Author's Note: I never quite got into the Spike/Julia thing, especially since Spike/Faye would have been better. So I wrote this story from Julia's point of view to help me understand and like her better.

Julia of the Windy Smile

"Yesterday's endings are seeds for today's beginnings."

--Lew Losoney

To begin with, this is not a story about the mafia. It's a story about a boy and a girl so in love—of course, the boy was part of the mob, so that did cause some problems.

Hell, what was a guy with a name like Spike Spiegel doing in the Chinese mafia anyway?

Love is a battlefield

One night, business was slow. The bait was out, but none the sharks were biting. And as usual, our pimp, Big X, didn't understand it was not our fault. If he beat us, it increased business, or so was his reasoning. Though I don't see how a girl all bruised and battered would be more attractive to potential clients.

"I'm doing my best!" I insisted.

"Well then, do better!" Big X shouted, his fist knocking me to the ground.

That's when I saw him, swooping down from a brownstone staircase, like a black swan coming in for a landing. Vicious, they called him, but to me, he was a hero. He pointed his sword—called a katana—at Big X's neck.

Big X just looked incredulous. "A sword? Are you kidding?"

"It's one hundred percent real. And lethal," Vicious informed him.

"What do you want?"

"Leave the girl alone." I was sitting on the sidewalk, staring up, wide-eyed.

Big X never was easily intimidated. "She's my property. I'll do with her—" He never finished. Vicious ran him through with the sword. He crashed straight to the ground, a look of incredulity frozen on his face.

I sat there with my mouth agape. Vicious came over to me, offering his hand, and pulled me up. "Who are you?" I blurted.

"Vicious." At my alarmed look and gasp, he hastily added, "It's just to intimidate losers like him. I won't hurt you."

He was still holding me by the hand as we walked. "Why did you rescue me?"

He shrugged. "You didn't look like the kind of girl who should be knocked around."

"Where are we going?"

He stopped and looked at me. "Where do you want to go? You're free now…" He stumbled in his speech, looking for a name.

"Julia," I told him.

"Julia," he repeated, smiling. "'Seashell eyes, windy smile…'"

"What?"

"The Beatles. Their song 'Julia'."

We resumed walking, hand in hand. It seemed natural. "No one chooses prostitution for a career," he said thoughtfully. "You just do it to get by."

"Yes."

"So, what do you really want to be?"

"Well…" I blushed and looked down at the ground. "Everybody says I'm a good singer."

He squeezed my hand. "Then from now on, that's what you'll be."

Vicious was different then. Vicious still had a soul; he still had shades of light amongst the shadows that would one day engulf him.

He took me to a warm and friendly bistro, then we returned to his studio apartment. Frankly, it smelled like bird droppings, and then I heard a squawk-like noise. In the corner sat a huge, black bird. It had a crown of feathers like a cockatoo, but its neck was long and twisted, like that of a heron. It sat on an oversized wooden perch and eyed me warily.

"That's Poison," Vicious said. "I found him in a gutter and hand-raised him myself. I still don't know what he is. A new-fangled genetically engineered bird, perhaps."

"You named a bird Poison?"

"He's most like an anhinga," he continued.

"You don't like pretty names, do you?"

"No. You've got to be tough to survive in this world."

I looked at him quizzically.

"That's the image you've got to present," he added. "I like Poison—the bird, not the name—because he's a black bird."

"I thought you didn't know what kind of bird he was."

"Not breed, color! Anyway, he reminds me of the Beatles' song. You know it?"

I shook my head.

"You don't know 'Julia', you don't know 'Blackbird'—they're from the White Album," he said to me, as if this were a thing everyone should know. "You want to hold Poison?"

I shook my head.

"Then pet him. Put out your hand."

Hesitantly, I extended a hand towards the big, black monstrosity. Quicker than the eye, the bird stabbed me with its needle-like beak. Blood ran from my hand. "You

said--!" I blurted.

"Bad bird!" Vicious snapped, shaking a fist. Poison reared back its head, and dropped open its beak.

"I have some bandages in the medicine cabinet," Vicious told me.

"I guess it's snippish around strangers," I said.

"I love that bird," Vicious confessed. "I don't love many things. I don't want anything to ever happen to it."

I slept with Vicious that night. I felt it was an obligation. He had been my Prince Charming, after all, hadn't he? Although he was a bit creepy.

Meeting him

"C'mon, I want you to meet someone," Vicious said, grabbing my hand. I had just finished rehearsing my musical act at the club.

"Meet someone else? A recording executive?"

He looked sheepish. "No, not that. We'll go play billiards. You know how to play?"

"Sure."

"He'll be there. That's where he likes to kill time."

We walked into the billiards hall. A young man looked up from one of the tables. He was wearing a sleek blue suit, and had bushy green-tinted brunet hair. He was the most handsome, most striking man I had ever seen. And he was looking at me like he was in shock. I felt so self-conscious. Heat rose to my cheeks, and I looked down at the floor.

"Spike!" Vicious called. "Come over here. I want you to meet my new girl."

Spike nodded, and put down his billiards cue. Taking a couple of steps towards us, he stumbled. He picked himself up, and looking embarrassed, joined us at the front of the room. "What's the matter, Spike?" Vicious teased. "Too much to drink already?"

"Well, you know," Spike began, quickly recovering his sense of coolness. "It happens sometimes."

"Spike, this is Julia," Vicious introduced. "I rescued her from that Big X pimp. Julia, this is Spike, my closest companion."

Spike extended his hand to me. Nervously, feeling my hand was clammy, I took it. A spark jumped from his hand to mine. Something was going on here.

Dropping his hand, I looked into his eyes. They were mismatched. I was puzzled. "Your eyes...they're different colors."

"One eye sees the past, the other the present," he explained, matter-of-fact and mysterious at the same time.

"Don't bore her with your eye stories!" Vicious chided. "He's got this weird idea that they made him get completely naked for eye surgery because the surgeons were kinky."

It really wasn't a good time for him to have mentioned his friend being naked. I tried to shoot down lustful thoughts as quickly as they came. With all my years of tapping into my own sexuality to make a living, I had never felt this naturally aroused. I clutched Vicious' elbow—I was his girl after all; at least, I was supposed to be. He had rescued me. It wouldn't be nice for me to dump him this fast.

"When did you get back, Spike?" Vicious asked.

"Mao and I got back around noon," he replied, running a hand through his abundant hair.

Oh, but I wanted him, I did. I bemoaned the fact that it was Vicious who rescued me, and not Spike. How long would I have to be chained to Vicious before I had paid him back for his valor on my behalf?

Abuse

I was lying naked in bed with Vicious when Spike knocked at the door. "Come in," Vicious called, and I heard the sound of a key turning.

"Vicious, now?" I whispered.

"Relax, he's family, so to speak."

Spike came in, his eyes widening. I pulled the sheet up to my neck, cursing its thinness.

Vicious reassured Spike the same way he had me. Then Spike, looking ill at ease, related a few items related business to him, and slipped out the door, whistling a random tune.

"Next time tell him to call or come back later," I demanded.

"What's your problem, baby?" Vicious returned.

"Just don't do it again," I said.

He grabbed my chin forcefully. "Don't tell me what to do or not to do! I don't like women who think they're the boss."

"I don't think I'm the boss!" I told him through tears, upset at his rough handling of me. "I just don't want him to see me naked!"

After a pause, he replied, "That's understandable...I guess."

It was an isolated incident—or so I hoped. Both the casually letting visitors see us in bed, and his being physically forceful with me.

I need not have worried about the first.

My head hit the wall, reeling from Vicious' slap. I had said something. I don't know what. This was his reply.

Poison squawked from his perch.

"You don't look like the kind of girl who should be knocked around," I recalled Vicious saying.

But tense from work, he would take it out on me.

Self-improvement

Vicious got me an open-ended gig at Club Eleven, singing torch songs of the twentieth century, plus some new numbers in the grand old style as well. I got to wear my hair up and get decked out in sequined gowns. I liked the black one the best.

Vicious didn't always show up for the concerts. Spike was there more often, and as he lifted a glass to his lips, it was hard not to meet his gaze.

"My love for you burns deep inside me…"

"Why don't you go to Julia's shows?" I overheard Spike ask Vicious. "She would appreciate having her boyfriend there to croon romantic tunes to."

"Ah, I saw a few of them. They get to seem all the same after awhile. The playlist doesn't vary much."

Vicious joined me at the bar after my set. "I enlisted with the military today," he announced, staring down into his iced drink.

"What?"
"You know I need to learn to be better. I'm sure you looked real good tonight

on stage with that bruised cheek I gave you. I need to straighten out. And where do parents send their kids when they need to be straightened out?"

"The military," I uttered. I was disturbed. There was a war on Titan going on. Would Vicious get sent there? Would the cruelties of war actually do him good?

It looked like a scene from a sentimental old Norman Rockwell painting. Spike and I were there to see Vicious off on the bus that would take him to the military base.

Vicious caressed my cheek, accidentally touching my bruise. Wincing, I pulled away. "Sorry, babe," he apologized—one of the last apologies he would ever give. "When I come back, I'll be a new man. You'll see. I won't hit you anymore."

"Okay," I said meekly.

Vicious and Spike gave each other a one-armed hug. "You stick by Julia while I'm gone," Vicious told him. "Make sure no other guys get to her."

"I don't think this is a good idea," Spike said hesitantly, for reasons I would understand later. He was already in love with me.

"Spike, you're the only one I trust," Vicious declared. "Okay?"

Spike nodded. "All right."

Vicious boarded the bus and it drove away. "I don't think this is a good idea," Spike repeated.

"Well, Vicious trusts you," I encouraged.

"No, the idea that the military will make him a better man. Shipping a guy off to a war zone—that just makes him meaner."

I sighed and looked away. "I hope you're wrong."

I turned back to see him, one eye closed, aiming his gun at nothing. "Bang!" he said.

"What're you doing?" I wondered.

"Just playing cowboy." He flipped the gun in circles around his finger, like an old time gunslinger.

"Stop that."

"What?"

"You're making me nervous, twirling that gun around. What if it goes off?"

"It won't go off." He holstered the weapon anyway, and turned to me. "You know, I once shot a man just to see him die," he said dryly.

"Oh, you did not!"

"Okay, maybe not. You want me to walk you home?"

"I guess. We...could go play some billiards first. There's nothing to do at home and I'm up for a game."

"Yeah, I've got nothin' to do, either," Spike said, as he started walking in the direction of the pool hall.

When he talked, it was like a tomcat purring. I always found cats very sexy—for some girls, it's horses, but to me, when I heard a cat purr or mew or do anything feline, I felt aroused.

Perfect day

Spike was walking with me in Lincoln Park. A woman wearing a camisole and a very short, tight skirt walked by. "Slut," Spike muttered under his breath.

I pulled away from him and sat down on a bench, resting my head on my hands and my elbows on my knees.

Spike sat down beside me on the bench. "C'mon, what's wrong?"

"You don't like sluts," I muttered.

"Yeah..?"

I turned my head in his direction, but did not meet his eyes. "In case you forgot, I was a prostitute!"

"But you're not now."

"But I was."

"You were out on the street. Homeless. You did what you had to do to survive. When the opportunity came to get out, you did. Look…" He seemed to be considering his phrasing carefully. "Vicious and me were out on the street once, just kids—homeless—until Mao took us in. I know what it's like to have nothing."

"I didn't want to sleep with all those men," I said through tears.

"I know."

"All I really want is one guy, a house, a family."

Spike shook his head slightly. "No kids."

This was an odd thing to say, considering we were still just friends...supposedly. "Huh?"

"A man and a woman is enough. Kids are a chore. They're a nuisance. Besides, why would anybody want to bring another life into this miserable world?"

I looked at him curiously.

"What?" he snapped.

"Spike, you have issues, don't you?"

He squirmed. "Yeah, I guess." Hurriedly, he changed the subject. "So to me, you're not a slut. I was talking about women who give themselves away for free."

"Okay." That ended that. "So, what are we doing today? Do you wanna go to the zoo? They've got a new petting zoo section where they allow you to feed the animals."

Spike looked disinterested. "Ahh, animals! I don't—"

"Spike!" I interrupted. "Are you too cool for everything? You don't like kids, you don't like pets…"

"Okay, okay! We'll go to the zoo!"

At the petting zoo, I shoved a fuzzy, white bunny at Spike. "You want me to hold a bunny?" he asked, as though I had suggested he extinguish the sun or do something scientifically impossible.

"Just do it!" I ordered. I placed it in his hands.

He dropped it.

The rabbit hopped away to the far side of the enclosure.

I glared at him. "I didn't do it on purpose, I swear!" he insisted.

Afterwards, we went to the movies.

"Did you have to bring me to see an ancient kiddie movie?" Spike demanded. "I like bloody martial arts film. This movie, I mean, c'mon, it's about a deer and a rabbit who talk! What is with you and rabbits?"

"But admit it," I began, pushing my hands onto his chest. "Weren't you just a little sad when Bambi's mother died?"

He took a drag from his cigarette, then shrugged. "Well…"

"You were crying!"

"No, I wasn't!"

"You were—" I began, pinching his cheek.

"I wasn't—Julia, listen, I wasn't!" he insisted with all of his might.

"You sniffled. I heard you sniffle."

"Maybe I'm catching a cold."

I smiled knowingly.

"Look, I didn't cry. I didn't sniffle. If I did anything during that dead deer scene, I shrugged."

"Uh-huh," I said doubtfully.

"Look, can we just drop the subject? I mean, why get so high on idea of whether I can cry or not. I can't. I won't. End of story."

"Besides, I think we fell in love just like the creatures did in the film."

"So I fell in love like a stupid moron who gets 'twitter pated' by the sight of the first female of his kind? I've seen other females besides you, Julia."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Anyway, Bambi's mother getting bagged ain't got nothing on my sad story."

"You're so jaded. How'd you get that way? There's an old song Frank Sinatra did way back in the twentieth century that reminds me of you. It's called, 'I Get a Kick out of You.' Nothing interests of excites this guy. He's so jaded."

"Except when he sees this particular girl," Spike broke in. "Yeah, that may be me. I do get a kick out of you."

I smiled.

Then he answered my earlier question. "I was born jaded."

When he walked me back to my door, I pulled him inside. "Julia," Spike worriedly chided as I loosened his tie. "This isn't right."

I looked him in the eyes. "You love me," I stated firmly.

He hadn't told me, he had tried to keep it a secret. But I knew it. You can't hide a thing like that very well for long. "Yeah, okay, but.." he began. "I made a promise to Vicious."

I put my arms on his shoulders. "I've fallen for you, too," I confessed. "We're in love and I want to see where this goes. Sometimes that happens—you meet somebody new. Vicious will have to understand."

"Vicious won't understand," Spike said. "Look, you told him you would wait for him."

Without thinking, the words slipped from my tongue. "Women are all liars. You should know that better than anyone, being so jaded."

He stared at me.

I blushed. "I don't know why I said that."

"Let's just call it a night," Spike decided, backing towards the door. "See ya tomorrow, okay?" He walked out and closed the door.

I stood still for a moment, then I realized I was clutching Spike's tie in my hand. A knock sounded at the door. "Julia?" I smiled.

"The door's still unlocked."

Spike popped in. "Forgot my tie. What are you looking at me like that for?"

"One kiss."

"And what?" The tie was now in his hand.

"Then you can go home."

He was staring hesitantly at me one second, then his lips were upon mine. My temperature rose past the fever point. I couldn't believe I was actually kissing him. It seemed so right and so taboo at the same time.

I unfastened his shirt, one button at a time. "You said I could go home," he argued weakly.

"Women are all—"

"Women are all liars. Right," he said, dropping his jacket and shirt to the floor. "Okay, I give up."

When we were both undressed, he was hesitant, so I took his hand and guided it in the places I wanted it to go. He seemed somehow innocent—if you could believe anyone affiliated with the Red Dragons could be innocent. I didn't know what his past romantic or sexual history was, and I didn't ask. Somehow the notion that he had had others disturbed me, though I myself had a checkered past. I wished I could erase all that. Wished that I could make him my first. Maybe I could make him my last. That would count for something, wouldn't it?

Basking in the afterglow, I felt it was the first time I had ever really, truly made love.

I was hesitant about the question, but I asked anyway.

"Spike, that was your first time, wasn't it?"

He grunted. "I was that bad, huh?"

"No, it's not that. Still, I knew...But Spike, tell me one thing."

"Yeah?"

"You're a virile, drop dead gorgeous young man and you don't exactly come from a religious background. How is it--?"

"How is it this is my first time?"

"Yeah."

He leaned on his elbow. "You know that song, 'You Make Me Cool'?"

"Yeah."

"They wrote that song about me."

I sat up, not taking his words literally. He didn't actually know the songwriters, I'm sure. "You mean, you think you're too cool for any of the girls who might have wanted you?"

"Yeah. They were losers. Not worth my time."

I shoved him. "Spike, you think you're too cool for everything!"

"Not too cool for you."

"Thanks, I think."

Spike turned to the side of the bed, reaching down to pick up his clothes. When he had put on his slacks, I asked him, "Hey, you aren't leaving, are you?"

"I can't stay here all night!" he insisted. "Look, they're gonna know."

"Do you really think they're watching us all the time?"

"Julia, if someone tells—"

"Just—" I struggled for words. "You just don't do me and leave. That isn't right."

He slipped on his undershirt. "Julia, we could both get in a lot of trouble!"

I sighed. "All right. I understand."

I hadn't worried so much then about what was wrong and what was right. If it was better to wait, or the idea that just because you realized you loved someone didn't mean you had to sleep with him. Or that you shouldn't betray a man—a gangster, nonetheless—that you made promises to. But one thing I knew—whatever mistakes Spike and I made, our love was real. And maybe it could be preserved.

Guinevere and Lancelot while King Arthur is away

After that first night at my place, we decided the best way to deal with the possibility of people finding out about our affair was to be casual about it. To not be paranoid. We didn't advertise it, but we didn't constantly sneak around in shadows, either. Mao was in on the secret, and Annie as well. Lin perhaps we should have been more careful around. He was Spike's subordinate, but his worship really went to Vicious. Now his brother Shin was a loyal friend to me until the end.

But don't think we were always making like rabbits. Sometimes Spike would go for days without hardly even touching me. He was aloof, as though he were just tolerating me tagging along.

"I hate you, Julia," he once said. "You took my self-control. My independence."

"You hate me?" I asked cautiously.

He nodded grimly. "Yeah, and you should know it. But I love you more than I hate you."

I think that was the only time he ever said "I love you", sandwiching it safely between many other words.

Those days, before Vicious returned, were like a dream. We laughed, we played. I showed him all he had been missing in life—I'm not just talking sex and romance here. There were sights to see, events to experience, rides to be ridden. I was like Pocahontas showing John Smith the wonders of the world. I took him everywhere—galleries, theme parks, concerts, restaurants, arena sports—yes, the sports were my idea. Spike had considered himself, although a man, too cool for spectator sports. "Where we going today, Julia?" he would ask, and his eyes would light up with a life they hadn't before. And even on days he had work and couldn't play tourist with me, I would cheer him up by making faces at him or doing something silly. "I didn't know a beautiful girl could be so goofy."

Spike, in turn, taught me self-defense. He taught me how to use a gun. And he taught me the basics of kung fu. Sometimes all that close contact during my martial arts lessons ended up leading back to something else, one of the usual things that lovers do together.

One of our outings was to a fancy but free art gallery. Spike stared quizzically at a piece of abstract art, tilting his head like an owl.

"What?" I asked.

"This piece is worth a billion woolongs. I could do that! Just randomly pour paint on a canvas."

"C'mon, I know a great American restaurant—"

"What about the gallery café?"

"It sucks. Trust me."

Later, at the restaurant, Spike had eaten his burgers and fries and was staring at an empty plate. Then he squeezed some ketchup on it, then some mustard. "Voila! Instant art."

A waiter came by and took the plate. "Hey, don't wash that!" Spike called out after him. "It's a masterpiece."

I giggled. Those were good times.

Another time we went to Space Land. After the Ultra Roller Coaster, I teased him, "Your eyes were wide and your knuckled were white."

"I WAS—" He lowered his voice and spoke calmly. "I wasn't scared. But I just don't understand why people would put themselves through such stress on purpose. There's enough things for them to be scared about in real life."

"The roller coaster scared you—"

"I wasn't scared!"

"But doing a barrel roll in your spaceship is fun."

"Yeah, it is. It could beat any of the rides in this sucky place."

"Oh, c'mon, this place is magic!"

"If you like standing in the heat all day, waiting three hours to get on a three minute ride."

"You've got to take me up in your ship sometime."

"Why?"

"So I can see if a barrel roll is more fun than all the rides in Space Land." I smiled. "You like to complain about all the places we go to, but I can tell, deep down, you're actually having fun."

"Huh," he said, as if that were a novel concept to him. "Maybe I am."

More time alone

I didn't like to poke my nose into Spike's and Vicious' business as members of the Red Dragons syndicate. I preferred not to think of it at all. Though I was on their payroll, too, for singing at a club they owned.

These are the things I knew—the syndicate was into extortion, drug deals, and bootlegging. I didn't think there was a lot of murder—at least I didn't want to think that. Spike and Vicious told me they had been in firefights. Things must have gotten pretty violent for Spike to have lost his eye.

One day, at my place, Spike and I were lying on the floor, dressed in our workout clothes, trying to catch our breath. We just lay there like that for a few minutes, then I asked, totally irrelevant to anything that had been going on, "Spike? I know you have to use a gun sometimes, but you don't kill people in cold blood, do you?"

"I don't kills for thrills," he replied. "But sometimes you have to shoot them before they shoot you."

"Oh," I said warily. "Self defense."

He laid a hand lightly on my hand. "I don't consider myself a murderer."

"Why are you in this business? You're not even interested in getting rich quick, so why muscle people for money?"

"I'm owned by the Red Dragons. Mao took me and Vicious in when we were starving on the streets. He did us half a favor. Now I can't leave, and neither can you."

"Mao likes you," I said slowly, thoughtfully. "Wouldn't he understand it if you wanted to leave?"

"He might, but those three old coots who run the show wouldn't."

I should've have realized Spike was gentler than the others. Like the time I had been with him when he had to collect some money from an independent business owner under the syndicate's "protection"—actually, we did protect those people; it's just that they didn't ask us to in the first place. The man insisted he was low on funds. Times were tough. Spike, without permission, brusquely searched the premises for money. But when he saw the guy was telling the truth, he said reasonably, "Okay, I believe you. But try to have it next time. Even if you have to have a bake sale."

It's not that, with my past, I had any right to judge Spike. But for some reason, I just wanted him to be innocent. Even though, when I acted out on my lust for him, I was the one who caused him to fall from grace. But there was no getting around it. Spike was the proverbial Bad Boy. At least he wasn't evil. At least he was better than most of the people he worked with. At least.

We were sitting at my table, nursing cigarettes and cups of coffee. I was gazing at the newspaper, remarking on the list of the top ten moneymakers in the solar system. "Imagine what we could do with all that money."

Spike waved the notion aside. "No big deal. I don't collect much of anything. I don't wear lots of gold and silver."

"Are you saying you don't care much for money?"

He shrugged and smirked.

"Well, then, why are you in the business you're in, Mister?"

"Just where I found myself."

"That's it. We're getting out of this someday for certain."

He wanted to change the subject. "Money is overrated. You know another thing that's overrated? Sex."

I slammed my fists down on the table, rattling the coffee cups and spilling some of the beverage on the table. "What?!"

He looked at me quizzically. "What are you so uptight about?"

"Oh, you're so sensitive!" I cried sarcastically. "I'm the only one you ever had—if you're judging sex by that, you're also judging me!"

"I'm not—"

"In case you forgot, you seemed to be enjoying yourself last night!"

"Well, sure, but I'm just talking about the concept, not you personally."

I smirked with self-satisfaction at him. "Let's see you dig yourself out of this one."

"Am I gonna have to buy you something?"

"No. Let's see...you think you're too cool for sex or money. That's why you're saying they're overrated."

"Haven't we had this conversation before? Look, would you rather I was a greedy pervert?"

"No, it's just that...well, you're so detached from everything! Sometimes I don't think you're even alive!"

"You're alive," he said simply.

I blinked in confusion. "Hunh?"

"You're more alive than anyone I've ever met. Maybe you can do the living for both of us."

From a park bench, Spike and I watched brightly dressed families exit a cathedral on Sunday morning. Children's laughter echoed. "Do you suppose they live better lives than us?" I wondered.

Spike lifted a cigarette from his lips. "What do you mean—morally? Or that they're happier?"

"I don't know. Do you believe in God, Spike?"

Not wanting to commit to an answer, he grunted and looked up at the sky.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I pressed. "Really, Spike, I'm serious."

He was silent for a moment, then launched into a story. "My father was Jewish and my mother was Catholic. I got conflicting views. Both were devout, good people in a way. I lost them pretty early on. I haven't had any religious instruction since."

"Yeah, but do you believe in God?"

"I guess so. Not sure He believes in me."

I looked at him.

"What would he want to do with me?" Spike tried to explain. "A street kid turned gangster?"

"You're getting nicer everyday," I returned. "Maybe that's His involvement."

"Or maybe it's yours. I think you're the one who gave me a conscience."

I smiled. "That's sweet, Spike. But you had one before me, I'm sure of it."

"I'm not so sure. Do you believe in God?"

Turnabout is fair play, I suppose. "I do," I said carefully. "But I'm too afraid of Him, like I've sinned too much and crossed some barrier where I can't be forgiven."

Spike folded his hands behind his head. "Yeah...that's how I feel."

"Then have we damned ourselves, Spike? Have we no future when we die?"

He slumped down in his seat. "Maybe we're going to Hell. Or maybe we're in Hell already." I met his gaze. His eyes stared back, sad and lifeless.

I decided our outing next week would be actually checking out the house of worship. And thus began the adventures of Spike in Church…

I wore a modest black dress he had brought me back from Tijuana. It had black lace down the sides and a peacock embroidered on front.

Spike was in his blue suit. "Seeing you in that dress alone is worth the price of admission."

"Spike, silly, they don't charge admission to church!"

"Then why do they pass those little metal plates around for?"

"Those are called tithes and offerings."

"So, I'm not required to tip anything?"

"No, no, you're not required to 'tip'!"

We sat in a pew near the back. A nice old lady greeted us, and a middle-aged man nodded at us approvingly. "The stained glass windows sure are pretty," I remarked to my companion.

"Uh-huh," Spike said simply.

The service started, and I tried to sing along with hymns I did not know. Spike just stood there with the hymnal open, but not opening his mouth. Not being a hypocrite, I suppose.

Problems arose during the sermon, which was long and boring. Spike yawned—quite loudly—and stretched—quite widely. I jabbed him in the ribs. "Ow!" Then he started rhythmically kicking the bottom of the pew in front of us—and there were people in it! They glared back at us. "Oops, sorry, I wasn't thinking," Spike muttered. I shook my head and felt my face turn red.

The preacher said something loud and emphatically. "Though Christ alone is salvation." Spike raised his hand as if to ask a question. He kept it up for several minutes, it seemed. Finally, I whispered in his ear, "It's not a question and answer session."

"But how am I--?"

"Ask him after the service!"

Finally, the meeting ended. We got to greet the minister at the door. "What was that question you had?" he wondered.

Spike looked blank. "I forgot. Look, I'm sorry, I'm out of my element here."

"Well, we'll welcome you back. Give it a chance to make it your element."

"Will do," Spike said, and we walked out the door.

Alas, we never went back.