The shots rang from downstairs as she lay there, her eyes closing, slowly at first, then with more power. It was impossible to lift her eyelids. She could remember that she was here, where she was and her heart beat faster. It was him. She knew his gate anywhere. Her heart sped up again and she forced her eyes closed. Downstairs, a man entered holding a 1929 Derringer in his left hand, feeling along the wall for the staircase in the dark he eventually found it and ascended the stairs. He would find him. He had to. It was madness to be trapped in one’s own triangle of deceit, but here he was, present and accounted for. On the second floor, behind a heavy velvet drapery stood the magician. He was resorting now to tricks of deceit rather than wonder but it all got him to the same place in the end, so no matter. He watched as the woman on the sofa drew her last breath and he waiting, holding his own breath and waiting for the footsteps on the old wooden staircase to come closer, close enough to enter the almost completely dark room. The lantern was lit beside her, casting an angelic pallor on her porcelain face. You would think she was sleeping, if you were far enough away. Although something about the way her hand fell toward the cold wooden floor let you know that she was no longer for this world. The brass doorknob turned in silence. The big wooden door opened slowly at first, then with greater impunity. The interloper was in the room. He at once saw her there and removed his hat, sighing in relief. Sticking his gardeners cap into his back pocket, he strode toward her, falling to his knees and smiling, but his kiss did not stir her. She remained as quiet and still as Snow White, long hair cascading over her and the sofa arm, almost to the floor. He withdrew himself with a flinch that the fear started in his heart and he took her face in his hands, placing his gun on the silver tray on the coffee table. This is what the magician had been waiting for. He placed his head on her chest and then tried to gently shake her, calling out, “Clarissa, Clarissa!” She did not move except as a puppet in his hands and he embraced her, weeping. But the man from behind the drapery was there now, standing too close, almost close enough to feel his pain. He reached forward and retrieved the Derringer from it’s silver tray and held it up toward the man. He waited a moment, hoping that Albert would sense him there and turn around. He always preferred to seem to appear out of nowhere. But Albert put his head down and wept over her silent chest.

“It seems you’ve lost sight of your prize once again, Albert”, the magician drawled out, lisping the z a little, sounding like a maniacal kindergartner. Albert turned and was seized with fear and hopelessness at once. He simply turned back and bowed his head onto Clarissa’s chest.

“Shoot me. My life is over anyway.” Said Albert.

“You give up too easy Albert. Always have.” The crazed man said holding the gun and cocking the trigger. “If only you’d been smart enough to see the truth. About your mother, about your lover. They never wanted you Albert. These things played in your mind like a penny movie. You never could have handled the truth and your knew that, somewhere deep inside, so you created this fantasy for yourself. You destroyed your mother with it all and she had no choice but to make the decisions that she did, to protect an almost invalid son, a son consumed with ambition and determination but without the capacity to see things as they really are. Pity.” The magician held the gun, firelight flickered off it’s metal parts as Albert stood, back still to him and slowly turned. The flames reflected in his eyes.

“You can fire that weapon, but I will kill you before I die.” Albert said, taking a step forward. “I am not afraid to die, but I will be doggone if I will leave you on this earth to hurt anyone else. The magician took a step back and disappeared. Albert stopped and looked around. “It doesn’t surprise me that you run away. You always have. In the East side of the room, the heavy velvet draped moved ever so slightly and a laugh rang out from the West side. Albert moved toward the drapery, feeling for the pistol under his leather jacket.

As he walked in toward the drapery, a shot rang out and the moon came out from behind the clouds. A piercing slice of moonlight spread itself across the cold wooden floor.

1917

                Two months earlier, the town had been so sleepy that only people on their way to Atlanta stopped here. Mostly woods, the settlers town had grown since it’s inception in 1928, but because most of the indian s were gone and only a handful of prominent citizens ran the business in Columbus, it’s size remained small. Now though, Ft. Benning was replete with men from all over the country, here for basic training. So many new recruits were here everyday and often were on the streets, on Broadway or Front Avenue, shopping, going to the theatre or applying for a license. There were soldiers everywhere you looked, their drab brown uniforms like an extension of the red Georgia clay.

“I dare you.” She said, watching the group of three soldiers.

“You do it”, Evelyn returned. “I don’t like talking to strangers.”

“Evelyn, you’re such a chicken. If I do it, I’m gonna swear it was you.” She smirked at her as Evelyn blushed while she made her way to the young men, smoking. “Daddy will kill you Ruthie!” Evelyn ran to hide behind the newspaper stand and watch as Ruthie casually walked up to one of them and asked for the time. The man, tall with dark sweeping eyes turned and smiled at Ruthie and this time she blushed.

“Four-thirty”. He smiled at her. Lucky Ruthie, her nerve always got her the most attention.”Say, shouldn’t you be in school?” He stubbed out his cigarette on the sidewalk and put his hat on his head.

“Oh, I’m practically out of school. I am due to graduate next Spring, she looked at him from a flutter of lash.

“I see. Well, you think your mama and daddy would mind if I took you to get a Cherry Cokae? He said, extending an arm. And as Ruthis took it, Evelyn’s eyebrow’s raised, watching them go at first, then standing and walking toward them, determined to stop Ruthie from her certain demise. Ruthie glanced over her shoulder and saw Evelyn gaining on her. Ruthie waved an arm toward her, warning her away as they entered Walgreen’s.

“Everything okay?” the soldier asked as he noticed her arm flailing.

“Sure.” She said, ignoring her sister as she walked into Walgreens.

“She looks just like you, except for the hair.” He said, as they waved to Evelyn from the booth in the window.

“She’s my younger sister.” Ruthie said.

“You look almost the same age.” He said, smiling. “Should we invite her in?’

“Oh no, she has a lot of homework and all, plus Mama doesn’t allow us to come into the drugstore until we are at least 13”.

Evelyn strolled back down the sidewalk toward the bus station and watched as another group of young men walked off the bus and looked around, sizing up Columbus, Georgia. Some of them looked like they’d come right off the farm. Most were holding a small bag and a jacket. A man in an army uniform corralled them into another bus, with United States Army stenciled on the side and the bus cranked up and rolled down Broadway south toward the base. She would wait here, until Ruthie came out. She knew that Ruthie wouldn’t go home without her. Mama would be really mad if she did that. She sat on the Confederate Monument in the promenade and started her homework. At least she would be ahead of Ruthie in some respect. She worked for a good 45 minutes and was disturbed by another group of young men making their way to the uptown area. As she watched them, wondering what it must be like to know you are going to war, leaving your home for the first time and thinking you might be shot, her eyes were caught by a small dog. She stood and called to it. It couldn’t have been more than a few months old, then another darted in between the houses across the street. She crept quiety into the side yard just in time to see both of them scurry through the Limestone underpinning of the three-story house. She bent down to look into the still darkness, hands and knees in the dirt.

“Old lady Johnson’s pretty mean, I don’t know if she’d take kindly to you crawling around under her house.” Evelyn turned with such fear that she ripped her skirt that she’d been kneeling on. “Uh, oh.” The boy said, grinning, ear to ear. “Let me help you.” He set a box of bulbs down on the sidewalk and reached out a hand to her.

“No thank you,” Evelyn said, brushing off the front of her skirt, trying to conceal her left knee as his eyes had already found it. “I just saw those puppies…and…I wondered if they were okay.” He looked right at her before glancing at the bulbs again, just long enough for Evelyn to see the greenest eyes she’d ever seen.

“I think there’s always a stray dog around here, or three.” He smiled again. His teeth were kind of crooked, but they brought the dimple out in his cheek. He pulled up his cap and scratched his head. “Want me to get you one? They usually like me pretty well.” Evelyn almost forgot what he had asked her, between the knee and the surprise of talking to a boy.

“Evelyn? Evelyn!” a call sounded from the promenade. Evelyn looked toward her sister’s voice yelling to her.

“You must be Evelyn.” At the sound of her name, Evelyn blushed and looked at her shoes that were covered in mud. She smiled at him.

“I’m Albert. Albert Monroe.” He tipped his hat to her as she nodded and walked quickly hoping her sister wouldn’t come into the scene and spoil this. Even though she was completely tongue-tied, she knew she had uncovered something special.

“Evelyn! It’s almost 5! Mama’s gonna kill us!” Ruthie shouted, throwing her hair around as another group of soldiers walked past. One whistled. “What happened to you? Did you fall?” Ruthie started walking as Evelyn grabbed her school books and ran to catch up. As she crossed the street, she looked back over her shoulder to the side yard. Her breath caught as she caught his profile and then he turned and tipped his hat again as she ducked in beside Ruthie. “You wouldn’t believe how cute that soldier is, up close I mean. Evelyn, you’ve got to be a little more daring. You will never get a boyfriend like that. I already had, what. Four boyfriends and now, an older man? Evelyn you better catch up. You’ll turn into an old maid for sure. You know mama and daddy married at 17?”

Evelyn smiled to herself as they walked through the Downtown. Ruthie smiled at every soldier she thought was cute and herself in the reflection of the Department store window. In the window beside Ruthie’s reflection was a poster asking for help in the munitions factory and the knitting ward.

“Look, Evelyn.” She pointed to the woman with her arm showing a muscle. “We should be doing our part.” Ruthie said.

“Mama and Daddy won’t let us work in the munitions factory.” Ruthie pushed into the department store, into the cool perfume-scented air of new clothes.

“We have to do our part. President Wilson asked, remember?” Ruthie said, pressing her lips into a bow shape and applying a rose-colored lipstick sample.

“Mama’s gonna have your hide if you walk in the house wearing that stuff.” Evelyn said.

“May I help you girls?” A perfumed blond lady said from behind the counter.

“No thank you.” They said in unison and both headed for the front doors.

“I’m just going to wear it until I get to our driveway. She will never know”. The sun sank lower in the sky toward the Chattahoochee River as they walked to the 1100 block of Third Avenue. Every time Ruthie saw one of her mother’s friends on the street, she’d wave and then pretend to sneeze, covering her mouth in full. Once they reached the end of the driveway, Ruthie handed her books to Evelyn and licked her fist before rubbing the soft red lipstick away from her fourteen-year-old lips.

1915

                The sound of clinking glass rang from the dirt backyard. Alternately, swings of an axe could be heard and his father swearing. He calculated the time it would take him to sneak past the window of sight his dad could see him on the old dirt road that led to, and away from his home.

“ALBERT!” a shout with a slight slur and a fierce blow to the wood. His dad could be violent, but mostly to whatever he was working on at the time. Albert slunk around the side of the house toward his dad. “Get the wood up son. I been waiting on you at least 20 minutes.”

“I been helping mama.” He said, bending to pick up the kindling. A gash in the side of his dad’s lower leg allowed blood to show through. It puddled in the dusty dirt, making shoe prints and half shoe-prints ever so often. “What’d you do to yer leg?” he looked up at his dad, squinting in the midday sun.

“Aw, that. Nothin’ don’t even hurt none. Just scraped it a little with the sharp blade. Guess I sharped it a bit too much huh? He said, laughing and turning a bottle of whiskey back, holding a cigarette in the same hand.

Albert picked up the firewood and stacked it next to the house as always. He watched his father swing and miss at the felled tree in front of him.

“Dad?” he walked toward him, outstretched arms for the axe. “Why don’t you let me try a minute? I’d like to learn to swing an axe. You ain’t taught me nothin’ about an axe.” Albert took the axe into his two hands and his dad drew on his cigarette, a little wobbly, watching his son.

“Now, thassit. Aim straight for the heart of it and do it as hard as you can, all your might. There you go! That’s a good boy. Again!” Albert swung again and broke the oak into several useable sized pieces. “Strong. Just like your old man.” His dad sat down on the stump that served as a resting stoop in the yard, wiping his brow.

“Al-Bert” his mother called through the window.

Albert set the axe by the tree and walked toward the house. He looked at his dad and noticed his head was hung over, between his knee, like he was getting sick or something. “You alright dad?” Albert put one hand on his back and asked him. His dad vomited all over the ground in front of him.

“Al-bert!” his mother called again. He knew she needed help with something in the house. She only called him when she did.

“Dad?” Albert said again.

“I’m fine. Fine! Everybody just leave me alone, would ya? Whassa man have to do to get some privacy?” He spit and it was tinged in blood. “Get and see what yer mama wants. Goodness knows she won’t stop til she gets you in there. “He shook his head and put his old straw cap on his head, staring ahead, as if at some scene from long ago, accessible to him only. She wasn’t always like this…you know?” He mumbled the last bit to himself. Albert was already striding toward the small white wood frame house. The screened door slammed shut and his mother looked up from feeding his little sister, Lucille.

“What takes you so long? You know I need you help sometimes.” His mother said with anger, she spooned another bite of applesauce into his little sister’s mouth.

“Dad needed my help.” Albert said, removing his cap.

“Your dad needs more help than you can give him, his mother said as she wiped the baby’s mouth, lifting her to take her to the back of the house. “Take the buckets of screws and metals out by the barn and see if you can sell them to the carpenter in town. I hate seein’ all the junk lying around all the time.” She flipped her coal black hair away from her shoulder and swept the baby up in her arms.

“Isn’t that Dad’s stuff?” Albert looked ot in the yard where his dad remained seated on the stump.

“Yeah right.” His mother sneered.”Junk.”

“But he has half of it built, if I take it now, he won’t be able to…”

“Albert if I come out of here and that junk’s not gone from the yard, I will have to discuss with your father about last weekend.” His mother flounced out of the room without waiting for a reply. She knew Albert wouldn’t dare have his father know that he was accused of stealing. His father couldn’t bear deceit in any form or fashion.

“It wasn’t what you think, Ma. Ma!” albert shouted to her with frustration but she was already running the baby’s water. He knew it was of no use. His mother had not believed him. Only he knew the truth. He looked at the yard once more where his father had retrieved the axe.

“Dad, you don’t need to be doing that. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” He said grabbing for the axe.

“The hell I am. “ his father swung the axe away from his son and it caused him to lose his balance, crashing down into a pile of aluminum and sending a clang out. His mother pulled the drapery back in the bedroom.

“Jonathan, stop it. Just stop it right now.” She was beating on the window, a naked , dripping baby partially visible on her hip, yelling at the top of her lungs for the world to hear.

“The hell with ya’ too.” His dad tried to find the cigarette in his own mouth, but couldn’t and fell to the ground.

Albert helped his dad inside to the sofa and his mother came out from the back, keys in hand. “Get your coat.” She said to Albert.

“Why? Where are we going?” he shrugged his shoulders at her.

“And bring some things for a few nights away.” She was throwing baby bottles and blankets into a bag.

“Where are we going?” he said louder as she huffed around. “Is Dad going?”

She continued to bluster around the house, ignoring his plea for information. “We can’t just leave him here, not like this. He’s hurt.” His mother glanced at the bleeding leg and snorted. “Get in the car.”

“I’m not going.” He said.

“Yes you are Albert, I don’t have time for your attitude right now. I am sick of this, this mess and especially of your father. We are going to stay with Mama for a while. If your dad really wants to find us, he will look there.” She opened the door and looked at him, daring him to disagree and slammed the door shut. Outside she yelled, “hurry up!”

His dad lay there on the sofa, still covered in plastic, as it had been when they’d delivered it from the downtown store. It was the one thing he had worked and saved to give his wife. She, from a poor Romanian family had never had furniture, much less new furniture. They were almost gypsies, a point of somewhat shame for her, and one he had tried to help assuage. He had saved for a year to be able to afford it and when they brought it, two days before Christmas last year, his dad was siting on the front porch, drinking whisky, unshaven andsmelly. He’d forgotten all about the Christmas surprise he had arranged the week before. He had been drunk for two days and was now locked out on the front porch. The delivery men had to wake him up, his feet hanging half off the metal glider on the porch, metal screws and bolts scattered around and bottles of whiskey smashed against one wall.

“Sir”, they’d said, sir?” and at first my father, being drunk and half asleep, tried to punch the man from Dalton’s, but luckily he was young and was good at dodging punches.

“We have your furniture Mr. Irishman”. My dad sat up, new morning sun burning his blood-vesseled eyes as he looked past the men at the delivery truck.

“Oh, bless your heart!” he said, suddenly smiling. “This is a surprise, so you have to be quiet, okay?” and he held up a finger to his lips. The delivery men looked at each other. “Let me get the door for you.” He stood, shirtless and tried the front doorknob. It was locked and he then remembered why.

“I think I can get in the back” he winked at them, “wait right here”. He walked around the side of the house andwhen nhe could not get in there either, he began to beat on the door. The men on the porch waited and eventually they could hear yealling.

                “Open the door Sabrina”, my father said.

                “You’re never getting in!” my mother yelled back.

                “Sabrina, please. It’s something…you won’t be mad if you will just open the door.” And he beat violently on the heavy wooden door, rattling the whole 1,000 square foot house.

                “You never get in this house, you nothing but a drunk!” my mother shouted, just as the delivery men rounded the house.

                “Sir, we have to go now.” They looked at the pitiful figure, shirtless beating on the back door.

                “We could bring it back on Thursday.” He told my father.

                “I guess you have to, then…” he said, looking defeated.

                “But you realize, Mr. Irish that Christmas is Monday, day after tomorrow.” My father looked at him, as if God himself had thumped him on the head.

                “No, you have to leave it. Today.” My dad said, suddenly determined not to miss giving my mom the sofa.

                “But sir, you have no way to get inside?” he looked at dad.

                “Just put it right here on the porch. I will get it in somehow or another.” And the men unloaded the flower covered sofa onto the front porch, which wasn’t quite long enough, so two of the legs sat in my mother’s flower bed of nasturtiums. His father stuck the unfiltered cigarette in between his front teeth as he signed the bill of receipt saying it had been delivered in good order. Then he took his place on the old metal glider on the other side of the porch to admire his purchase. He knew in his heart that not only would this melt her anger for his heavy drinking, but also it would give her something she never had; the parts to a home, a real home, like he’d promised her when he took her from her father, 8 years ago. As the delivery trucked pulled away from the curb they called out, “Merry Christmas sir”, and my father shouted after them another Merry Christmas, smiling to himself, hands on his thighs, like a prisoner locked out instead of in, his very own life. Inside he could hear my mother turning on the water, preparing the baby who was crying to let it be known that she was awake. As he listened, hopeful that she would come soon and open the door, it began to rain, making soft pittering noises on plastic covering.