to use the remote control, but Curtis blocked the signal.

       "Change it back right now, I mean it!"

       "Two to one," was all Curtis would say.

       "Then have a knuckle-sandwich," John snapped, jumping to his feet and punching the smaller boy on the shoulder.

       Curtis began to blubber instantly.  "You're in for it now--I'm gonna tell Mom!"

       "Go ahead--she'll get mad at your for waking her up so early, then you'll be in trouble."

       Curtis considered that, deciding he didn't want to risk it.  Instead, knowing better, he struck back at John with a kick to the leg.

       "Ow, you little faggot, now you're really in trouble."

       Curtis was already bolting for the kitchen and as John began to sprint after him, Chris stuck out a leg and tripped him, sending him sprawling heavily to the rug.

       The twins howled with laughter.  "You're the faggot," Chris yelled, not even knowing what it meant.  "You can't even run right."

       John was now thoroughly enraged.  He cut Chris off as he sprinted for a hallway and landed several heavy blows to his shoulder, an action he instantly regretted.  In his anger, he had hit his brother far harder than he had intended, and though he hadn't violated their unwritten rule of never hitting to the face, he was far beyond the limits for one of their normal spats.  Chris fell to the floor grasping his shoulder, and his tears were far more real than the whining his twin had done moments before.

       John got to his knees and awkwardly tried to comfort his brother.  "Hey, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to hit you so hard.  You just got me so mad."

       Chris wouldn't give him the comfort of a response and continued holding his shoulder as he rocked back and forth and wept.  John felt horrible and as he looked over at Curtis, his brother's eyes were full of recriminations.

       "Come on, Chris, I said I'm sorry," John urged.  "If you'll stop crying I'll let you watch what you want on TV."

        A door creaked open down the hall, John was hoping it was his sister Gwen, but his mother came into view.

       "What in the world is going on out here?  Why are you boys making so much noise?"

       "John hit us," Chris sobbed.  "We didn't do anything to him."

       Theresa looked to her oldest boy for confirmation.

       "They started it," John began defensively.  "I was watching TV first and they tried to change the channel."

       "So you hit them?  All because of a stupid TV show?"  Chris further weakened John indefensible position by seeking refuge in his mother's arms.  He realized it was time to back down.

       "I'm sorry, I know it was stupid.  I just got mad and I didn't mean to hurt them."

       Theresa shook her head.  "We have talked about this enough lately.  What is going on with you boys, this seems to be happening more and more?  John, you're the oldest  and I expect more out of you.  You're supposed to be watching out for your brothers, not picking on them.  Don't you realize how much they look up to you, and then you treat them like this?  You have got to grow up and stop doing this, I'm sick of it.  You can go to your room and think about this the rest of the morning."

       John started for his room without a word, and as he did so, he glanced back at his brothers, both of whom were now smirking openly.  His anger flared and then burned as Chris stuck out his tongue and Curtis, standing behind his mother, placed a hand on his belly, pointed, and shook with a silent, mocking laughter.  John threw himself on his bed and burst into tears of anger and frustration.  For the moment, he detested his brothers.  All right, if Mom doesn't want me to bother them, I'll just never speak to them again and I'll never invite them to do anything with me.  Let's see who's hurting then.  I'm not dad, why should I have to take his place?

       Less than an hour later, the door opened.  John pretended to be asleep and kept his back to the door, knowing it would be one or both of the twins coming to make peace.  Well, it would be different this time.  He was tired of always being blamed for their little fights, and there weren't going to be anymore because he wanted going to have anything to do with the little bastards again.

       "John?"  It was Curtis' voice, a tad higher than Chris'.

       John continued to ignore him.

       "Hey, John," Chris chimed in, "Mom says it's OK for you to come out now."

       "I don't want to come out."

       "We put MTV back on, there's another episode of "Real World."

       "So what?"

       "So come watch it with us."

       John rolled over and stared coldly at his two young nemeses.  "I don't want to do anything with you two ever again."  His tone had just the desired effect.  The younger boys were genuinely distressed.

       "We're sorry," Chris tried.  "We didn't mean to get you in trouble."

       "Yeah, well you're always sorry and I'm always the one who gets in trouble.  So do me a favor and get out of my life.  I'm just going to pretend I don't have any brothers."  John had worked himself into a bit of a fury.  Against his better judgment, he hit them with words he had never voiced before.  "I hate both of you.  I wish you had never been born."

       The reaction was immediate and far stronger than he expected.  The twins burst into tears and John swallowed back a sudden lump in his throat.  He was in uncharted territory and realized he wanted out in the worst way, but didn't know what direction to take.  His brothers turned to leave, their shoulders shaking.

       "Wait," John called, his voice breaking as he was overwhelmed by emotion.  The twins turned and he ran to them, hugging them as he hadn't done since they were toddlers.

       "I'm sorry, guys, I didn't mean it.  You know I didn't mean it.  You're my best friends, you always will be."

       The boys clung to him and they were crying together.  John realized with total clarity that something was changing.  He would never fight with them as he had that morning and Father Tim's advice to love his family more than ever now made perfect sense.  He glanced up to find his mother in the doorway smiling, but with tears glistening on her cheeks.  It made him weep all the harder and she approached and embraced all three of her sons.

       Her family had moved into the neighborhood during July, and John McDonough and his family were among the first to greet them.  He was so different than any boy she had ever known.  He was always in a good mood, and though he occasionally teased others, it was always in good fun, never vicious.  She loved to watch him with his friends when he was unaware she was observing.  John was the natural leader of any group he was with, but did it without employing any of the bullying techniques so common in other boys his age.

       Yet she was also frustrated.  He would be going to a Catholic school for eighth grade, while she was in a public school.  There was a mystique about it she couldn't understand, and when she questioned her parents, they launched into a tirade about how, even though John and his family were very nice, they belonged to a church that was evil and had once controlled the world and tortured and killed a lot of people.  The stories were horrifying, but they certainly didn't seem to have anything to do with the cute brunette boy across the street.  Laurene Wilson was determined to get to know him better.

       Her first real opportunity came a few weeks later during the early fall.  John had received a new football for his birthday and he was out on his lawn alone kicking it around.  Normally, Willie or the twins would be out there with him, so she decided to act quickly.  She already had workout clothes on, so she slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and shrugging off her nervousness, moved directly across the street.

       "Could I play catch with you, John?" she asked boldly.

       He stared at her, momentarily puzzled.  "I throw pretty hard," he replied.

       "Give it a try, I'll be all right."

       He nodded and positioned his fingers on the threads of the football, patted it several times, then lofted a soft spiral toward the girl.  Unlike even most boys that age, she reached out and snatched the ball with her hands, rather than catching and cradling it against her body.

       "Nice catch," John said, genuinely impressed.

       Laurene smiled and casually fired a pass back, nearly catching him off guard.  It was with some difficulty that he managed to handle the pass.  His eyebrows raised in surprise at the strength of her arm.

       "Nice catch," she mimicked.

       "Making fun of me?"

       "Not at all.  It's just that boys always assume girls can't do things like this very well."

       They tossed the ball back and forth a few more times.  "Where did you learn to play?" John asked.

       "My dad.  He played in college, and when all he and Mom had were two girls, he played football with us."

       They played for a while longer, then sat on the lawn.  John began fidgeting nervously with the ball, while Laurene stole glances at him.

       "What's your school like? she asked.

       "It's pretty good.  They're strict, but I feel like I'm learning a lot.  I have a lot of friends there, especially Willie--you've met him before.  How about your school?"

       "I like it, but I've always wondered about Catholic schools.  Don't you have to wear uniforms?"

       "Yeah, but after a while I don't even think about it.  When I see other kids who aren't wearing them, then I know they're in public school."

       Laurene hesitated, then decided to speak her mind.  "I'm afraid my parents don't like the Catholic Church very much."

       John felt defensive, but forced himself to relax and smile.  "That's all right.  My grandpa used to feel the same about Protestant churches.

       "Oh, yeah?  What did he say?"

       "All kinds of things.  Like that the Church was all one until Martin Luther broke away and started his own religion and that after that all kinds of people did the same and there were wars and everybody started hating everybody else.  I don't really understand much of it, it's like ancient history.  What about your folks, what do they say about Catholics?"

       "The same kinds of things, except the Catholic Church tried to force everyone to stay Catholic, especially something called the Spanish Inqui..., oh, I can't say it right."

       "The Spanish Inquisition," John supplied.  "I've read about that and talked to Father Tim about it.  It really was a terrible thing, but it was a long time ago."

       "I guess, but my parents act like it might happen again or something.  Then they talk about things like praying to the Saints and Mary, stuff like that."

       "It is different," John admitted.  "I guess it all just depends on the way you're raised."

       Something else was on Laurene's mind, and she hesitated before overcoming her reluctance and voicing it.  "You do have friends that are protestants, don't you?"

       "Of course," he responded quickly.  There are even lots that go to my school.  Most of my realtives on my mom's side are not Catholic, she became one when she married my dad."

       That was encouraging and Laurene pushed forward.  "Do you ever like to go to movies?"

       John suddenly realized where the conversation was headed and flushed a bright red.  "Yeah, sometimes."

       Laurene moved in to seal the deal.  "Well, maybe we could go together sometime, like a twilight show when it's a lot cheaper."

       In spite of his awkwardness, John realized that Laurene's interest was enthralling--she was certainly one of the prettiest girls he had ever known, with long, dark hair which streamed to the middle of her back, deep blue eyes, and perfect, full lips which seemed as though they were designed to be kissed along with curves that maybe shouldn't have been so prominent on a girl in eighth grade.

       "That might be all right--as long as it's PG.  My mom won't let me see any R movies, though some of my friends sneak in."

       "Me neither," she quickly agreed.  "I'll keep a watch out for something good."

       "Great.  I'd better be going, I told the twins I would take them down to the park this morning."

       "I'll see you later.  Bye, John."

       The way his name flowed from her lips made his heart skip several beats.  He waved as he entered his house.  His mom was standing there with a knowing smile on her lips, and he blushed again, but didn't make a comment, nor did she press him.

       "So what about it?"

       "I don't even know if she likes me.  She just talks to me sometimes.  I'm not going to ask her to go to the movies." Willie said.

       "Then I'll do it for you," John suggested.

       "No way!" Willie protested.

       "What, are you afraid of her?" John needled.

       "No, it just doesn't seem like a good idea, that's all."

       "Why not?  I know she likes you.  Every time you get up to go sharpen a pencil or anything she's watching you."

       "Maybe her parents wouldn't like it."

       "What do you mean?"

       "I mean because I'm black, that's what."

       "So?"

       "So, are you stupid or what?  Haven't you ever heard of racial prejudice?"

       "Yeah, but that's more like down in the South during slave times and the Civil Rights marches."

       Willie shook his head.  "I guess that's why you're my best friend, John--you're totally blind to things like that.  But my parents grew up with it in Alabama and it still happens everywhere.  Just look at this place.  There are hardly any black people in Scottsdale, and every time I go in a store, I get watched and even followed because of my skin.  You don't know what it's like having strangers stare at you just because of  what you are."

       John pondered this.  "You're right, I don't understand much about it.  I do notice people staring when we go places, but I always thought it was because of us--that we were kids or something.  I do know a little bit about what you're talking about.  I don't think Laurene's parents would want her going to the movies with me just because I'm Catholic.  They belong to some church which teaches the Catholic Church is evil."

       "A lot of my mom's family is the same way down in Alabama.  Momma says her grandma's family stopped talking to her when she married a Catholic and became one too. "

       "So what are we going to do?  There's not even one black girl in our school and just a few in the public school.  Do you expect to go to school here until we graduate and never have a girlfriend?"

       Willie shrugged.  "I don't know.  Maybe I'll become a priest."  He intended it as a joke, but John took it seriously.

       "I think about doing that."

       Willie crinkled his brow.  "And never get married, ever?"

       "That wouldn't be so bad if I liked what I was doing."

       "Then you better have your fun with women before then."

       "That's why I want you to go to the movies with Marie, Laurene and me.  Their parents don't have to know--we'll just meet them at the theater."

       Willie nodded.  "You're going to end up getting us in a lot of trouble, do you know that?"

       John merely smiled. 

  

Chapter 6

A twisted mind never recognizes its own faults:  it exalts in them.

June 5

       I'm done with fifth grade and I've decided it's time to keep a journal.  It will help me focus my thoughts, because talking with other people gets me nowhere.  All the files on this computer are encrypted and it will never be connected to the internet, so everything will be completely private.  I imagine a good computer hacker could eventually get into everything, but I don't expect any such person will have access to this, so I feel free to be as open as I want.

       It's so strange to think about how different I am than everyone I know, even the parents who brought me into this world.  It's not just intelligence--the other kids and my teachers have no idea how smart I am and I've learned not to show off anymore.  While I still display it around my parents, they take it for granted and have given up on pushing me too far ahead academically, which suits me just fine.

       I suppose I think of myself as superior to everyone I know.  They just seem so pitiful in their naive beliefs about life, especially their religious superstitions.  They merely accept what they are taught, they haven't learned to think for themselves.  Even the ones who rebel do so thoughtlessly.  They might not like restrictions, but they haven't explored the roots of their resentment.

       More and more, I'm beginning to feel I have an unlimited, unrestricted future ahead of me, though I don't talk about this with anyone because I'm not sure where it's leading yet myself.  I am fascinated by people in history who used power as they saw fit, not by others' standards.  Hitler is almost universally condemned, but I admire his determination and drive, though his goals seemed pointless.  Still, he allowed no one else to dictate to him standards of right and wrong--not society, the Church, nor anyone else.  I am sure he came to realize, as I have, that the only authority that counts is one's own will.

       My parents are hopeless in many ways and don't know me any better than most strangers do.  They deny the existence of God, yet they refuse to follow it to its logical conclusion:  If there is no God, there is no such thing as right and wrong.  Every value, without exception, is purely subjective.  I'm only eleven years old, and I figured that out myself.  Most atheist writers are like my parents.  While they want to discard traditional moral systems founded in faith, they are just as eager to replace it with some form of humanistic values.  To me, that's a complete contradiction in terms.  To be human is to have the ability to make a free choice about which values one will embrace--or reject.  Society's moral restrictions have meaning only if they can be enforced.  Therefore, if I violate those standards without being caught, (which I have done big time!) I will gladly do so, but not simply for the sake of breaking rules.  I need a reason or a desire to do so.  For example, while it is easy to steal, I have no desire or need to do so.  My parents provide me with any material thing I really want (plus a lot I don't) and the risks involved in thievery, while slight, are something I see no reason to risk.  At some point, if there is a thrill in it, then I can see myself doing it, but I won't stupid choices.

       Basically, I'm still confused about the direction I want to take with my life.  The choices most people make in terms of careers hold no appeal for me, I'm sure not going to follow in my father's footsteps.  Whatever I do, it's going to include a healthy dose of hedonism.  I might as well enjoy everything I can during this life, because death brings it to a screeching halt.  I know one thing:  I'm sure not going to tie myself down to one woman and raise children--that's for the rest of the sheep in this world.  I'm a wolf.

       "We're freshmen now and going to the same school.  I don't know what the big deal is."  Laurene was leaning over the cafeteria table, staring earnestly at John, who was extremely uncomfortable.

       "You know how I feel about you," he ventured.  "The last year has been wonderful.  But we're just so young.  I don't think it's healthy."

       "We're not talking marriage, silly, just going steady."

       "You said it yourself," John objected.  "We're only freshmen and I just think that going steady makes people possessive and makes it harder for them to make friends and get involved in other activities."

       Laurene's eyes flashed with anger and John broke into a sweat.  The conversation was not going at all the way he had envisioned it would.

       "You're just getting stuck-up.  The first freshman ever to start at quarterback for the varsity football team, and now you're suddenly too good for everyone--especially me."

       "Laurene, that's not it at all.  Why can't it just the way it has been?  I don't want that to change, we've been such close friends."

       "That's just the point.  I thought we were something more than friends, or do you treat all girls the same you treat me?"  It was an unfair accusation, but John didn't want to escalate things.

       "You know I don't and now you've got me all twisted around.  I know I haven't said it very well, and that Willie giving Marie that ring has brought this all on, but I'm just not ready for this, not yet.  It doesn't mean I care any less--I've never loved another girl like you."

       Her demeanor chilled even more.  "Did you know I've already been asked out by a couple of upperclassmen?"

       A throbbing ache began in John's stomach, but he was determined not to let it show.  "That doesn't surprise me.  You're the most beautiful girl in the whole school."

       The compliment didn't soften her up a bit.  "Maybe I should accept."

       "That's up to you, but I would hope you wouldn't do it just to upset me."

       The girl straightened and smoothed out her skirt under the table.  "Well, I guess that's that.  I'll see you around school."  She stood and walked away curtly, leaving John in depressed silence.

       Not long after she departed, Willie sat down beside him.

       "What's up?  She didn't look too happy."

       "Yeah, and it's your fault," John snapped.  "Why did you give that ring to Marie and start all this "going steady" crap?  I thought that was junior high stuff."

       "Hey, you better wake up, my friend.  This is high school and there is a lot of competition around here--I've seen plenty of guys giving Laurene and Marie the eye when they walk down the hall.  You better hang on for dear life."

       "That's not the way I see it.  Like I told her, we're too young to get serious.  If our feelings for each other are real and deep, they'll last and we'll have plenty of time to act on them later."

       "Oh, that's real sweet.  You sound like Sister Rose.  This is the real world, Johnny, and girls don't have the time or patience for that kind of idealistic shit.  You either take hold, or she will fly away, believe me."

       "I guess I'll just have to take that chance, Willie."

       Willie clapped him on the shoulder.  "I hope you don't end up regretting it, bro."

       It was tough to keep a proper perspective on everything.  Going into the fourth game of the season, the Scottsdale High Warriors were undefeated, a drastic turnaround from the previous year when the team had won only two games.  One of the main differences was a freshman quarterback who was physically and mentally mature far beyond his 14 years.  John stood just over six feet tall and weighed a solid 175 pound, with none of the awkwardness one might expect in a youth his age.  His passing arm was already being talked about and scouted by college coaches, and every one of his receivers had stories to tell about the hardest-thrown balls they had ever caught.

       Everyone in the school suddenly seemed to be his friend and he did his utmost to respond, though he was embarrassed by all the attention.  With all the challenges of high school as well as the heavy demands from football, John realized he was seeing almost nothing of Laurene.  He tried to find her during lunch break several times, but she was always surrounded by a group of friends, mostly other cheerleaders on the junior varsity squad, of which she was a member.  Football practices kept him late after school, then he always made an effort to take care of  his studies before he was too tired, so he wasn't running into her outside like they did during the summer.  It bothered him that he was seeing her even less now then he did when they were in separate schools the year before.  He often lay awake late at night, and thoughts of her evoked hollow feelings of  emptiness.

       The fifth game of the season was Homecoming and they were pitted against their traditional arch-rival, the Paradise Valley Mustangs.  The older players hated them with a particular passion because they had lost four years in a row to them.  Coach Howard's pre-game talk was short and to the point.  He came out of his office after the players were completely dressed and sitting quietly on benches in the locker room.  He came into the middle of the group, placed his hands on his hips, and simply started into the distance for a while.  There was almost complete stillness, the tension heightened by the occasional sound of a cleated foot shifting on the tile floor.

       Howard finally spoke, a gravelly, powerful voice that instantly commanded attention.  "I'm going to ask two things from you today.  Number one:  Think out there.  The Mustangs have been running the same exact offense for a decade and there won't be any surprises.  You know your assignments.  Second, and most importantly, don't play just to win, or for me, or even for the school.  Play for each other, hold each other accountable and leave every ounce of energy you have out on that field.  Let's do it."

       They huddled with a unified roar then flew out of the locker room and onto the field.  The home stands were filled to capacity, a never-seen sight in recent years and as the team sprinted by, the crowd whooped in wild abandon.  Across the turf, the visitors' stands were equally packed and they greeted the Warriors' appearance with boos and hoots of derision.

       As the team fell into place for calisthenics, John drank in the scene.  The mid-October evening was warm--too warm for football, but he didn't notice.  He felt like a gladiator in the Roman Coliseum and he was certain the nervousness he felt was no less than what they had felt facing death.  More than anything, he dreaded failure--he didn't want to let his teammates down, especially those who had suffered such bitter defeats against this same team for three straight years.

       Mechanically and smoothly, his body performed the exercises while his mind ran play after play.  This was the part he hated most.  Once the game began, he would shift into another gear, but during the pre-game phase, he had to fight off anxiety that verged on a panic attack.  As it dragged on, his bowels turned to water.  In just a few minutes, he would have to run to the locker room for his pre-game trip to the toilet, which was now a running joke among his teammates.  They had come to consider it a form of good luck.

       Ten minutes before kickoff, John cut short his passing drills and sprinted toward the locker room.

       "There he goes," Willie shouted.  "He's loose and full of juice!"  John whacked him on the helmet as he ran by.

       Even his deepest fears beforehand didn't match the horrible start to the game.  Having won the coin toss, the Warriors elected to receive the kickoff, which Willie returned to the 35-yard line.  He was the only other freshman starter, a wide receiver with blazing speed and fantastic hands--John's favorite target.  It didn't hurt that they had spent their youth playing Pop Warner football together.

       On the first play from scrimmage, John called for a short pass over the middle to his fullback.  As he dropped back to pass, an outside linebacker blitzed him from the blind side, hitting him just as he released the ball.  It floated in a wobbly arc toward the sideline, where one of the Mustang cornerbacks picked it out of the air and raced into the end-zone.  John looked up just in time to see the celebration start as the visiting fans went crazy.

       He was shaking his head as he neared the bench.

       Coach Howard approached and whacked down on both shoulder pads.  "Keep your head in the game.  There was nothing you could do about that, they just happened to call the perfect play.  Get ready for the next series."

       The entire team seemed unnerved by the quick score and it defused the tremendous emotion they had brought into the game.  Willie bobbled the ensuing kickoff and was dropped inside the 15-yard line.  The Mustang tacklers leaped to their feet and pumped their fists as they sprinted back to their bench.

       John opted for a conservative call, a handoff to his tailback on a sweep to the right side.  The exchange went smoothly, but as the runner tried to make a sharp cut upfield behind a blocker, he met the free safety who came in unblocked and at full speed.  There was a thunderous collision and the ball popped loose and bounded inside the ten.  John made a dive for it, but one of the Mustang lineman pulled it in with a quick grab as other bodies piled on.  Two plays later, the Mustangs scored again, making it 13-0 as they missed the extra point.

       This time when he returned to the bench area, Coach Howard was shaking his head.  "Damn, you'd think we could get the breaks, just once, wouldn't you?"

       "We're not giving up, coach, I swear it" John said, mustering as much conviction as he could.

       When John stepped up behind center for the next series, he lookes across at the opposing players and saw the wild emotion that was now utterly lacking in his teammates.  The middle linebacker pointed at him and roared, "You're mine, McDonugh, all mine.  They shouldn't send a baby in to play quarterback!"  His teammates roared with laughter and John momentarily forgot the snap count and play.

       For the first time, they managed to carry out an offensive play without a turnover, a five-yard gain on an off-tackle run.  A bit of confidence surged back into the young quarterback.  On the next play, another run, he glanced over and saw Willie's defensive man in single coverage, playing up tight on the young receiver.

       "Blue, blue!" John yelled, calling an audible.  "Y-55, Y-55!"  It was a play that called for Willie to sprint straight downfield for the long ball, a play they both loved.  It worked to perfection as Willie blew past his started defender and broke into the clear.  John's protection was perfect and he lofted a gently arcing pass that would allow Willie to run under it.  He never saw the free safety, who had dropped deep when the ball was first snapped and now played it like a center fielder waiting on a fly ball.  He flashed in front of Willie just as the ball began to settle and sprinted down the sideline.

       "Dammit!" John cursed, sprinting at an angle that would allow him to cut off the runner.  For the second time on the same play, he failed to see a defensive player.  this one, a two-hundred fifty pound lineman, flattened him with a crushing block.  John was momentarily stunned, then felt a sharp pain in his left hand.  Holding it up, he saw that his little finger was jutting off at an impossible angle, dislocated and possibly broken.  He rose and staggered toward the bench, then huddled over and cradled the injured finger in his right hand.

       Coach Howard and the trainers came running out.

       "Jesus, what happened?"

       John held up his hand for inspection and the coach shook his head ruefully.  "You're out, John.  See what you can do for him, Butch."  Butch was the team's trainer, and he too shook his head when he saw the damage.

       "Dislocated, not broken," he announced after taking a close look.

       "Can you pop it back in place?" John asked.

       "We should get you to a doctor, Johnny."

       "Come on, Butch, just give it a try, please?"

       "You still won't be able to play."

       "Just do it."

       The trainer took a firm grip on John's left hand, grasped the end of his little finger and after pausing to collect himself, gave it a sharp jerk.  Excruciating pain shot through the joint and John grunted explosively as it snapped into place, seemingly aligned but swelling rapidly.  The trainer plunged it into a bucket of ice water.

       In the meantime, with a three touchdown cushion, the Mustangs were playing with less intensity, while the Warriors were unable to score.  The half ended with a 20-0 lead for the visitors.

       When Howard joined them at halftime, the group was completely subdued.  John hung his head and swished his hand around in the ice water.

       "Boys, I know you're leaving it all out there and I want you to keep doing that.  Sometimes things just don't fall your way, no matter how hard you try.  That's one of the tough lessons in life. No matter what happens out there, if you give your best for each other, I'll be proud of you."

       John was suddenly filled with anger at himself, taking the full blame for his team's predicament.  "Coach," he announced, "I want to go back in this half."

       Howard looked at Butch, who shook his head.  "Not with that hand."

       "No, I'm all right," John insisted.  "The ice has taken down the swelling and all you have to do is tape it up real tight.  I mean it, Coach.  Put me in for the first series and if I can't do it, I'll take myself out, I promise."

       Howard nodded.  "Butch, see what you can do."

       The trainer returned with a roll of tape and took John's hand. "It's gonna hurt to do it right, Johnny.  I'll have to tape it to your ring finger."

       "Go for it."

       As the tape was wound and tightened around the two digits, it was all John could manage to keep from groaning with agony.  When it was completed, the two fingers were virtually immobilized, and a sharp throbbing cut through his hand with each heartbeat.  Yet somehow, the pain enabled him to focus his concentration on the task ahead.  He had always been quiet with the team to this point, but he suddenly felt it was time to exert some leadership.  He stood and faced the other players.

       "Defense, it's up to you to get us started.  Stuff them on that first series and we'll take it down for the TD.  We're not going to let these bastards celebrate on our home field again."  He held out his hand for a team huddle, and his teammates responded, not with a wild burst of emotion, but a grim determination.  They were on a mission.

       The second half was a mirror image of the first, with the Warriors dominating the visitors in every phase of the game.  While every snap of the ball brought a burst of pain into John's hand, it did not hinder his ability to pass or hand off.  When the defense stopped the Mustangs on the first series, John, as promised, took his team in for a score with a beautiful corner pattern to Willie, who made a diving, fingertip catch.

       After several exchanges of possession, John led the offense on an extended drive from deep in their own territory, where Jimmy Valdez, their tailback, carried it in from inside three yards.  It was 20-14 midway through the final quarter.

       On the next possession, Paradise Valley drove the ball methodically downfield.  Though their drive finally stalled on the Warriors 40, they punted the ball inside the ten.  There was only 1:10 left in the game, and their fans were already beginning the celebration.  As John huddled with his teammates he glanced around to see their condition.  Everyone was exhausted, leaning on their knees with their hands, trying to conserve precious energy.

       "I know you're dog-tired, but this is it, do or die.  Suck it up one last time, guys.  This game is still ours if we want it bad enough."

       The first play was an sideline pattern at fifteen yards.  The Mustang defensive backs were playing loose coverage and John threw a strike to Billy Wilson, a senior wide receiver who stepped out of bounds with only eight seconds expiring off the clock.  All nervousness evaporated, John felt in total control.

       Returning to the huddle, the players had more spring in their step, and John's intense eyes infused confidence in all of them.  "Same play, other side, Willie.  On one.  Ready, Break!"  They clapped hands in unison on the word "break" and sprinted to their positions.

       On the other side of the field, John fired a bullet to Willie, who pulled the pass in and casually stepped out of bounds.

       "Like candy from a blind baby," he said back in the huddle.

       With deadly precision, John led them downfield with five straight completions, the last of which was pulled in by his fullback on the eight-yard line with eight seconds left.  John called his team's final timeout.  The crowds on both sides of the field were cheering themselves hoarse, but he no longer heard anything.  He jogged to the sideline and calmly told Coach Howard the plays he had selected, then returned to the huddle.

       John knew there was time for two plays.  The first would involve the two ends in a crossing pattern right on the goal line.  As he approached the line, John studied the defensive formation and from the nervous mannerisms of several of the linebackers, he was sure a blitz was coming.  He felt even better about the play he had just called, because that would unplug the middle.

       When the ball was snapped, he took a quick, short drop and just as he'd expected, two of the linebackers rushed across the line of scrimmage.  The free safety came up on one of the backs flaring into the right flat and Willie broke into the clear on the goal line as his teammate crossed behind him, their two defenders getting in each other's way.  John fired a hard pass, knowing Willie could handle anything he released.  He led him perfectly and John was ready to begin signalling a touchdown when the ball skipped off the back of the backjudge, who had tried and failed to duck the ball which skipped above everyone's head and out of the end zone.

       John was instantly enraged, and even though he knew the referee was considered part of the field, he pulled off his helmet and slammed it to the ground to express his displeasure.  An instant later, a yellow flag dropped beside him.

       "Unsportsmanlike conduct," the head referee announced.  "That's a fifteen-yard penalty."

       John could scarcely refrain from screaming defiance and instead roughly pulled his helmet back into place over his head.  When the referee had finished stepping off the penalty and placed the ball on the 23-yard line, John walked up to him, pointed a finger in his direction and announced, "We're still going to win this game."

       "I'm not against that, son, if you can make it happen."

       When he knelt in the huddle, his teammates were cursing the officials.

       "All right, cut the shit."  His teammates instantly grew quiet, John never swore.  There's nothing we can do about that now, let's get focused.  We're winning this game right now.  Y-hook, just over the goal line  Willie, it's going to come in hot."  They locked eyes for a moment, and John had no doubts his friend would come through if he did his part.  "On two, on two.  Ready, Break!"

       As he approached the line, he was completely unaware of the raucous crowd noise.  He made only a cursory examination of the defense.  Whatever they did wasn't going to matter.  John's sole focus was on the execution of the play.  The pain in his finger was non-existent.  All fatigue was washed from his body and the whole scene seemed to slip into slow motion.

       When the ball was snapped into his hands, he took a deep drop, staring downfield to his left, the opposite side from Willie pass route.  The tight end and one of the backs did sharp slant toward the left side of the field, drawing more defenders.  The other end went deep over the middle, drawing attention from both his man and the free safety.  His linemen held their blocks perfectly.

       John suddenly snapped his head back to the right, zeroed in on Willie as he crossed the five-yard line, then fired the pass with every bit of strength he possessed.  As Willie crossed the goal line, he nearly stopped in his tracks from a full sprint, spun, and found the ball nearly at his fingertips.  He made a stab at it, bobbled it, then took a vicious hit from a linebacker trailing the play.  As he was going down, he made another stab for the ball, latched onto it with his fingertips and pulled it to his chest.  The gun sounded as the referee raised his arms.

       John and Willie sprinted and tackled each other to the turf as the rest of the team piled on in celebration.  Warriors' fans streamed from the stands, and the few security people simply stepped aside as they mobbed the players on the field.  The referees didn't even try to restore order for an extra point try.

       When the players finally untangled, John rose, removed his helmet and had his hair tousled by a thousand people as he slowly made his way toward the locker room.  So this is how it feels to be a hero.  The thought made him laugh at himself.  It was just a game--but it was a tremendous feeling.

       He was suddenly grabbed around the neck and squeezed from behind.

       "Way to go, Johnny," a familiar voice sounded in his ear.  "What a stud!"  John turned and smiled widely at Gwen, who was now a senior and a varsity cheerleader for the team.  She was just as sweaty as he was.

       "We couldn't have done it without you," he said.

       "Sure, sure.  You never even glanced over the whole time.  How's your hand?"

       John held it up.  "It's still there, not too bad."

       "You know that was the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life, don't you?"

       "Thanks, Gwennie, but I had the easy part.  Willie made the catch."

       "Salt and Pepper, shakin' it up!" she teased, doing a little dance.  "Hey, what are your plans for the rest of the night?"

       John frowned in puzzlement.  "What do you mean--go home, like usual."

       "Not tonight.  You're going out with us."

       "Who is 'us'?"

       "The rest of the squad and me."

       "You mean your cheerleader friends?  Now why would I do that?  They're all juniors and seniors, not to mention Lisa's boyfriend, who I know will be there.  You know I get along with almost everybody, but Chuck is a total jerk."

       "Strange you should mention that, because she dropped him and he won't be around.  Also, Tony Fredericks and Eddie Rodriguez will be there."

       "They're good guys, but we just play football together.  It's not like we're close friends."

       "Come on, Johnny, it'll be fun.  I already told them you would be there.  Don't make me look bad."

       "What, did you tell them it was your turn to babysit?"

       Gwen pretended to be mildly upset.  "No, silly, I'm just tired of seeing you home all the time.  You need to go out and celebrate a little.  Gee, you just won the biggest football game in this school's history in the last second.  Live it up!"

       John finally relented.  "OK, but only if Willie and Marie can come, too."

       "No problem!  Meet us in front of the gym when you're done showering and dressing."

       John looked around.  "I'll let Mom know.  Have you seen her?"  Even as he asked, he saw his mother waving excitedly from the edge of the crowd which was still escorting the team toward the locker room.

       It was John and Willie's first high school party, held at the house of one of the cheerleaders whose parents were away for the weekend.  Music blared and alcohol flowed freely.  When they walked in the front door, a chorus of voices rose in greeting and someone thrust a beer in his hand and slapped him on the back.  He held it up and stared at it as though it were a foreign object.  He set it down at the first opportunity, exchanging it for a can of Coke.

       In spite of his initial misgivings, he began to enjoy himself.  He had always interacted easily with others and they were drawn to him by his easygoing mannerisms.  After chatting with a number of people and exchanging stories with some of his teammates, John took a seat with Willie and Marie on a large couch in the crowded living room.  They had scarcely settled in when Lisa Stuart, the cheerleader who Gwen said had just dropped her boyfriend, flopped into his lap and put her arms around his neck.  She reeked of alcohol and John looked over to Willie for help, who merely smiled at his predicament.

       "Fantastic game, John," she said, slurring the words ever so slightly.  "We were going insane over there."

       "Thanks, it was fun."

       "I 'spose you heard the news."

       "What's that, Lisa?"

       "Chuck and me.  We're not seeing each other anymore."

       John nodded as sympathetically as he could manage, trying to figure a way out of the situation.  "I'm sorry to hear that."

       "No, it's all good.  He's a total asshole.  I should'a dumped him a long time ago.  Who're you dating?"

       "Nobody, really."

       "So why don't we go out sometime?"

       John reddened.  "I'm only a freshman."

       "That's OK, you're really cute and Gwen says you're the nicest guy she knows.  I don't know any other sisters who would say that about their younger brothers."

       John struggled to come up with a line to deflect the offer and was looking around for help when the arrival of several newcomers riveted his attention on the entrance to the room.  The junior varsity cheerleaders had entered the house, including Laurene.  In a moment of panic, he was tempted to hurl Lisa off his lap onto the floor.  It was too late.  Laurene spotted them, stopped in her tracks and stared in disbelief.  Then she spun on her heels and stormed from the room.

       "Excuse me, Lisa," he said, trying to gently slide her off his lap and  onto the couch, "I need to leave for a minute."  She clung to him all the tighter and it took several minutes of coaxing to get her to release her hold.  John raced outside, a feeling of physical nausea creeping over him, but Laurene was nowhere to be seen.  The party was no longer any fun.

       When he went inside, another problem had arisen.  Willie was standing in front of the couch in a heated discussion with two seniors whom John only vaguely recognized.  As he neared, he could hear the larger of the two challenging Willie.

       "Well, why don't you just date someone your own color, then?"

       Marie huddled on the couch, frightened and upset by the exchange.

       "What's the problem here?" John interrupted loudly.  Others began to gather around and someone turned down the music system.

       "He's the problem," the same boy said, pointing at Willie.  "We don't want him dating one of our girls?"

       John turned to Marie.  "Will you stand up a minute, Marie?"

       Still scared, she complied with John's request.  John spun her around and made a show of inspecting her from head to toe, then turned back to the boys, arms spread in a gesture of uncertainty.

       "I don't see it," he announced.

       "See what?" asked the shorter of the two.

       "You said, 'one of our girls,' but I don't see any ownership tags on her."         Several people laughed and the tall blond boy drew himself to his full height in a threatening posture.

       "Don't be a smart-ass."

       "Then don't stick your noses in other people's business."

       "This is our business.  Blacks should date blacks, simple as that."

       "What grade are you two in?" John asked, throwing them off-balance again.

       "We're seniors, what about it?"

       "I'm just surprised that anyone as ignorant as you two could make it that far in school."

       "That does it," the blond boy shot back, "Let's go outside."

       John held up his hands.  "Look fighting won't settle anything.  Most people don't think the way you do, and they're entitled to their opinions, just like you are to yours.  But that doesn't mean you can force them on other people. If you knew Willie, you'd realize he's one of the greatest guys you could ever want to meet."

       The group around John threw their support behind him, murmuring their agreement about his remarks.

       The shorter brown-haired youth didn't like the turn of events.  "C'mon, Pete, let's blow this place.  I don't like hanging out with niggers, anyway."

       Willie started after the boy, but John held him back.  "Not worth it, Willie," he cautioned.

       It helped that everyone else in the room sided with John and Willie, hooting and heckling the two unwelcome seniors, who now saw that starting a fight with Willie and John would likely bring in about half the players on the football team with them.

       As they tried to leave, a heavy hand gripped Pete by the shoulder and spun him around.  Jake Provost, a huge offensive lineman who protected John fiercely on the field, had just come in and caught the last of the exchange.

       "Listen, dickhead," he bellowed, thrusting his face close to that of the startled boy, "You even look the wrong way at my main men again and I'll tear your fucking head off and shit down your neck.  Got it?  Now get the fuck outta here!"

       The two meekly exited while John looked back to Willie, studying him for a reaction.

       "Sorry, Willie," was all he could manage.

       "Hey, don't worry about me, I've heard worse.  I'm not the one to feel sorry for."  He motioned with his head toward the couch where Marie was crying, her face cupped in her hands.

       "I think it's time for us to leave, too," John said.  Gwen was ready to leave as well, having seen the ugly exchange.

       Back home, John was sorely tempted to call Laurene, but it was after midnight and he decided to wait until the morning.  As he settled into bed, he kept seeing the hurt in her eyes as she realized Lisa was planted on his lap, arms enfolding him.  He began rehearsing his explanation, hoping only that Laurene would realize there was nothing he could have done short of being extremely rude or physical that would have prevented the situation from developing as it had.

       He couldn't sleep.  The more he tried to relax, the faster his thoughts piled on top of each other and made him more tense by the moment.  He rolled first left, then right; he tried curling up into a fetal position on his side.  Nothing worked.  When the clock finally told him another three hours had drifted by, he threw off his covers, donned some clothing and quietly exited the house.

       The Simms' front yard was not fenced and Laurene's bedroom had a window facing the street.  John walked resolutely across the lawn, trying to gain confidence by affecting a bold outward appearance.  It wasn't working.  His heart pounded wildly, his mouth going dry.  He closed the gap to the window, paused, raised his knuckles to rap lightly and nearly screamed as the curtains parted and Laurene's face appeared in the gloom.  As it was, he jumped back and he was sure he saw a slight smile curl her lips.  He grimaced as the windows grated open.

       "What do you want?" she began, every bit as coldly as he had feared.

       "Can we talk?"

       "I opened the window, didn't I?"

       John licked his dry lips and moved closer, noticing with dismay that laurene was glaring at him with thinly disguised contempt, perhaps even hatred.  John found himself scarcely able to speak, a sudden panic sweeping through him, taking away his breath.

       "Uh, I--I'm really sorry about tonight," he gasped, making feeble motions with his hands in a poor effort to expand on his apology.  Jesus, I can't breathe!  He forced himself to draw in several deep breaths, regardless of how ridiculous it might appear to Laurene.  He had to get control of himself.  After what seemed an eternity, but was actually only a few seconds, he regained some semblance of composure.  Laurene had said nothing, apparently taking some delight in his discomfiture.

       "Look," he started again, "you can see how shook up I am about all of this.  I couldn't sleep, so I had to come see you.  Honestly, Lisa just came up and sat on my lap.  She was just flirting and it was all very embarrassing because I didn't know how to handle it."

       "Right, I could see how much you hated it.  I guess it never occurred to you to ask her politely to get up."

       "I did try, seriously, but it wasn't easy.  She was a little drunk.  When you left I tried to get up right away, but she wouldn't let me.  I swear it, Laurene, there is nothing going on with her at all."

       "It doesn't matter to me--We're not going steady or anything, remember?  You haven't even talked to me the last few weeks.  You're free to do whatever you wish--and so am I."

       John felt helpless and defeated and simply nodded.  "I know I haven't seen you much lately, it wasn't something I did on purpose.  I just wanted to explain about tonight."

       "Fine, you've done that.  I understand, thank you."

       Her demeanor left no further room for discussion.  John stared intently at her for a moment, trying to gauge how she was actually feeling, but could get no further than the icy exterior.  "OK, thanks for listening.  I guess I better let you get back to sleep.  Good night."

       "Good night," she replied shortly, even as she pulled the window closed with exaggerated abruptness.

       Falling back onto her bed, Laurene felt a mixture of satisfaction and sorrow.  John's slow gait and hunched shoulders had clearly indicated his pain as he left and she had a momentary urge to call him back.  Yet his behavior had to have consequences.  She knew that he had been telling the truth about Lisa's actions at the party, John had never lied to her.  Still, he could have handled the situation better--she had actually walked away from the party very slowly and given him plenty of time to catch up, but he hadn't done it.  Also, she was still hurting deeply from his refusal to go steady with her and felt justified in inflicting a bit of punishment.  He deserved to stew for a while.

       Across the street, John didn't fall asleep until after five am.  At six, his brothers woke him up wanting to talk about the football game, they simply couldn't restrain themselves.  When they finally eased up on him, he slept until noon.

Chapter 7

It is a simple fact of the human condition that one's deepest desires simply seem impossible.

       Though he made it a point to be outside in front of his house frequently for the  rest of the weekend, he did not see Laurene at all, nor could he work up the nerve to visit her or call her.  He couldn't understand what was happening.  They had been so close for the past year and it was just unimaginable that he was now afraid to approach her.  Her bedroom curtains remained drawn, though he thought he saw them move slightly several times.

       Laurene knew John was doing everything he could to reestablish contact by loitering out front, but the hurts he had inflicted were beginning to eat away at her.  He had basically ignored her for weeks and now he was expecting her to come to him.  She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

       When Monday came, things were no better for John at school.  Laurene avoided him entirely and he was at a loss as to what to do.  As first one week, then a second began to pass in the same way, he grew desperate.  He made one attempt at reconciliation on Wednesday of that second week.  Unable to take the widening breach any longer, he approached Laurene as she sat at lunch surrounded by a large group of friends, as was always the case.  As he neared and stood before them, conversation died and everyone's attention was suddenly fixed on John.

       He smiled and nodded to the group, masking the fear roiling inside him.  With witnesses, he was determined to make it impossible for her to ignore him.

       "Hello," he said to the whole group, then focused his attention on Laurene.  "I was wondering if you would like to go to the movies with me on Saturday."  Good, nice and direct.  Let's see her ignore me now.

       Laurene flushed crimson.  "I, I'm sorry--I can't make it, I have other plans."  Several of the girls looked knowingly at each other and giggled.  John felt like disappearing.

       "Uh, all right.  Mmmm, maybe another time soon."

       Laurene nodded uncertainly and John made an awkward exit, his ears singed by the whispers and snickers that trailed him.  It was complete humiliation.

       Beside her, Laurene's best friend, Katie Feser, wasn't laughing with the rest of the girls who were in the know.

       "I don't understand why you're doing this, Laurene.  There's not a nicer guy in the whole school than John McDonough."

       "Don't lecture me, Katie.  He had his chance.  Besides, I'm just going out on a date, there's no law against that.  It's not a big deal."

       "But with Stan Lawton?  The guy is a complete idiot."

       Laurene was indignant.  "How do you know?  You've never even talked to him.  He's been a complete gentleman with me and he's really funny."

       "Yeah?  You'd better be careful if even half the stories floating around about him are true.  Are you sure you're just not trying to get at John by going out with him?"

       "Maybe."

       "Well, if you want my opinion, I think this can lead to nothing but trouble."

       "I'm not asking your opinion, thank you very much."

       It had simply gone from bad to worse.  Laurene continued to ignore John all week, despite the fact that he had made a point of greeting her whenever he could, which she responded to cursorily every time.  He had difficulty studying and each night after football practice, he sat near the front window, watching for some sign of Laurene outsider her house where he might have an opportunity to speak with her.

       On Friday, after another week without a single conversation with Laurene, the final home game of the season rolled around.  John's high school nightmare began at lunch.  When he and Willie had finished eating, they walked with several of their teammates toward the gym, where they would spend the aternoon in preparation for the game.  Football players were exempt from fifth hour classes on game days, and sixth hour was P.E which was used for practice at that time of year.

       As they rounded a corner of the cafeteria, John nearly ran into Laurene.  She was walking with Stan Lawton, hand-in-hand.  The broad smile on her face froze and John felt as though he'd been hit with a blow to the stomach.  She quickly regained her composure.

       "Hello, John," she said casually.

       "Hi," was all he could manage.  As he moved around the couple, he shot a glance at Stan, who returned the look with a self-satisfied grin of triumph.  The group of players John was with fell silent, they were all aware of John's feelings for Laurene.  Willie spoke first as they neared the gym entrance.

       "That's really rough, sorry.  But I did try to warn you."

       John only nodded.  Deep misery had invaded his soul.

       Laurene thought she might be in love.  Stan was completely unlike the person her friends had described.  He had been completely kind and thoughtful on their first date, then had called her nightly and they talked for hours.  He was so much more mature than John in every manner.  When he had asked her to be his girlfriend the night before, she couldn't think of a single reason to refuse.

       Yet as they walked away from John, she felt guilty over the decision.  The hurt in his eyes was obvious.  Still, she owed him nothing and it wasn't as though she were getting married.  She decided she had been too harsh with him lately and that she would at least reestablish their friendship.  Stan sensed the directions of her thoughts.

       "Worried about McDonough?"

       "Not really, but I think his feelings are hurt.  We've been friends for a long time."

       "My guess is that he must not be too smart."

       "What do you mean?"

       "Meaning that if I had been in his place, I would have done everything I could to keep you from dating other people."

       "We're just friends," Laurene said defensively.

       "That's not the way he looks at you."

       A look of regret shadowed her face, but she shrugged it off.  "He'll get over it."

       Stan squeezed her hand.  "He'll have to, if I have anything to say about it."

       "John?"  The sound of Laurene's voice made his heart soar.

       "Hi."

       "I'm sorry about the game tonight."

       "That's all right.  We deserved to lose."

       "You played really well.  It was the defense that lost the game."

       "We lost the game as a team and I certainly messed up on a few plays."

       "Anyway, I just called to apologize for the way I've acted lately."

       He was filled with hope.  "And I'm sorry I wasn't paying more attention to you earlier in the semester.  I was stupid."

       "I know you were busy.  Anyway, I hope we can still be friends.  I miss that."

       "Of course we can.  Maybe we can hang out tomorrow night over at Willie's--he's having a pool party for Marie's birthday."

       It was the wrong suggestion, it was met by a long pause.

       "I'm afraid not, John.  Stan and I are sort of going steady now."

       Though he did his best to conceal the pain, he knew it was clearly revealed in his dulled voice.  "I didn't know that and I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable asking."  He drew a deep breath.  "So I guess we'll see each other around school?"

       "Sure--you're not mad at me, are you?"

       "For what?  You haven't done anything wrong.  I'll see you on Monday."

       As they hung up, John realized he hadn't been this miserable since his father had died.

       In the morning, he rose early and idly sat at the kitchen table, staring at the phone.  Chris and Curtis, now two irrepressible sixth-graders, tripped into the kitchen.

       "What's the matter with you? Chris asked bluntly, instantly reading John's frame of mind.  "Bummed out about the game?"

       "No, it's nothing you two would understand."

       "Oh, yeah, give us a try."

       John eyed them skeptically, then went ahead.  "Laurene is dating a junior, a basketball player named Stan Lawton."

       The twins knew all about John's infatuation with their neighbor.  The two of them were beginning to fight for the interests of her younger sister.

       "Why would she want to do that?" Curtis asked.  "You two are best friends."

       "We were best friends," John corrected.  "That was the problem.  She wanted to get more serious and go steady, and when I wouldn't she started going out with Stan.  Now they're boyfriend and girlfriend."

       "Maybe you should fight him," Chris suggested.

       John chuckled.  "Don't be silly, that wouldn't help a bit.  To be honest, I have no good reason to be upset, she has every right to date other people.  I guess I'll just have to be patient and wait for them to break up."

       Chris came up with another idea.  "Why don't you go out with someone else?  I'll bet that would get her attention."

       "That's it!" Curtis seconded.  "Play the field, homie!"  He joked.

       John laughed, these two would never let him stay in a funk very long.

       "Come on, guys, you know that's not me.  Besides, I don't have any desire to go out with anyone else.  If I did that, it would only be to make Laurene jealous, and that wouldn't be very fair to the girl I dated, would it?"

       Since their breakthrough confrontation that long-ago Saturday morning, the three brothers had grown ever closer, able to express their thoughts and feelings far more freely than most siblings.  Chris jumped back in to the conversation.

       "Most guys aren't like that, John.  Mom tells us all the time what a great role-model you are, and she's right.  All of our friends talk about how friendly you are with them, even when we're not around--most other high-schoolers treat guys our age like dirt."

       "It doesn't have much to do with me, boys--whatever is good in me came directly from Mom and Dad.  We are lucky to have the best mother in the world.  Besides, I can't be too much of a jerk if I decide to be a priest someday."

       Theresa possessed a faith that permeated every aspect of her life--and theirs.  She didn't have to talk about it, she lived it every day.  It had helped her cope with the death of her husband as well as given her the strength to raise her boys since.  Among the children, John had emerged as the family leader, even Gwen idolized him.  The mention to his brothers and Willie about his consideration of the priesthood was more than idle chatter, it was something that often crossed his mind.

       The younger boys nodded agreement and the conversation came to a close.

       "Hey," John said, "Let's go toss the football around."

       It was their favorite, especially since John had become a genuine football star.  The twins faced off, growled, went into three-point stances and butted against one another in their excitement.

       "I'm Dick Butkus!" Chris roared.  "You're dogmeat, buddy!"

       "All right, animals," John interrupted, grabbing each by the back of the neck, "outside with it."

       Snagging the ball from the hallway closet, the three raced outside and began running patterns and throwing passes.  The twins were in a peewee football program and displayed the same coordination and intensity John himself possessed, though they were running backs and defensive backs instead of playing quarterback.

       Even though they were considerably smaller than John, he did not ease up much on the speed of his passes and the two youngsters gathered them in with pliant fingers, rarely dropping a pass.  Their fun had gone on for some time when the roar of a high-powered engine shattered the early morning calm.  A Blue Trans Am sped up the street and came to a screeching halt in front of Laurene's house.  John knew even before the door opened that the driver was Stan Lawton.  The twins stopped running around and watched as Stan exited the car, while John tossed the ball up and down to himself.

       "Hey, McDonough," Stan called out.  "Giving the little clones a workout?  I guess after last night you decided you could use the practice."

       Chris and Curtis were instantly indignant, but held their tongues, waiting on John's reaction.

       "It never hurts," John replied amiably, though he was irritated.  "We didn't play very well."

       "You can say that again.  Those guys really kicked your butts--Hey, toss me a pass?"  He jogged onto the Simms' lawn toward the house, holding out his hands.

       John snapped off a pass that would have given Willie problems and Stan sidestepped the ball and made a feeble attempt at it with his hands.   He barely nicked it with his fingertips and the ball spiraled on, speed unreduced.  As John held his hands to his head, the ball smashed the front picture window of the Wilson's living room.

       The twins craned their heads first toward the window, then to each other, and burst into laughter.

       "Nice catch, Stan," Curtis laughed.  "Maybe next time you can take off your stone mittens."

       Stan's face was bright red.  "You dickhead, you did that on purpose."

       "I thought you could catch," John shot back.  "My brothers can handle passes like that."

       Their exchange was interrupted by the sudden appearance of the entire Wilson family.

       "My God, what is going on here?" Mr. Wilson demanded.

       "It's my fault, sir," John admitted.  "I just put a football through your window.  I threw a pass to Stan and I'm afraid I put too much on it."

       "That's just great, look at this mess."

       "I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson.  I'll clean it up for you and put in a new window this afternoon..  One of my uncles does that kind of work and he taught me how to replace windows like that."

       Laurene's mom spoke up.  "I just wish you'd been more careful in the first place, John.  Then she turned to her daughter.  "No need to let this interrupt your plans, Laurene.  You and Stan might as well get going."

       "I'll get my things," she replied, shooting a reproachful look at John, which further compounded his feelings of guilt.

       The cleanup was made more difficult by the constant presence of Mrs. Wilson, who questioned John's every move., though she knew nothing about the procedure.  John pointedly avoided any discussion about Laurene, and neither her mother nor father volunteered any information about her day's activities.  However, from the items she had taken with her, it had been obvious she and Stan were going on some kind of picnic.  John had avoided her eyes when she left, feeling that she may have thought he had planned this stunt as a way to interrupt her day with Stan.  She made no effort to say good-bye, and he passed the day immersed in gloom.

       "Honey,  I’m worried about you again.  You just seem to be spending too much time alone.  Your friends call, but you never seem to want to do anything with them.  And you're getting a bit fanatical about all this martial-arts training."

       Thor sighed.  "Mom, they bore me.  I don't mind socializing during school hours, but I don't really feel the need to be with classmates on my own time.  And I thought you liked my martial-arts work--it's great discipline."

       "I'm just concerned.  I want you to be happy."

       Thor laughed.  "You've been saying that for years--and I am happy.  I just happen to like spending time by myself.  I'm never bored with me."

       She smiled.  "I was talking with your father the other night.  He was thinking we should invite you to sit in on one of our discussion sessions."

       "You're talking about your humanist group?"

       "Yes, we're hosting it here at the house tonight.  You might find it very interesting.  The others would love to have you there, and I wouldn't mind showing off what a little genius I have."

       That appealed to Thor's ego.  "That might be all right.  I did read all those books you gave me."

       "The Ayn Rand books?"

       Thor nodded.

       "Then you would probably have a lot to add to our discussion.  Our group is centered around her philosophy."

       "I knew that from other conversations you've had."

       "So it's a yes?"

       "What time does it start?"

       "To your health, everyone," Lars said, holding his wine glass aloft.  Five other forty-something couples raised their glasses for the toast, Thor included, though his glass was filled with soda.

       The group lounged informally on several large beige leather sofas in the Eriksson's huge sunken living room.  On rough oaken shelves, several fierce-looking Kachina dolls, wolf heads on human bodies, overlooked the room.  Navajo rugs decorated another wall, flanked by symmetrical sand paintings.  The distinctively Southwest ornamentation lent an informal air to the room that invited relaxation and conversation.

       "So," Lars began, "what is our topic for the evening?"

       Brad Simmons, a pompous-looking man with thinning blonde hair combed over his scalp, removed a clenched, unlit pipe from his teeth.  "I think we were going to discuss the Objectivist basis for morality."

       That caught Thor's attention; it was an area that dominated much of his thought.

       "Who would like to start?" Lars asked.  He and Barbara would act as moderators since they were the hosts for the evening.

       Brad's wife, Patti, cleared her throat.  "If you don't mind, I'd like to share some thoughts on this."  She took a sip of wine before continuing.  "For me, this is one of the triumphs of Rand's Objectivist philosophy.  She begins by pointing out that morality can only have a meaning and a basis if there is a basic value from which it springs.  For humans, that value is life itself, no other species has the capacity to consciously recognize that.  The axiomatic basis for morality boils down to a very simple principle--life or non-life.  That is the basic choice we all face as humans.  We can all agree as a matter of simple logic that we naturally choose life over non-life, unless we are impaired in some manner. Building on that simple fact, the next principle is not just to live, but to live well.

       Ayn Rand's concise analysis of this condition yields the obvious conclusion that we must first be concerned with meeting our own basic needs before we can even turn to others and help them do the same--her much misunderstood "enlightened selfishness" as it is.  A truly rational morality recognizes this and builds from these essentials."

       "Nicely put," Lars commented.  "I think you've accurately summarized her views on this subject."

       Janice Walters, an attractive blonde, nodded her agreement.  "It is so simple, Lars.  I remain amazed that so many people in the world refuse to examine their moralities which are based in fantasies about the supernatural."

       "The world is still ruled by fear," her husband, Mark added.  "People don't want to face the reality that this life is all we have.  They want to harbor some hopes that there's something beyond, something better.  It relieves them of the responsibility of really having to do anything with their lives and gives them false hopes that somehow, somewhere, everything will be made better.  That's why the world is in such a mess."  He glanced over, taking note of the young boy in their midst.  "By the way, I hope we're not boring you to death, Thor.  You're probably wishing you had declined your mother's invitation."

       "Not at all," the boy replied.  "This is all very interesting to me.  I've never had the chance to listen to a group of atheists discuss this topic, though I've read a lot about it on my own."

       His response fascinated all the visitors.  The final couple, Mike and Sandra Hayes, exchanged surprised glances.  "Thor," Mike interjected, "we'd love to hear your ideas on this, if you'd care to share them."

       "I think I understand what everyone has been saying so far," the boy began.  "and I read all the Ayn Rand books my mom gave to me, but I guess I'm not convinced about some of her basic premises.  As you were saying, Mrs. Walters, most people want to anchor morality in some ultimate principles, specifically religious ones.  That takes an act of irrational faith.  On the other hand, Objectivism asserts that morality springs from the basic principle that life is better than non-life.  It seems to me that accepting that is just as much an act of faith because I don't see any evidence that life is actually better than non-life."          The group was both astonished and taken aback by his opening presentation.

       "Come now, Thor, that's the whole point," His mother interjected.  "You wouldn't rather be dead than alive, would you?"

       "Of course not, but that's a judgment on my part, and it seems to be completely subjective.  It expresses my preference, not some independent, objective principle.  If Objectivism is rooted in rationalism, then why assert that life is preferable to non-life?  We all die eventually, and no matter what we accomplish in this life, it all vanishes with our deaths.  The same is true of mankind as a whole.  We die as individuals and eventually the human race will become extinct, just as most species in the past."

       The group was nearly dumbfounded by his display of reasoning and intellect.

       "That's all very fascinating, Thor," Mike commented.  "So what would you base morality on, then?"

       The boy held his hands out.  "In one way, nothing at all.  Morality is a mental concept which we abstract from individual actions.  It's not 'out there' as some independent reality which influences our actions.  In the end, morality boils down to the individual acts we either choose to do or not do, but there are no ultimate standards by which to guide or judge them, merely our preferences at that very moment."

       The members of the group looked at one another with some consternation.

       "Son," Lars finally ventured, "what you're describing is known as nihilism."

       "That's me, dad.  I'm a nihilist."

       More shocked looks, and Thor's parents looked at each other uncomfortably.

November 5

       Most atheists are just as afraid of reality as religionists are.  My parents'  Ayn Rand group became unglued when I contradicted their little philosophical system.  They got themselves so worked up that after a while, I pretended to see the "wisdom" of their views.  My conversion was greeted with as much enthusiasm as a sinner's approach to an altar call.

       I "accepted" their claim that life is the foundation for value and a rational basis for morality.  But I don't give a flying fuck about the value of their lives, nor any others--well, except my parents.  I do care about my own, but as I said, that is my personal choice and preference, there is nothing that compels me to accept that other than the conditioning of society and some evolutionary factors that are built into my genetic fabric.

       Honestly, I wouldn't want everyone to believe as I do.  I would never bring this up with my parents, but Nietzsche was right--There are only a very few "Ubermensch" in this world who can rise above the restrictions of human-imposed morality and choose their own destinies with absolute freedom.  I'm one of them, but I realize that to actually live that out, I can't share it with others, it's far too disturbing for them to comprehend, so I need to repress displays like the one tonight.

       Things are beginning to jell in my mind that I can't quite voice.  I feel like Colossus astride the world and it's only a matter of time before I release my full potentials.  I won't let other people or even society control my life, and that includes my parents.  I may have to make accommodations for the time being, but I will build for that day of absolute independence, it is the destiny I choose.

Chapter 8

Seemingly minor incidents in human interactions can become the focal point of massive breaches in relationships.

       The window-breaking incident marked a turning point.  Though Laurene did not become hostile toward John, neither did she seek to further their recent reconciliation.  She greeted him cordially enough when they passed, but she took no time to engage him in conversation, nor allowed him any opportunity to do so.  It was clear that their friendship, if it existed at all, had been transformed.

       When he kept busy, it wasn't so bad--but there were far too many moments alone when a world of lost possibilities pressed on him like a physical weight.  He was suddenly plagued by insomnia and fantasies of winning Laurene's affections once again filled his restless nights, driving all peace away.

       The situation was worsened by the arrival of basketball season.  Stan was the star player, having been the leading scorer the previous year as a sophomore.  He was less than pleased when both John and Willie were the only two freshmen to make the varsity squad.  He was even more disgusted when, within the first week of practice, it became apparent that Coach Summers would put them in the starting unit.  Two of Stan's friends, who were seniors and had started alongside him the previous year, would be relegated to bench roles.

       During a break at the start of the second week of practice, Stan decided to press Summers on these developments.  The coach had walked some distance from the players and was leaning on the bleachers as he fished out a stick of gum, which he habitually chewed.  Stan approached, completely at ease.  He and the coach were good friends, even off the court.

       "Hey, coach.  Mcdonough and Johnson have been getting an awful lot of time with the first unit, what's going on?"

       "You better believe it, I've never seen two better freshmen players--not even you two years ago."

       "You're going to start them?"

       "I sure as hell am.  McDonough has the sweetest outside shot on the team, and Johnson is the quickest player I've ever coached.  The kid's a demon on defense and a great ball-handler."

       "But coach, Phil and Greg have started for two years.  They aren't going to take this very well."

       "Don't worry, they'll still get good minutes.  But I have to go with the best I have, Stan--my job is always on the line.  You know that as well as anyone."

       "Yeah, but I'm just not as impressed with them as you seem to be and besides, they're a couple of pricks if you want my opinion."

       "I don't much care for them either, to tell you the truth--too goody-two shoes for my taste, it must be that Catholic school shit they came from.  Anyway, I have to put the best I have out there, and they are it, so I look past all of that.  I expect the same from you.  You don't have to like playing with them, but I still expect you to blend your skills with theirs.  I need you to perform at peak level."

       "I can understand that, but I just wanted to let you know how I fell."

       "Good enough.  Now that we know where we stand, let's play some ball."

       In spite of their love of the game, neither John nor Willie enjoyed their first basketball season in high school  All of the other boys were juniors and seniors and none of them had been on the football team.  With just a bit of encouragement from Stan, life on the practice court became uncomfortable.  Though Coach Summers wouldn't put up with any overt harassment, there were plenty of subtle ways for the upperclassmen to express their displeasure with the young upstarts on the team.

       John found the junior varsity games most distressful.  The coach had the varsity players sit together as a group until they went in to dress during the third quarter.  Laurene was a junior varsity cheerleader and the small visual exchanges and signals she shared with Stan were something he couldn't ignore.  After each varsity game, she ran on the court to greet Stan with a hug.  It may have been his imagination, but it seemed to John that they always timed it so that he would see.

       The season had scarcely begun and he wished it were already over.  The games themselves were good.  The other players were serious enough not to play their little psychological games on John and Willie when it came down to business.  John was the second-leading scorer behind Stan, while Willie ran the point with confidence, using his quickness to become the leading assist man on the team.

       To fill the void left by his lack of contact with Laurene, John began to fill his life were ever greater activity.  He spent more time with his brothers, volunteered at the Saint Vincent De Paul Dining room to serve meals to the homeless and focused more deeply on his studies and other reading.  It only helped to a certain degree.  Regardless of how tired he might be, it always took an hour or more for him to fall asleep each night and his thoughts were always filled with visions of Laurene.

       He began to wonder if he hadn't developed an unhealthy obsession.  Endless variations of the same fantasy played themselves out:  Laurene would become his.  He tried to put his situation in perspective by thinking about the hundreds of millions of people throughout history who were unable to share love with the person they most desired.  It didn't help.

       One evening, after a rare practice which Coach Summers ended early, John and Willie stopped by a McDonald's on the way home to have some burgers and drinks.  When they were settled, Willie started the conversation.

       "I know what been going on with you lately."

       "What're you talking about?" John asked, though he knew perfectly well what Willie was referring to.

       "Laurene, of course.  You are one lovesick puppy."

       John considered denying the charge, but decided it was useless.  "I can't help the way I feel about her, Willie."

       Willie arched his brows.  "You can't if you don't try.  There are lots of girls in the world..."

       "I know, and it may come down to that.  God, I'm only fourteen," John said ruefully, shaking his head.  "Saying it is one thing, though--feeling it is another.  And really, other than losing a little sleep, thing are going all right."

       "Yeah, if you mean going nonstop is all right.  You need to slow down, John, or you're going to get one nasty case of burnout.  I'm about the only one you have time to say hello to other than your brothers.  Are you planning on making this a permanent pattern, or what?"

       John nodded an affirmation.   "OK, you've got a point, and I can't disagree with it.  Obviously, you're bringing this all up for a reason, so let's hear it."

       "A double-date to the Christmas Dance.  Start putting yourself in circulation a little."

       John was dubious.  "Who would I ask?  I've never even been on a formal date before."

       "Oh, man, anybody.  There are a thousand girls in this school who would love to go out with you."

       "Really?  Name one."

       "You got it--for starters, the whole varsity cheerleading squad."

       "Right.  Juniors and seniors, and here I am a freshman.  Good thinking, Willie."

       Willie cradled his head in his hands and moaned in mock agony.  "You know your trouble, Johnny?  You can't see yourself the way other people do.  Listen, you know I kid you a lot, but now is not the time for that stuff.  What I'm telling you is the God honest truth.  In the last couple of months, I have been approached by a lot of girls asking about you--including a couple of the cheerleaders.  You seem to have forgotten how Lisa jumped into your lap at the party."

       "So why haven't you mentioned all this earlier?"

       "Because you've been so centered on Laurene, but now I think it's time to move on a little."

       John stared off into the distance, then a slow smile stretched over his lips.  He locked his eyes on those of his friend, and Willie grinned in turn as he sensed something surfacing.

       "Willie, I'm going to make a total fool out of myself.  Just to satisfy you, I'm going to ask the most unapproachable girl in the school to the dance, in front of all her friends.  When I'm totally and utterly rejected, I'll have the perfect excuse never to take that risk again."

       "You're not talking about Tara Andrews, are you?"

       "That's the one," John confirmed.

       Willie whistled.  "Hey, I was talking about the varsity football cheerleaders, not basketball."

       Tara Andrews, generally considered the most gorgeous girl in school, also had a reputation for being a rich snob who dated only college-aged men--or older, some rumored.  She carried herself regally, and John could not remember that she had ever greeted him in any manner, not even when she was congratulating team members after a win.  She was a sure choice for rejection.

       At lunch the next day, John grabbed Willie and guided him to the lunch area, pointing out Tara and her friends.

       "I'm doing it now, before I lose my nerve," John said.

       "There's some empty seats at the table next to them," Willie said.  "Let me get in position first.  I don't want to miss this."  Willie clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Glad I'm not in your shoes, this could be very ugly."

       "Thanks, that's just the encouragement I needed."

       John berated himself for setting up this ridiculous effort, but steeled himself for the approach.  Simple and direct, he told himself, just get it over.  Heart thumping furiously, he began to walk leadenly toward Tara's table.  For just a moment, panic threatened to engulf him, then, just as suddenly, he knew he was going to go through with it and he calmed considerably.

       Tara was seated at the end of the table, turned away in animated conversation with the other girls.  John came and stood beside, waiting to gain her attention, not wanting to interrupt.  Willie was staring slack-jawed at the next table, not able to believe John was going through with it, and John shot him a quick wink.  The conversation at Tara's table died as the girls looked up at John and Tara soon turned to look in the direction of her friends' glances, only to find John right there.

       He smiled and nodded a greeting and she seemed a bit dumbfounded.  "Excuse me, Tara.  My name is John McDonough and I hope I don't offend you by being very direct, but I was wondering if you would like to go to the Christmas dance with me next week?"  John stole a quick glance at Willie, who had an expression of impending doom on his face.  At her table, Tara's friends looked at each in complete wonder and bewilderment.  Tara herself, normally completely self-possessed, seemed taken aback and it took several moments for her to absorb the content of John's request.  When she had, a sudden bewitching smile lighted her visage.

       "You didn't have to introduce yourself, John, and yes, I'd love to go to the dance with you."

       John was totally befuddled.  The response was completely unexpected and he hadn't prepared for it.  He stared dumbly and noticed the other girls were starting to whisper and giggle.  Tara tried to help  him out.

       "What time do you want to pick me up?"

       Absolute humiliation.  "I'm sorry, but I don't have a license yet."  That would be the deal-breaker.

       "No problem, how about it I pick you up about seven?  You live right across the street from Laurene, don't you?"

       He was shocked that she knew anything about him.  "Yes, that's right."

       "Great.  I'm looking forward to it.  I'll see you on Friday."

       "OK, thank you.  Bye now."  He walked away in a complete daze, scarcely able to comprehend that he had just made a date with Tara Andrews.

       The communication network took only minutes to begin spreading this delicious tidbit of information around the school.  John was approached by boys he scarcely knew congratulating him on his success with Tara.  With a sinking feeling, he realized that before long, Laurene would be getting a text with every detail of his approach to Tara.  As he mulled it over, the thought took on a not unpleasant tone.  He had to deal with jealousy, now it might be her turn.

       Willie trailed John from the cafeteria and they managed to isolate themselves around one of the side buildings.

       "That freaked me out," Willie admitted.  "I can't believe you actually did it--and you got a date with her.  Unbelievable.  So how are you going to handle it?"

       "What do you mean?"

       "The date.  This is an older woman, my friend, and she no doubt has considerable experience.  From what I hear, she's twisted more than a few guys around her little finger.  She might outfit you with a leash and collar before she's done with you."

       "Hey, stop trying to scare me.  Besides, it's no huge thing.  We'll just go to the dance, have a good time, and that'll be it."

       "Is that so?  What do you think she has in mind?  I mean she looked totally surprised when you dropped the question, but it only took her a second to jump on it.  Something's going on."

       "What, are you paranoid or something?  Maybe she just likes me."

       Willie pursed his lips.  "Could be, but something else was going on in that head, I could see it in her eyes right when she decided to say yes--that and a wicked little smile."

       "OK, just to satisfy your curiosity, I'll ask her when we go out."

       John rose for a jump shot, which went completely offline as a ball caromed off his head.  He turned to find Stan behind him, an unpleasant expression clouding his features.

       "What's this shit I hear about you and Tara?" he demanded.

       John was peeved and let it show.  "If it's any of your business, which it isn't, we're going to the dance next Friday."

       Stan snorted derisively.  "She's going with you?  I dated her for two years and now she's going out with a freshman dork?  That really torques my ass, McDonough."

       "She's obviously improved her tastes." John countered.

       "What the hell is that supposed to mean, shithead?  Maybe you and me should go outside."

       "Grow up, Stan.  That's probably why she dumped you.  Intelligent people use their minds to solve problems, not their fists.  Besides, I never even knew she had dated you, it's not something I'm doing to get under your skin."

       "Maybe not, but it's obviously her plan.  She always was a total bitch."

       A further escalation was averted when Coach Howard stepped into the gym and blew his referee's whistle to begin the workout.  Stan shot one last threatening glance at John before turning his attention to the coach.

       That night, John put it all together.  It was well known in the school that Stan detested him.  Tara, always at the nucleus of gossip, would have been aware of it.  A couple of friends had called him and informed him that Tara had bitter feelings toward Stan after their breakup.  What better way to get at him than by going on a date with John?

       He considered phoning Tara and calling off the date.  However, he realized that he didn't actually mind the objective she had in agreeing to go out with him.  Also, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of making Laurene jealous, regardless of what he told his brothers. He decided to let things carry through and see what resulted.

       Early the next day, on a rare frosty December morning, John was lost in thought at the bus stop when his soliloquy was interrupted by the arrival of Laurene, a more than infrequent occurrence.  He smiled at her, not receiving the same in return.

       "No ride with Stan today?"

       She didn't deign to answer and the frigid look she gave him was more than a match for the weather.  John realized she had been informed of his upcoming date with Tara and her reaction pleased him in a perverse sort of way.  Feeling a bit malicious, he decided to press the issue.

       "Are you and Stan going to the Christmas dance next week?"

       Laurene turned and stared at him so steadily that he was forced to glance away.

       "Yes, as a matter of fact, we are.  Are you bringing this up to get me to congratulate you on your date with Tara?"

       John flushed, thankful that the cold air had already reddened his cheeks.  "No, I was just wondering."  When he glanced back at her, she was assessing him with narrowed eyes.

       "You sure have changed, John McDonough," she said in a tone guaranteed to convey the impression that she thought it was for the worse.

       "I guess we both are," John countered uncertainly.  "It's called growing up."

       Laurene rolled her eyes in disgust.  "Oh, is that what going out with a senior girl is called?"

       "That's not what I meant," John said defensively.

       "Let's just drop it.  This conversation is going nowhere.  I should have walked to school."

       "How do I look?" John asked his mother as she cast a critical eye up and down.

       "Perfect," she responded.  "You look devastatingly handsome."

       "I'm nervous," he admitted.  "This girl is way out of my league.  I never should have asked her out."

       "You'll be fine.  Just relax and have a good time.  It's just a date, not your wedding day."

       "Thank God for that--uh,oh, it sounds like she just pulled up."  John smoothed his hair and struggled to still the hammering of his heart.  The sound of the doorbell sent it tripping even more wildly.  He saw his brothers staring down over the rails on the second story and waved them away.  With a final release of a deep breath, he walked to the door and opened it.

       Tara greeted him with a radiant smile and he stepped back and motioned.  "Come on in."  John tried to sound as casual as possible.

       "Thank you, John."  She strode gracefully into the room and directed her smile at John/s mother, who was standing to the side.

       "You must be Mrs. McDonough," Tara said, extending her hand.  "I'm so pleased to meet you."

       Theresa was practically gawking.  This, this woman was going out on a date with her little boy.  She was dressed in a clinging white evening dress that displayed just a bit of what seemed more than abundant cleavage.  It was a bit overwhelming and it took her a moment to respond to Tara's greeting.

       "Yes," she finally responded, taking Tara's hand, noting the perfectly manicured nails.  "It's nice you meet you as well."

       John found his mother's discomfort slightly amusing.  "I guess we should be going," he announced,  motioning Tara toward the door.

       "Are you sure you don't want to relax a bit?" Theresa asked, stalling for time while trying to digest this disconcerting situation.

       "Oh, no," John insisted.  "the dance has already started and we don't want to be too late."  Even as he said it, he closed the distance to his mother and planted a kiss on her cheek.  "No need to wait up, the dance doesn't end until midnight."

       "You'll be out that late?"

       Maybe a little later if we stop for something to eat," he added, unable to resist needling her.

       "Goodnight, Mrs. McDonough," Tara added.

       As John's mother said goodbye to Tara, he flashed her a smile, which was met with a wry smile of her own.

       Outside, walking toward Tara's Car, a late-model Mercedes, the couple looked toward each other at the same moment.

       "I take it your mother's a bit worried about us going out?"

       "That's only natural, I think.  This is actually the first real date I've ever been on.  She's probably more nervous than I am."

       Tara pursed her lips in amusement, and John was surprised by a sudden desire to cover those exquisite lips with kisses.  Tara was so beautiful it made him feel hollow with desire.

       "So you're actually nervous about tonight?"

       "Absolutely.  Honestly, I never expected you to accept my invitation."

       "So what made you ask?"

       "My friend Willie was on me to get a date for the dance, though I wasn't really up for it--so just to get him off my back I told him I would ask the person I thought least likely to accept an invitation--you."

       Tara was making her first assessment of this boy she had so impulsively agreed to date.  When they reached the car, John opened the driver's door for her without embarrassment.  As they pulled away from the curb, Tara stole another glance at him.  He didn't look like a freshman.  John was mature physically, and carried himself like an adult.

       "I have to be honest with you about something, John.  I agreed to do this partly because I knew it would infuriate Stan and I apologize for that.  I know we haven't even spoken before, and that's my fault because of the clique I move with.  I'm as susceptible to peer pressure as most people, and my group just doesn't have much to do with freshmen boys.  But I'm big on first impressions and I have to admit I like you--you've already made me set aside some misconceptions."

       That was the last sort of thing John expected to hear from Tara and he likewise had his perceptions thrown askew.

       "Thank you and I have to apologize because I think perceptions about you have been wrong as well.  Actually, I figured out that you might have accepted because of Stan and I don't mind that at all.  He's not exactly a bosom buddy.  I was also kind of hoping to make someone jealous myself, so my intentions were certainly not pure."

       "You're talking about Laurene?"

       "How did you know that?"

       "Just the usual chatter.  Weren't you dating her?"

       "Not really, we were just good friends for a long while."

       "Were?"

       "Yes, things have changed a lot during the past couple of months."

       "I assume because of Stan?"

       John nodded glumly.

       "I don't understand why she would date a jerk like that--then again, I did it for two years.  I haven't talked to her that much, but she's such a sweet girl."

       "She is, but I guess she sees Stan differently than you do.  Maybe it's just the fact that he's older and has quite a following at school."

       "All his buddies are as big of jersks as he is. They have nothing on their minds but sports, partying, and chasing girls.  I still can't believe I stayed with that idiot as long as I did."

       "Are you dating anyone now?"  John blushed as soon as he asked.  "Sorry, that's none of my business."

       "No, I don't mind at all.  I'm just better off being on my own right now.  I'm too young to get involved in a serious relationship again, there's too much I want to do."

       "I can understand that--it's what caused the friction between Laurene and me.  She wanted to become exclusive and I just can't see the sense in forming that kind of bond right now."

       "You're being very sensible.  Hey, how old are you really?  You don't look or speak like any freshman I've ever heard of.  Are you sure you're not a senior masquerading as a freshman?"

       The compliment warmed John's feelings toward Tara even more and he smile in appreciation.  "I'm just who I am, there's nothing complicated there."

       Tara returned his smile and the aching void within him expanded.  "Good, I'm glad of that.  I dont' know why, but I feel totally at ease with you and about tonight.  We're going to have a good time."  She reached out and squeezed his hand and the silken touch of her skin was delicious.

       The dance was already crowded and as John and Tara made their way into the dimly lit interior of the decorated gymnasium, more than a few heads turned their direction, then merged as gossip began.  A slow song had just started and swaying couples clung to one another on the dance floor.  Tara took his hand and guided him in that direction.

       "Let's dance."

       "Are you sure you don't want to wait for a faster one?"

       "No, this is nice.  Besides, if they want to talk, this will give them more to talk about."

       John felt fortunate that he was well-schooled in dancing.  Gwen, apart from her cheerleading, was a dance fanatic, and her enthusiasm had been infectious and she had also insisted on schooling him in the art of close-dancing.  Girls in junior high had always been impressed with his skills on the dance floor, though he had never danced with anyone quite like Tara.  When he clasped her left and placed his right on her waist, she moved very close, lightly making contact with her body against his.  His senses were suddenly keyed to the highest pitch.  The occasional pressure of her breasts against his chest was electrically erotic.  The scent of her perfume, barely noticed earlier, now clamored seductively for his attention.  As they moved, her hair brushed lightly against his cheek.  Against his will, but helpless to prevent it, he was becoming sexually aroused.  As the song progressed, Tara pressed even closer and John flushed as he realized she was very likely to become aware of his excitement.

       When Tara first placed her arm around John and her hand on his back, she thought he was rigid with fear.  Then she realized that though he was not bulging with muscles, the ones he had were toned like steel cords.  In his embrace, though he held her gently, she sensed tremendous strength.  He moved her smoothly about the dance floor.  She pressed against him, enjoying the sensation of his body against hers.  As John feared, her hip made direct contact against his erection.  He was instantly mortified.

       "God, I'm so sorry, he stammered, "Maybe we should go sit down."

       Tara pulled back a bit to look at him, but he couldn't meet her eyes.

       "No, it's OK, I don't mind.  I'm glad you find me attractive."

       Before John could react further, she pulled her hand away from his, placed both arms around his neck, and settled in even closer.  He slid his hands around to the small of her back and returned her embrace, giving himself over to the moment.  A fiery desire blazed in his loins and every movement fanned it to a higher level.  He shivered as he felt Tara's warm breath on his neck.

       A stiff jab in the ribs shattered the fantasy.  He turned to find Stan's scowling face.  Laurene stood behind him, looking embarrassed.

       "What the hell do you think you're doing, McDonough."

       "It's called dancing.  Maybe you've heard the word, even if you can't spell it."  Tara smirked, while Laurene shot him a dirty glance.

       "Oh, you're really a smart guy, aren't you?  I'm calling your number tonight, smartass.  Let's go outside right now."

       "What is your problem, Stan?  You're dating Laurene now, what do you care that I'm with Tara?"

       Stan snorted.  "That slut?  She's not worth having.  She's a lousy lay, anyway--ask any guy in the school."

       "You bastard," Tara retorted, "You lying bastard."

       "Come on, Tara," John said, taking her lightly by the elbow.  "Let's find a table.  He's not worth wasting time on."  They started away and Stan roughly gripped John's shoulder, starting to spin him around.  John gripped Stan's wrist, spun in an instant, and had Stan's arm crooked behind his back in a moment, lifting and twisting it painfully.

       "Jesus, you're going to break my goddam arm."

       "We're not going to do this, Stan.  Let it be."  John said, then released the older boy with a last wrench.  Stan cradled his arm to his chest, while Laurene glared at John.  He shook his head and walked off with Tara.

       As they seated themselves at a table in the far corner of the gym, John saw that Tara had tears in her eyes.

       "I'm sorry, I didn't handle that very well, did I?"

       "Yes, you did, you were great.  I just shouldn't let him get to me like that.  God, I hate him, John."

       "Why so much bitterness?"

       Tara composed herself.  "He used me, John--I was just too naive and young to stop him.  The same thing will happen to Laurene, if it hasn't already."

       A cold feeling gripped John's heart as he considered the implications.

       "You're talking sexually?"

       That, and a lot more.  Stan is worse than you can possibly imagine.  God, the things he made me do..."  She buried her face in her hands and began to weep again.

       John reached out and took her hands, holding them gently.  "Is it anything you might want to talk about?  I'm a good listener and whatever you tell me won't go forward."

       Tara wiped away the wetness from her cheeks.  "I, I don't know.  I've never told anyone, I've been too ashamed.  You would think I'm awful."

       "I promise I wouldn't.  And if you haven't talked about it with anyone before, maybe it would help you deal with it and move forward.  I can see how upset you are."

       She pondered his offer, finally nodding her head.  "OK, but not here.  Can we leave?"

       "Sure, but where should we go?"

       "My parents are out of town until Christmas Eve, let's just go over to my house."

       "That sounds fine."

       They were both subdued on the drive to Tara's house.  John was agonizing over what Tara had said would happen to Laurene, while his date was caught up in her private misery.  When they arrived, Tara led him silently into a large den and sat beside him on an ample couch.  When they were settled, it became obvious to John that she was again struggling to control her emotions, and he clasped her hand in encouragement.

       Tara cleared her throat and dabbed at some new tears with his fingertip.

       "John, I hardly know you, but I already feel like I can trust you.  You remind me of a priest I knew before I quit going to church--Father Tim."

       John's eyebrows raised.  "Father Tim Adamson?"  He asked.

       Tara's expression brightened.  "Yes, you know him, too?"

       John nodded enthusiastically.  "Ever since I can remember.  He and my dad grew up together and were best friends.  Ever since my dad died, he and I have been very close.  He's the main reason I think about being a priest."

       A shadow passed over Tara's expression.  "I didn't know your father died, John, how long ago was that?"

       "I was only six, but I still remember it clearly.  Father Tim did the funeral mass and was always there to support me.  My mom has done a great job with raising us."

       "I'm so sorry you lost your dad, I can't imagine how hard that was.  And your mom has done a great job--look at you and your sister.  Gwennie is amazing.  I can see right now that you would make a great priest, just like Father Tim--and maybe that's why I feel so comfortable talking with you.  I really do feel like I can trust you, John.  I stopped going to church after everything with Stan.  I just felt so guilty and hopeless. If anyone else ever heard what I'm going to tell you, I would absolutely die."

       "Then don't even concern yourself with that.  Nothing you say will go beyond this room, you have my word on that."

       Tara closed her eyes momentarily, the furrow on her brow indicating the painful thoughts roiling within.  "I guess the first thing you should know is that I don't feel very good about myself.  Stan took away every shred of self-respect I ever had.  We dated for nearly two years..not, not dated, that's too nice of a word.  He owned me for two years, John, and I still don't know how I was able to get away from him.

       He forced himself on me sexually within the first few times we went out.  Then he just got worse, using me in just about any way you can imagine--physically and emotionally."  Her face contorted in pain once again as some particularly horrible memories flooded her mind, and she began to sob.

       John took her hand once again.  "Tara, you don't have to tell me everything if it's that painful to remember."

       "No, no, I want to, I need to tell someone.  God, oh God, I still can't believe it happened."  Her shoulders were heaving.  After some moments, she composed herself and continued.  "You know Stan and Coach Summers are close friends?  One night, they got drunk together and Stan decided they would both have sex with me.  He called me over, made me drink with them and then it happened."

       She looked directly at John, her eyes glistening.  "It was horrible.  They both had sex with me, John--and they hurt me, including anal sex."  She covered her face with her hands.  "I hate them, John and hate myself even more for letting it happen."

       John was stunned, not just by what Tara had related, but by how different a person she was then he had expected.  He could see in her eyes that she was tortured by what had happened.  He wanted to do nothing more than comfort her and ease the devastating damage that had been done to her.

       "Tara, I'm so sorry," he said softly.  "The first thing I want to say is that I'm grateful you were able to trust me with this.  You never have to worry about me betraying that."  He took both of her hands in his.  "What you need to do is forgive yourself.  What happened was not your fault.  You were used by two men who have no sense of decency.  Don't let their faults ruin your life."

       Tara shook her head.  "It already has.  Everybody talks about how I only date older guys now, and I've let them believe that--but I haven't dated anyone.  I'm just been too filled with fear and distrust, not to mention self-hatred."

       "Maybe this will mark a moment when you can start to move on.  You will eventually find someone you can give yourself to completely and who will appreciate everything about you.  You're a good person, Tara Andrews, you just need to forgive yourself and start living for the future instead of being tormented by the past."

       She smiled.  "What are the odds of finding a guy like you?  Pretty slim."

       He laughed, pleased at the compliment.  "You attract guys of every type.  You just have to be selective and find the right one for you.  It will happen."

       "Are you sure you're not already ordained?" she laughed.  "By the way, I am going to do one thing."

       "What's that?"

       "I'm going to go see Father Tim, go to Confession, and start going to church again.  I want my life back."

       "That sounds like a great idea.  I always feel so unburdened after I see him."

       "John, so you have a deep faith, is that why you think about being a priest?"

       "I'm not sure about the faith part.  I have serious doubts sometimes because there are things about it that don't make much sense--like suffering.  I think the strongest reason I believe in God is a very human one--love.  I think we all have that deep longing for a complete, perfect love.  Unless there's a God, I don't see how we could ever fulfill that desire.  Father Tim always says that's what life is all about--the connections we make, the love we seek and share.  The rest is just details."

       "I like that--and I'm glad I connected with you.  I agreed to go out with you for a selfish reason, for revenge.  Instead, I found a new hope, I really mean that.  Can I ask you a favor?"

       "Absolutely."

       "I wish we had stayed at the dance longer.  It was wonderful being close to you.  Would,  well, would you hold me again, just for a while?"

       John drew him into his arms, cradling her against him.  Once again, unbidden, he found himself becoming aroused--it was almost automatic.  "I'm sorry about earlier when we were dancing...and, well it's happening again, I'm afraid I can't help it--it's embarrassing--all these hormones kicking into action."

       She only snuggled closer.  "Don't be, I'm flattered you're attracted to me.  And I feel safe with you, John--there's no one else I'd rather be with right now."

       He caressed her face and hair with his fingertips, now completely at ease.  After a long while, she finally pulled away.  "How about something to eat and drink?" she asked.

       They put together a snack, then continued talking for several hours about every aspect of their lives.  When she finally dropped John off after midnight, he felt as though he'd known her for ages.  As they stopped in front of the house, he wondered how he should say good-bye, but Tara took care of that for him.  She took his chin into one hand and guided her lips to his, kissing him gently and warmly.

       "Good night, John.  Thank you so much for everything."

       He was glowing and waved awkwardly as he stepped from the vehicle.  He stood and watched down the street even after she was gone, then glanced over to Laurene's house.  There was no sign of any movement.

       John ran into Willie the next morning after mass.

       "Man, you left the dance early, how did things go?"

       "Good," John replied.  "We went back to Tara's house."

       Willie's eyebrows raised in surprise, forming a question.

       "No, nothing like that happened," John asserted quickly.  "She wanted to talk after the incident with Stan, so that's what we did the rest of the night."

       "Talk is good.  What's the story?"

       "I can only tell you that I completely misjudged her, Willie.  Tara Andrews is a great person and  I've made a new friend.  There's something else I have to tell you."

       "What's that?"

       "I'm quitting the basketball team."

       "Are you kidding me?--why?"

       "Willie, you are my closest friend in this world, but I made a promise to keep certain things confidential.  I can only tell you this:  If you knew what I found out, you would quit as well.  I won't play for Coach Summers, not now, not ever again."

       Willie considered this for some moments.

       "Then let's go see Coach Summers first thing tomorrow morning.  If you can't play for him, neither can I.  I will always have your back."

       John was warmed by his friend's response.  "You're doing the right thing, I promise you, even though we're probably going to catch hell for doing it."  They clasped hands, their bond strengthened.

       Before school the next morning, the boys went to Coach Summers office and knocked on the door.

       "Enter!" the command came.

       The boys opened the door and walked in front of the coach's desk, standing stiffly and nervously.

       "So what's going on?" the coach asked.

       "We're leaving the team," Willie announced evenly.

       Coach Summers frowned and he leaned back in his chair and regarded them coldly for long moments.

       "So what brought this on?  Anything I can say to change your minds?  You're both having good years."

       "It's personal," Willie replied.  "And we won't change our minds."

       "What have you got to say, McDonough?  Are you going to let Willie do all the talking for you?"

       John swallowed.  "I'll have something more to say when Willie leaves, but it's private."

       "OK, then get the fuck out, Willie, unless you have something more..."

       Willie shook his head then patted John on the shoulder as he made his exit.

       When they were alone, the coach looked at him with contempt.

       "I have no respect for quitters."

       "And I have no respect for criminals," John countered quietly.  "I know everything you and Stan did to Tara Andrews and I'll never play for you again.  I wish she had contacted the police."

       Summers turned ashen and looked as though he'd been punched.  Then he regained his composure and his eyes narrowed to slits as he leaned forward.

       "That fucking whore is nothing but a goddam liar, and if you choose to listen to her stories, that's your problem.  Now get the hell out of here, I have nothing more to say."

       He and Willie at lunch with Tara and Marie that afternoon.  When they were nearly done with their meal, a contingent of the varsity basketball players, including Stan, approached the table.  Surrounded by his friends, Stan was nearly swaggering.  "What’s this about you leaving the team?"  He eyed Tara, who coolly ignored him.

       "Very simple, Stan.  We quit, that's all there is to it."

       "Not quite, dickhead.  Coach Summers wants you turn in your equipment this afternoon."  An evil grin twisted his lips.  “We'll all be there to say goodbye."

       The inference was unmistakable.  With Coach Reed's approval, no doubt, they planned to teach the boys a "lesson."  Hot anger flooded through John, rising to a volcanic pitch in just an instant.  Before he even realized what he was doing, he flung himself over the table, knocked Stan to the ground and began to pound him heavily to the face.  Stan's friends began to rain blows and kicks down on John, but he ignored them and continued to beat Stan in a white-hot rage.  Willie joined the fray, pulling the other boys back.  Within a few seconds, some of the other football players ran over, holding everyone back.

       Willie intervened with John, pulling him off the dazed and bloodied Stan.  "That's enough, man, it's over."  Just as suddenly as the anger had overtaken him, John felt drained.  Several teachers had arrived on the scene.

       "All right, who started this?" Mr. Jamieson, the Geology teacher demanded.

       John raised his hand.  "I did, it was my fault."

       Jamieson took a look at Stan's face and was aghast.  "Someone get him to the nurse's office.  Mr. McDonough, you come with me right now."

       "I don't understand, John, this isn't like you at all."

       "I prefer not to explain anything, I accept full responsibility.  I'll accept any punishment you see fit to give."

       Mr. Fischer rubbed his chin in puzzlement.  "But I know there must be some reason behind this and it's a serious offense.  From what I've been told, you beat Stan rather severely."

       "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I lost control.  I have no excuses and I can only say it won't happen again."

       "I'm sure it won't.  Still, I can't just dismiss this and forget it, I have no choice but to suspend you for two weeks after school starts again."

       John nodded, not overly surprised at the judgment.  "I'll miss semester exams." he noted.

       "I know that.  If they are willing, your teachers can make other arrangements for you--perhaps they'll give you make-up tests on your return.  In the meantime, you can have friends bring you assignments.

       John nodded.  "Is that all, Mr. Fischer?"

       The principal sighed.  "Yes, you may go."

       When he left  Fischer's office, John was surprised to see Stan sitting in the outer office, his face swollen and bandaged.  John approached and the boy cowered as John pointed a finger at him.

       "Don't ever fuck with me again," John said quietly, then departed.

       Facing his mother, Gwen, and his brothers was the hardest task, but even that didn't turn out to be as difficult as he had expected.  Somehow, his mother seemed to sense that whatever had caused him to erupt in such anger had been severe.  There was no lecture and she merely hugged him when he came in the house, though her eyes were filled with concern.  The twins were quiet in front of Theresa and Gwen, but when they found themselves alone in their room later, John could see they were bursting with excitement.

       "Tell us all about it, " Curtis jumped in.  "We heard you totally kicked Stan's ass."

       "Yeah, yeah!"  Chris chimed in.  "They said you took him down and were pounding his face bloody!"

       "Guys!  There's nothing cool about it."  John snapped back immediately.  "I'm in big trouble now, I'll be missing school until the new semester, and it didn't solve a thing.  I let my anger get the best of me and I lost control.  Stan might be a jerk, but nobody deserves that, so stop thinking it's something great."

       The boys quieted, but John could tell by their exchange of glances that they still thought it was a great achievement.  He decided not to pursue the topic and flipped on the television.

       John essentially spent the two weeks of his suspension and the entire Christmas break in hibernation, seeing only Willie to get his class assignments.  When January finally crawled around, he found himself anxious to return to school.  He had missed it, even though it would no longer include basketball.  Since he and Willie had left the team, they had lost five straight games, including finishing last in a Christmas tournament with two losses.  Evidently Stan had missed the first three games due to the injuries John had inflicted.

       When he opened his locker, it took him a few moments to remember his combination.  As he fumbled with it came a determination to make the second semester a new start in every way.  As he pulled books out for his first class, a movement in the far corner of his eye caught his attention.  Glancing up, he saw Laurene standing at a turn in the hallway, staring at him.  In the mere fraction of a moment that their eyes met, his world was shattered.  As she abruptly spun away, a sick feeling swept away his good mood.  There was no doubt in his mind--Laurene had slept with Stan.

       He stood dumbfounded, trying to convince himself otherwise.  Yet the look he had caught was unmistakable, he had read guilt and what almost might have been a plea for help.  He wanted to be sick and fell back against his locker, closing his eyes.

       "Hey, John, welcome back."

       His mounting misery was briefly interrupted by this greeting from a football teammate.

       "Hey, Frankie," John replied, surprising himself by the steadiness of his voice.  As the boy passed, John, goaded by his conflicting emotions, suddenly bolted in the direction Laurene had gone.  She had joined a group of girls further down the hall, but that didn't stop John from approaching.  He came up from behind and plucked lightly at her elbow.  When she turned and recognized him, her eyes glinted with ice.

       "Laurene, could I please talk with you?" he asked directly, undeterred by her demeanor.

       "Why would you think I would want to talk with you?" she countered coldly.

       He felt no anger, only sorrow.  "It might be good for both of us," he said simply.

       There it was, he could see it again.  She had softened, and the pain she was feeling reflected in her eyes.  Then her visage hardened once again.

       "Look, just stay out of my life," she said, turning her back and marching away deliberately.  A couple of girls tittered over the slight and exchanged whispers.  John ignored them and headed for his first class in a fog of helplessness.  A fierce longing for Laurene tore at his heart even as he realized she would never again give him a chance.  Hope dissolved into near despair.

       "You're sure about this?"  Theresa asked.

       "Sure, it'll be good for me.  I'll come back in time for the start of football practice in August."  He tried to sound cheerful about it, but in reality he felt as though he were putting himself into exile.  John had accepted his Uncle Jason's offer to come to his ranch in South Dakota for the summer.

       "It will be a lot of hard work," she cautioned.  "Jason lives to work, it's his only real passion."

       "I know that, but I will learn a lot."

       His mother pulled him close and squeezed tight.  "This doesn't have something to do with Laurene, does it?"

       John thought about denying it, but saw no point in trying to deceive her, she already knew the truth.

       "Of course it does.  I don't feel much like looking outside and seeing her with Stan all summer."

       Theresa sighed.  "You're too young to be so lovesick, John.  Besides, this relationship with stan may not last and you could very well have the chance to mend things with Laurene."

       You don't know how serious it is between them, he thought--he'll never let her go.  Aloud, he replied, "Maybe, but I'm not going to count on it."

As he stepped off the plane, a thousand memories were triggered by the moist, earthy odors of the South Dakota prairie.  The mixture of freshly cut hay and cattle dung took him back to the many visit his family had made here, though he had never arrived by plane.  As he entered the small terminal, it took just a second to spot the burly Uncle Jason and his family—Laura, his wife, a dour woman who always appeared to be somewhat indisposed, and the cheerful faces of the blonde twins Bruce and Barb, who were two years John’s juniors.  Also there was Don, four years older than John, but with whom he had always felt the greatest kinship.  As they greeted him warmly, he realized he had made the best decision.  An isolated, idyllic summer in the country was just what he needed.  He couldn’t have been more wrong.  The following day, still tired from his trip, he was startled from his deep sleep by a sharp pain.  He jerked spasmodically and opened his eyes.  His uncle’s face focused slowly into view, a smile on his lips.

       “Time to get up, John,” he announced.  “The day ain’t gonna wait on us.”

       The source of the pain became localized as his uncle gave John’s sideburn another tug, and he helped in pain, drawing giggle from Don and Bruce, who slept in the same room.

       “Welcome to South Dakota, “ Don said.  “That’s just one of Dad’s ways of getting us up.  You just better hope he doesn’t decide to do it by giving you one of his back rubs—it takes the skin right off your hide!”

       John made a motion as if to spin John on his belly and begin the procedure to which Don had just referred, but John jumped quickly out of bed on the opposite side.

       “OK, OK, I’m up,” he protested.

       John had never been a big eater at breakfast, but he couldn’t refuse the food his aunt placed in front of him as they all sat down at the kitchen table.  Mound of scrambled eggs and hashed browns were piled on his plate, along with several pieces of bacon, sausage and slices of toast, all to be washed down with huge cup of milk.  His first sip of the milk produced an unpleasant surprise.  Clots of cream floated on the surface, and it had a raw, grassy  taste that was completely unlike the milk he was used to drinking.

       “Now that’s real milk, John,” his uncle informed him.  “Pasteurized only to kill any bacteria, but other than that, fresh from the cow.  Not like that water you’re used to drinking, is it?”

       “No, it’s not,” John replied, fighting an urge to gag.  Out of nowhere, he was suddenly homesick, and he hadn’t even spent a full day in South Dakota.  By 6:30, they were headed out to work, John wasn’t sure what was planned for the day.

       “Hey, Dan, what’re we doing today, anyway?” he asked as they jumped in the back of a blue Chevrolet pickup truck, while the twins got into the cab with their father.

       “I thought you knew.  We rounded up the cattle over the last week or so from the winter pastures, and now it’s time to brand the calves.”

       John was not overjoyed at such a prospect.  “Doesn’t that hurt them a lot?” he asked as casually as he could.

       “Nah, they’ve got thick hides.  They don’t like it, of course, but it’s not too bad.  I think the ear-notching and emasculation probably hurts them more.”

       “I don’t know what those are.”

       “Ear-notching is another way of identifying the cattle.  While we’re taking care of the big stuff, Brenda will give injections and use the ear-notchers, which are sort of like a pair of pliers designed to snip out sections of flesh from the calf’s ear.  Dad does the branding and emasculation.  The emasculators look like bolt cutters, except the blades don’t close together all the way.  They pinch off the tubes that lead from the testicles without cutting into the scrotum.  If it’s done right, it’s safer than castration, and a lot less bloody.”

       It all sounded unpleasant to John, and his foreboding was more than justified.  When they arrived at the branding corral, preparations began.  While Jason set up the branding equipment with the help of the twins, Don and John drove several hundred head of cattle into the corral from a small pasture, then separated the calves from their mothers, who were put back into the pasture.

       After an explanation to John as to his role in the procedure, they went to work.  Don grabbed the back leg of the first victim, then John grabbed its tail.  Pulling in opposite directions, they flipped it to its side.  John quickly jumped on the calf’s side, pinning it down and firmly holding and crooking the upper leg while Don stretched the animal out by sitting on the ground, bracing his foot against the animal’s rear end, and pulling the upper foot out as tightly as he could, immobilizing the animal and preventing it from gaining any leverage to get up.

       Barb then raced up with the ear-notchers, positioned them and ripped a chunk of flesh from the beast’s ear, eliciting a bellow of pain along with a flow of blood.  She followed with an injection where she deftly lifted the flesh above the shoulder, inserted the needle, and quickly made the inoculation.  She then hurried to apply a paste to any budding horns which would prevent their growth.  By this time, Bruce had pulled the first iron out of the propane flame in which it was being heated.  John could feel the heat radiate from the red-hot metal as Bruce handed it to his father.  Jason placed a heavy boot on the animal’s flank, then pressed the iron into the hide.  The fur sizzled and appeared to break into flame and John’s first whiff of the horrible scent would be fixed forever in his memory.

       The fur seemed to melt away, quickly followed by the sizzle of burning flesh.  The calf stiffened momentarily, stunned by the sudden pain, then struggled violently, bellowing pitifully.  Jason held the iron firmly in place, rocking the handle back and forth to ensure a deep, even brand.  To John, it seemed like he held it there forever.  When he finally removed the iron, a charred, bloody patch was revealed.  John found the efficient brutality shocking.  With the procedure complete, they released their hold on the calf and Jason kicked it lightly with his boot tip.

       “All right, let’s move it,” he urged.  The calf staggered uncertainly to its feet, tongue lolling, then lurched back toward the herd.  John felt a surge of pity for the poor creature.

       His sympathy was short-lived.  The operation was endlessly repeated and by the time they were halfway through the day, John was exhausted.  His forearms were cramping from the strain of holding the struggling calves and his senses were overwhelmed by the stench of burning hide and the sight of bloodied flesh.  He soon found he no longer cred for the suffering the animals were enduring, he simply wanted the day to end.

       That first day was a fitting introduction to the rigors the summer held in store.  Branding lasted several more days, then the harvesting of the hay began, a process that involved the cutting, raking and stacking of seemingly endless fields of alfalfa and wild grasses.  Those weeks were followed by work on miles of fencing that needed repair, while August brought in the harvest of a massive oat crop.  Each day began at sunrise and continued to the summer nightfall.  Lunch, and often dinner, was eaten in the fields.

       “So what do you think?” Don asked late one night as they settled into bed.  Their nightly conversations were a ritual that provided one of the few diversions from their endless work days.

       “Think about what?” John countered.

       “Well, you’re heading home in a couple of days.  I’m just wondering how you feel about the way the summer went.”

       John shrugged.  “I’m not sure.  I mean, it’s been great being with you guys, but I don’t think I have it in my blood to be a rancher.”

       “Who says I do?”

       “But you’ve grown up out here.  It’s what you know best.”

       “Well there’s a lot more to this world than being isolated from society and busting your ass year-round.”

       “Yeah, like getting some pussy now and then,” the precocious and outrageous Bruce volunteered.

       Don responded by hurling a pillow at his brother’s head.  “Watch your language, smartass,” he warned.  “But basically, he’s right.  If it weren’t for school, I’d never meet any girls.  And as far as dating, other than the prom or something special, there’s no way to just stop by someone’s house or go out for a soda or something.  Don’t you miss being around girls?  You must have had plenty interested in you, what with being a football player and all.”

       “Not really.  There’s only one girl I like, but she’s going out with someone else.  Besides, she thinks I’m a jerk anyway.”

       “How’s that?”

       “We were good friends for a long time, but when we got into high school she suddenly wanted to get serious and go steady, but I kind of backed away from that.  So she started dating this guy in the junior class and we haven’t spoken much since then.”

       “Hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned,” Bruce quoted.

       “Where did you learn that?” John asked, breaking into laughter.

       “In some book I was reading.  Women are just bad news.  That’s why I play the field, I don’t wanna tie myself down.”

  “Right!” Don replied sarcastically.   “The only sex you’re ever going to have is with a sheep in the barn, and even then you’ll probably have to pay for it.”  John and Don both guffawed at the crude joke, and Bruce started to wrestle with his older brother.

Chapter 4

Time away is often an impetus for involvement, not separation.

John started as he was grabbed from behind and squeezed in a vicious hug.

“Thanks for writing, asshole!  Good to have you back.”

Willie released his friend and they faced one another with broad smiles.

“It’s good to be back, Willie.  Jesus, you’ve put on weight, you look like a power-lifter!”

“Been pumping the iron, brother.  Looks like you ate well and worked out, too.  Ready for some football?”

“Without a doubt.  I’ve had enough of farm life for a year.”

Even as they were talking, John’s eyes started roaming the hallway and Willie zeroed in on this activity, and then slapped John lightly on the top of the head.

“You’ve got to do something about that this year, boy.”

John did his best to feign perplexity.  “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t give me that.  We both know who you’re looking for.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Maybe only to me, but I know you too well.  And no doubt you’ve been stewing about this all summer.  Am I right, or what?”

“Yeah, dammit, you are.”

“Then do something about it.  Compete!”

“She’s still going out with Stan?”

“As far as I know.  I saw them together a few times.  Willie paused, then finally spoke again.  “Johnny, that dude is bad news for her, if you know what I mean.”  He exchanged a look with his friend that conveyed far more than the few words he had spoken.

“I know exactly what you’re talking about, Willie.  The guy is not only a complete manipulator, he’s dangerous, too.”

“Then do something about it, not just for your sake, but especially for hers.”

The encouragement filled John with a new resolve.  “I’ll give it my best shot, believe me.”

John’s first period class was in sophomore English.  He arrived early and took a seat near the back of the class, anxiously scanning the stream of students coming into the room.  Just before the second bell sounded to signal the start of the class hour, Laurene entered with Katie Simms and they took seats on the opposite side of the classroom.  John fought back a wave of nervous adrenaline and marveled at Laurene’s beauty.  She was swiftly making the transition into womanhood and he felt inadequate and intimidated.

The bell rang and the small pockets of conversation died as everyone noticed that the teacher was waiting on them for their full attention.

“Good morning,” he began when everyone was silent.  “For those of you who don’t know me, I am Mr. Foster.  Welcome to sophomore English.  I will begin by promising two things:  First, your work here will not be easy.  Second, if you devote yourself, I guarantee it will be both interesting and rewarding.”  His gravelly voice commanded attention, and John quickly sized up the lanky, fortyish man with thinning hair and piercing eyes as someone to respect.

“Now that you know me, I would like for each of you to introduce yourselves, beginning with this first row.  Please stand, state your name, and then give us one, and only one sentence about your summer.  Please begin.”

Carlotta Anders stood uncertainly and fidgeted as she tried to figure out which direction to face, then blurted out the required information.  “Hi, my name is Carlotta Anders.  I played a lot of tennis this summer.”

Mr. Foster nodded his approval and the process continued down the first row which included Laurene.  When her turn came, she came gracefully to her feet, showing no signs of self-consciousness.  She smiled directly at Mr. Foster.  “Hello, my name is Laurene Wilson.  I spent the summer falling in love.”   The revelation provoked a chorus of hoots and catcalls and drew a thin smile from Mr. Foster.  John gritted his teeth and flushed, aware a few eyes had turned his direction.

He lost track of the litany of introductions that followed, consumed by jealousy and darker thoughts.  When his turn arrived, he stood, knowing that Laurene was now aware of his presence, if she hadn’t been before.

“Good morning, my name is John Patrick McDonough.  I spent a lonely summer working on my uncle’s ranch in South Dakota.”  He swept his glance over the class as he spoke, ending the sentence with his attention firmly focused on Laurene. She averted her eyes.

Mr. Foster, all business, began his first lecture.  John, always an excellent student, took appropriate notes, but also found time to study Laurene from across the room.  It didn’t take long before she noted his attention, which she studiously pretended to ignore.  For a long while, she kept her eyes focused strictly on the paper in front of her, but when she tried to steal a glance John’s direction, it was only to find he was already looking at her.  He flashed her  his friendliest smile and she flushed and turned away in bewilderment.

When class ended, she rose to leave very quickly, only to find that John had timed his departure so they would meet near the classroom entrance.  By now, she was thoroughly flustered and her nervousness was quite evident to John, who found himself enjoying her discomfiture.  Laurene continued to try and ignore him as she passed in front of him into the hallway, but he wouldn’t let her be.  He strode briskly behind her, and then leaned forward to speak into her ear.

“Hello, Laurene,” he said.  “It’s nice to see you again.  You look great.”

She turned, a frown clouding her features.  “Hi, John,” she said uncertainly.  “What’s going on?”

He shrugged.  “I just thought we could start this year out right.  I’m hoping we can be friends again.”

She struggled to find words, surprised at his directness.  “I, I don’t think that would be a good idea.  I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but…”  She left the thought unfinished.  Before John could formulate a response, Stan Lawton arrived to escort Laurene to her next class.  He shot both of them a dirty glance and John could plainly see that Laurene was scared.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Stan demanded, throwing a rough arm around Laurene.

“Just saying hello to an old friend,” John replied calmly.

“Oh, yeah?  Well go say hello to another old friend, because this one is spoken for.”  He led Laurene away without giving John a chance to reply.

“I don’t want you around him, he just wants to cause problems between us.”

“He lives right across the street, he’s my neighbor.”

“So what?  That doesn’t mean you’ve got to have anything to do with him.”

“We were friends for a long time,” she ventured.

Now Stan was really angry.  “That’s right-WERE, and don’t forget it.  What are you, still hot for him or something?  You just say the word and I’m outta here.  But you just remember no one else will love you the way I do.  Besides, how do you think he would react if I were to tell him how close we’ve become in the past few months?”  He emphasized the word “close” with a leering expression to let her know exactly what he was talking about.

Laurene flushed deeply, humiliated at the prospect that John would ever be told she had been having sex with Stan.

“No, I don’t want him to know that.  I’ll stay away from him.”

Stan softened, a winning smile lighting his face.  “That’s my girl.  Look, I just love you so much, I don’t think I could ever stand to be without you.”  He leaned over and kissed her, his hand already running up her side toward her breasts, a certain prelude to sex.

Laurene caught his hand and held it.  “Wait, Stan,” she pleaded, “Please, I don’t feel good about this.”

“Don’t you love me?”

“Yes, of course I do, but I just don’t think we should keep doing this.”

“Look,” he said earnestly, taking her face gently in his hands.  “I love you and someday we’re going to be married.  There’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing, it’s part of what love is all about.  A man needs this kind of release with the woman he loves, or the relationship just doesn’t work out.  You do want things to work out for us, don’t you?”

She nodded and he immediately resumed kissing her and she found herself helpless to avert the sex that followed.  As Stan entered her an image of John McDonough shaking his head in disgust filled her mind.  As Stan climaxed, Laurene moaned, but not in pleasure.  She was weeping.  Stan rolled off  her, oblivious to her emotions.

“God, that was great,” he sighed.

John’s sophomore year was one of both triumph and heartache.  He and Willie once again led their football team to the state title, but the momentary thrill of winning seemed hollow to John.  It was just a game, and everyone made too much of it.  Laurene had ignored him entirely, it led to an underlying emptiness that plagued John and dulled every other interest.

As May came to a close, he sat with Willie after school at their favorite pizza place.

“So you’re headed back to South Dakota again this summer?”  Willie asked, after telling John about his family’s plans to head down south for a month.

“I guess so.  It’s better than hanging around here all summer, especially with you being gone for that long.”

“Still hung up on Laurene, aren’t you?”

John shook his head and sighed.  “Yeah, unfortunately.  I think about her all the time, Willie.  She hasn’t talked to me all year, but just looking at her I realize she’s not very happy.”

“Why does she keep dating that asshole?”

“I don’t know, momentum, I guess.  And along with the fact that she’s afraid of him is the whole sex thing.”

“You’re sure she’s sleeping with him?”

“Oh, yeah, I knew it right after it happened just by looking in her eyes.  Then during football season, I was rooming with Don Jamieson one night.  He knows Stan and they got drunk together one night and Stan started bragging about having sex with Laurene.  He told me that Stan said something like, ‘Yeah, I fuck the bitch all the time.’  He’s a total asshole, but Laurene is just too caught up in everything to see it.”

“So tell me something,” Willie said.  “Why are you so crazy in love with her still?”

“Because she’s the one, Willie, just like Marie has been for you.  If I think about the future, it has her in it.  I mean, this year has been miserable, but I can’t give up hope.  I’m sure she knows how I feel about her, and sooner or later, my patience is going to pay off—I hope.”

“Me, too, man, it’s no fun watching you go through this.  What about Tara, has she been in touch?”

“Just a couple of letters.  She’s going to school back east and it seems like she’s doing great.  I have a strong feeling it’s a friendship that will go on hiatus, we’re living two very different lives.”

“And you’re not looking for anyone else?”

“Nope, no desire at all.  I’m waiting for Laurene.”

“I hear you.”

John’s second summer in South Dakota was nearly a duplicate of the first, with one exception.  With his previous experience now under his belt, his Uncle Jason expected even more out of the youngster, and he got it.  John pushed himself as hard as he could, anxious to please his uncle.

Still, there was plenty of time to think.  Much of the work was mechanical and routine and John’s mind would fill with thoughts of  Laurene.  Driving tractors for hours up and down hayfields, John would daydream that Laurene would suddenly appear on one of the country roads nearby, anxious to open up and share her very soul with him.  Scene after scene of some breakthrough with her kept playing out and he gave himself to them completely, refusing to abandon hope.

As August drew to a close, John became nearly frantic to return to Arizona, even though the previous months had brought him closer than ever to his uncle’s family, and especially with Don.  But that was just it—they were family, that was a given.  They would always be there, but Laurene might not be.  He had to get back.

“Man, I feel terrible,” Willie said.  “I didn’t get one letter off to you this summer, and you wrote three.”

“I guess that makes us even for last year.  Willie, you’re my closest friend, and three months apart can’t change that.  That’s what good friends can do—take each other for granted.”

“You’re right about that.  Hey, are you psyched up for the season?”

Willie was referring to football, of course, and John shrugged.  “To be honest, I’ve hardly given it a thought.  Hell, where do we go from here?  We’ve won two state titles in a row, what’s a third really going to mean?”

“This is money time, though, baby!  The colleges are going to be looking at us under a microscope and the recruitment letters are already flooding in.”

“I guess so.  I’m not worried about it.  As long as I have you to throw to, we’re guaranteed a great season.”

Willie laughed.  “Thanks, buddy, but we know that only part of it.  I played with a lot of guys this summer, including some QBs from other schools.  Nobody, and I mean nobody has your arm or your presence.  All I have to do is concentrate on running my pattern and catching the ball, because I know you’re always going to get it there.”

“And all I have to do is concentrate on getting it near you, because if I do, I know it’s a catch, so I guess that makes us even.”

“Let’s go for it,” Willie said, as they clasped hands.

“Hi, how was your summer?” Laurene asked.

“Not bad, a lot of hard work, but it’s good to be back.”  John stared at Laurene.  What was happening?  Every year she became more beautiful and his heart was bursting with emotion.  What was he to do?

She noted his intense gaze, obviously aware of what he was feeling, but dared not acknowledge it.  “Well, I hope you have a great year,” she said simply.  “I’ll see you later.”

That was the most in-depth conversation John had with Laurene all year.  As expected, John and Willie led the Mustangs to their third consecutive championship.  For John it was a completely hollow achievement.  When the season ended, the little distraction it provided from his feeling for Laurene were gone, and he sank into misery.

While she greeted him regularly, she simply didn’t talk to him.  John was crushed to discover they did not share a single class in common, so he saw far less of her than their first two years of high school.  Laurene invariably ate lunch with her cheerleader friends and John only caught flimpses of her as she practiced after school.  Once football season ended, he only saw her coming and going from her house—usually with Stan.

They were still dating, as he had both known and feared they would be.  There was nothing to give him any hope—until Linda.  Linda Wilson was Laurene younger sister.  John had always been friendly with her, but because of their age difference, they had never become close friends.  She was two years younger than John and a freshman.

The week after football season ended, and the excitement over the championship had died down, John was in the library seated at a table doing some research for a class project.  He was poring over a book when someone sat down beside him.  For a heart-stopping moment, he thought it was Laurene, but he turned to find it was Linda.  She flashed him a broad smile that resembled her sister’s in every way.

“Hi, John, how’s life?”

He nodded.  “Not bad, I’m getting along.  How is high school so far?”

“I’m having a lot of fun—but my sister isn’t.”

That instantly caught his attention.  “How is that, Linda?”

“You know, the whole relationship with Stan.  I just don’t understand why she’s still with him.”

John made a wry face.  “I’ve been wondering that myself for almost the last two years.”

“You really do like her a lot, don’t you?”

“That’s not much of a secret.”

“Well, don’t give up.  She still talks about you a lot, you know.”

John felt a sudden surge of hope.  “She does?”

“Yes.  In fact, I sometimes think that the only thing that keeps her with Stan is the fact that she doesn’t feel very good about herself, and he just reinforces that.”

“I’ve tried to be friends with her, but it just hasn’t worked out.”

“I know—because of him.  Don’t give up, though.  I’m behind you 100%.”

“Thanks, Linda.”

For the rest of the year, Linda became John’s confidant and sole link to Laurene.  They spoke and texted frequently, but did not see each other that much at school, primarily because their schedules were very different.  Apart from the fact that she kept informed about the happenings in Laurene’s life, he found she was a good friend in her own right.  She shared many of her sister’s qualities and actually seemed more mature than Laurene had been at the same age.  She definitely was wiser about men, and though she attracted a good deal of attention from upperclassmen, she refused to date anyone except as part of a group.

Yet overall, John labeled his time as a junior, “The Year of Desolation.”  His contact with Linda only heightened his love and desire for Laurene.  When May arrived, it was almost with a sense of desperation that he faced the prospect of going back to South Dakota without having made any progress in renewing a relationship with Laurene.  The heartache of seeing her but not being able to interact with her was more than he bear, so he decided to make at least one more attempt before the year was over.

It was well after midnight when John crossed the street, fighting a feeling that verged on terror.  He walked up to Laurene’s bedroom window and tapped lightly.  She drew back the curtains and opened the window.

“Hi, Laurene, I haven’t been able to sleep.”

“What’s wrong?”

“This whole year—actually the past two years.  Laurene, we were such close friends—and maybe even more, but we haven’t said more than hello all year.  Honestly, it’s been tearing me apart.”

Her face softened and a deep sadness reflected in her eyes.  She drew a deep breath.  “I know, and I’m so sorry.  John, I haven’t meant to hurt you, but Stan is just so jealous and he still has friends at school that tell him about everything I do.”

“Laurene, are you going to marry Stan?”  He wasn’t sure what prompted him to ask such a blunt question, but it felt as though his entire future balanced on it.

Her eyes dropped, she couldn’t meet his intense gaze.  “I think so, John.  We’ve talked a lot about it, and he wants to get married as soon as I graduate next year.”

“What do you want?”

“The same, I suppose.  We’ve been together almost three years now.”

John was devastated and there was a long, awkward silence.

“I, I’d better get back in now.  I just wanted to say hello before I left for South Dakota again.  I hope you have a great summer.”

“You, too, John.”  She said softly, her eyes welling with tears as he watched him trudge back across the street.

“mom, I just can’t face another year like this one and Uncle Jason says it will be fine with him.”

“If you really have your mind set on this, I won’t try to change it.  I  just want you to be sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“OK, I’ll call and let him know.  You’d better talk to your brothers, they’re going to be upset, you know.”

When school ended on May 23^rd,  Laurene went to work at a daycare center where she had been on the staff the previous two summers.  When her first shift ended that afternoon, she opened her car and found an envelope had been slipped in through the window she left slightly open for ventilation.  It was from John.

Dear Laurene,

This has been such a terrible year for me that I decided I didn’t want to face another one like it.  You know how I feel about you, I have loved you since the moment we first met, but there’s just too much pain involved in being around you and yet having so little contact.

By the time you read this letter, I will be back in South Dakota, only this time I will be staying for the entire year.  I can’t even begin to express how much I will miss you—but probably no more than I have for the last couple of years  I hope you have a great senior year.  I’ve accepted a scholarship offer to play at Arizona State, so I’ll be back in the area, maybe I will see you then.

Love Always,

John

Laurene read the note several times, unable to believe it.  When the full implications sank in, she slumped over the steering wheel and wept bitterly.

John could not get over how cold it was on the tenth of  June.  The weather in Phoenix had been over 100 degrees when he left, while the temperature in South Dakota barely crept into the 60s.  The wind was howling, and sheets of rain drenched the earth.  He and his cousins and uncle spent the day in a alrge barn near the house repairing and maintaining equipment.  John had been at the ranch for a couple of week and the branding had been completed.  They were waiting for it to dry out to begin harvesting hay.

Unlike the previous summers, when the beds had been set up in the bedrooms upstairs, all the kids were now in the partially finished basement.  Brenda slept on one side of a thin partition, while the three boys had beds in the other half of the basement.  Around 11 that night, the boys crawled into bed after a late-night snack.  Don switched on the radio to their favorite local station as they normally fell asleep to the sound of music playing.  There was none this night.

“…we’ve been informed by city officials that several crews are working to clear debris from the spillway.  Nevertheless, the situation is considered serious and all citizens who live below Canyon Lake Dam along the Course of Rapid Creek are advised to evacuate their homes.  Several emergency shelters are being set up and as additional reports become available, we will pass information along to our listeners.”

The boys weren’t worried in the least, despite the fact that rain continued unabated outside.  Rapid City and Canyon Lake Dam were more than 15 miles distant.  A small creek did run to within several hundred yards of the house, but it was dry most summers.  They started to joke about the situation.

“Hey, if the dam does give way, at least it’ll flush the trash out of the park,” Don started.

“Yeah, and the drunks along with it,” John added, not even knowing if any transients stayed in the park.

“You guys are sick,” Brenda’s voice floated over the partition.

“Aw, shut your yap,” Bruce retorted with the typical courtesy he reserved for his twin sister.  “Nobody asked your opinion.”

“Really?  Well you’d be sorry if that dam broke and people were killed.”

“Only if you weren’t one of them,” Bruce responded, eliciting snickers from Don and John.  Brenda did not deign to respond to the insult, and the conversation died as everyone drifted off to sleep.

As usual, John didn’t doze off for quite some time.  He always took a half hour or more to think before falling asleep.  He found this time of night be calm and peaceful and it allowed him to ponder events of the past and formulate dreams for the future.  Inevitably, his thoughts were directed to a girl who lived in a desert city in Arizona.  His musings, though tinged with loneliness, were pleasant.  Soothed by the patter of rain outside, John melted away into a dreamless oblivion.

“You guys, hey, wake up!”

John struggled into wakefulness.  “Wha’sa matter? He muttered.

“There’s water leaking in my window,” Brenda replied.

John flicked on thelight and blinked against the sudden brightness.  Checking a clock, he saw that it was 1:30 am.

“Damn it!” Don exclaimed.  “the window well must have filled up with rain.  We’ll have to get a couple of buckets and bail it out.”

The windows in the basement were half above and half below ground level.  The ground in front of each was dug out and lined with tin to allow air and light to enter.  When the wind was blowing strongly, it could drive the rain under and past the eaves of the roof, fill the window wells and then leak into the basement.

John’s tired body protested as he set his feet on the cold concrete floor and donned damp clothing.  For some reason, everyone dressed, though it would only be Don and John who would have to go outside and do the dirty work.  They trudged slowly upstairs and Don and John fumbled through a foyer closet looking for raincoats and boots.  After retrieving buckets from the laundry room, they pulled on their boots and started to leave the house through the door in the foyer leading to the garage, avoiding the rain as long as possible.  Don took the lead, and as he began to step down into the garage, he recoiled as though he’d been struck by a rattler.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered hoarsely, his tone reflecting total horror and disbelief.  John peered around him.  A wave of water was rolling into the garage.

“Wha, what is it?” he croaked, his throat closing.

“The creek, oh God, it’s the creek!”

For a moment, sheer terror paralyzed John, then galvanized him into frantic action.  He bolted back to his uncle’s room and ripped the door open.

“Uncle Jason, Aunt Lillie,” he yelled hoarsely, “the creek has flooded clear up here.  We have to get out!”

John soon wished he had acted a bit more calmly, for what followed were several minutes of absolute hysteria.  His aunt began screaming and seemingly lost control of her bodily movements, while his uncle dashed about the room trying to get dressed, but not finding anything.  Had the situation not been so deadly, it might have seemed hilarious.

Fortunately, Jason Colgan calmed quickly and took control.  He pulled his wife over to the dresser and helped her don some clothing.  They all then rushed back to the foyer area and frantically began donning coats and boots.  To John, it seemed it was taking forever, and the water in the garage was now lapping at the porch steps.

A tremendous crash of shattering glass added to the panic.  One or more of the windows in the basement had given way to the outside water pressure, and it rushed into the breaches with the thundering sound of a huge waterfall.  Brenda screamed and bolted for the rear of the house, while Don slammed the door leading to the basement, not realizing that the water rushing in would rise no higher than it did outside.

“Goddamit, Brenda, get back here,” Jason bellowed, running after her.  He soon came back carrying her in his arms.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he yelled.  The group plunged into the murky, frigid water in the garage, which was now waist level on Don and John. As they mucked through to a side door in the garage leading to the backyard, they became aware of several cats thrashing about in the water, screeching like lost souls.

“Daddy, the cats, help them!” Brenda wailed.

“To hell with those cats, we’ve got to get out of here now.”

The small group, clinging to one another, left through the side door and began to move along the back of the house.

“We’ll have to cross the fields over to the hills by the school house before the water gets any deeper,” Jason explained and indeed, that seemed to be their only option.  It was about two hundred yards, but if the water didn’t rise too rapidly, they thought they could make it.  John seized on the idea with a passion and surged ahead of the others, yelling encouragement.

“Come on, we can make it, come on!”

He stepped out beyond the end of the house and was knocked from his feet.  With a quick stab of his beefy hand, Jason caught him by the raincoat and yanked him back before he was swept away.

“There’s no way we can cross there, the current’s too strong once you go beyond the house.”  They only then realized that the house was blocking the main force of the flood, and it had nearly proven fatal for John.  They huddled together in an agony of fear and indecision.

“That little hill beyond the back fence, it’s our best chance” Jason said after a few moments of reflection.  The hillock he referred to was about 25 yards from the house, and at such an angle that they should be able to approach it without being caught in the flood’s stronger currents.  The desperate group turned back into the direction from which they had just come.  When they reached the corner of the garage, they took a forty-five degree angle toward the small hill, which was situated just outside the backyard fence.  The ground beyond the house dropped several feet and the water level was now high up on the men’s chests.  Jason hoisted Lillie, while Don and John held the twins out of the water.  The current was bitterly cold, but their fear kept them from feeling the full impact.

It was with a surge of relief that they clambered up the side of the hillock, out of the water, and collapsed in a heap at its summit.  The small island on which they found themselves was about ten yards in diameter and rose perhaps four feet above the waterline.  John was stunned by the scene around them.

From one side of their small valley to the other, a raging river tore through his uncle’s land.  It felt as though they were in the middle of the Mighty Mississippi.  Great drops of biting rain pelted them, and they began to shiver violently.

“We’re going to freeze to death out here,” Jason noted grimly.  Don and John exchanged looks, then without saying a word plunged back into the water.

“We’ll be right back,” Don assured everyone.  “We’re going to get some blankets and more rain gear.”  No one protested.

They quickly made their way back through the garage and up into the house, where the water was now about a foot deep.  A quick trip to the hall closet yielded a number of blankets, and they grabbed some light ponchos from another closet to keep them dry.

As they reentered the water, the two boys found it necessary to hold their gear above their heads in the depression between the garage and the hill, and Don was forced to tread water briefly.  The water level was still rising.

At the crest of their bit of ground, Don wrapped several large blankets around Jason, his mother and both of the twins, then secured a poncho around them to keep it dry.  He and John wrapped themselves in their own blankets and ponchos, then went back to the water’s edge to watch its progress.  Now that the initial frantic activity had ceased, they were now fully able to take in their predicament.  A sense of total resignation overcame John; he had never felt so impotent.

“Kids, if you ever wanted to pray, this is the time to do it,” Lillie said in a quavering voice.

This struck John as a bit odd.  He pictured God sitting remotely in Heaven, waiting on their prayers—if they made them properly and fervently enough, he would spare them, whereas if they failed to make that one extra plea, he might send them to their doom.  Something about the image seemed terribly warped, yet John breathed some silent prayers anyway.

Don broke into his prayers.  “John, are you afraid to die?”

John stared into the waters and saw eternity swirling just a few feet away, eager to take them into its grasp.  He looked to Dan and broke the spell.  “I, I don’t know.  I feel numb, like I could accept anything right now.  But I’m scared of drowning.  All we can do now is watch.”

“And pray,” Don added.  John merely nodded and turned his attention back to the water.

At that instant, the house began to groan like a tortured victim and everyone jumped to their feet.  It was breaking up.  With a horrifying rending of splintered wood, it was torn from the foundation and collapsed into sections which swept by the group on a now unimpeded current.  John’s aunt and the twins were sobbing hysterically.  Their home, the heart of their family life, had been ripped away as casually as one might brush away an offending fly.  There was a finality to it that shredded their very souls and extinguished all hope.

“Hey!!” Don’s hoarse yell startled John and he started to scramble further up the hill because his cousin was pointing toward the water, no doubt at some new threat.

“The water’s going down!” he shouted exultantly.

“Are you sure?” John asked.

“Yeah, yeah—look.  I put this rock at the edge of the water a while ago, and now it’s a half foot below that.  I think it’s crested.”

A wave of relief swept over John that left him weak and trembling.  He turned to his uncle. “Did you hear that, Uncle Jason?  The water is starting to…”

John stopped in mid-sentence because, in his uncle’s eyes, fixed in the distance, was the look of a man who sees death approaching.  John spun to see what this new horror might be.

He saw it instantly.  Like mounted angels of destruction, a frothing wall was descending on the little group with fearsome speed.  Don and John raced to the knotted group at the summit and watched the progress of the approaching waters with terrified fascination.  John knew then they were all going to die and he no longer prayed to be saved, but for a mercifully quick death.

They clung to one another as the waves swept over them with a crushing fury and John managed only to maintain a grip on Brenda.  They were tumbled about under the water, and he thought for a moment they would drown right then, but they broke the surface and gasped for breath.  Brenda couldn’t swim and panicked instantly.  There was no way John could even attempt to calm her as he was having trouble even maintaining a grip.  She thrashed and clawed wildly, finally raking John across the eyes with her nails.  He lost his grip and within seconds they were as effectively separated as if by centuries of time.  John was helpless to aid her, and he instinctively focused his efforts on his own survival.

He kicked off his boots and concentrated on keeping his head above water.  This was nearly impossible as the roaring current tossed him about like a bit of cork.  He kept swallowing and choking on mouthfuls of water.  In the midst of his panic, it suddenly hit him what he must try to do.  The valley through which the flood was rushing was intersected by a railroad embankment that rose some fifteen feet above the surrounding terrain.  The small underpass under a bridge through which the creek normally ran was not designed to handle such a huge volume of water and a bottleneck effect had caused the massive backup in their home’s small valley.

It was toward this bottleneck that John was now rushing.  He was hoping the current would take him among the trees that lined the banks of the creek, but he saw nor felt any and presumed they’d been torn away.  With a thrill of increased adrenaline, he dimly saw the embankment and the bridge loom up before him.  He had only once chance.  Taking a deep breath, he plunged down into the icy water as deeply as possible, in the direction of the underpass.  If he didn’t dive deeply enough, he would be caught or crushed among the iron girders that supported the bridge.  He felt the current seize him with ever greater ferocity and he shot through the gap with tremendous speed—or so he hoped.  Already his lungs were bursting for air and he scrambled frantically for the surface, not even sure he was stroking in the right direction.

He had reached his limit.  He released the air in his lungs and kept thrashing feebly.  His lungs began to spasm, trying to draw in air that wasn’t there.  He began to pass out, took in a lungful of water, then broke the surface, choking but sucking in sweet volumes of fresh air.  John began to swim and dimly became aware of things scratching his body, then realized he was among the branches of a tree along the creek bed.  He managed to latch onto one and pulled himself to a more secure position to rest.  He spent the next several minutes coughing and vomiting up all the water he’d swallowed.  He was numb from the cold and knew he couldn’t stay where he was or he would succumb to hypothermia.

He took his bearings and realized he was several hundred yards past the underpass.  The current here was almost gentle for the water had a large plain over which to spread once it had passed under the bridge.  Releasing his hold, John swam at a right angle to the flow for about fifty yards and then turned and weakly stroked toward the railroad embankment, on which he knew he could walk to safety.

He didn’t feel as though he had much of a current to fight, but his progress was agonizingly slow.  After some minutes, his efforts became ragged and uncoordinated and he’d begun to swallow water again.  He soon became so exhausted that he was sorely tempted to simply succumb and surrender to the oblivion of the black waters.  But he forced himself to keep swimming until it became a mechanical motion, without feeling.  He was semi-conscious when he hit an obstruction.  He feebly tried to keep swimming but then realized he’d hit the embankment.  He tried to pull himself up out of the water, but lacked the strength.  It was line with gravel which provided no grip and he kept sliding back.

A sudden rage gripped him, and he made a supreme effort, scrambling wildly up the incline, not feeling the stones ripping into his forearms and knees.  When he reached the tracks, he collapsed and began to throw up again.  Again, he couldn’t pause to recover, he had to keep moving before his strength gave out entirely.  He somehow managed to stager to his feet and began to follow the tracks which would lead to a field behind his grandparents’ home, which was on a rise above the flood plain.

His next memory was the house rising before him.  He fumbled with the gate latch and stumbled to the front door.  Lights were on in the house, but he took no notice of that.  He pounded weakly on the door, which opened almost immediately and he looked into a familiar face.

“Grandpa..” was all he managed before falling forward into darkness.

John sat with Laurene in the grass enjoying the warm rays of a gorgeous sunset.  She gazed deeply into his eyes and he was speechless because he realized she loved him as much as he loved her.  She took his hand and stroked it gently.  Warmth suffused him and he had to tell her how he felt.

“Laurene…” he spoke aloud and the effort roused him to sudden wakefulness.  John’s grandmother was sitting beside him on the bed, holding his hand and caressing it.  Full memory returned with a bitter surge and his face creased with emotion.

His grandmother looked at him tenderly.  “You’re safe now, dear, just try to relax.”  Sudden tears stung his eyes.

“Grandma, I think they’re all dead,” John moaned.  “I couldn’t do a thing to help them.  I was holding Brenda, then she was gone.”  The loss hit him and his grandmother pulled him to her breast and he released his full sorrow in the refuge of her embrace.  After some time, he stopped crying but continued to cling to her.  She pushed him back onto the pillow and gently wiped the moisture from his cheeks.

“Don is here, too,” she announced, and John’s heart leapt.

“Anyone else?” he asked eagerly.

“No, at least not yet,” she replied solemnly, tempering his hopes.

“Can I go see him?”

“He’s still asleep, and you shouldn’t be getting up yourself.  You were nearly frozen when you came in last night.  You had me plenty worried there for a while and there’s no doctors available right now to check on people out here.”

“Why is that?”

Deeper sorrow reflected in her eyes.  “Canyon Lake Dam gave way last night.  More than 200 people were killed in Rapid City, and a lot more injured.  They don’t have any doctors to spare.”

John nodded silently.  “I’m better now, grandma.  I just need to see him, please—and I won’t wake him.”

“All right, but keep yourself wrapped in a blanket.  I don’t want you coming down with pneumonia.  And drink this, too.  It’ll make you feel better.”  She handed John a mug of hot chocolate, which he gulped down greedily.

It was only when he pushed back the covers that he realized what poor shape he was in.  His hands, arms, knees and chest were badly gouged—as were his feet.  He was weaker than he thought and it took a major effort to stand.  He put some soft slippers on his damaged feet and enfolded a thick blanket around himself.  He walked unsteadily down the hall and entered the room where his grandmother had indicated Don was staying.  His cousin was still fast asleep and John sat in a chair near the bed.

A multitude of emotions surged within him.  There was joy at Don’s survival, mourning over the probable fate of the rest of the family and a rising pity for the losses his cousin would have to accept.  John became more certain the others must have perished because none of them except Don had ever learned to swim a stroke.

John had been in the room for some interval when he noticed that Don was awake, lying on his back, and staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Dan, how are you feeling?”  John asked awkwardly.

Don slowly turned his lifeless eyes toward his cousin.  “They’re all dead, you know.”  There was a terrible certainty in Don’s voice that made John shiver.

“I don’t know what to say.  If I could have died to save them, I would have done it in a minute.  I’m sorry.”  The tears were flowing in John’s eyes again, but Don remained impassive.

Don shrugged.  “Don’t worry about me.  I don’t feel anything right now.  I just wish I had died with them.”

There was nothing John could say to comfort him.  He lowered his head and simply remained in the room with Don, each caught up in thoughts of blackness and death.

The bodies of Jason, Lillie and the twins were recovered several days later a couple of miles downstream.  Their funeral was one of many that week in Rapid City.  Father Moynihan, who said the Mass, was on the verge of exhaustion.  John couldn’t follow his words during the sermon, which was just as well, since they were probably being done according to a formula that could be used multiple times during this week of tragedy.

John’s mother and her surviving brothers and sisters had flown in for the Mass and burials.  John’s heart was torn anew when he saw the grief his mother was experiencing over the loss of her oldest brother, the mainstay of the children in the Colgan family.  He was struggling to make some sense of the bitter losses, but his gut instinct was that there was no meaning to it.  Whatever God’s role might be in the world, he clearly did not intervene to prevent nature from inflicting random misery on humans.  He was convinced that he and Don had survived not because of any divine intervention, but because of their own determination and will to live.

After the burials, the family returned to the grandparents’ home.  Everyone went inside with the exception of Don, who sat in a chair under a large cottonwood tree in the yard.  John looked out the window from time to time, but Don simply stared into the distance, oblivious to the world around him.  John finally decided to approach him.

As he neared, Don acknowledge his presence with a slight nod of his head.

“It’s going to be tough to leave all of this,” Don said, motioning over the expanse of the ranch with his hand.

“What are you planning on doing?”

“I guess I’ll continue with my plans to go to school this fall.  Dad’s will leaves everything to me, so I think I’ll just sell it all off and move into a place in town.”

“I’ve been wondering about that because grandma mentioned it.”  John hesitated, then continued.  “Do you really think that’s what you should do?  I mean leave so quick?”

“I don’t know what else to do.  The house is gone and I don’t want to impose on grandma and grandpa much longer.”

“I was thinking about another option.”

“And what is that?”

“Well, I just don’t know if it would be good just to move on so quickly.  You need time to adjust, to grieve and to say good-bye to a life you will never have again.  I was thinking maybe we should stay over at the bunkhouse at South Place, take care of all the things that need to be done on the ranch this summer, fix it up for sale, then you go ahead with your plans this fall and I’ll return to Phoenix.”

Don pondered the offer.  “You mean you don’t want to go home right now?”

“Sure, but not under these circumstances.”  John’s eyes began to water and he had to struggle to control his emotions.  “You are another brother to me, Don, and I’d like to here for you.  It will be good for both of us.”

For the first time, Don released his grief, bending over, holding his face in his hands and sobbing.  John knelt beside his cousin and embraced him, crying freely.  Through his blurred vision, he saw his mother standing at the kitchen window, watching them.  She, too, was weeping.

Later that night, John explained his decision to his mother.  She supported him completely and for the first time since the flood, John felt some sense of peace about the whole situation.  They would get through it.

In many aspects, the rest of the summer was much more relaxed than the previous two John had spent in South Dakota.  Uncle Jason had always driven them hard and it had been a constant strain to maintain the pace he demanded.  Jason kept a close watch on all their progress and with a glance could make John feel inadequate if he hadn’t accomplished as much as his uncle expected.

John had particularly dreaded facing him after an equipment failure because it always resulted in a lot of down time.  The broken parts had to be removed, returned to the shop for repair or replacement and installed again.  Even a minor breakdown could mean the loss of an entire day’s work and John could barely stand bringing such news to his uncle.  John recalled one occasion where he had broken into tears when a hydraulic pump gave out on his tractor during haying.

The summer with Don was quite different.  They worked hard, but they took time for themselves.  They quit work by six or seven every night and were thus able to eat dinner at a decent hour and relax before going to bed.  They also took weekend off and spent a lot of time with Don’s friends in Rapid City.  They in turn became frequent guests out at the ranch and John was pleased to see the way they rallied to support Don.  In particular, there was a pretty girl named Janice who took a particular interest in Don and by the end of the summer, John could see they were quickly becoming more than friends.  Don completed his application to the South Dakota School of Mines and Technology and finalized his plans to move into town.  A real estate agent he had hired had already received multiple offers on the ranch properties.  Don would have the means to take him through school—and well beyond.

John and his cousin grew closer than they’d ever been and spoke intimately about every imaginable topic.  After a few weeks, they were even able to talk about Don’s family without being overwhelmed by grief and though John saw times when the loss pressed down on Don like an enormous weight, his cousin was beginning to cope.

Laurene was never far from John’s thoughts.  He envisioned the scene of their next meeting time and again, knowing that the real life occurrence would never measure up to any of his hopeful fantasies.  He would have driven himself crazy if it hadn’t been for Don.  Here was someone in whom he could confide on his level and who knew and loved him deeply.  By nature, Don was an extreme optimist and by the end of the summer he had almost convinced John that he would end up marrying Laurene.  As mid-August approached, John felt himself yearning to return to Arizona.

The night before he left, the topic came up one last time, in a less serious way than usual.  The cousins were half-watching television, munching chips and sipping sodas.

“Could I ask you something?” John began.  It was a usual way of opening a conversation and Don gave him his full attention.

“Sure, fire away.”

“Are you falling in love with Janice?”

Huge grins spread across both their faces.

“What do you think?”

“I think she’s got you like this.”  John hooked his little finger in one of his nostrils and pulled himself around the room.  Don chuckled.

“Well, what about you, smart-ass?” he retorted.  “In your case it’s more like this.”  He whistled and patted the sofa beside him as though he were calling a faithful puppy.

“Hey, have you ever heard me deny it?  I’m a conquered man—Laurene just doesn’t seem to want to claim the spoils of her conquest.”

“There you go with that negative stuff again.”

“Ignorant farm boy.  It’s better to be realistic than to have hopes and get entirely crushed.”

“So you’re saying Janice is a false hope?”

John shook his head.  “No, but that’s an entirely different situation.  She actually likes you.”

“And Laurene likes you.  You told me so yourself.”

“It’s an entirely different kind of ‘like”—believe me.”

“Let me tell you, there’s not much difference between the two.  It’s just a matter of confidence and being open.  If you let her know exactly how you feel about her, she’ll start looking at you in the same way.”

John laughed.  “Right—I’m going to listen to a man of the world like you.  The only female you were with before Janice had two horns and the only tits you handled were between her hind legs.”

Don threw a cushion, catching John on the side of the face.

“So what are you—Mr Experience?  What I got from the milk cow is a lot more than you’ve ever had.”

Falling back to a habit from their younger days, they began to wrestle and ended up knocking over a lamp when John banged his head against an end table.

“Damn!” he exclaimed, rubbing the newly formed bruise.

“Had enough, huh?  That’ll teach you to mess with the big boys, football star!”

John jumped on him again and they wrestled  until they were exhausted, neither able to gain the advantage.  By unspoken agreement, they gave up the struggle and plopped back into the couch to catch their breaths.  The realization hit John that this episode of roughhousing was the last they would likely ever share.  Don was moving into an entirely new phase of life, while John would be returning to a senior year in Arizona that hadn’t been planned.

CHAPTER 5

Our worst fears are often actually true, which makes life a fearsome reality.

“I’m worried about him.  He just spends so much time alone.”

Lars Eriksson shook his head.  “there’s nothing really wrong with that.  It’s clear that kids his own age bore him.  And it’s not like he’s socially inept.  His teachers are unanimous in their praise of his leadership qualities and the other children almost idolize him.  I think our best move is to give him the latitude he wants.  He’s never given us a reason to doubt our trust in him.”

“Maybe you’re right, But I would…”  Barbara cut her sentence short as the subject of their conversation strode into the kitchen and headed for the refrigerator.  He glanced at his parents and a slight smirk emerged.

“Talking about me again, huh?  Let me guess—it’s got to be the ‘he’s spending too much time alone’ thing again, right?”  Actually, as he often did, Thor had been eavesdropping on his parents before his entrance.

Barbara giggled.  “You can practically read our minds, can’t you?”

Thor shrugged as he opened the refrigerator door, grabbed a carton of milk and drank directly from the container, knowing full well it was one of his mother’s pet peeves.

“I know, I know,” He said in response to her frown, “It’s unsanitary.  But just look at it as one less glass to be washed.”

“I’d much rather wash the glass,” his mother replied.

Thor smiled as he placed the milk back in the refrigerator and pecked his mother on the cheek as he passed by her.

“What are you up to this weekend?” she asked.

“Not much, just getting some reading done and my usual exercise.”

Thor went to his room and plopped into his bed.  Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander in various directions.  Wild images shot through his consciousness, scenes of violence and death far more vivid than the pale imitations he had grown up with on television.  Beyond being a mere observer, he imagines himself as the cause of these fantasies of destruction and adrenaline began to course through his body.  In just a few minutes, he was unable to keep still, rose from his bed and sought out his parents, who had retired to the family room.

“I’m going to go down to the arcade for a while,”  he announced casually.  “I won’t be too late.”

“Have fun, “ Lars said.  “Call us if you’re going to be out later than midnight.”

“No problem, dad.”

His parents would have been horrified if they had known Thor’s actual destination that night.  He hid his bike behind a convenience store on Scottsdale Road and called a cab.  A half-hour later, he arrived at one of the seediest areas in the metro area.  Van Buren Street, once part of Route 66 was the former main thoroughfare through the city.  Since being bypassed by major freeways, it had severely declined.

Hooker plied their trade between Central Avenue and 44^th streets, drug dealers worked quite openly, and decaying hotels that had once filled with tourists tourists now catered to the prostitutes and their clients.  Bars were plentiful along the same stretch and it was outside one of these that Thor had his cabbie stop.  He was on the hunt.

“Aren’t’ you a bit young to be hanging out around here?” the driver asked, with real concern.

“Don’t worry about it, fat-ass,” Thor shot back, tossing him a 50 as he exited.

“Fuckin’ kid,” the driver muttered as he pocketed the cash.

Thor wandered the street a bit, bantering with some of the prostitutes that sought his attention, but it wasn’t sex he was after.  He finally took up a position outside a bar where a fleet of Harley Davidsons was parked and studied the comings and goings of the patrons.  When a particularly nasty looking knot of individuals staggered out into the late evening, he made his move.  Singling out the largest and most ominous looking individual in the group, Thor intercepted him as he walked toward the parking lot and purposefully bumped him in passing, nearly knocking him down.

The biker grunted, “Goddam, watch where you’re going, boy!”

“Fuck you, man,” Thor shot back.  “You’re the one who ran into me, you drunk bastard.”

The bearded hulk sized Thor up and burst into a throaty laugh.  “Jesus, look at this guy.  Isn’t it past your bedtime?  Now get home before we decide to fuck you up just for the fun of it.”

Thor allowed a thin smile to touch his lips, then motioned with both hands for the biker to advance.

“Shit, Kirk,” one of the other bikers chimed in, “The dumb little bastard wants to fight.”  This drew chortles from all four of the bikers as well as from a few bystanders who were gathering to watch the confrontation. 

Kirk loosened his shoulders and advanced on Thor with a sneer.  “All right, I guess I’ll have to slap some sense into the little prick.  Come on, sonny, it’s time for a lesson.”

The group now growing rapidly around them saw a huge mismatch.  Kirk was several inches over six feet, sported a heavily muscled body that tipped the scales at over 250 pounds, and he emanated power and menace.  At fourteen, Thor was a couple of inches under six feet and scarcely topped 160 pounds.  With his blonde hair and youthful face, he looked like a choirboy.

Yet for ten years, Thor had thrown himself into the martial arts as a way of channeling the aggression and frustration his grandfather’s abuse had created.  His parents had long believed it was his way of achieving discipline and physical fitness, but those were minor considerations in Thor’s mind.  He had studied under the finest instructors with one overriding goal:  To be able to disable another person as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Thor bolted at Kirk who foolishly raised his arms to grab at Thor.  The boy deftly knocked his arms apart and drove his thumbs into the biker’s eyes, eliciting a scream of pain and causing Kirk to hunch over in agony.  John then delivered a smashing blow to his temple with his elbow and the biker was senseless before he hit the ground.

Thor looked at the others, who hadn’t even had time to react to his lightning attack.

“Is that all you guys got?  What a bunch of pussies.”  Thor contemptuously spat on the sprawled figure below him and calmly waited for the predictable reactions of Kirk’s friends.  Bellowing threats and curses, they moved on Thor together.

The three remaining bikers fared no better than Kirk had.  Even sober, they would have been no match for the lightning reactions and superb training Thor had at his disposal.  In less than a minute, another biker was unconscious, a second sat on the ground screaming and cradling a broken arm, while the third ran off, stanching the flow of blood from a mangled nose.  Thor had received only a glancing blow off one shoulder and was not even breathing hard.

He turned to the little crowd that had encircled them and shrugged his shoulders.  “Show’s over,” he announced.  He casually turned away, went back to the street and watched for a cab to flag down.  One of the hookers followed him, slid her arm around his waist and pressed against him.

“How about some company tonight, tiger?”

Thor appraised the woman, a striking black woman wearing a short miniskirt and tank top that revealed most of her charms.

“Sorry, I don’t have any money with me,” he lied.

“That’s OK, sugar.  This one can be on me.  I like your style,” she replied, staring earnestly in his eyes.

Thor was aroused, but now suspicious.  “Yeah, well how do I know you don’t have some kind of disease?  Besides, I’m only fourteen years old, wouldn’t that make it illegal?”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.  And if you’re worried about catching something, we can put a rubber on your little dicky.”

Thor actually considered the offer momentarily.

“What’s the matter, you’re not scared, are you?  Don’t tell me you’re a cherry-boy.”  Her tone was slightly mocking, and a flood of anger coursed through the boy.

“Maybe I am and I don’t give a damn what you think.  When I have sex, it will be on my terms, so go fuck yourself,” he finished, pushing her away.

“You just missed out on the best pussy you’ll ever have, you little faggot!”

Thor flipped her off as he flagged down a passing cab.

Try as he might, he would not be able to avoid Laurene for long.  Not that he really wanted to, but he was embarrassed to face her after the note he had left in her car at the beginning of the summer.  He had no idea if she knew what had happened that summer and why he was back in the Valley.

John took care of some mundane taskes, signing up for his classes as well as picking up books and getting his locker combination.  A few people greeted him as he made his way to his locker, including a couple of teammates.  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary as he had not shared his plans to stay in South Dakota with anyone but Laurene, Willie, and his family.  He had fumbled with the combination on his locker several times when he became aware of someone standing behind him.  When he turned to find Laurene, a near panic engulfed him.  She was absolutely ravishing and he had no idea what to say.  She appeared a bit bemused by his discomfort.

“Now this is a surprise.  What happened, couldn’t your uncle put up with you for more than a summer?”

Clearly, she had not heard any news of the tragedy and though she was making an attempt at light humor, it still pierced John like a lance.

“Well, no—I actually made the decision to come back myself.”  He didn’t really want to start talking about the tragedy, it would open up feelings that he didn’t feel he could control.  Yet Laurene could see there was more to his story and she pressed him.

“Your letter seemed so definite.  To be honest, it hit me hard, and it’s taken me most of the summer to adjust.  Now that you’re back, I almost feel like it was something you did to upset me.”

John shook his head.  “It really was my plan at the time.  Then there were circumstances that changed everything.”

“Which were?”

John hesitated, struggling to formulate a response, then took a deep breath and looked at her directly, deciding to simply be open.  “My uncle, aunt and two youngest cousins died in a flood this summer.  My older cousin Don and I were the only ones in the household to survive.  I stayed with him the rest of the summer to get the ranch ready for sale.  He’s moving into Rapid City and I decided to return home.”

In spite of making every effort to prevent it, his eyes glistened with tears and he tried to blink them away, without success.  Laurene was stunned, momentarily unable to respond.

“I, I better go,” John said, turning back to close his locker.

He felt Laurene’s hand on his arm, and she gently turned him back her direction.  “I had no idea John, I’m so sorry.”

He nodded, adding nothing more.

Laurene reached up and gently wiped a tear away from his cheek.  “If you need to talk, anytime, let me know.  I had a lot of time to think about you this summer and now that you’re back, I want us to be friends again.  That is, if you want to.”

“Sure, of course I would like that.”

John was surprised at the ease with which he adjusted to life at home again.  The gloom which had hung over him the entire summer dissipated, although he still found himself dwelling on the tragic deaths of his relatives late at night before he slept, but he was now at peace with it.  He called Don frequently, who was now living in town and starting classes.

This year, John threw himself into football with a vengeance, it seemed a perfect outlet.  He was glad he had told his coach nothing of his plans to stay in South Dakota, there would be no resentments from that.  As he had the previous summers, John had missed the first two-weeks of pre-season conditioning and drills, and the first week back was hell physically, but he pushed himself hard.

The Mustangs were once again heavily favored to win their fourth straight championship under John’s leadership, and he was anxious to meet the expectations.  John had broken every state passing record as a junior, and the top drawer of his bedroom dresser was stuffed with letters from every major college in the country.  Most of them were unopened.  As long as he could remember, he had wanted to be an Arizona State Sun Devil.

A couple of years earlier, the Sun Devils had played in the Rose Bowl for the National Championship and were defeated in the last minute by Ohio State.  It was his personal goal to rectify that loss when he joined the Sun Devils.

John stepped from the locker room and snapped his chin strap in place, jogging toward the practice field.  Today was reserved for a full-scale scrimmage and John was anxious to perform at peak level.  After a half-hour of warm-ups, coach Howard assembled the team in the middle of the field.

“Listen up.  We’ve got our first game in less than a week and we’re damn well going to be ready.  Everybody is gunning for us this year—and they will be every game, every quarter, every play.  We’re going to run this scrimmage full out and I want to hear some goddam hitting out there.  One exception—if you get to McDonough on a rush or a blitz, ease up on the hit.”

“Aw, coach,” John objected immediately, “I don’t want…”

“Forget it, McDonough.  With you, we’re a great team.  If you go down, we’re in a crapshoot with everyone else.  You’ll get all the hits you want come Friday.  Do you understand?”

“Yessir.”

“Good.  Let’s do it.  First-team offense takes the ball on the 20.  Let’s see you stop them, defense.  Get crazy out there!” he yelled, eliciting a roar of enthusiasm from his players.

The assistant coaches took positions to act as referees and line judges, while the substitute players yelled encouragement from the sidelines.

“Huddle up,” John ordered and his teammates fell into place about him with smooth precision.  The offense was returning nine of eleven starters from the previous year and John felt a surge of confidence as he gazed at the familiar faces.

“Did you guys know there’s a freshman starting at left cornerback?” Brent Woods, the center volunteered as they bent over.  The news prompted a chorus of raucous laughter.

“So let’s show him what varsity football is all about,” suggested another lineman, Martin Walker.  John smiled.

“You got it,” John replied.  “Y split, 78 GO, on 2, on 2.  Show him your backside, Willie.”  As he had been for three previous years, Willie was the fastest player on the team and the play called for him to run a streak pattern down the sideline after faking a slant.

“Ready, break!”  The boys clapped hands in unison and hustled to the line of scrimmage.  John stepped up behind Brent and surveyed the defensive alignment.  He could scarcely keep from breaking out in laughter.  The freshman defensive back was lined up on Willie in single coverage, and he was playing him tight.  John flexed his legs and positioned his hands to receive the snap.

“Set!” he yelled and his lineman and backs instantly took their down stances.  The flanker back started in motion from right to left.  “Hut, hut.”  Brent crisply snapped the ball into John’s hands, who took a deep drop looking to his left.  Pads thudded and players grunted and growled, some straining to reach John, others striving to protect his position.  In the meantime, Willie had exploded off the line, and his defender backpedaled frantically, then bit on his fake into the middle.  Willie blew past him down the sideline and a moment later, John looked back his direction and smoothly lofted a beautiful spiral.

As Willie flashed by him, Thor knew he was in trouble.  He spun and sprinted after the receiver and was in perfect position to see the ball float into Willie’s hands at the fifty yardline.  A roar of approval rose from the sidelines and shame and anger nearly choked Thor.  He spurred himself to greater speed and to everyone’s amazement, began to close the gap on his quarry.

Willie glanced over his shoulder and tried to increase his speed, but Thor was relentless.  As Willie crossed the ten-yard line, Thor dove, clipped his heels and sent him down in a heap at the five.  Thor jumped to his feet in a white-hot rage and towered over downed receiver in a threatening posture.

“Wow, nice tacke, man!” Willie said, holding out his hand for assistance to his feet.

Thor slapped it away fiercely.  “Fuck you, nigger!” he hissed.  Willie gawked at Thor in shock as other team members rushed up to congratulate him on the catch.

“Not a smart play, Eriksson,” Coach Howard bellowed from across the field.  “What the hell are you doing playing press coverage when you’re one on one against the best receiver in the state?”

The offense huddled again while Thor’s continued to fume.  He now hated John McDonough and realized he had felt that way even before this deliberate humiliation.  Although Thor was popular with his classmates, John McDonough was the school idol.  The worst thing about him was that he was a genuinely nice person, which made Thor hate him all the more.

On the first play following the pass completion, John pitched the ball to his halfback, Peter Carter on a sweep to Thor’s side of the field.  Thor slipped a blocker, flashed upfield and plowed into Pete’s legs, stopping him for a three-yard loss.

Pete returned to the huddle limping.  “He’s fired up, now,” he announced ruefully.

“Good,” John announced, “let’s use it against him.  X sweep option left, on one.”

The play was designed to appear just like the previous one except Pete would pull up and pass to the tight end running a corner pattern in the end zone.  To John’s chagrin, Thor read the play instantly, dropped into coverage on the tight end and Pete had to eat the ball on another loss.

“Come on, ladies,” Howard bellowed.  “If you can’t get in with first and goal from the five, I might as well retire.”

“The new kid’s playing it tough,” Pete reported in the huddle.

“OK, let’s go the other direction,” John said.  He called for a hook pattern on the oppositie side of the field in which the receiver would spin back to the quarterback just after crossing the goal line.

Thor had worked himself into a frenzy.  As John came up behind center, Thor edged away from his coverage on Willie and started his momentum toward the backfield.  When the ball was snapped, he blitzed across the line.  John set himself, looking for his receiver in the opposite direction.  A thrill of excitement coursed through Thor as he bore down on the oblivious quarterback.  He lowered his helmet, smashing into John just as he was in his thowing motion, wrapped his arms around him, lifted him, then drove him into the ground with a sickening thud.  He raised his head to enjoy the look of shock and pain on John’s face.

“I’ll kill you, motherfucker!” Thor spat.

More than the hit he had taken, John was shocked by the savage hatred that blazed in Thor’s eyes.  An instant later, a rough hand grasped Thor by the facemask and jerked him to his feet.

“What the hell are you doing, Eriksson?” coach Howard screamed, shaking Thor violently.  “Are you out of your goddam mind, or are you just stupid?  I didn’t call for a blitz and you sure as hell heard what I said about hitting McDonough.  Now get your sorry ass over to the bench.”  He pushed Thor away and anxiously bent over John to assess the damage.

Thor headed for the bench, bypassed it, and ambled casually toward the locker room.

“Eriksson, get your ass back here!” one of the assistant coaches yelled.   Thor raised a hand and made an obscene gesture without bothering to look back.

Howard was beside himself.  “You’re off  the team, asshole, turn in your gear before you leave my locker room.”  Thor  raised his hands above his head and clapped in mock approval.

John McDonough was puzzled and upset.  The encounter with Thor had left him physically and emotionally shaken, and he went through the rest of the scrimmage in a near daze.  He kept picturing Thor’s blazing eyes and tried to analyze the shocking emotion behind them.  John had never had a real enemy in his life with the exception of Stan, but he felt certain he had one now—for reasons he couldn’t comprehend.  By the time he hit the showers, he was determined to do something about it.

At lunch the following day, while standing in line with Willie at the cafeteria, he carefully searched groups of students at the tables.  He smiled as he realized that after three years, he could map out the cliques that had staked their territories.  It didn’t take long to spot Thor.  He was at a freshman table surrounded by an entourage of classmates.  He was laughing and joking with several cute girls and he was obviously the center of attention.  John frowned in an attempt to picture Thor’s boyish face as it had appeared clouded by fury.  Willie followed his friend’s gaze.

“That kid is bad news, man.  I told you last night he called me a nigger.  And it looked like he was trying to kill you.”

John nodded, then said, “Hold my place, I’ll be right back.”

Taking a deep breath, he strode resolutely toward the golden-haired freshman.  He was only about halfway across the cafeteria when Thor saw him coming, stopped speaking in mid-sentence, and stared at John with ice in his dark blue eyes.  John fought a sudden urge to bypass the table as if he were headed somewhere else, but forced himself to stop.  Thor’s lips curled in a contemptuous sneer and John felt a sudden nervousness knot his stomach.

“Uh, Thor, could I, uh, could I talk with you for a minute?” he began, flushing at his awkward approach and inwardly cursing himself for being so needlessly intimidated, by a freshman, of all people.

A cruel smile twisted Thor’s lips and John suddenly felt emotionally naked beneath his penetrating gaze.  “What’s the matter with you, McDonough?  I thought you were the big man on campus.  Why is it I get the feeling you’re scared shitless?”

Again, John was completely thrown off-guard by the bitter hatred revealed in Thor’s words and expression.  With an effort of will, he regained mastery of his emotions and composure.

“Thor, I don’t know what you’ve got against me, or Willie for that matter, but I just came over to apologize if I embarrassed you yesterday.  It was nothing personal, we always pick on freshmen like that—it’s kind of an initiation.  Anyway, you obviously have a lot of talent and if you’d like to get back on the team, I’d be glad to talk to Coach Howard on your behalf.”

“Don’t do me any favors, McDonough---And don’t forget what I told you on the field.”

John shrugged.  “Sorry you feel that way, Thor,” he said, returning Thor’s hostile stare with a calm, steady gaze.  He turned his back on the freshman and walked away.

“Jesus, Thor.  What was that all about?” one of his friends asked.  “John McDonough is a good guy.”

“He’s an asshole,” Thor snapped back.  Then, recognizing the reactions of all the others around him, he backed away.  His face softened and he smiled.  “Hey, look, I’m sorry, I’m sure he’s a great guy and I’ll apologize to him later.  I was just upset because I screwed up so badly yesterday, it was my own fault.  His friends embraced his show regret and one of the girls took him by the hand.  They are such sheep, he thought to himself.

By the time he graduated the following spring, John McDonough had forgotten Thor Eriksson even existed.

Laurene lived up to her expressed desire for a renewed friendship.  They had two classes together, Senior English and History and she sat by John in both classes.  She was still dating Stan, but they rarely mentioned him.  At least he had graduated and wasn’t in the school on a day-to-day basis.  However, he was there every day to pick Laurene up after cheerleading practice.

As always, their contact was a source of both hope and despair for John.  He was more deeply in love with her than ever, yet she seemed more committed to Stan than before.  Other people noted his obvious devotion to Laurene and it slowly became a topic of discussion in the school, with most people, especially the girls, not understanding why Laurene didn’t reciprocate his feelings.

Many times as they talked, John was certain that she felt something more for him than mere friendship, but she kept it obscured.  He longed to bring it forth, but didn’t know how, especially since his last attempt had been rebuffed so firmly.  He didn’t want to risk losing her friendship again so he didn’t push the issue.

At the end of November, John had led his team to the championship game once again.  It was to be played in Sun Devil Stadium, the very place John would be performing the following year.  Since the one loss his freshman year, The Scottsdale High Mustangs had gone undefeated and had attracted national attention for their winning streak.  Each game seemed to bring a little more pressure, but John thrived on it.

The Knights of St. Mary’s were the opponents that night.  John found he was unable to achieve is usual state of pre-game intensity against a Catholic school he had seriously considered attending, and for which some of his grade-school friends were now playing.  Nevertheless, he took the field with the intention of playing the best game of his life.

The Mustangs won the coin toss and elected to receive.  As he watched the return team from the sidelines, the crowd began to roar in anticipation.  St. Mary’s had also gone undefeated and they had a huge following of fans.  The college stadium was almost full, an amazing turnout for a high school game and John could feel the emotion surging through the stands.  He glanced toward the stands behind him, turned his attention to the cheerleaders and spotted Laurene.  He did so only momentarily, not wishing to make it obvious.

Willie took the kickoff at the ten yard line and returned it to the thirty.  Adrenaline puming, John jogged out to the huddle.  His teammates bent around him, completely attentive.

“This is it,” John said.  “The last game we’ll ever play together as a team.  In a couple of hours, this game will be nothing but a memory.  Let’s make sure it’s a good one.”  He called the first play, a power sweep to the left side of the field, and with the first snap of the ball, all nervousness faded.

The Mustangs dominated the Knights.  Apart from a touchdown on their first possession, St. Mary’s was unable to generate any offense.  John threw for four touchdown passes—three of them to Willie and the final score read 42-7.  When the final whistle blew, the celebration began.  Fans surged around John to congratulate him.  He kept watching for Laurene, but she never came up, though all the other cheerleaders did.  He finally caught a glimpse of her.  She was walking toward the end zone with her arm around Stan’s waist and his was draped over her shoulder, pulling her close.

A flash of anger overwhelmed John and he briskly made his way back to the locker room, greeting people cordially but briefly.  His celebration had ended quickly.  Reaching his locker, he stripped off his uniform, went into the showers and turned it on as hot as he could bear.  He accepted the wild celebration going on around him, but responded only when directly approached by a teammate.  He stayed in the shower long after his teammates were out.  There was a terrible sense of urgency building within him about Laurene, so strong that he was feeling physically ill.  He wondered if she and Stan were celebrating that night by having sex and the thought of it left him in near despair.

“Hey, man, aren’t you coming?  They reserved an entire restaurant for us, you know.  It’s going to be a wild time!”

John turned to find that the voice, distorted by the echoes in the locker room, belonged to Willie.

“I don’t know, I thought I’d call it a night.  I’m beat.”

“Don’t give me that.  I know what it is.  Besides, she will probably be there, too.  After all, she’s the head cheerleader.”

“Great, that will make me feel a whole lot better, watching her dance with that asshole all night.”

Willie grimaced.  “Come on, John.  I won’t feel much like celebrating without you there.  Like you said in the huddle, times like tonight will only be memories come tomorrow morning, so let’s enjoy the moment.”

It was worse than he could have anticipated; Laurene and Stan were both there.  Although John and Laurene were on friendly terms at school, he never saw her glance his way all night, though she had to have known he was there.  He at least expected some sort of perfunctory congratulations, but it never came.  In addition, Stan was all over her, never letting up for a moment, whether it was holding her close on the dance floor or fawning over her while they sat at their table with a group of his friends and most of the other cheerleaders and their dates.

Stan seemed to have total control over Laurene and John found himself becoming angry with her for allowing it to happen.  He talked some more with Willie about it, but venting his feelings only made him more miserable.  He filled the rest of the night engaging in idle chatter with people congratulating him about the game, then excused himself as early as possible, unable to watch Stan and Laurene enjoying themselves any longer.

When he got home, he made an effort to appear cheerful for his family’s sake and they were so excited over his performance in the championship game they didn’t notice his underlying mood.  As soon as he could, he said goodnight and turned into bed.  As often happened when he thought about Laurene, sleep proved to be elusive.  After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, he was beginning to nod off when he heard a tapping on his window.  It took only a swift glance to recognize Laurene silhouetted outline against the moonlit sky and a surge of sheer exhilaration coursed through him.  Pulling a bathrobe around himself, he went across the room and raised the window.

“Hi, how are you?” he asked simply.

Laurene smiled sheepishly and shrugged.  “Not so good.  I feel horrible about the way I ignored you tonight.  It’s just that Stan has gotten worse about us interacting and I didn’t want to make trouble.  I’m sorry if I hurt you, I’m sure I did.”

John’s earlier anger had melted away, replaced by a deep concern for Laurene.  “I understand, though I do have to admit it bothered me.”  She nodded and he paused, before continuing, “Laurene, I just want you to know that if things don’t work out with Stan, I’ll always be here.  Let’s make a good effort to remain friends, at least at school.”

She smiled at that.  “It’s a deal.  I’ll see you in class on Monday.”

“I’ll be there.”

That short conversation opened a wider avenue between them.  There were so many times when John felt that Laurene was feeling just as strongly about him as he did about her.   However, nothing overt was said or done and times apart from her were agonizing for him.

In one short week, everything between them changed forever.  The English class went to the library for research projects and John, after selecting a few titles, sat down at a table with Laurene and Rachel Brown, another of the varsity cheerleaders.  Rachel greeted them with a smile, then left to search for some more reference materials.  Laurene greeted him in a subdued fashion and John knew something was seriously amiss.  They sat in awkward silence for several minutes before Laurene spoke.

“I think I should probably move my seat.”

John was puzzled.  “What do you mean—here or in class?”

“Both.  People are talking about us and a lot of things have been getting back to Stan.  It would be a lot easier for me if we limited any contact we have.”

John suddenly felt sick and sorrowful, emotions all too familiar when it came to his dealing with Laurene.  He allowed nothing to register in his expression, or so he hoped.  There was another awkward pause before he broke in again.

“I have to admit, I didn’t see that coming, but I understand.  You don’t have to move, I will.”

Without giving Laurene time to respond, he scooped up his books.  He retreated between aisles of books into the most isolated part of the library.  He pulled down a book at random, opened it, and stared blankly at the pages.  He remained nearly motionless for the next half hour until the bell ending class sounded.  He had already decided to skip lunch and remain there.

He was roused to awareness of his surroundings by a gentle touch on his arm.  He turned to find that Laurene had tracked him down and she stared at him sorrowfully as he realized his cheeks were awash with tears.  She pressed her fingertips to her mouth in concern.

“John, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know what I saw saying.  To be honest with you, I feel like I shouldn’t even be with Stan anymore.  There’s someone else I care for too much.”

John struggled to absorb this revelation.  All the hopes he had held for so long and which had been crushed so often now leapt to life again.

“I know I probably shouldn’t even say this, and it sounds crazy, but it’s true.  Ever since we first met, I’ve never been able to imagine a future without you in it.”  The words rushed forth almost against his will and he feared the reaction they might evoke.

Laurene responded by reaching out and taking one of his hands in hers.  “I felt that way the first time I saw you throwing a football around with your brothers on the front lawn.  But I’m just really confused right now.  I have a lot to work out, especially with Stan, so I hope you can give me the time and space to do it.”

John nodded.  “I think you already know how patient I can be.  And remember, when you need someone to talk to, I’m a pretty good listener.”

“I know you are.  I have to get going now, but we will have more time to talk, I promise.”

As she walked away, John could scarcely contain his elation.  He was now certain his love for Laurene would not be in vain.  He was more determined than ever to do everything in his power to ensure they would end up together.  It was their destiny.

With that breakthrough, Laurene displayed a renewed willingness to interact with him at school.  They even started having lunch together on a daily basis—an activity which did not go unnoticed.  Outside of school, their contact was still limited by Stan’s domination of Laurene’s time.  Nevertheless, they began to speak often late at night—Laurene using her sister’s cell phone to prevent snooping from Stan, who often grabbed her phone to check on her calls.

Laurene began to open up in ways John had never imagined and he did likewise.  He found it incredibly difficult not to openly proclaim his love for her, but he knew she didn’t need that additional pressure right now.  The only topic that was off-bounds was Laurene’s relationship with Stan.  John tried to approach it several times in an oblique manner, but she quickly maneuvered the conversation in other directions.

The night Christmas vacation began, Laurene called John late in the evening, as had become their routine.

“Hello, how are you doing?” She asked simply after he answered.

“Good.  It’ll be nice to have a couple of weeks off from school.”

She hesitated and John could tell she wanted to discuss something more serious.

“I guess I could enjoy it, too, if I didn’t feel like I was under so much pressure.”

This was new.  She was obviously referring to Stan and he decided to do everything he could to encourage her to talk about the situation.

“I think I know what you’re talking about.  It’s not easy being torn in several directions.”

“John, he really does have an irrational hatred of you.  It scares me and then it’s almost as if he directs it at me sometimes.”

John immediately felt a deep anxiety.  “You’re not talking about physical violence, I hope.”

“No, at least not yet.  But he has heard all the talk about us becoming closer and it’s made him furious.  I’ve had to lie to him just to keep him reasonable.”

John shook his head.  “I know I can’t be very objective about this whole thing, but it seems obvious to me that shouldn’t be a part of a relationship.  You can’t make someone keep loving you by intimidating them.”

“You’re right, of course, but I’m having a hard time handling this.  After all, we’ve been together for over three years now.  That sort of involvement doesn’t end in a day.”

John wondered if she were referring indirectly to her sexual involvement with Stan, but decided not to pursue that avenue.  If she wanted to talk about it, she would have to bring it up more candidly than that.  The thought of it sent a wave of jealousy through him, as well as a surge of resentment against Stan for taking advantage of Laurene.

“John?” her voice interrupted his train of thought.

“Oh, sorry, I was just thinking about what you said.  I guess there are no easy answers.”

“No, there aren’t.  But please don’t turn against me, even if I deserve it.  I mean, sometimes I think if you really knew me, you wouldn’t like me very much.”

Now John was nearly certain she was expressing regret over her sexual involvement with Stan, but it still wasn’t clear enough to talk about.

“It doesn’t matter, Laurene.  There’s nothing you could tell me or I could find out about you that would change the way I feel about you. Nothing.”

“Maybe someday we’ll have the chance to put that to the test..  Anyway, I just wanted to wish you a good night.”

“You too.  Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

The next night, John was up late watching Saturday Night Live in his room when he heard the doorbell ring.  He knew his mother was still up and decided to let her answer it.  That was soon followed by a knock on his door.

“John, can I come in?” It was his mother’s voice.

“Of course, Mom, come in.”

A deep furrow of concern on his mother’s brow immediately caught his notice.

“Laurene’s at the door.  She says it’s very important that she speak with you.  She’s crying.”

John bolted upright and rushed down the hall, across the living room and into the foyer where Lauren was waiting.  She was sobbing and when she saw him, rushed into his arms.  He held her close as she wept, almost hysterically. 

She finally pulled back a bit, looking at him with puffy, bloodshot eyes.

“Can we talk privately?” she began.  “I need help and there’s no one else I can turn to.”

“Of course, let’s go down to the rec room in the basement.”

John led her downstairs and into a room which held a ping pong table, a couch, bookcases, and a big screen TV.  They sat down and John held both of Laurene’s hands in his and waited for her to speak.  She drew a deep breath and gathered herself, dropping her gaze as she began to speak.

“Stan and I have been having sex together since the summer before my junior year.”

“I know, I recognized that when it started happening.”

She looked up in surprise.  “How could that be, I’ve never breathed a hint of it to anyone, even my closest friends.”

John shook his head.  “You didn’t have to.  After it happened, I knew the moment I saw you looking at me from down the hallway at school.  It hurt to realize that, but mostly I just felt badly for you, because I knew you weren’t ready for such intimacy.”

“Why was I so stupid?  I never wanted to start and I told him time after time, but it ended up happening anyway.”

“It’s not your fault.  Guys just keep pushing and they learn how to manipulate feelings to get what they want.  I’m sure you heard all the lines from Stan that your mother warned you about.”

“And then some—and I eventually gave in.  Then, after it happened once, it was like I gave up resisting—until last night.  With the way things have been going between us, I knew it had to stop.  I didn’t tell Stan in that manner but I did tell him I wasn’t going to have sex with him anymore, not unless we were married.”

“So how did he react?”

“He went berserk.  He knew you were the reason and he gave me hell for it.  So then I told him I wanted to break things off completely and I left.  So he called me earlier today, acting sweet as can be and he even apologized.  He said he could handle it if I wanted to end things between us, but he wanted one more date to give me things back that he said he wouldn’t be able to keep.  So I agreed.  Before I knew it, we ended up at his cousin’s condo, which is where we always went when he wanted to have sex.  He claimed it would be just to talk.”  She started tearing up again and John squeezed her hands more tightly in his.

“Are you saying he ended up raping you?”  A deep, cold anger was building in John.

“Yes.  But how could I ever claim that after all the times I’d slept with him?  He hurt me, John, he hurt me badly, and when he was done, I was lying there in a daze when he ripped all the covers away, flipped on some bright lights and held me.”  Her eyes were glistening again.  “Someone was in the doorway, taking pictures of me,” she wailed.

“That Bastard,” John whispered, “That goddam bastard.”

Again he pulled Laurene into the refuge of his arms as she released a stream of bitter emotion.

“Do you have any idea who the person taking the pictures was?”

Laurene shook her head.  “No, I mean there was something familiar about him and I heard him laugh, but I just couldn’t see, plus I was practically in shock.”

A sudden suspicion hit John.  “This may sound crazy, but could it have been Coach Summers?”

Laurene inhaled sharply at the mention of his name.  “Yes, yes!  That was the laugh, I knew I had heard it before.  How in the world would have guessed that?”

“Just a hunch and it’s not the first time he and Stan have collaborated to do some dirty shit.  So tell me, what kind of threat did Stan make?  That’s the only reason he would have done something so insane.”

       “He said he was never going to let me go and that if I didn’t give up seeing you, he was going to e-mail the pictures to my parents and everyone at school.”

       John could see she was terrified at the prospect and John’s thoughts ran chaotically as he imagined Laurene having to face her parents if the pictures were revealed.

       “There’s only one thing to do.”

       “What’s that?”

       “I’ll have to get the camera as well as any pictures they may have uploaded to their computers.”

       “How can you possibly do that?”

       “It looks like I’m going to have to break into two residences.  I need you to tell me everything you know about Stan’s house.”

       Laurene was terrified.  “John, please, don’t do anything foolish.”

       “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful, but something has to be done quickly.  Now you need to go home and get some sleep.  I need time to think and plan this out.”

       After John led Laurene home, he went for a long walk.  He already had a preliminary plan in mind, but it would require immediate action, he couldn’t afford to give Stan and Coach Summers time to store the pictures in more locations and perhaps distribute them to others privately before they released them as Stan had threatened.

       Early the next morning, he called Laurene on her own cell, which he had rarely done before.

       “There’s one thing we need to set up right now,” he told her.

       “What’s that?”

       “Chances are that Stan is going to call you to put more pressure on you.  I know you don’t want anything to come out publicly, but if it does, we need to record any calls he makes to you.  My brothers were on a spy kick a while back, they have a little device to plug into your cell that will record calls.  Whatever you do, don’t let him suspect that we know Coach Summers was involved.”

“Please, I couldn’t take it if all this became public.”

“You know I will do everything to keep that from happening.  I’ll bring the recorder over in a few minutes"