Three Blocks

Mr. Brenneman ran for the first two blocks when he first spotted it. Running down women, children and at one point a nun, he looked behind at the sky to make sure that there weren’t more. He slowed down and cautiously walked the third block thinking, “This is no way to handle this.” The park was across the street and he spotted an empty bench standing solemnly just outside the reach of the skyscrapers’ long shadows.

Brenneman took a deep breath and loosened his hundred dollar silk tie sliding it off his collar while unbuttoning the top three buttons of his dress shirt. He took a seat on the bench and closed his eyes feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. His fingers reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out the cigarette box. Turning it over, he gently tapped the box on the back of his hand. The filter felt soft between his teeth as he pulled a cigarette out. He sucked the fire from the lighter down the length of the cigarette and held it deep in his lungs.

His lower jaw hung slack but he pursed his lips tightly around the filter so no one would notice. His left hand shivered ever so slightly as he tucked the lighter back into his pocket. Brenneman took his right arm and lifted it to his forehead wiping at phantom beads of perspiration. He slowed his breathing and gulped down slowly taking in the sun.

“A smoke never tasted so sweet,” he muttered under his breath. He spotted two more snipers on two different rooftops as he puffed the last puff of smoke through his yellowed teeth. A pink cloud burst in front of him just as he thought, “They must be gentlemen, to let me have one last smoke.” Mr. Brenneman didn’t feel the bullet as it plowed straight through him.

Quest

Dear Terry,

Please don’t blame yourself for my running away. I’ve just gone on a small quest to find true magic out in this depressed little world of ours. Once I find some “Hocus Pocus” I’ll be sure to get back. I am confident that my excursion will take no more than a few hours so I hope to see you and everyone by supper time. Here’s to hoping I have a grand adventure!

Always,

Perry Alonso

P.S. I know you’ll do just great here!

“I don’t believe this!” Terry Lucas exclaimed when he found the letter. “It’s my first day!” The curtain flapped in the breeze blowing in through the open window. Terry jumped to it and stuck his head out hoping he would find Mr. Alonso wandering outside. But today, he would have no such luck.

Dashing outside the room, he searches every room up and down the hall but there was no sign of the patient anywhere. Terry stormed to the dining room and saw that it was empty and smelled of the previous night’s “Salisbury steak surprise,” the surprise being that there was no actual steak involved. The orderly’s hurried feet shuffled him off to the opposite wing of the retirement home just beyond the nurses’ station. There were several vending machines where residents tend to bump into each other and lose themselves in conversation.

“He’s not here either,” Terry thought to himself. “Even if he was, I’m sure that one of the nurses would have seen him passing by. But I can’t let them know that I lost someone on my first day of the job!”

They young man jogged calmly passed the nurses’ station. When he was out of sight he bulleted back to Mr. Alonso’s room hoping he would have returned, but the room was still empty. Terry took out the letter and sat on the old man’s bed. He read the letter over and over again hoping to find some sort of clue to the retiree’s whereabouts.

“Why is ‘hocus pocus’ in quotations?” he asked himself. “A clue perhaps?” Just then, bells echoed outside. Terry got to his feet and walked towards the window. As he stuck his head out, he saw that the bells were coming from the church next door. It was then he realized one of the origins of the phrase “hocus pocus.”

During the dark ages, peasants would attend mass even though the entire service was performed in Latin, a language only the nobility could afford to learn. When the priest blessed the bread he would utter the phrase “This is my Body” in Latin, or “Hoc est Corpus Meum.” Because the peasants and farmers had no idea what this phrase meant they just assumed the phrase “Hoc est Corpus” was some sort of way to conjure up magic. Centuries of mispronunciations would result in “hocus pocus.”

Terry sat quietly in the pew realizing too late that the ringing of the bells meant that a service had just begun. His eyes scanned up and down every head that bowed in reverence to the ceremonious singing. He had hoped to find Perry but instead found a pair of green eyes looking suspiciously back at him. He sneaked outside hoping to escape those eyes but they were close behind. A tap on the shoulder startled him. He turned around and found a woman, about his age, with short red hair and green eyes smiling softly at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just saw you were wearing that uniform. Are you a nurse from the retirement home?”

“An orderly, actually,” he responded, nervous.

“My father is actually staying at that house, and I was wondering how he’s doing?”

“I’m sure he’s doing fine, miss. We take good care of our residents.” Except the ones that run away, Terry thought to himself.

“Actually, I was thinking that you might know him,” her voice was low and sweet. “His name is Perry Alonso.”

“Yeah, I know Perry,” the orderly was suddenly covered in sweat.

“My, you’re sweating awfully profusely,” she commented, “Did my father take off again?”

“I’m sorry?”

“My father,” she laughed, “He runs away all the time. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“I took my eyes off of him for one second and the next thing I know is he’s gone! I’m so sorry! I’m going to lose my job over this, I know it!”

“Relax, what’s your name?”

“Terry. Terry Lucas.”

“I’m Laura,” she comforted him, “You go back and tell the nurses. I’ll come with you. Don’t worry; I’m sure you’re good at what you do. I’ll vouch that you were just trying to make sure he’s safe. You go ahead and let the nurses know that my father’s on the loose again. In the meantime I’ll go home. Sometimes he just likes to visit unannounced.”

Terry walked, shoulders slumped, back to the retirement home anticipating a scolding from the nurses. Instead, he was bombarded with uproarious laughter.

“We should have let you in on it,” one nurse commented.

“But this way was much funnier,” another added.

“We’re not usually ones for hazing,” yet another informed, “but this is a pretty good way to start off your first day! Don’t worry, son. He always turns up when he says he will. Ah, look, here comes his daughter now. Hi, Laura! Your father’s at it again!”

“Hello, Eve,” she responded. “Please don’t get mad at Terry, here.”

“Mad? We were just having a little fun with the new guy.”

“Actually, I’m starting to get a little worried. I checked out all his usual haunts: my house, his old apartment, the bar down the street, the hardware store. He isn’t in any one of them!”

“Terry,” the nurse turned to the new orderly, “Did Mr. Alonso say anything to you? Did he leave any clue as to where he was headed?”

“He left this letter,” Terry took out the letter. “But I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

The nurse scanned the letter quickly, her lips quivering as she read the letter to herself. She handed it over to Laura whose worried eyes carefully scanned every character on the paper.

“I know it says he’ll be home by supper,” Laura said, worry in her voice. “But it’s not usually like him to take off without letting anyone know exactly where he’s headed. It’s my fault, I know it!”

“Honey, you can’t blame yourself,” the nurse comforted, “I’ve already called the police and sent them a picture. All we can do now is sit here and wait.” The nurse went back to her station and returned her attention to the other residents of the home

“You don’t understand,” Laura retorted. “I was angry with him last week. I- I…”

“What is it?” Terry asked.

“He forgot that today is Bobby’s, my brother’s, birthday,” she replied.

“Your father is at that age--” Terry started to say.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Laura interrupted. “Today was supposed to be his thirtieth birthday. But he died in a car crash when he was seven. I was barely three years old at the time, but I know it’s been rough on him. He never misses it, but this year he seemed to deliberately forget it. It’s as if it were some secret that he was keeping from me.”

Laura began to weep quietly to herself making a vain attempt to hide her crying. But Terry saw and reacted by reaching over and handing her the tissue box on the counter of the nurses’ station. She delicately dabbed at the corners of her eyes and sniffled to herself. Just then a little boy walked by holding a cupcake with a candle stuck on top of it. A calloused, wrinkled hand sat tenderly on the boy’s head. The hand was attached to an elderly man who smiled anxiously as he took out a lighter and lit the small candle.

“Happy birthday, Billy,” the old man said.

“Thanks grandpa!” the boy answered.

“Now make a wish and blow out the candle,” the grandfather chuckled. The little boy took a deep breath and blew with all his might. The flame went out for only a fraction of a second and came back dancing on the wick of the thin wax candle. The old man laughed heartily as did little Billy.

“That’s it!” Terry exclaimed. “Your father said he was looking for some ‘Hocus Pocus.’ When I was a little boy my uncle used to take me to this magic shop downtown. They sold all these magic tricks, books on how to do card tricks, rubber chickens, and novelty prank toys. And the best brand of trick candles like the one on that little boy’s cupcake is--”

“Hocus Pocus candles!” Laura jumped up in excitement. “That’s got to be it! I know exactly where that store is. They’ve been open forever! Come on, Terry! Two pairs of eyes are better than one!”

Laura sped her car downtown and fortunately found a parking spot just in front of the store. The two spilled out of the car and ran into the store. The glass door was heavy and rang a rusty old bell as it swung open. An older man, not Perry, stood behind the counter.

“Welcome to Hocus Pocus! I’m Jim. Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asked.

“Actually, yes,” Terry approached the counter and took out a picture of Perry that he got from one of the nurses. “I’m looking for this man. Has he been in here today?”

“You just missed him,” Jim answered as he looked at the picture. “I just saw him get on the bus about five minutes before you got here. He came in for some candles and cake. I told him we don’t have cake here anymore. I have no idea where he’s headed.”

Laura walked up and down the aisles half-listening to Terry talk to Jim at the counter. She looked at all the magic decks of cards, rubber chickens, whoopee cushions, and books on the history of magic. Her eyes wandered to the wall which was plastered floor-to-ceiling with pictures. The newer pictures, close to the front door, were those of local celebrities who bought gifts for their children and nephews and nieces. As Laura walked towards the counter, she could see that the pictures got older and older as indicated by the fashion and haircuts of those in the photos. One photo made her freeze.

The boy in the picture looked about five years old, wore a striped collared shirt and a decorative pointed hat. He was on all fours climbing on top of a table. The small pink cheeks were puffed, lips pursed, eyes focused on the five candles on the large cake as the young boy tried to blow them out. A man’s hand held the boy back as if the child were going to dive face first into the cake. Laura’s eyes glided up the man’s hand to his arms and finally to his rugged face.

“Dad?” Laura didn’t know she had said it aloud.

“Did you say something, Laura?” asked Terry.

“Excuse me,” Laura took the picture off the wall and walked towards the counter, “Was this photograph taken here?”

“Why, yes!” Jim answered.

“I didn’t know you held birthday parties here,” Terry mentioned.

“Oh yeah,” Jim answered. “We would have magicians perform, we provided the cake and the decorations. But we couldn’t compete with the other places once the new millennium rolled around. People just aren’t into magic as they used to be.”

“Some people are,” Terry added.

“This is my brother,” Laura showed the two of them, “And that’s my father. I’m sorry. But is it all right if I keep this picture?” Jim smiled at her and nodded. “Come on, Terry.”

“Where are we going?”

“My dad said he’d be back once he found some ‘Hocus Pocus.’ He already bought some candles from the store so he’s bound to get back to the retirement home any time now.”

The car sped back to the retirement home and as they walked back to Perry’s room, Laura looked lovingly at the picture. Terry ran down the hallway into Mr. Alonso’s room. It was empty. The curtain was still flapping at the breeze.

“He’s not here,” Terry shouted at Laura from the room. Laura’s eyes lit up and looked beyond Terry, just down the hall.

“Of course I’m not there. I was in the cafeteria getting this cake ready,” Perry walked slowly behind Terry carrying a large cake with lighted candles arranged on top. He walked into his room, Laura followed and Terry was close behind.

“Make a wish, Laura,” the old man said, smiling. Laura bent over to blow out the candles and laughed boisterously when they refused to go out.

“This is for you, Dad,” Laura said as she handed her father the framed picture.

“I love it. It’s perfect.” Perry hugged his daughter and playfully punched Terry’s arm. The smiling, wrinkled face looked at the new orderly. With gravel in his voice, he smiled at Terry and said, “I told you that you’d do just great here!”

So It Goes

The damp soil packed deep into Clay Thompson’s ears. Tasting of moss and earthworms, the dirt fought its way into his mouth. He tried to scream but only managed to get more dirt crammed down his esophagus. Tears created mud. It seeped into the corners of his eyes at a snail’s pace invading his sinuses. Grit and pebbles were matted deep into his thick hair. Still he fought, still he climbed, still he clawed his way out of the earth.

The fingertips of his right hand finally broke to the surface. The air above was still and cold chilling him to his very core. He got both arms above the ground and pulled up on himself. His head pushed into the frigid atmosphere. He was blinded by the pale blue moonlight as he yanked his feet from deep under the ground. Mud spewed from his mouth as vomited the earth that had dug its way into his stomach.

Looking around he realized the hole from which he sprung was undisturbed; it was somehow already closed. He knew he was dead, that he was merely a specter of himself. Though the earth he stood upon seemed untouched, more unsettling was the lack of a headstone. Whoever had buried him out in the wilderness did not want him to be found.

Though crisp and fresh, the air was so cold stabbing him in the lungs as he taught himself how to breathe again. The scent of pine and mud danced on the gentle breeze and soothed the knots in his stomach. His head hurt badly and there was tightness in his heart that he had not felt when he was alive but the smell of the trees calmed him. Suddenly, the scent of flowers subtly touched his nose.

“That’s odd,” he thought, “to find the smell of flowers in the dead of night like this, especially on a night so cold.”

The smell grew stronger and drew Clay towards the east into the dens thicket away from the harsh light of the moon. The leaves and pine needles crunched under his feet as he followed the scent of the flowers towards some unknown destination. He searched around him and saw no flowers and wondered where the smell could be coming from.

“Surely all the flowers would be closed up,” he whispered.

He stopped suddenly when the smell was at its strongest and as quickly as it appeared, the scent of the flowers melted away into the cold air. It brought him to a lonely tree whose bark was brittle but strong. The tree looked familiar. He walked towards it, the roots raising the ground it grew on in small mounds. Walking around, he could see that others have found this lonely tree before having carved their initials into the trunk. One marking stood out. It read, “Clay + Rose” and voices suddenly echoed around him as if a memory had sprung to life.

Rose was his wife’s name. He suddenly remembered sitting at the tree, just days prior. His wife was in his hands laying her head on his chest. They talked of yesterdays and nothings that mattered only to them at only that moment. He seemed to be living this memory and yet seemed apart from it. His ghost recollecting the good times of yesterday, but why? The ground gently rumbled but he wasn’t scared. His focus honed in on the carving. There was something different about it; something he hadn’t remembered. Trembling, his outstretched fingers slowly approached the aged bark of the lonely tree. There was a large knot that didn’t seem to be there naturally. As he touched it, his body and mind vibrated violently. The memory was changing.

Wearing the same dress, Rose stood away from the tree, away from her husband. She was weeping. There was great sadness and anger in her voice. He was confused then and he still was confused watching it the second time around. He thought he heard another set of footsteps, but no. His priority is his crying wife who stood just a few yards from the tree, his hands still upon it. Without warning it felt as if a searing hot rod had struck him cleanly through his fragile skull. He thought he heard a faint pop, but the pain radiated throughout his entire body before he could deduce what it was. He screamed in excruciating pain and the memories stopped instantly as he dropped to his knees. Just a bird or two scuttled about at his yelling. Only the lonely tree, the moonlight, and his ghostly self remained.

Alone with nothing but the cold, his hands still upon the carving, he realized that the tree had been shot. It was not a knothole in the tree; a bullet had left that scar. He precariously caressed the hole and felt fresh sap seeping out of. It was wet and the inside was still warm and still smelled weakly of gunpowder. The emotions of that memory came flooding back to his mind, but the facts of what truly happened refused to present themselves wholly. Despondent, his heart sank feeling as if Rose had left him. Of course! She wept because she did not love him anymore.

“Perhaps,” he thought to himself, “she left me. I couldn’t bear to live anymore if that were the case. I must’ve shot myself.” He paused, sure that that was why he was left to wander the woods cold and alone.

“Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night,” he muttered. “At least I still remember my Shakespeare.” He paused and looked back at the tree. “But that can’t be! How could I have taken my own life and buried myself in an unmarked grave?”

Giggles emanated and echoed southeast of the lonely tree. The gurgling of a brook grew louder as he walked towards the happy sounds of laughter. The yeasty smell of bread warmed the still air and led him to a narrow creek that cut through forest floor. Surrounded by small saplings, the smell of bread and soon wine filled the air. The giggles grew into boisterous laughter. Warmth drew Mr. Thompson to a flat spot on the northern bank.

He sat down and felt the warmth of the sun on the ground and yet moonlight ruled the evening. Darkness all around and yet it was as if God had allowed a singular beam cut through the thick treetops to shine on this particular spot. Curious, he reached both his hands into the warm ground around him, but he did not feel the earth. A thick cloth, in the tradition of any picnic blanket, was there instead. It was another memory, more vague yet happier than the last.

Once again Rose was there lying down beside him in her delicate red summer dress. Butterflies fluttered about her as if she were an actual rose. The young couple fed each other bread and drank wine and could only feel each others’ touch, hear each others’ voices. He leaned in for a kiss and felt her lips, soft and warm, press up against his. Their fingertips found each other, then their palms. This was the last night we made love, he remembered. He could still feel the silkiness of her long brown hair. The smell of her perfume was the smell of summer flowers. Her warmth stayed with him, haunted him. Again, he thought he heard another set of footsteps but it seems that love had deafened his ears as well as blinded him.

The forest began to spin dizzyingly around Clay Thompson. The earth opened but did not swallow him. Instead, he remained suspended in air as the universe swirled into a chaotic cyclone all around. Suddenly, he saw the memories one more time. As he held his wife in lustful embrace by the brook he saw a strange figure off in the distance. When the world stopped twirling around him, his feet touched the ground and he walked towards the mysterious stranger hiding behind tall pines. As they made love the stranger lurked in the shadows, his face unrecognizable.

Suddenly this ghost was back to the lonely tree. He witnessed his hands on the tree, his wife yards away weeping. This memory was somehow clearer to him now. She wore the same red dress. It must have been the same day. All the smells were stronger, the colors more vibrant, the sounds echoed throughout the wilderness. Again he saw the stranger hiding in the shadows. He walked toward the vision of his wife and listened to the words that fell from her mouth.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, her voice wavering.

“Why are you crying,” the ghost echoed. Suddenly the footsteps became more apparent. The stranger crawled from the veil of shadows and pulled out a gun. The pop that Clay Thompson remembered exploded out of the nozzle of the gun in the stranger’s hand. This specter approached the assassin. The scene seemed to freeze at the spirit’s own will. The murderer had a face and the victim desired to know it and know it well. The forest fell apart as the ghost of Clay Thompson screamed upon laying his eyes on man who took his life.

“Richard?” he sighed as the breath escaped his lungs. He could not believe his own brother would do such a thing. In the distance, another scenario played out. Clay could see it was Richard burying him hastily in the earth that his ghost struggled to get out of. To no avail, Clay yelled at his lifeless corpse being stuffed into the broken earth. His own voice shook as it escaped his throat. He felt his body dissolve into the air, marbling like smoke birthed from a flame snuffed out in the wind.

“A local couple was found dead in their house early this morning,” the news would report two days later. “There were no signs of forced entry. Local police were baffled to discover that though it appeared they were shot in the head, no bullets were found at the scene of the crime and none of the neighbors reported hearing any gunshots or seeing anything unusual during the alleged time of death. To add insult to injury, the young woman was pregnant. DNA tests show that the male victim was the father. The bodies were discovered when the female’s parents came over to surprise their daughter who had apparently just spoken to them just mere hours before.”

By the next day, the police were able to put together the pieces of the story and a local hiker stumbled onto Clay Thompson’s makeshift grave. While news of Rose’s affair and resulting pregnancy spread quickly throughout the neighborhood, there was never a complete explanation as to how Richard and Rose were murdered. However, everyone was somehow sure that Clay would finally rest in peace.

The Will

“He must have the will of Job,” she whispered.

“That’s the patience of Job, dear,” he whispered back.

It was a lovely ceremony with all the trimmings of a royal wedding scaled to fit the confines of the small neighborhood church. The groom had no family, but the bride was the reigning matriarch of hers. Naturally, the emptiness of the groom’s side fortuitously provided more elbow room for the crowded bride’s side. He was a man of forty with jet black hair with the exception for the silver strands bleeding through the temples. His chin was strong and sprinkled with a hint of masculine stubble. His blushing bride was the center of attention, smiling that so wide the corners of her mouth kissed the tips of her earlobes.

“Did they not think I would hear them?” Tom asked; his hands flung into the air. “Their whispers echoed throughout the whole church. They might as well have yelled their insults out loud. At least it wouldn’t have been cowardly!”

“Calm down, Mr. Finn,” the lawyer consoled. “I understand your upset, but--”

“And that wasn’t the end of it!” Tom continued. “I’m sure they censored themselves being inside a church and all. But the whispers and rumors just continued during the reception. Otherwise it was a perfect day, and everything went without a hitch. But I mean the nerve of some people!”

“I’m not here to question your motives,” the lawyer continued, “I’m simply here to--”

“I mean to question our love,” Tom continued to interrupt, “Now that- THAT crosses a line! That crosses THE line!”

“I understand your upset,” the lawyer’s voice calmed Tom. “But we have business to attend to. So if you could please describe to me your relationship with--”

“I love her. No matter what anybody says, the love we shared was a powerful connection that most people never get a taste of. Maybe the people at the wedding were jealous of that. I don’t know. Maybe all the whispers of people throughout the marriage were hung up with their own shallow and narrow-minded definition of beauty that they couldn’t see that I couldn’t bear to be without her.”

Tom sat back down and controlled his breath. He buried his head in his hands and massaged his temples as he leaned back in his chair. The lawyer stood up and walked towards the water cooler and got a cup for Tom. He handed it to his client who thanked him.

“Continue, Mr. Finn,” the lawyer took a seat.

“No one else saw it but she was beautiful; the most beautiful creature ever to be conceived by God. Her hair was like no one else’s. Sure, she’s a tad older than I am but the thin hair flowed in silver strands to her delicate shoulders. It would be easier to run a comb or brush through one’s hair but to carry the dignity that she did with her coif sprouting in all directions is no easy feat.

“Her skin was like dry, yellowed parchment that had been left in the sun after having been soaked in kerosene for years before. Some patches on her body looked as if it had been burned. It’s an acquired taste, I assure you. Her nose looked to be broken in three separate places but still I love her. I continue to love her today as much if not more than the day I met her, and that love will continue to grow for years to come.

“One eye was discolored and the other was legally blind but I could look in either and tell her how I felt every night with a smile on my face. Her lips were as dry and crumbly as gravel but I longed to kiss them every night. What few teeth she had were crooked but added personality to a smile that would melt the heart of the abominable snowman.

“Her fingers felt as if sandpaper had worn down to gritty circular pads but it warmed me as it touched my arm. The scent was distinctly hers. Her voice was a low gentle grumble much like the purr of a cat but to me might as well be the singing of angels. After all, it’s her voice I long to hear when I get to Heaven. I know it sounds crazy, but I love her that much.”

“There’s no need to explain, Mr. Finn,” the lawyer assured.

“We’ve had hard times as well. I was warned by numerous members of her family. Most notably her daughter, Diana, told me of her not-so-sweet disposition. Granted, she was cranky but who doesn’t have their personality quirks? Maybe on occasion she would yell at me and throw blunt objects at my head but, hey, every relationship has its ups and downs, do they not?

“I’m not here to discuss whether or not she was wrong but we may have had a disagreement on how to take care of the neighbor’s cat. But you have to understand, that flea infested feline would moan and cry at all hours of the evening. It drove everyone crazy. Not that I’m condoning what she did. I don’t care how annoying a cat is being, none of them deserve to have a burning burlap sack tied to their tail. But I do see why she did it, what drove her to it.”

“I see,” the lawyer’s eyes widened, not sure whether to show disgust or shock.

“Without giving the details,” Tom continued, “Our honeymoon was incredible. The wedding night was… It was magical. She looked beautiful in the bath that night as the water beaded off her leathery skin. Her two front teeth glimmered in the shine of the moonlight. There was a sparkle in her colored eye and she stared deep into my eyes with her working one. A tingle shot down my spine, her toes curled, and we fell into each other’s arms in the throes of passion that night.”

“That’s very,” the lawyer searched for the words, “sweet. Again, my condolences for your loss, Mr. Finn. I’m sure all this is very hard for you but I’m glad you made time to come down to my office.”

“I do miss Gloria very much, thank you.”

“It certainly sounds like you were in love. You must have had quite the iron will to put up with her faults. It seems as if she had quite a few.”

“Will had nothing to do with it, counselor. Love was all it was, and all it ever had to be. I never had much use for anything else. People make it sound like I had to put up with a nuisance, but it was genuine love, I assure you.”

“That’s very noble of you, Mr. Finn,” the lawyer pulled out a small stack of papers from the desk. “How was your income when she was alive? Were you well to do? Did you struggle?”

“We had our dry moments and our high moments, but overall we got by.”

“Any children?”

“No,” Tom chuckled. “She hated children and besides, she was much too old.”

“But you did, indeed, consummate the marriage.”

“Of course,” Tom answered, confused. “Why do you ask? I don’t understand.”

“It seems Gloria kept a secret nest egg away in the bank since you two were engaged and let it grow to healthy size. These papers are her will and they stipulate that if I could prove that you were truly in love with her and that you consummated the relationship without ulterior motive, then everything she owned, including that nest egg would be yours.”

“Well she always was the resourceful one. We didn’t own much. But exactly how large did this nest egg grow?”

“Her savings come to a bountiful $3.5 million dollars, and that’s not including the land properties she owns which consequently are yours as well. She didn’t want you to know about her wealth. Gloria confided in me that it had been the bane of her existence and she wanted to find true love before she died. Obviously, she found that in you, Mr. Finn.”

“Wahoo!” Tom yelled as he jumped out of his chair and clicked his heels in joy. “I deserve this! I deserve this after putting up with that horrible old miser all these years!”

The two paused and stared each other in awkward silence before Tom took his cup of water and drank it all in one gulp. He set the paper cup down on the desk and his eyes darted all about the office in nervous shame. The lawyer offered another cup to which Tom declined.

“I only met with her the one time when she came and had me draw up the papers on this will a few years ago,” the lawyer explained. “She’s just as you had described her, Mr. Finn, to a tee and then some. I don’t know if it’s the will or the love that made you stay with her all that time, but as far as I’m concerned you definitely deserve that money.”

The two shook hands and departed to their separate ways. They never bumped into each other again after that meeting. However there have been rumors of a man who had come into some money recently who hopped from country to country courting haggardly looking women. He taught young men that one’s love truly conquers all but it is one’s will that truly pays off.