Edward's Version

by arrianrhod

A version of Edward's human life, as a letter to his daughter. There may be some inconsistencies; I am anxious to hear what native Chicagoan's think, and their suggestions, too! Enjoy; credits at the end.

PG-13 for some mild language, two somehwat graphic "death by vampire" and mild adult content. This is Edward's human life. Credits for using some ideas are at the end of the story.

Edward's Story:

I hesitate to write this. But, my daughter has asked all of us to write down our human recollections, as far as we are able. As she is half human, it's important to her, to know what we were. My human story is a very dim memory; much detail has been lost to time and circumstance. But, since Ness is standing here, pleading with me, with her mother's enormous dark brown eyes melting into mine, it's hard to put off any longer. She's become quite adept at this technique; Ness appears to be about 8 years old now, although she's really only been alive 2 ½ years.

I can hear Jasper clicking away on his laptop, set up by the window wall at the back of the house. Emmett, never much of a writer, will have to be interviewed. Perhaps it would give Bella something to work on, since her story is so recent, and Ness knows it by heart now.

And Bella is by far the best writer of all of us.

Esme still can't talk much about her human life. I've gathered it was not pleasant, although she's never confided the details, or even thought enough about them in my presence for me to gain a clear understanding of her circumstance.

Carlisle's will take some time. He works on his story from time-to-time, between shifts at the hospital. Rosalie finished hers weeks ago; but that's Rose, any excuse for an audience.

Alice can only recall her early days as a vampire. She may or may not write that down.

Well, Ness, since you're still standing by my shoulder, tugging on my shirtsleeve, I'd better start.

I was born 12th March, 1901, in Chicago, Illinois, to Edward James and Elizabeth Neal Masen. I had no brothers or sisters, although it wasn't for my parent's lack of trying. I gather my mother had at least one miscarriage and one still birth, prior to my healthy arrival.

She had many miscarriages after me. I don't recall the number.

I do remember our large, modern foursquare style house in the expanding residential neighborhoods north of Chicago, hushed and dark while my mother was "ill". In the worst heat of summer the windows would be shut tight, the shades drawn. I wasn't allowed outside to play, nor was I permitted to play or make any noise, indoors.

So I read. Anything I could find. All the grand, classic adventures like "Treasure Island", "The Red Badge of Courage", "The Four Feathers", "Moby Dick", "Gunga Din", the epic poem "The Charge of the Light Brigade"; anything that involved battles, excitement and feats of heroic derring-do. I was a precocious reader, and those imaginary worlds took me away from the sadness and discomfort in the house.

Especially since my hard-faced Irish maternal grandmother would come to help when my mother was bedridden. Gran was terse, cold, and expected complete obedience. If she didn't get it, she'd pinch. Hard. My arms, the base of my neck and the tops of my ears were usually covered with small purple bruises by the time she went home again.

Sometimes, I remember, it took my mother a long time to feel well enough again to sit at the grand piano, my family's pride and joy, and play and sing, even softly. That was my cue that she was well again; I would come home from school, swinging my satchel with my school books, itching to take off my school jacket and tie, change into play clothes and go out and run wild around the neighborhood with Christopher (two doors down; had a huge oak with a tree fort. Best place to play in the neighborhood, as they also had a creek running through the back of the property) and Michael (directly behind ours; a huge, old Victorian pile, complete with crenellations and a tower. It made a terrific pirate ship).

I could hear the piano from the corner, if the windows were open, and I'd run as fast as I could for home when I heard that sound.

And, jumping the porch steps two at a time, flinging open the screen door and running into the spacious front room, I'd see her, her dark red hair pinned up, wearing one of her old, faded "house dresses", looking pale but her eyes shining as she played. I had to remember to be gentle with her, and not fling my self at her and squeeze as hard as I could, I missed her so much. My mother would smile so sweetly at me, although she was still weak, all my childish resentment at the "illnesses" that took her away from me, vanished.

All thoughts of the creek, the tree house and my friends were forgotten in those moments. I'd sit as quietly as I could manage at 6 or 7 or 9 or however old I was after the latest "attack", and she'd show me a new finger exercise or progression or little piece of a song, and we'd play it over and over together. She taught me to play, and I've tried to honor her memory by keeping it up.

Those happy times are my clearest memories. The smell of the piano, the varnish and waxed woodwork in the house, the clean smell of the fresh breeze wafting through, when the windows were open again. My mother's comforting presence, after the dark fear that she might never rise from her sickbed again (although that was something I never ever thought to myself, it was always there).

My father was a portly man with a huge, fashionable mustache and small round glasses. He was a lawyer and a man of importance in Chicago city politics ("just dabbling" he'd explain, with a chuckle). He was also "progressive" for the time, even secretly agreeing with the Women's Suffrage Movement. "My wife knows more about politics than I do," he'd boast, "I'd rather her have the vote than some of those bastard sons of donkey's asses in City Hall!" This last comment was usually delivered in a full-throated roar, when he was in his cups with a bunch of political cronies.

I, of course, was supposed to be in bed asleep when these discussions would occur with my parent's circle of dinner guests. However, I was perched, just out of sight on the first landing, my nightshirt wrapped around my knees, listening to all of the "cigar talk" after dinner. I can still remember the smell of my father's cigar, too.

I heard everything about mobbed-up, corrupt Aldermen, police chiefs, mayors, tax collectors, city code enforcers. Who owed who what favors, what and how much. Who was in whose pockets. How many bribes had to be paid to get this building approved, that building contract finalized, the unions placated.

Had I ever been kidnapped by the mob, I thought, my over-active imagination running away from me, they'd have to kill me, I knew so much.

My father liked everything in the newest, most modern, most progressive style. Our house was the newest, most modern design, with all the newest, most modern amenities of electricity and plumbing. We had a "modern" stove and even an icebox by the back kitchen door. Ice deliveries were made twice a week in the winter, and every other day in the hot Chicago summers. The iceman's name was Bob, and he drove a horse-drawn delivery carriage. I can't believe I can recall this, but the horse's name was Phil. As in Philomena (a mare). Us little boys thought a mare named Phil was hilarious, which is why I think I remember that detail.

When I was a very little boy, my little friends and I would hop up on the box, and ride with Bob to the end of the street, "helping" him with his deliveries (we'd collect the money, and he taught us how to count out change). In the summer, Bob would give us ice chips to suck on. We usually ended up dropping them down each other's backs.

The house was large, with four bedrooms; my parent's room had its own "water closet", tub and two sinks. We also had two more bathrooms: one on the second floor and then a "water closet" on the first floor, off the kitchen. Very high-end for the times.

The house had a grand staircase, with a large, lower landing, and an upper "turning". All the wood was dark quarter-sawn oak, as well as maple and other, more exotic wood trims. Large windows, highly polished floors and a feeling of light and space are what I recall most about that house.

Nowadays, wealthy young professional families restore these old homes to look exactly like our house did when it was new. I wonder if the old place is still standing.

In addition to those modern conveniences, we had a small closet that held a telephone, and a light that would come on when the door opened and the little room was occupied. Great place to play hide-and-seek on a rainy day, I recall.

We had two servants, Molly the cook and Maureen the housekeeper. Maureen was silent, I don't recall if she ever spoke a word to me, directly. I remember her soft, "Yes, Mrs. Masen," and "Yes, ma'am" to my mother. She lived alone in a rooming house not far away. I gathered she was a "spinster". Her skills as a housekeeper were absolutely flawless; I remember everything being always "just so", to the point I didn't think about it. I found out how valuable that can be, when your grandfather and I were "bach-ing" it, before your grandmother joined us, and straightened us out. I seemed to always be out of clean, matched socks.

The carriage house at the back of the wide, smooth rear lawn, held the most wondrous thing of all. A motorcar. One of the first in our neighborhood. It was shiny and black, with thin gold stripes running over the fenders and around the doors. It had a collapsible black oilcloth top, and glittering glass windows. The headlamps were electric (!) and made of brass. The seats were tufted, luxurious black leather. It choked and coughed and belched smoke and steam and made a loud racket as it "warmed up" each morning to carry my father to the office. But, to me, it was magic. The feel of the wind on my face, faster than I could run. And, to be honest, the envious stares of our neighbors as the car puttered its way down the dusty street, leaving its own little dust cloud in its wake. The speed and feeling of power from the oily black engine, that my father would show me from time-to-time (usually when I begged and whined), was intoxicating.

Even if it couldn't go much over 23 miles-per-hour.

My father taught me to drive it when I was just 12 years old, and could just barely reach all the controls. My growth spurt at 13 made it much easier.

It was a fine April morning, birds singing in the trees, sunlight streaming through the open windows along with a soft breeze, scented with the lilacs that grew behind the house. I was listlessly pushing the remains of my breakfast around my plate, wondering what to do with the day (both Chris and Mike were gone, visiting relatives over the Easter break from school), when my father folded up his newspaper abruptly, slapping it on the table.

"Ed, my boy, it's time you learned a new skill," he said heartily. I was immediately suspicious that this "new skill" might involve tools, the yard and a day doing chores; my father believed physical labor was a good "teaching" method, never mind we hired a "yard man" to do the work. "Let's go out to the carriage house and I'll show you what to do." He hoisted himself up from the table, adjusting the waistband of his trousers around his well-stuffed belly as he did so.

"Ward, what are you planning to do?" my mother asked, not looking up from her ladies magazine as she sipped her tea. Her tone was light, but deeply suspicious.

I should say here that I took much more after my tall, slender, willowy mother, than my shorter, darker, stouter father. At least, he was dark at one time, but his hair and moustache were snow-white in most of my memory of him. My mother and I shared the exact same hair (red-brown) and eye (bluish-green) color, as well as a sprinkling of pale freckles across our noses.

At 12, I was already taller than most boys my age, which came in handy in school yard fights. I did get my father's strength, which was fortunate.

Although I was more intelligent than most of my classmates, I was also gifted at knowing what people were thinking. It wasn't nearly as pronounced as it is now, with being able to hear actual thoughts, but I always had a good idea of what was going on in someone's head, before they spoke the thought out loud.

It came in handy at school, particularly when my friends and I were misbehaving in the back of the classroom. I always knew just when to be quiet, so I was rarely caught. When I was caught, it seemed I always knew just what to say, most of the time, to get out of it.

When I couldn't: well, let's just say that a ruler across the palm really hurts.

My father said I was a "people person". My mother just said I was observant. I know now it was something much more.

Back to that spring morning. "Oh, just a little something to occupy the day," said my father, a little too casually for my mother's liking. She hmph'd into her teacup, but didn't say anything else.

I stood up reluctantly, wondering what chore I was going to spend all day doing. I noticed our cook Molly, at her post in front of the sink, looking warily at us out of the corner of her eye.

Molly was a blustery, plump older lady, with a sizeable family of her own to support. Although she rarely gave her opinion outright, unless asked, you always knew, by the set of her mouth, the position of her hands (on her hips if she disapproved) and the square of her shoulders, exactly what she thought about any given enterprise, from my mother's new hat to my father's latest political deal.

Right now, she looked skeptical.

I followed my father out the back door, down the brick steps to the graveled, combed path that led to the carriage house. The doors were closed, but almost never locked. The only time they were locked was during some of the labor riots, a few years before. That's another story I'll get to in a little while.

He opened the doors wide, and walked toward the front of the car, flicking on the electric light on his way past the switch. I thought he was heading for the supply of yard tools, hung on nails and hooks at the back of the garage. He stopped at the driver's door, and opened it.

"Hop in, Ed. It's time you learned how to run this durned thing."

I couldn't believe my ears. Me? Drive? The car?
I stopped, standing half-in, half-out of the garage, my mouth agape. "Me? Really?"

The old man broke into a roar of laughter, "Yes, you, silly boy! Now, you going to stand there catching flies, or get in and start 'er up?!"

I ran for the front seat.

My driving lessons, which lasted the remainder of that spring and early summer, were not without their pitfalls. I did some serious damage to the Cavendish's new lawn, trying to avoid the Mullaly's elderly collie, who liked to sunbathe in the middle of the street. She was also deaf, and ignored the shrieking horn and wild swerving of the car.

My father frequently lost patience with my slow reflexes and lack of automotive knowledge. I stalled the engine frequently, and ground the clutch every time I downshifted from second gear to first.

But, my father and I did bond, and I learned a variety of new curse words. To be fair, they were usually directed at the car. I was very popular for that reason; I taught all my friends my new words. In fact, Chris's mother had to have a discussion with my mother over Chris's more expansive vocabulary, and where he learned it. The traitor gave me away.

Ivory soap tastes terrible.

My father also eventually taught me how to do some minor repairs on the engine, which I found fascinating. The brilliance of the design, the use of basic scientific principals to create something so magical and useful.

And really, I loved driving. It was my first real taste of adult freedom and power. I loved the wind on my face, the feel of the powerful engine under my control and command, the thrill of pushing the throttle open and the car speeding forward. And, my father chuckling delightedly from the passenger seat as my skill increased.

Chicago wasn't all pastoral, suburban pleasantness at that time. Instead, it was a big, bustling, rapidly expanding city, "The most progressive in America," my father would proclaim. After the Great Fire, the city went on a building boom. Since stone was too heavy for the marshy ground to support the giant buildings the city fathers wanted, steel was being used to erect modern, box-like buildings that were enormously tall. My father loved to take me downtown and show me the latest, newest building going up. I marveled at the men walking along the steel beams, so high off the ground. There was a new "sanitary canal" being dug, to improve the water quality in the lake and the river. The most modern building codes were enacted, after the fire, to ensure public safety. Trolleys rumbled up and down the streets, the carriages threading their way through them. There was always something new and exciting to see, and the city just hummed.

We'd hosted the Columbia Exposition, just around the time I was born. My father would describe the wonders he saw there, and how the huge Ferris wheel was parked not too far away from where we lived, for a time. He was also convinced that the motorcar and telephone were "the way forward." How right he was.

During these outings, he'd invariably take me to lunch at The Palmer House, or one of his chop bars, where I'd be introduced around to his various cronies and clients. A trip to the barber shop at the Palmer House was a ritual, as well; my first induction to my father's world. My father took me to the barber shop when I was, I think, five years old, for the first time. The men's talk swirled around me, and I understood very little. It wasn't until I was old enough to be introduced to my father's friends like a grownup, that I got an idea how involved he really was in Chicago politics.

At about 15, he started taking me along with him to the steam rooms, chop houses and other unofficial men's "clubs" in the City. "This is my boy, Ed," my father would introduce me, with a firm pat on the back. I can't recall the blur of names and faces I'd met.

My father taught me to smoke cigars, drink whisky ("Don't, for the love of God, say anything to your mother!" he'd admonish, even looking nervously over his shoulder), play cards and work a room. I of course could tell who was sincere, who's smile was false, who was out to stab my father, or any of the other men, in the back. I didn't, of course, know how I knew that. My father began asking for advice when my warnings proved correct. I know that I loved my father, but that he was a very busy and important. He didn't spend a lot of time at home, but I do know that he loved and was very proud of my mother. I think he thought he did much better for himself, than she did.

Mother was involved in any number of social and charity clubs. "Women's Auxiliary This" and "Chicago Ladies That". There were always teas, banquets and dances to be organized. She was also, very quietly, on a Suffrage committee, as well as a women's health committee. Those were politically difficult at the time, but my father respected her interests, and agreed with her political views, even if he had to keep his own carefully neutral.

Although the United States was experiencing unprecedented growth and prosperity, it came at a price.

Corruption was rampant; really, in some ways, the government was run just like a modern "banana republic". Unions were organizing, and union-busting was rampant.

And "busting" is a good word to describe what was done to the poor, ground-down workers trying to improve their lives. Heads, jaws, arms, faces, backs, legs, all were "busted" in the name of big business trying to stamp out worker organization. The Wobblies, Teamsters, AFL-CIO all were organizing at that time. Riots were frequent, as was racial tension as thousands and thousands of African Americans came north, looking for better jobs and more opportunity. Only to find the north was just as segregated as the South, albeit less formally.

I remember one hot, hazy, humid summer afternoon. I was probably about six, and was playing with my lead soldiers on our wide, spacious front porch, Molly shelling beans on the glider at the far end, both of us wishing for a cool breeze. Suddenly, I heard our car turning down the street, obviously in a great hurry.

I jumped up to see a cloud of dust, the black car in the middle of it, pouring down our street at a great rate. Not understanding, I waved at my father, grim-faced in the driver's seat. He glared straight ahead, turning hard onto the gravel drive. There were three other men with him, all equally sour-looking, clinging to seat backs and the roof supports as the car lurched and bounced down the drive into the carriage house. I ran around the big porch to the spot where it ended on the side of the house. I could just see into the garage from that position. I heard Molly jump up and dash into the house, calling, "Mrs. Masen, Mrs. Masen, come quick! The Mister's home!"

The men jumped out of the car, even before my father had fully stopped it. They raced for the garage windows, slamming them shut and locking them. My father tested the side door to the garage, then shooed the men out, quickly hauling the main doors shut, and locking them firmly with the big brass key that was always in the lock.

My father actually pocketed the key, leaving the garage locked tight. He and the men all rushed for the house, setting up camp in the kitchen. My father dashed for the phone closet, shutting himself in and barking commands into it for the remainder of the afternoon.

The men moved back and forth, between Molly's sandwiches and lemonade (spiked, naturally) in the kitchen, to the phone, taking turns making calls, taking calls and yelling at whoever was on the other line. More men arrived, came and went.

I was exiled to my room.

Theoretically, anyway.

I spent most of the time in my hiding spot on the landing, running for my room when I heard Molly heading for the stairs with a snack for me. Really, I don't think she was fooled.

I wasn't sure what was going on, but I'd gathered (and later learned) that a large riot, whipped up by the IWW, or "Wobblies" as they were called, had taken place. The symbol of the black cat, it's back arched, screaming, was posted all over Chicago.

That was the IWW symbol for sabotage.

Those men were various city officials, trying to regain control. They didn't know how far the riots would spread or if any of the rioters would be coming after them. And my father was right in the thick of it all.

I was very proud of his heroism. And I wanted to emulate it.

I remember Christmas at my parent's house. Christmas trees weren't quite a tradition for most people yet, but we always had one. My mother had an eye for design, so the house was beautifully decorated with swags of greenery, mistletoe and holly, lots of spiced candles and bowls of a spicy evergreen potpourri.

I think I had Aunts and Uncles on both sides, because I remember the house crowded with "relatives" every year. But, I think they moved away to make their fortunes out west. I do know my father's brother Tom moved to Montana to start a ranch, with his large family. I think I remember hearing they did well out there.

Those are the parts of my human memories that are faded and unclear; my relations and some of my childhood memories.

I always received many presents, usually one "big" present, and a lot of small ones. I wish I could remember some of them. I think a bicycle was involved one year, though I know my mother disapproved of such things. She thought it too dangerous.

Here's a good story: Why Our Cellar Always Smelled Like Pickles.

Molly grew vegetables in abundance at her house, and spent every summer with my mother pickling in our big kitchen. She also put up preserves, jams and jellies of all kinds. I remember the kitchen full of glass jars, steaming pots and the smell of either sugar syrup or vinegar permeating the entire house (much to Maureen's apparent dismay, as she'd stomp around, flinging open all the windows). Sometimes both, which was a little unappetizing.

The best, most choice, was my mother's plum preserve. A neighbor had a huge plum tree, and us kids could pick all we wanted. I brought them all home for jam.

Our preserves and pickles were stored in the large cellar, on shelving that ran along one wall. The shelves were high, and always well stocked.

Well, it must have been late spring, or early summer, because we were down to the last jar of plum preserve. I had been wandering dejectedly around the house, avoiding my grandmother. It was another time when Mother was bedridden, and I couldn't go out to play. I was anxious about her, but wasn't allowed near her.

The cellar was the coolest place in the stuffy house, so I'd taken my picture book down there to read. That's when I saw the jar, glinting in the faint light from the low basement windows, on the very top shelf. It was probably up there to keep it out of my reach. I was only about 6 or so, and so that shelf should have been safe.

However, Molly didn't reckon on a bored little boy. I HAD to have that jam.

Stealthily, convinced I'd be found out at any moment, I started climbing the shelves. I could almost taste the jam's deep sweetness on my tongue, with the faint hint of sourness from the plums. It was almost creamy; I wished I could find a way to have some toast with it.

I was balanced on one of the top shelves, my fingers just reaching out for the glistening glass jar, its contents fairly winking at me when, disaster.

I was never sure if a shelf broke under my weight, or came loose from its bracket, but all of a sudden, I was falling to the ground, shelving and jars of pickled vegetables falling around me, smashing on the hard-packed stone and earth floor. I think I must have yelled out as that last, precious jar of plum preserves bounced off my fingertips and smashed itself to pieces, inches from my hand, syrup running everywhere.

Suffice to say, the house was in uproar almost instantly. Unfortunately, I wasn't hurt (a few minor cuts, and very sticky from syrup and vinegar), which meant I was punished. First, for causing a commotion and disturbing my mother and second, for the stunt itself. We lost half a year's worth of pickles and jams and I never stopped hearing about it. I was off jam for the remainder of the year as punishment.

Molly and Maureen never could get the smell of vinegar and pickling spice out of the floor.

Christopher was my best friend, with Michael a close second. I knew both Chris and Mike could be trusted implicitly, after the infamous HMS Victory incident, when we were about 8.

I mentioned before that Michael's house was a huge old Victorian mansion. In fact, his parents held a minor grudge against my parents; they had tried to stop my father from tearing down the huge old Victorian mansion that previously occupied our property, and building our modern "bohemian" house. They apparently thought little of the great architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, a native Chicagoan, on whose designs our house was based.

All the boys in the neighborhood had been begging Mike to find a way for us to play "pirate ship" in the huge turreted tower, which even had a widow's walk. We were bored using Chris's tree house, as it wasn't big enough, and we could never figure out a way to realistically rig sails on it.

One fine summer day, our chance came. Both Mike's parents were out, and his nanny was running errands. About five of us slipped into the dark house and up the stairs to Mike's parents' room. All the windows in the turret opened into that room, and there was a panel in the ceiling that led to the widow's walk.

Mike and Chris, at my insistence, hunted down sheets, whatever rope they could find and old curtain pulls for sails and lines, which we strung from the iron railing that formed the walk. I sent Mike down to observe, and make sure it looked "ship-like".

When we were satisfied, we decided in stead to play "Battle of Trafalgar." I won the "shoot" match for Admiral Nelson (although it meant I'd have to die convincingly at some point), and started barking orders.

We decided officers from the Redoubtable had boarded the ship. I was wounded, so it was up to Chris to defend the Victory from the evil French horde (of which Mike numbered). I ordered him to climb out the window, and sling himself up on to the widow's walk, a good six feet above. That would stun the perfidious French!

He started to whine. But, Admiral Lord Nelson does not suffer whiners! I argued with him, and told him he'd better do it, or else.

Chris slowly, reluctantly, to much abuse and taunting, started hoisting himself out the window. A rope ran from the iron railing above to the center window; Chris intended to climb up the rope to fight off the French above us. His knuckles turned white on the window frame with the force of his grip. He had one knee draped over the sill, one hand on the frame. The other leg was dangling free, and with his free hand, he reached for the rope, and started to pull.

That's when the rope came loose, and gracefully arced to the ground, where it lay in a useless pile, leaving Chris half hanging out the window. Three stories up.

"Help. Oh, Ed! Help, please!?" he called. I thought he was being ridiculous, so I lazily held out one hand to him. He tried to grip it, lost his grip and, through a series of events I just can't seem to recall, ended up hanging by his fingertips to a drain spout about two feet below the bottom of the window.

Much screaming ensued, some of it from me.

The other boys dropped from the ceiling (we'd installed a makeshift ladder of fine, overstuffed chairs to access the little attic space above) and clambered over, offering useful advice, that only a very skilled circus performer could have carried out.

Just about that time, Mike's nanny arrived home.

So, to recap: we'd hung Mrs. McAllister's best sheets, the ones her grandmother had embroidered for her trousseau (Mike later tried to defend him self by saying, "But, Ma, they were old, you never use them!") from a dirty iron railing with dirty old rope and silk curtain ties, had stepped all over and dirtied two of her best upholstered chairs, run roughshod over her room and had climbed in and out of her spotlessly clean windows.

Now, her son's best friend was hanging by his fingertips from a thin copper drainspout, several dozen feet off the ground. Nanny Porter was just about ready to come unhinged.

And she did, screaming unintelligibly at the top of her lungs. I was too busy trying to get Chris back in the window to pay attention.

"Mike! Grab my trouser band, and don't, whatever you do, let go!" I commanded. I tied a loop in the pillow case we had fashioned into Lord Nelson's sling/bandage, and I braced my feet against the wall, leaned out and held out the loop to Chris. "Here, Chris! Hold on to this, I'll pull you back in!" I whispered; why we were whispering remains a mystery.

His feet, in their brown sandals, kicked uselessly at the siding of the house, and he hissed back, "No! You'll drop me! That will never hold. Give me your hand." "I can't reach," I hissed back at him. I heard Mike groan, "C'mon Ed, do something! My arms are tired, and my folks'll be home any minute!" He'd been holding on to my pants for dear life during this exchange, and now sounded panicked.

I sighed, and bent out of the window as far as I could. I could just barely touch the top of Chris' head. "Ok," I whispered, "Grab my hand!" It took him a minute to work up enough courage to let go with one hand, to grab mine. He managed to grab my forearm, and I started to pull. "Mike, pull us in!" Mike braced and pulled for all he was worth. Since he had braced his feet against the wall, dark scuff marks were left in the plaster.

Chris had just hauled his feet into the window, when the McAllisters came around the corner, in their little phaeton carriage, their high-stepping horse tossing his head. Nanny Porter ran shrieking down the front path, her dark dress flapping, to head them off.

Chris brushed the dirt and debris from the siding of the house off his shirt and shorts, grinned at me and said, "Thanks, pal, I owe you one!"

Mike was, of course, grounded. As were Chris and I. We still found ways to sneak out of our respective houses, and continue to run the neighborhood. No matter how hard either of them were grilled (and Mike was belted and paddled), they never gave me up as the one who put them up to the whole thing.

The copper drainpipe was never the same.

Mostly, though, we boys did nothing but run wild through the neighborhood. Chris's tree house was our Alamo, our Fort Bull, Fort William Henry, our pirate corsair, our USS Bonhomme Richard (I was always Capt. John Paul Jones), our wilderness outpost. We fought epic naval battles in the creek, as well as every battle we learned about in school.

George Pulanski's grandfather was a talented carpenter at one time. Now, he helped turn our tree branch swords into actual epee's and scimitars. Fortunately, I never seriously hurt myself or anyone else. Chris had some interesting scars, though, valiantly earned.

The number of times a horse started, brakes squealed, or an adult shrieked in outrage were the number of times we were being pursued by hostile forces behind enemy lines, and we had to run for our lives. Usually in a straight, unconsidered path right into the middle of the street (officially 'no-man's land'), through a back yard, across a garden patch or patio.

Summer evenings were spent with my mother disgustedly trying to get my filthy feet clean in the bathtub, prior to allowing me to climb into clean sheets for bed. She called them "cat baths", and they were more pleasant to me than actual baths at the time. It seems funny to think of it now, but I was always nursing some bruise, cut, scrape or bump.

Although I love Forks and the Pacific Northwest, I sometimes miss those warm, sultry summer evenings, and the fireflies. Some day, Ness, we'll visit the East again, and I'll show you how we used to catch the tiny shining insects in mason jars, thinking we could turn them into lanterns.

I remember taking a vacation to Lake Erie one summer, but it must have been more than just once; I seem to recall a yearly pilgrimage to escape the stifling heat and humidity of a Chicago summer for a short while. I must have been 12 or so. We stayed at a "cottage" (a timbered mansion on the lake), owned by one of my father's cronies. It was situated in a large vacation community. Lots of kids my age to run around with. I kissed a girl for the first time there.

Since, Ness, I know you won't leave me in peace unless I describe that, here is what I recall.

Her name was Judith. She was my age, and had long, curly black hair and the bluest eyes I have ever seen, set in a pretty heart-shaped face. Her eyes looked like a clear summer sky. She was very pretty and bright and she knew it. Kind of like your Aunt Rosalie. She flirted shamelessly with all the boys there. We would run down to a drug store/soda fountain in the little resort town near the house, and all hang out on the rock-strewn beach with our treats, just a block away.

The boys, I am ashamed to say myself included, all showed off for the girls; jumping off the highest boulders into the lake, daring each other to swim out to the raft anchored several hundred feet off shore, running races, etcetera. I usually won anything involving a race. I was taller, as I said, than most boys my age, and my long limbs gave me an advantage. I was, as I am now, naturally fast.

So, of course, Judith flirted with me the most. This pleased me, although I couldn't say, at 12, exactly why. I was also plagued by a blush at that age (much the same as your mother, when she was human. It's a small part of what endeared her to me), so Judith knew I was pleased by her attentions, too.

Well, as happens in that part of the country in late summer, one afternoon a huge thunderstorm blew up. It was our last full day at the lake, and all of us kids were disappointed we couldn't finish our games. We were all at a friend's cabin, stuck on the screened porch until the storm blew over, roughhousing. Judith complained she was cold. So, chivalrously, I went to fetch my pullover. I'd left it in the front room as we ran in to escape the rain, and then were shooed to the back porch by my friend's mother. I didn't realize Judith followed me in, away from all the other kids, until I turned around to go back down the hall to the porch.

She was standing a foot away from me, fragrant from the rain in her hair. It brought me up short, her standing there so close. "Edward?" she said tentatively, looking shyly down, then up through her long black lashes at me. I wondered where she ever learned that trick. My heart stopped, I'm sure, for 10 full seconds. When I could speak again, "Yes, Judith?" I squeaked manfully, blushing furiously.

"I'll miss you when you leave. Will you give me something to remember you by?" she said in the same shy voice, still looking at me through her lashes.

"Um, what would you like," I asked politely. I didn't have any little trinket or token I could part with, on me at that moment.

"A kiss," she answered at once. She lifted her chin, and stepped closer.

She was just the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. My heart pounded, and I could "tell" hers was, too. I could also "tell" that, despite all the coquettish flirting, she really did like me. I took a step toward her, which put us so close we were almost touching. I was a full head taller than she, so I bent down, put my finger under her chin, and looked into her blue, blue eyes.

"Are you sure that's what you want?" I asked.

"Absolutely positively," she answered, her eyes meeting mine full on, with no fear or shyness now.

Slowly, hesitantly (because I had NO idea what I was doing) I bent further down toward her pert, pink lips. Oh, boy, I was getting light-headed. She lifted her chin and, with a quick movement, brought her lips firmly against mine.

My brain exploded.

Or so it seemed. She pressed her lips against mine for what seemed like forever. And then, she was gone, darting back down the hall to the crowd of oblivious kids on the porch. I stood, half bent over, frozen in place, my sweater still clutched in my hand. My mouth vibrated with the feeling of her lips against mine. I couldn't breathe or swallow. Or move, for that matter. I was afraid to, in fact; afraid if I did, it would be as if the most significant thing that had happened in my life so far would disappear.

But, apparently, the earth continued to spin on its axis. The thunderstorm continued to rumble over head.

"Ed! Hey, Edward, come out here! You need to wrestle Jonathan now! Sam lost the last round," called a voice.

I managed to move, afraid if I didn't, I'd give my self away.

Later, I found out that Judith managed to find a way to get "goodbye presents" from three of my friends. That stung.

I ran into her in Chicago, in Marshall Field's, several years later. She was shopping for school clothes with her mother, as was I with mine, and looked even prettier at 15 than I remembered. I, of course, was even taller, and now 15 myself. I was coolly polite when I saw her. Our mothers were friends, and as they caught up, we were left to make our own conversation.

"Edward, I have to confess something right away," she said with a smile. Even though her hair was not yet "put up" or her skirts "let down" (that happened for girls at 16), she still looked very grown-up to me. "Yes?" I answered, hoping to convey politeness, boredom and a tiny bit of contempt. I think I must have just sounded rude, because she lost her confidence.

"Well, I just wanted to say, I think about that kiss you gave me, on our last day at the Lake, all the time." She almost stammered, looking now down at the tiled floor.

"Really? Amongst all the others you received that day? I wonder whyever for?" I added contemptuously. I must confess my feelings were still a bit sore.

"Oh, now, you needn't get snippy with me!" she replied, her head snapping up to look at me, her eyes flashing, but smiling, knowing she'd hit the mark.

Our mothers had finished their conversation, and were indicating we should continue on our separate ways. She leaned in for the kill, whispering, "I just wanted to say, yours was by far the best. Ever." And winked at me, a smile on her lips.

She spun on her toes, and danced off to join her mother. I was stunned. My own mother wasn't fooled, a knowing smile on her lips.

Judith looked back at me, over her shoulder, part of her face fetchingly hidden by her hat, and winked again. I distinctly heard her laughing as they disappeared around a corner.

My schooling was at a fairly conservative private school, as my handwriting shows. Not many kids at that time still learned the old-fashioned penmanship exercises (or experienced the resulting hand-and-arm-cramps) that my classmates and I did. I had emerged as a ringleader of our little group of privileged boys from my neighborhood, and spent most of my school days plotting new schemes, out of sheer boredom; school was always very easy for me. Most of the trouble I managed to get us into, were rewarded with trivial punishments at school. Very rarely were my parents ever involved.

Significantly of all: fed on all the heroic stories of battles and soldiery, my romantic teenage brain was captivated by the war in Europe. America appeared to be attempting to stay out of it, but I didn't see how we could, or how that would be right. America needed to stand by her allies in Europe, and not allow the greedy, evil Hun to take over the free countries.

Or, so we were told. No one could foresee (except maybe your Aunt) the enormous consequences of America finally becoming involved in that war.

Newspapers, magazines, all of popular culture at that time was promoting the War. Songs, epic poems, excerpts in newspapers, pamphlets; all in some way commemorating a battle or glorifying battlefield heroics. I was often lost in daydreams about my own planned heroics as a soldier, maybe one day being able to live up to my father's example.

I was in the midst of one such daydream, propped back in a chair in our kitchen, feet on the table (forbidden, of course), idly tossing a much-prized baseball in the air and catching it. I was about 16 or so, and it was a fine spring afternoon. I was home from school, and trying to think of something to do. Unfortunately, Michael was home sick with some type of stomach bug (I warned him about the beer in that music hall, but he never listened to me) and Christopher was still not allowed out of the house after the "Milkman Incident".

I imagined myself leading my men "over the top" of our trench, heroically taking an entire platoon of "Gerry's" in a matter of moments. Mud flying, bullets zinging by my head, I bravely dragged one wounded comrade after another out of harms way. Until at last, the Gerry's surrendered. Promotions, accolades, thumps on the back soon followed. Even the evil Hun were impressed. I smiled at the thought.

"Edward Anthony! I would appreciate it if you would do me the courtesy of LISTENING to me when I am SPEAKING to you!" My mother caught the baseball in one hand, and, with her other, deftly hooked her finger into the cuff of my trouser leg, and used it to fling my legs off the table, dumping my feet on the floor with a clunk.

I struggled to sit back up, and try to remember what Mother had been saying. Something about a dance?

"Will you do it or not?" she asked, irritated with my woolgathering.

I had to admit, I had no idea what she was asking. "I'm sorry, Mother, what was it you wanted me to do," I asked, an innocent tone in my voice, my eyes wide. Mother never could resist that.

She sighed exasperatedly. "Will you or will you not escort Judith Zimmerman to the Spring Hospital Youth Charity Ball?" As Mother was on just about every charity committee in the City, I was always being gang-pressed, as were my friends by their mothers, into showing up at these events to twirl desultorily around a dance floor in a tuxedo.

But, Judith? As her escort? I hardly knew what to think, except I didn't think I was up to the task. I had a sinking suspicion that Judith was far smarter than I was. And she was so pretty.

I gulped. "Ah, um, well, are Chris and Mike going?" Back up, I needed back up.

"For heaven's sake, Edward, can't you do anything with out those two hooligans?" Now, she was really working her way up into high dudgeon. I'd better agree, quick, or have to deal with maternal sulks for a while.

"Certainly, Mother. Please inform Mrs. Zimmerman that it would be my pleasure to escort Judith to the ball," I said, very formally. That usually worked.

"Excellent. It's all settled. Saturday. 8:00." Mother whirled from the room, skirts following a half-second behind.

Ambush! She and Mrs. Zimmerman had this all planned out! What would have happened if I'd refused? Mother probably waited until I was distracted before she asked me, fearing I'd find a way out of it if she'd given me any warning or opportunity to think.

I had no idea my mother was that…sneaky! Clearly, I had to reassess the situation at home, if I was to continue doing as I pleased without being caught or reprimanded.

I stared after her for a moment, dumbfounded as it sunk in, until I heard the telephone cabinet shut with a firm 'thunk'. I retrieved my baseball, stood, and headed for my room, ostensibly to do homework, but really to think this all over in privacy.

I passed Molly in the hall. She chuckled darkly at me, but didn't say anything else. Traitor! She was in on it too, and didn't warn me!

I slammed the door to my room, and stomped over to my desk, beneath a window that faced the side yard, and Christopher's house. His shades were drawn, so it was unlikely I'd be able to signal him discreetly.

Briefly, I contemplated retrieving my illicit packet of cigarettes from their hiding spot beneath a "loose" bit of molding (loose in that I'd pried it loose years before to serve as a secret place to store all manner of things I wasn't supposed to have) and enjoying a long, thoughtful smoke.

My mother was convinced cigarettes were "poison", so I wasn't supposed to have them, although at the time, there were no laws against it. I'd made the grievous strategic error of pointing that out, once. Even my father's reasonable attitude couldn't save me from THAT eruption.

I guess I inherited Mother's temper, too.

I perched myself on the back side of my desk, and swung my legs through the open window, resting my forehead on the bottom of the sash. This was my favorite spot to sit and think, as well as a convenient way to exhaust the tell-tale smoke. I shelved the idea of a smoke, since I didn't have that many left and it was a bother to smuggle them into my room.

The window was convenient for another reason. There was a very sturdy copper drainpipe that ran from the roof to the ground, just two feet to the right of the window. A trellis, with some fashion of climbing plant, was also situated quite handily for stealthy escapes, when I was supposed to be sleeping, studying or grounded.

No movement from Chris' window. I was disappointed in him; of all people, he should have figured a way out by now.

I swung my legs idly back and forth. How was I going to deal with Judith? My palms sweated at just thought of my resting them on her dainty waist, to swirl her around a dance floor in a waltz.

I twisted my baseball in my fingers now, trying to imitate the grip of Orval Orverall. I still am a Chicago Cubs fan, and back then, I tried to sneak into a game with my friends, whenever I could. I'd met the owners and managers at one of my father's clubs. They were building a new ball park not too far away from our house, in Lakeview. When I told them what a fan I was, one of the men gave me a baseball. Baseballs were expensive and rare in those days. In fact, it's known as the "dead ball" era, since the balls were re-used so much, they had no bounce. I now have nothing but contempt for Boston Red Sox fans; they don't know real fan pain. "Curse of the Bambino", indeed!

But, I digress. I'd been to plenty of balls, dances, socials, you-name-it, starting from the age of 12. Somewhere, there is a picture of me standing stiffly in a row of other 12 year-old-boys, behind a seated row of 12 year-old girls in fluffy dresses, at some ball or other. I wore a suit with a high, tight, rounded collar and short pants (don't. get. Me. started), and Mother and Molly had spent the better part of half an hour that afternoon, and an entire jar of Father's pomade, to get my hair to slick down and stay down, parted neatly on one side. I stared solemnly out at the camera, as we all did.

I am very glad that photograph is lost to posterity. Your Uncle Emmett would never let me hear the end of it, otherwise. The short pants alone would be enough for endless jokes.

This had never made me nervous before. The girls I'd escorted had been family friends, or the little sisters of my friends. Pleasant enough, but no one I was at all concerned about impressing.

I'd been contemplating my options for a good while, as the late afternoon slowly faded into evening. I still didn't have any good ideas. I couldn't get out of it; that wouldn't be the gentlemanly thing to do. But how best to deal with her?

There was a faint whistle, from a story below. The hedge rustled. "Hey, Masen, whatcha doing? If you're gonna jump, leave me your phonograph collection in your will!"

Christopher! Finally! "You wish, moron." He did wish. I had the most extensive collection of phonograph records of anyone I knew. The instant a new song was released, I had it. The result of careful patronage of the phonograph store and not being afraid to slip the owner a little extra cash to ensure he held the "good stuff" for me.

"What are you doing?" I hissed back. I could just make him out in the deepening gloom. "I'm heading to Pulanski's cellar. Card game on tonight. You in?"

"Like Flynn, me laddie! Bring your money clip with the big notes!" George Pulanski regularly hosted a floating card/craps/blackjack game from time-to-time. His cellar was the easiest to sneak in, as it had a big, storm-cellar door, conveniently hidden from prying eyes by a large laurel hedge. I'd have to liberate my cigarettes for the festivities.

"Ed! Dinner's ready!" I heard Mother call up the stairs.

Chris chuckled. "You'd better get all the sustenance you need. I'm in the mood for a re-match!"

"Ha! Better ask your dad for a loan!" I swiveled around, swinging my legs back into the room, and sliding off my desk. "See you later. Pulanski's, right?" I whispered out the window, my hands on the sash to gently close it.

"Right. See you in a bit." Chris hissed back. The hedge rustled again as he headed out.

Dinner was a quiet affair in the kitchen. My father still wasn't home. Given the situation in the City, his arrival in time for our nightly meal was always in question. Most nights, he ate it cold from the icebox around Midnight. I'd have to remember that he very well might be arriving home, or still up, upon my return tonight.

My mother was clearly suspicious that I was up to something. I was whistling alternately with grinning. Not my usual demeanor when I was supposed to be in trouble for something.

"Ed, I expect that letter of apology to Mr. Hoefschatter at the dairy to be done. You and Christopher will be delivering your letters in person." This was the punishment for the "Milkman Incident". Which I won't go into, except, in my own defense, to say that I was barely involved. I merely planted the idea in Chris' head; he ran with it from there. However, we were both heroes now on our block, so I supposed it wasn't too much to have to share some of the punishment as well as the glory.

"It's done; I left it on your desk," I said, looking downcast.

"You're just lucky your father knows Mr. Hoefschatter, and was able to convince him not to call the authorities, or you and your little friend would be sitting in the Cook County Jail," Mother admonished.

"Yes, Mother, I know that." I said, still trying to be solemn. It seemed to work, because she thawed, slightly.

"Your father will take you to the barber right after, remember," she added, as I rose from the table. I grinned; going to the barber with my father was an adventure. He'd been taking me for years, but now that I was old enough to be introduced to his friends in the steam rooms and chop houses in the City, it took on new depth. I could put faces and names together, and understand what the men were discussing.

Frankly, it made me feel like I was being taken seriously. Like I was a grown-up.

I hadn't grown in a beard yet, so the barber was mainly for a haircut, of which I was sorely in need. My hair flopped into my eyes, and I was constantly raking it back. And, it wasn't the fashion for men to have long hair in those days.

I was all ready to dash up stairs and make my escape, but I thought that perhaps I ought to make a show of behaving myself. Instead, I forced my self into the sitting room, sat at the piano, and fiddled for a bit, before finally settling on Chopin.

After I'd played a few etudes, my mother settled into a chair to read. We were companionably quiet for bit. I was trying not glance at the large clock, who's face I could just make out in the hall way.

Finally, Mother spoke. "So, Ed, what do you think you'll do next year? Your father and I think Princeton would be the best for you." I'd been accepted into Princeton University already, as well as Yale and the newer University of Chicago. There was no real set age to leave school in those days, and as long as you passed the entrance exam and were over 16, you were in. My mood immediately soured, and my hands paused briefly over the keys. My mother knew exactly what I wanted to do, and it didn't involve University.

I said as much, my tone curt. She threw down her book, exasperated. "Edward Anthony, you know how we feel about that! I'm not going to allow you to get yourself shot in a muddy trench in France! That's out of the question!"

I stopped playing, and slammed the lid shut over the keys. "Mother, boys are dying over there, and you want me to sit idly by, studying, and not DO something?" I never raised my voice to my mother, and I was practically shouting.

She was very quiet and very still. Finally, after a long moment, staring me down, her cheeks pink with outrage, she spoke.

"Yes, Son, that's exactly what I expect." She stood, picked up her book. Her voice tight with unshed tears, she said, "I'm retiring for the evening. Leave the lights on for your father. Maybe your insane death wish will make more sense to him than it does to me." With that, she strode from the room and rushed up the stairs. I listened for a moment, until I heard the door to my parent's room shut with a bang.

Callous boy that I was, I gave my mother's distress no more consideration than the thought that I was free earlier than expected. It didn't occur to me, her choking fear that she'd loose her only child far away from home, in violence.

All I saw were the bravely fought battles, the accolades for my heroics and returning a hero. It never occurred to me that I would likely die "over there".

I followed her up the stairs a few moments later, and shut the door to my room firmly, making noises to create the impression that I was heading for my bed, too. I snapped off my light, and waited until her muffled sobbing quieted. Then, I stealthily slid open my window and swung my self out onto the drain pipe. I shimmied to the ground, and slipped through the yard, across the street to the Pulanski's side yard.

"You'd better be ready to pay up, Masen," slurred Mike, leaning back in his chair, cigar clamped in his teeth (he'd pilfered them from his father's bureau on his way out tonight), the picture of over confidence. "Look at these babies!" He reached forward, and flipped over the little fan of cards on the green felt before him. "Read 'em. And weep!" he exclaimed.

I looked at my own hand, and giggled. I giggled when I'd been drinking. I will add here, as an aside, it's a very good thing vampires can't get drunk. I shudder to think what your Uncle Emmett would do, either drunk himself, or if he ever saw me drunk. Another thing I'd never live down.

Of course, I "knew" what cards Mike was holding, just as I "knew" what the other's hands had been. All of whom had folded, leaving the two of us to battle it out, ante for ante.

I giggled again as I laid out my cards, face up. "Oh, I'm weeping, all right! I'm weeping you're all out of cash, and I don't grant credit!" I was giggling harder now. We'd smoked all my cigarettes, and I was now smoking one of Mike's father's cigars. I inhaled at the wrong time, and began to choke. But I was still giggling.

"Yah, choke on it, you bastard," said Mike sourly, "I swear to the heavens, Masen, you cheat. I don't know how, but somehow, you cheat." I was raking the chips toward me, still giggling, interspersed with coughing, but I stopped at that accusation.

"You'd better take that back," I warned, slurring my words, "That's not funny, McAllister."

"Hey, Mike, you'd better apologize. You know Ed doesn't cheat," said George Pulanski nervously. That was George though, a real "nervous Nellie". His parents didn't seem to mind the card-playing, drinking and smoking that went on in their basement. George was the third son, and the youngest of six, so I gathered his parents were past caring what he did. His father made a fortune in the stock yards, fresh from the Old Country, and brought his elderly father over to live with them. Old grandfather Stefan was long gone, but I had fond memories of him, and not just because of the "swords" he'd made us. He also always had candies in his pockets for us kids. And the chickens they'd kept, the bane of my mother's existence, were for him; he insisted on fresh eggs. The minute the old man died, George's mother set about making chicken soup.

Mike was still sullenly staring at the table, arms crossed, unwilling to concede.

"You wanna win it back?" I asked, standing unsteadily now. "I've got a great idea. Since all you fools are out of cash, let's go to the South Side. I'll betcha all your money you won't go into one of the music halls there!" I have absolutely no idea where that notion came from; maybe a half-overheard conversation in one of my father's clubs.

"Yeah, Mike. And, you gotta dance with a girl there!" put in Chris, also standing unsteadily now. A fait accompli, it would seem.

Although The Levee had been shut down by the mayor several years prior, the South Side was still exceptionally dangerous and crime-ridden. But, if you wanted to hear really good, new music, it was the place to go.

Even for a bunch of fool-hardy, drunken, rich, white boys.

This expedition had disaster written all over it.

We made our way to the cable cars that ran a few blocks from our neighborhood. It was a long ride, but still early enough that the cars were fairly crowded. In the end, only Chris and Mike were willing to go.

At first, we were surprised at how busy Bronzeville was; plenty of people bustling about, bent on work or errands. It didn't seem dangerous to us at all. We found a music hall called "La Jeune Negress" (French made everything sound fancier). As the name implies, it was completely patronized by African Americans. Mostly blue-collar men, with the dirt and sweat of the day's labor still on their hands, drinking their pay before staggering home to tiny, sweltering tenements near by.

To say we attracted attention would be an understatement. To say we were big, well-stuffed sitting ducks for any criminal element, is also an understatement.

We were completely callous, arrogant and ignorant. A dangerous combination. We strode in, acting for all the world as if we owned the place. We managed to make our way to the bar, oblivious to the stares and glowers we were attracting. As we felt that we were sobering up, we ordered more beers, with a shot on the side.

"Ok, Mike, here's the deal: you have to dance with at least ONE girl, for a whole dance, for you to earn your money back. Anything less, and it's off. Got it?" I slurred at him. And then giggled again.

"Yeah, yeah, sure," he replied, looking around. He made a show of straightening his collar and shooting his cuffs. Along the back wall, a line of bored looking black girls, dressed up in cheap chiffon and spangles waited for men to pay them a nickel for a dance.

The band was tight, playing a type of music I hadn't heard before. It was years before I could put what I'd heard that night, and only dimly recalled, with the "new" sounds of jazz coming from the radio.

The hall appeared to be newer, but with plenty of Victorian excess: glass beads hanging from the gas sconces on the wall, cheap flocked red wallpaper, overstuffed chairs, dimly lit with cheap, overly ornate chandeliers. The enormous bar back was mirrored, and well-stocked with plenty of liquors of which I'd never heard. Three bartenders struggled to keep up with the flow of orders. Waiters, who looked as if they doubled as "security" by their size, moved quickly around the tables, taking orders and bringing drinks on the double.

In just a few moments, Mike was spinning a girl around the floor, the other dancers casting a wide berth, glaring at him. She looked alternately terrified and hopeless.

In fact, they all did. The girls were prostitutes; this was a slightly less intimate way to sell their bodies. Their "managers" were also in the house, mostly lined up at the bar, a few posted nearby the line. Some of the managers were white; most were black. All were dressed expensively, if not tastefully. They all looked cruel and hardened.

I was starting to get a bad feeling about this.

Mike managed his dance, and chivalrously offered to buy the girl a drink. She took one look at the hard-faced Irishman in a bright orange topcoat, standing behind her chair, and shook her head vehemently. She scurried back to her place, in a whirl of yellow fabric.

Mike joined us at the bar; we'd found a slightly less conspicuous place at the end, where it formed a small nook. We still attracted plenty of stares. Ordering up another round, he said, "All right, Ed. Pay up! But, because I had such a good time with the charming Delilah, I won't make you give it all back!"

"Michael McAllister, keep your voice down! Here," I hissed, trying to surreptitiously hand him the cash. I managed to stuff it into his pants pocket.

"Aw, Ed! You're no fun! Seriously," he said, looking hardly serious, flushed in the face, and a stupid grin to boot, "You boys ought to go take one of those girls for spin. De-lic-ous!"

Chris started to chuckle. "Ed, I'll go if you will," he said, looking a little apprehensive.

I drank my shot of whisky; how many I'd downed at that point, I couldn't remember. I do remember the room being slightly blurry, and very noisy, as if everyone was talking over themselves, or there was an echo.

"All right, Christopher. Last one with a girl's a rotten egg!" I took off toward the line, giggling as I went.

There was a very pretty, young-looking girl in pink, her hair swept up in cheap paste combs. No glowering manager in sight, I handed her my nickel and offered her my arm. Hesitantly, with a glance over her shoulder, she accepted.

After a moment of dancing, she asked me, "What's your name, Mister?" in a low, shy voice.

"Ed Masen, at your service, ma'am," I replied, sounding very adult. The effect was ruined by another giggle. "What's yours?" I tried to look in her eyes, but they were staring at a spot on the floor as we spun around. She bit her lip for a moment, before replying, "Liza."

"Well, Liza, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," I replied, dipping her into another spin. Liza was tiny, maybe your Aunt Alice's size, light as a feather. Her eyes were shadowed, and her skin didn't look healthy; it bore an ashy grayness that didn't look right.

It hit me suddenly; this girl was pregnant. And not well. Her belly didn't look as if it were with child, but the impression was as clear as if she'd told me out loud. She was also afraid she'd loose the baby but was almost wishing she would. She was certain she'd get beaten for it, as she had for so many other things. And, if she carried to term, what would become of her and her child?

This wasn't fun anymore. Being drunk as I was, I didn't question these ideas, or how I knew. I wished there was something I could do for her, some way I could protect her. She seemed so frail in my arms, I was afraid if squeezed too hard, I'd snap her in half. My brain spun, trying to formulate a plan.

I thought about slipping her some of the roll of bills I carried, but how? I noticed she kept glancing toward one spot in the hall. Finally, I saw to whom she was looking; an enormous slab of a Pole, with a thick neck and red face. He was standing with three other girls, all of whom apparently worked for him. The Pole was keeping a close eye on us, I noticed every time we spun in his direction. The song was winding down. I thought fast. "Liza, I'm having too good a time to quit now; shall we dance to this one, too?" She bit her lip again, and glanced at her, well, let's call it what it was, pimp. He was apparently negotiating with another man, the subject of his negotiation pinned to his side in one beefy arm.

I pressed a dollar into her palm, and she started. "Mister, this is too much, you know that?" As the band started into the next number, a slower tempo, I whispered into her ear, "Keep the change, if it helps."

We danced slowly around the floor; the Pole had vanished again, with the other man and the girl. I slipped five more dollars into her hand. "Find a way to hide this," I said, trying not to move my lips as I spoke into the top of her head. She nodded, and the cash vanished quickly into the top of her bodice.

Another circuit. The pimp was still missing. Another five dollars disappeared into her bodice. Now this was almost fun. I could part with five more dollars, before I'd start impairing my ability to buy a trolley ticket back home. Last trip around, and the final five made it into its hiding place.

When the song was over, I made a show of escorting her back to her seat, and handing her two nickels. I figured that might throw off the pimp; he might not suspect anymore than that. Although I had sobered up quite a bit (the awful reality of the situation had acted like a cold bucket of water in the face), I also made a big show of acting drunker than I was, giggling and stumbling.

As I handed her back into her seat, I whispered, "Good luck, Liza." She stared down at her hands, twisting them together, and nodded mutely. It wasn't until I'd turned to leave that I heard a soft, "Thank you, Mr. Masen." I knew better than to turn and acknowledge it.

I'd lost track of Christopher and Michael in the meantime, and went hunting for them. I found them, unfortunately embroiled in an argument by the front door. Apparently, our presence was no longer welcome; we weren't known, and it was becoming widely suspected that we were police informants. Not that the police could or would do anything about a place like this, located in Bronzeville as it was.

I approached the cluster of large black men surrounding my two companions. "What's this," I slurred, careful to maintain my lack of composure.

"We'd like you to leave," said the largest, and best dressed of the men. He smelled strongly of cologne, and was meticulously groomed. "Why," argued Chris, "We paid for our admittance, and for our beer and for our dances, just like any other patron. Why should we leave?"

"Because I am the owner of this establishment, and I am asking you, very politely, to leave. Now," he said, a tight smile appearing on his face, "I can ask you not so politely, if you push me to that. But, we're all civilized gentlemen. I prefer to behave so." The threat in that smooth, quiet voice was clear. I kicked Chris as he was about to open his mouth to argue.

"C'mon, Chris, time to go. Thank you for your hospitality, sir. We're leaving now," I said in my most polite tone, pulling on Chris's sleeve. Mike stood, dumbstruck, mouth agape. Chris muttered something else.

"You'd better watch yourself, little man, or someone might just have to teach you some manners," came the low growl behind us as we made our way out. Chris almost turned, but I gave him a firm shove in the back, pitching him forward toward the street.

We rounded the corner to the nearby alley, to catch our breath, and figure what direction the trolley was.

Then, I heard the cry. And the horrid sound of a hand slapping flesh. Hard. I looked down the alley, to see Liza and the slab-like Pole at the far end. I couldn't hear what he was growling at her, but she was cowering, almost on the ground, her hands up to protect her face.

His huge slab of a hand came all the way back, and snapped forward, stunning her to the ground with the force of the blow. It made a truly sickening sound. My stomach churned, and, before I could think, I was running down the alley, shouting.

Of course, I had no plan. I'd reacted instinctively. I skidded to stop in front of him. Chris and Mike had come trotting up the alley behind me.

Liza lay unmoving on the wet, filthy stones of the alley, looking like a broken doll crumpled in the midst of her pink finery. I don't think I'd ever been so angry in my life until that point. The rage broke over me like a wave, leaving me oddly calm.

The big man had no idea what to make of us. He paused, staring at us, mouth open.

"Don't. You. DARE. Touch. Her!" I spit through my teeth. My hands were clenched into fists by my side. I took a half step backward, to put my weight on my left leg. I fully intended, at that point, to beat the living daylights out of him, and was coolly plotting the best way to do it.

Never mind that he was two inches taller and at least 100 pounds heavier. Most of which appeared to be muscle.

Two more men came down the alley. The Pole was distracted by their appearance, and seemed to immediately relax.

"Hey, Alex! What's going on?" said one, a genial-looking Irishman. The other was a large, well-muscled black man, in work clothes and a close-cropped hairstyle.

Alex shrugged, and indicated the girl on the ground. "Aw, your girl get out of line?" asked the black man. Alex nodded.

"You boys lost, or something," asked Irish, looking us up and down.

"They look lost," said the black man. "How about I show you fellows where the trolley is? Help you get back to your side of town?" The man was now standing quite close to me, behind me and to my right. He turned his body so he was blocking me from making any approach to Alex. "I'm not going anywhere until he promises not to touch her!" I hissed through my teeth.

Very quietly, the black man said, "Yes, you are son. You're leaving right now. I'm gonna make sure you boys get on that trolley safe and sound. Don't make me lay my hands on you to do it, neither." He would, too. Briefly, I had a vision of my self being hauled over the man's shoulder and unceremoniously dumped into a trolley seat.

"Fine," I said curtly, "Thank you for your help." We left the Irishman and Alex having a conversation about how troublesome women could be, as we walked swiftly away, down the alley.

The black man led us several streets over to the trolley rails. One was coming down its' line toward us. I held out my hand to the black man, "Thank you, Mr.?" I asked. "Johnson. David Johnson. Folks call me Big Dave." He smiled broadly, and smothered my grip in his own massive, calloused hand. I couldn't help but smile back, "I can't imagine why. I'm Ed Masen. This is Mike McAllister and Christopher St. John." Big Dave shook hands with all of them, but I could see the wheels turning in his head. Our names meant something to him.

The trolley came, and Big Dave climbed on board with us, cheerily waving at the trolley man, who greeted him with, "Hey, Big Dave!"

We sat; I was still shaking with anger. "Is she going to be ok? What's going to happen to her?" I was staring down at the floor, too angry to make eye contact. I was sure the Pole was going to kill her, if he hadn't already. I didn't see how she could have survived a blow like that, she was so frail.

"Don't you worry, son. Mickey'll look after her, get her to the Society Home for safekeeping. She'll be o.k." Dave's deep voice was soothing. I didn't detect any falseness or platitude in it. Mike and Chris were silent, still in shock with the nearness of our escape.

"Society Home?" I asked. I'd not heard of it before, so I thought. "The 'Ladies Society Home for Young Girls without Families'. Kind of a school for…ah…ladies of the evening who find themselves in…trouble." Dave was clearly trying to find a way to put it delicately, but basically, in today's terms, it was a half-way house or shelter for prostitutes wanting to escape the streets. The Ladies Society was a social charity. My mother was a member. In fact, it occurred to me she was on their board.

A plan began to take shape in my mind. But how to execute it? Especially without giving away the fact that I was out, late at night, in a vey dangerous part of town and had nearly gotten my rear end beat by an enormous Polish pimp. Over a tiny pregnant prostitute. My mother would have had kittens.

I had the feeling my father would have found the whole thing hilarious. Maybe that was my key; plant the idea in Father's head.

"Dave," I asked, trying to be sly, "It seemed like you knew our names. Do you know my father, Ward Masen?"

"Your daddy's Ward Masen? Well, I'll be…Yep, I sure do," replied Dave, his eyes widening. "You sure don't look much like him, though!"

I laughed. I was starting to get calmer, the longer I sat and thought. "Your daddy's been a good friend to us working folk on the South Side; all kinds of improvements and projects he's sponsored. I've had the pleasure of meeting him a few times. Heck of a fellow." Dave clearly admired my father. Excellent. My plan would go that much smoother.

My plan was this: since I had absolutely no intention of going to college, I wanted to give my college trust fund to Liza and her baby, if she was still able to carry the baby to term. I wasn't sure how I could go about doing that. Maybe pretend to enroll, withdraw the money, and funnel it through the charity? That was the part of my brilliant plan I still hadn't worked out. I was hoping Dave might be a good middleman for the whole scheme, but I hadn't figured that out, either.

Mike and Chris were whispering between themselves, occasionally looking my way with wide eyes. I couldn't take it any longer, "What?!" I asked sharply.

"Nothing, Ed. Just, ah, impressed back there with you challenging that slab of a Pollock," replied Chris, hemming and hawing as he spoke. "Oh, for Pete's sake! I do something stupid, and you fellows are impressed. Now I've heard everything!" I was quite disgusted. Chris shrugged and stared at the gently rocking floor of the car. Mike put in, "Yeah, but Ed? What exactly were you planning on doing? I mean, did you really think you could take him?"

Well, of course I didn't. I'd been hoping for a clean shot at his nose, maybe driving that little piece of cartilage and bone up into his brain. I hadn't had time to figure out more than that, though. Dave was chuckling softly. "While I wouldn't have minded seeing that fight, I was pretty sure Ed here didn't think his plan all the way through. Seems he just reacted." He chuckled again.

By then, we'd crossed into the West Side of Chicago, and we'd have to change trolleys to get home. "This is the end of line for me, fellows," said Dave, "You all just head right on home, ok? No more monkey business," he finished sternly, making eye contact with each of us and pointing his finger to emphasize his point.

"I'm in your debt, Mr. Johnson," I said, shaking his hand again as we got off the trolley. "If there's ever anything you need, you have only to ask."

Dave chuckled again, "Well, I surely do appreciate it. But it was my pleasure to help out Ward Masen's boy. You all take care now," he waved from the step of the trolley as it rattled off, his massive form silhouetted in the doorframe.

Surely I was dreaming. In my dream, I saw an enormous, piggy-eyed hulk of a man standing over me. He began punching me in the head, and I was powerless to fend off his blows. I fell to the hard stones of the pavement, clutching my head in pain. Liza's delicate face looked down on me, and she patted my hand.

"Edward! Wake up!" she exclaimed, now shaking me.

"Edward! Time to wake up!" I opened my eyes, to see Molly's not-so-petite shape standing over me, a mug in her hand. "Here," she said sternly, holding the mug out to me, "Drink this. I think you're going to need it this morning."

I made the mistake of sitting up.

My head spun, and then exploded. I almost saw stars, the hammer of a headache was so bad. My stomach lurched, and my mouth tasted like wallpaper paste. I dropped my head in my hands, and moaned. Molly tapped my wrist with the mug. "C'mon, drink up. It's my patented hangover remedy. I won't tell you what's in it, except that you should hold your nose while you drink." It sounded like she was trying to suppress a laugh; I couldn't make my self look up at her face.

"Why is it so bright in here?" I moaned.

"Because it's daytime, you dolt," she said. Now I was sure she was trying not to laugh.

"Why are you waking me up?" I held my nose, and took a sip. And nearly gagged. Whatever it was, it was hot and vile-tasting.

"You have to get dressed to go to the dairy with your letter," she explained, "Ignore the taste, just drink it down."

"It's Saturday?" I squeaked. Already? Oh, heaven help me!

I gulped down the rest of the evil-tasting liquid in the cup, and handed it back to Molly, swinging my legs out of bed. I'd clearly moved too fast, because the room started to spin. "Oh, whoa," I exclaimed, and fell back against the coverlet. "Give it a minute to kick in, then get going!" Molly said, heading for the door.

Which she shut with a bang, causing my head to throb painfully. I lay on my back for a few minutes, breathing hard, willing the headache to go away. My stomach slowly stopped churning, and I risked sitting up again. This time, much, much more slowly.

No negative reactions this time, and the room didn't look quite as bright as I'd thought. Slowly, I stood up, and made my way to the bathroom across the hall. Waiting for me was a glass of water and a packet of headache powder. I threw the powder to the back of my throat, and swilled it down with the water.

Then, I looked in the mirror. "Oh, Christ," I said softly to myself. Not. Looking. Well. At. All.

Finally washed, combed and dressed, I eased downstairs, trying to look chipper. My father, surprisingly, was home, seated at the breakfast table reading the Tribune. Mother had not yet appeared; I heard water running upstairs, so I assumed she was still making her toilette.

Molly put a breakfast of toast and potatoes in front of me. Bless her, I thought. I didn't think I could handle anything more…robust.

Father kept peering at me over the top of his paper. He looked as if he was suppressing a smile. But he didn't say a word.

I had just finished my breakfast, when there was a faint knock on the front door. Chris. I went to answer it, and made the mistake of moving too fast, again. I stumbled slightly before recovering myself, and this time my father couldn't help a quiet chuckle at my predicament.

Opening the door, Chris looked as bad as I felt; bloodshot eyes with purple circles below them, his bright blonde hair hanging in his face. His greeting of "Hempf," was barely audible, much less coherent.

My father came up behind me, slapped me on the back, and said, far too loudly and far too heartily, "Ok, boys, let's go!" I cringed and Chris swayed on his feet. Father clearly was going to milk this for all it was worth. I wondered briefly if he heard me come in last night.

The car ride to the dairy was a challenge. I think Chris, sitting behind me, must have leaned out once or twice to at least spit, and probably discreetly puke. If such a thing can be done discreetly.

Mr. Hoefschatter was actually fairly pleasant, accepting our mumbled, barely coherent apologies with good grace. The smell of cow dung and sour milk set my stomach to churning again. Chris had to excuse himself.

Once we were back in the car, my father insisted on dragging Chris along to our planned trip to the barber shop and then lunch. Lots of loud noise didn't do my head any good, but the haircut helped improve my outlook. Father took us to lunch, and a "Bloody Mary" and some solid food made us both feel better.

By the time my father had glad-handed around the room, it was time for me to head back home to get dressed for the evening.

Chris wished me good luck when we dropped him off. "Maybe I'll stand a chance of winning at cards tonight, since you'll be otherwise engaged," he said, grinning. "Savor it while you can! Start a little savings fund," I suggested sarcastically, "Just call it the 'Ed will whoop my ass' fund."

"Funny, smart guy!" he called as the car pulled away. My father was chuckling, but didn't say a word.

My heart stopped. I understood why Mother had insisted I wear the deep pink boutonnière, rather than the conventional white. I'd thought the florist made a mistake. Judith wore a beautiful, diaphanous pink gown, in a shade of deep rose pink. It set off her skin, giving her a glow like I'd never seen. Her mass of curls were artfully piled on her head, a few escaping to dance against her cheeks. Her blue eyes were even brighter with excitement.

I approached slowly, nervously. How to speak to such an ethereally beautiful being? I felt as if my voice had turned to dust. I was afraid I'd stammer. So, I settled, as I so often did, and still do, on sarcasm.

"Have you left any room for me on your dance card, or is it filled with all your other beaus?" I asked, when I had made my formal bow, and offered her my arm (at least, I could do those things without speaking). I lifted one eyebrow sardonically, while I waited for her response.

She blushed. And then hit back with both barrels, "Well, good evening to you, too, Mr. Masen. I'm so gratified to see that you've condescended to grace us with your presence. And have brought your best manners, too!" She looked up at me, laughing. I was instantly in awe of the fact she didn't take me at all seriously, and wasn't afraid to hit back.

Hopelessly intimidated, I asked formally, "May I have this dance?" The waltz was just starting. She curtsied back, and took my proffered arm.

I swirled her around the dance floor for a few moments, before my confidence to speak returned. Complicating matters was the fact that she smelled unbelievably good, the perfume something I hadn't encountered before. What to say to this enchantress?

"Aren't you going to talk at all?" she asked pertly, looking up at me in that beguiling way through her lashes.

"I started the last conversation," I replied coolly, "It's your turn." She laughed. "Are you feeling better now?" she asked. I was startled. "Better than when?" "Than this morning. I saw you going into The Palmer's Barber Shop; you looked terrible. So did your friend." The tone of her voice led me to believe she knew exactly why we'd looked so awful.

"Some stomach flu going around," I responded, curtly.

"Hmm, I think I've heard of it," she sounded thoughtful, "It's called the…bourbon flu? The vodka flu? Easy to catch, tough to get over, so I've heard." Now she was definitely laughing at me. Infuriating! Why did she have to be so clever? My jaw clenched and unclenched.

"Oh, Ed, you don't have to be so mizish with me! I know what you fellows get up to. As long as there weren't any prostitutes involved, it's no matter." Shock. I'd never heard a girl use that word before. Nice, well-brought-up young ladies weren't even supposed to know what they were. And, dismay, because there actually were prostitutes involved.

She was still smiling archly at me. I couldn't…didn't believe…finally, I just burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. "What? What's funny?" she said, laughing herself. I leaned down and whispered in her ear, "I'll tell you later." I distinctly felt her shiver.

After the first dance was over, I asked when my next was up. She blushed furiously, and by way of answering, held out her dance card. On every line was written, "E.A. Masen" in her neat, copperplate script.

A few dances later, the orchestra took a break, and I escorted her to a seat, and went to retrieve some refreshments. I caught sight of my mother and Mrs. Zimmerman deep in consultation. Mother looked up and smiled broadly at me. I was pleased to be back in her good graces again, if only for a short while, until I hatched my cunning plan. I remember Mother wore a beautiful, dark blue dress that night, with pearl combs in her hair. She looked quite modern and lovely. My father had given her another piece of jewelry, a lavish necklace, the stones of which exactly matched the shade of her dress.

Speaking of my father, he'd disappeared with some of the other men as soon as we'd arrived, including Mr. Zimmerman.

Probably off smoking cigars and talking politics, as usual. I half-wished I could join them. Then, I saw Judith looking at me expectantly, eagerly, as I made my way back across the crowded ballroom toward her. And I wanted to be no place else on earth.

"So, then what happened?" Judith was leaning toward me, her eyes shining with excitement. I shrugged, "We got on the trolley and went home," I finished, trying to sound off-hand. But inside, I was rejoicing. I knew I could confide in her!

I'd suggested, since the evening was so fine, that we sit outside in the little garden. It was also more private than the big ballroom, and we could talk relatively undisturbed.

I'd also suggested it, since I was becoming aware of an unpleasant feeling I kept getting in the ballroom. It wasn't clear to me what it was, but it made me feel like I should somehow protect Judith from something. Then, as we spun around another couple during one of the dances, I distinctly heard the words, "Dirty Jewess" from the blonde female.

I sincerely hoped Judith hadn't picked up on it; she didn't react if she had.

Now, Judith's mother was on several of my mother's secular charity organizations, and they donated large sums to the various charities in town. But, as a whole, Jews were not accepted into society. So, the Zimmerman's presence that night was something of an anachronism.

I just thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Who cared, really, what you called God? So long as you tried to live a good life, and leave the world a better place than you found it. I failed to understand the animosity that would drive otherwise well-bred people to make comments about it in public. It seemed very…juvenile.

Although I hated myself for stooping to their level, I did find a way to step on the blonde's gown and tear the hem. She didn't notice, but it was dragging forlornly after her for the rest of the night. The gown was obviously expensive, too.

The atmosphere was far more pleasant out here. And being alone with Judith was intoxicating. I kept…thinking…things. Things that made my heart pound. Like, how it would feel to hold her in my arms, feel that organza bow at the waist of her dress crush under my hands, and kiss her soft mouth, really kiss it, again and again. I had to shake myself to concentrate on what she was saying.

I'd told her my half-baked plan to save the little music hall girl's life. Judith, while supportive of the idea in general, was trying to talk me out of anything drastic.

"Really, Ed. I think that's a bit much. Maybe you can convince your father to donate some additional funds or something. But don't give away your college fund. What would you do without it?"

"I'm not planning on going to college, Judith."

"Oh, no?" she asked, her eyes widening, "Why not?"

"I'm going to join up, go help our boys fight the Hun." I said, sounding fierce and brave to my own ears.

So I was surprised that Judith "tsk'd" and rolled her eyes. That brought me up short.

"I'm sorry? You object?" I asked, at once formally polite. I think she'd realized she'd gotten too comfortable with me.

"I didn't mean to offend. It's just, well, I guess I don't understand boys. Men, I mean. I'm afraid I don't really see the point of young men risking their lives in a foreign country, for some treaty someone else made a long time ago. Seems a waste of human life. To me, anyway," she finished softly, looking down at her hands.

"You'd be sorry if I left?" I asked, equally softly. My heart leapt out of my chest, my romantic boyish brain surging. A sweetheart! Who'd miss me back home, and write me romantic, yearning letters at The Front! In whose name I fight more bravely than any man before! Who'd weep with joy when I returned, covered in glory!

She nodded, still looking at her hands.

And, then, she did That Thing again. She looked up at me, through her eyelashes, her beautiful eyes brimming with tears.

I couldn't stand it one second longer. There was no one else out in the garden. I lifted her chin, looked deeply into those eyes, took her tiny waist in my hands, and pressed my lips to hers.

I must say, best. Kiss. Ever.

Well, until I kissed your mother the first time, that is. And that is comparing apples and oranges, given the circumstances.

I eventually tucked her into my arm, her dainty head resting on my shoulder, while the music played in the hall. I kissed her many more times that night, in between murmuring little endearments to each other.

I think we must have danced several more times, eventually. Our eyes never left each others. I think it attracted all kinds of attention.

My mother was so pleased, she was practically crowing.

For the remainder of that spring and summer, every day after school, I was on a trolley to Judith's house. We'd sit on her front porch (they lived in a very sedate, suburban setting, before that term was known), and talk. And talk and kiss, and talk and talk and kiss some more.

I managed to persuade my father to make a large contribution to the Ladies Society. I hoped it helped Liza in some way.

I found out Judith's favorite perfume was a brand-new fragrance from Paris, called "Chypre". I gave her a bottle of it for Christmas. It was the kindest thing I'd done for anybody in several months, for, starting that fall, it was a knock-down, drag-out battle of wills with my mother at home.

I flatly refused to accept Princeton. I was going to enlist in March, on my17th birthday. Come hell or high water.

My mother stood in the middle of the parlor, a shocked look on her face. She pressed both her hands to her cheeks and slowly sank toward the floor. I recovered, and caught her, holding her to me. "Oh, Edward. I'm so sorry! How could I? I'm so sorry, so sorry," she breathed over and over.

My face still stung where she'd slapped me, with the full force she could summon.

"Mother, Mother, don't! I'm sorry, it's I who should apologize. I'm sorry, Mother. I won't enlist for another year. I'm sorry." The slap shocked me back into myself; I felt sick. I deserved every bit of the pain I could feel spreading across my cheekbone, jaw and mouth. What I'd said to her! The horrible things I said, so arrogant and disdainful! As a result, I couldn't refuse her very reasonable request that I wait one more year, until I was really an adult, to join up.

It was a sacrifice. Michael was already gone, enlisted a few months ago and was in training. Christopher was at loose ends, and was thinking about joining up. Either that, or hopping a steam boat to New Orleans, where he had some inkling of some type of job offer with an oil and gas outfit. It was really more just for the adventure. Chris was never the most academically-minded fellow. Many of the other boys in my neighborhood had also joined.

In short, I'd been chafing at the bit for some time. Even the joys of time with Judith couldn't quell the longing to be part of the Great Crusade in Europe. And I'd been curt and short-tempered with her, as well. Of course, Judith called me on it, which meant we were arguing a lot.

I'd finally snapped, and my mother's peace of mind paid the price for it.

I held her for a long time, until she calmed and her sobs stopped. She looked up at the bright red mark on my face, and started up all over again.

Finally, we went into the kitchen, and Mother fetched some ice from the icebox, wrapped a tea towel around it and held it to my face. I laughed. "I don't think that will help much, Mother! It doesn't feel like it will bruise. Oh, sorry!" Her lower lips started to quiver at the word "bruise".

As Mother fussed about, I was deep in thought, idly rubbing my sore cheek. What to do now? I couldn't just waste another year. I couldn't enroll in college, planning to join up just as soon as I was able.

I think my father always harbored political aspirations for me. I'd noticed him eyeing me speculatively, as I made small talk with some of his friends. I wondered if maybe I couldn't start going to work with him, just for something to do. Maybe I'd even like reading law?

More crucial, what to do about Judith? Clearly, things were serious. I'd spent every minute I could with her; we'd been to the theater together, a number of other balls, and I'd escorted her all over town. I'd have to make a decision, soon.

In my time, a couple was usually engaged right away, and the engagements were long, sometimes several years. It seems to be the reverse now. But, I didn't want, if the worst happened, to have Judith left without recourse. What I mean is, if we were engaged, and I was killed in the War, Judith would have been out of social circulation for such a long time, that her chances of having other beaus were greatly diminished.

I know what my mother hoped; that with a year to wait, I'd eventually give up on the idea of enlisting.

There was another complication. Judith's father was not pleased with the idea of her marrying a gentile. He hadn't forbidden her to see me, yet. But, when Mr. Zimmerman came to realize how serious we were becoming, he'd been making pointed comments to Judith about her heritage and faith. And what nice Jewish boys there were just next door, or on the next block.

Judith had laughed them off, at first. But her mother also was starting to express some discomfort. Initially, she'd seemed pleased. But, I was becoming aware of a Look, from her mother, when I'd come calling.

As I said, I didn't care about such things. My family was not religious; my mother said grace at dinner each night, more from habit than conviction. I'd even considered converting, if it meant it would make Judith's family happy.

In those days, a gentile converting, especially if the gentile in question was the son of politically well-connected lawyer, was nearly unheard-of.

In short, a difficult, complicated situation. And it meant a difficult, complicated conversation with Judith about our future.

One I was dreading.

Judith wore a beautiful yellow frock to the Museum opening that April. We strolled around after we'd had a chance to look at all the exhibits. It was a warm, pleasant evening, the sun just setting, the air soft with the promise of warmer days to come. We were chatting about nothing in particular, when I heard a deep voice calling my name.

"Ed Masen! Mr. Masen!" I turned to look, to see Big Dave smiling and walking swiftly toward us. Pleased to see him, I smiled back and extended my hand, taking a few steps forward to meet him.

"Hello, Mr. Johnson. Good to see you again," I said, and it was. His smile was like the sun coming out. It warmed all it touched.

I introduced Judith, whose tiny pale hand vanished in Dave's massive one. Dave seemed to put two-and-two together quite quickly, and included Judith in our conversation. After some pleasantries, I felt I had to ask, "How is Liza doing?"

Dave was suddenly serious. "Oh, she's fine, she's fine. Had her a little girl a couple months ago. Baby's healthy as a horse. It's hard finding, ah, legitimate work, though, with a little one in tow." To the look of obvious concern on my face, Dave added, "Oh, don't worry now, we're all looking after her. She'll do just fine. Funny thing, though," Dave added, "That Pole that was working her? Well, he up and disappeared not too long after she went into the Society Home. Found him a few weeks later, washed up on the lakeshore. Seemed he'd run into a boning knife a few times. Funny, funny thing." He shook his head in mock sorrow.

Judith looked horrified. But, fortunately didn't turn the horrified look into a horrified comment. "Hmm," I agreed, "That is a funny thing." I just wished I'd been the one to do it. I secretly hoped that Liza had.

"Well, it was good to see you again, Mr. Masen, and nice to meet you, ma'am," he said, nodding to Judith. "Oh, Ed? Could you pass along a message to your daddy?"

"I certainly will," I replied, instantly curious. What variety of message could this man have for my father? "Just tell him that Big Dave says that thing was taken care of, and me and the boys are grateful. That's all, just like that." Dave's expression was carefully smooth.

"I will be sure to pass exactly that message to him, when I see him later this evening," I said, formally, so there was no misunderstanding. Heaven-only-knows what it meant. I wasn't sure I wanted to know. Dave wished us a good evening, and disappeared back into the night.

"I don't want to know," said Judith, after a moment's silence. I laughed, "Well, that makes two of us!" "Mmm," said Judith, looking at me speculatively. "What?" I asked, smiling down at her. "Oh, nothing. It's just, well, you're quite…dazzlingly handsome when you laugh. I was just admiring, is all," she finished, looking up at me through her lashes. She knew the effect that had on me. Fortunately, there was a handy, secluded doorframe nearby; I whipped my hat off my head, tucked her into the doorway and kissed her quite thoroughly, both of us gasping for air after a minute.

"Oh, Mr. Masen," she giggled, "You're going to have to marry me after a kiss like that!" "Well," I replied, between little pecks on her lips, cheeks, eyelids and nose, "Maybe," kiss, "I'll have," kiss, "to do," kiss, "just," kiss, "that! What do you think of that?" I finished, looking into her eyes. It seemed my decision was made for me.

"Are you asking?" she said, after we'd resumed walking. "Well, I think it's something we should discuss. How would your parents feel about it?"

"Ah," she answered, looking down at the sidewalk passing beneath our feet, her face momentarily invisible beneath the brim of her hat, "Well, that is a problem. I think, well, I think they'd be…unhappy. I mean," she added hurriedly, "They like you just fine. And my mother really likes your mother. But, as my fiancé? Husband? They've made their opinion quite clear."

This was a problem. A fairly sizable one. I was silent for a few moments, as we picked our way across the street, heading back to the museum. "Would they forbid you, do you think?" I asked quietly.

"I doubt it. But you'd have to endure decades of heavy sighs and head shaking. Not to mention little pointed comments. Do you think you could handle that?" She asked, smiling up at me. So very lovely, was all I could think. "I think I could manage," I replied, smiling back, "Would my converting make it easier?" Her eyes flew wide in shock. "Oh, Edward! You'd do that for me? I don't think you know what you're saying," she finished skeptically.

"Why? What's the problem? It doesn't seem like a big deal to me," I shrugged.

"Well, you'd need to learn Hebrew, for starters. "

"I'm good with languages."

"A whole new alphabet?" She looked at me archly. I readjusted my hat on my head, by way of playing for time. That sounded harder than I'd thought. "You'd also have to memorize large sections of the Talmud and Torah, our "laws" and scripture. In Hebrew." She was sounding increasingly dubious. My expression must have given me away.

"Are you familiar with the term 'bris'?" she asked. I wasn't. I shook my head. "Do you know what a Moyle does?" I shook my head again. I looked down at her, and was surprised to see her blushing furiously. "What? I don't understand. What does that mean?" I asked, concerned. "Well, maybe you should, um, look it up." "Why won't you tell me?"

"Because it's too embarrassing!" she snapped. I laughed. I was fairly confident that there was nothing she could tell me that would embarrass either of us. So, I pushed the issue. She finally gave in, and whispered it in my ear, her face bright pink.

I was wrong.

I think I turned a little pale. "Hmm. I thought so," she said, peering up at me from under her hat. "No, no; ah, it just gives me a lot more to think about," I stammered. Perhaps I'd been too hasty. My previous religious experience hadn't prepared me for anything as intense as this. I figured I'd go to some classes, show up at the Temple and get sort of, sworn in, or something.

There was something else, too. I didn't like the idea of marrying Judith, and then immediately leaving for war, and maybe never returning. I didn't want to do that to her. So, where did that leave us?

At 17, I was a man, by the standards of the day. Free to make my own way in the world, make my own decisions. However, the class in which I lived, the social conventions of the day, limited my choices to a certain extent. There were some paths I'd never dream of taking, and some that were certain.

For women, the conventions were even more strict.

Although I was a hopeless romantic at that age, I was practical enough to realize that maybe these plans were not the most feasible.

I cared deeply about Judith. But I wasn't willing to give up my dreams of battlefield glory for her. Nor was I willing to leave her a widow, or worse: one of those poor, sad women who lost their chance at marriage by becoming engaged to a man who died, and lived the rest of their lives in bitter regret.

These ideas were shooting around in my head, as we walked. No solutions presented themselves.

"You're awfully quiet," she finally put in. "Hmm. Well, I'm thinking about you and me and our future together," I replied, slowly. I wasn't sure where I was going with this, except that I figured Judith, being as sharp as she was, had gotten there before me.

"I knew that would scare you off," she said, darkly, "I knew I shouldn't have told you!"

"What?" I exclaimed, surprised. Then I realized she was talking about the circumcision, as well as the rest. "Oh, no, no; that's not it. Not at all. It's just…" I wasn't sure where to go next. Bless her, Judith got there first.

"It's just that you're determined to go to war, and you don't want to leave me behind, or leave me a young widow. Is that right?" she said, her voice flat, looking down at her hands. Damn these wide-brimmed hats the ladies were all wearing! I couldn't see her face.

We were standing to one side of the museum entrance now, in a little nook formed by the steps.

"Well, yes. I wouldn't want to leave you without recourse. I wouldn't want to leave you…alone in the world," I finished softly.

"Why leave me at all then? Why not stay? Why not go to college?" she asked, her voice a rush, "If you stayed, I wouldn't be alone."

"Judith, I have to go. I can't just sit by. I would have left with Michael if I hadn't promised my mother I'd wait another year."

"You don't have to do anything," she muttered. "Am I not enough reason for you to stay?" Her voice was plaintive, verging on tears.

I couldn't stand not seeing her face anymore, so I bent down, and gently lifted her chin up with the tip of my finger. I looked into her eyes, "Darling, my own mother isn't enough for me to stay. I don't expect you to understand, but I've wanted this, my whole life. It's all I ever thought about. When I come home a hero, I hope that you'll still be here. I'll understand if you aren't." I was speaking softly, gently. Her eyes started to fill with tears, but she didn't look away from mine.

"I've been struggling with this, since we met again last spring. I want to be with you, to talk to you, to see you smile and laugh. I don't know where this leaves us, except in limbo. I've tried to enjoy the time we have. I just don't know what else to do." I swallowed hard, trying not to fill up myself. But, oddly, being this frank with her was exhilarating. Getting this all off my chest made me feel…free, somehow.

Judith was looking steadily into my eyes, and had blinked back her tears. "Edward Anthony Masen, I love you. And I want what's best for you. I want you to be happy, and not constantly wishing 'what if' for the rest of your life. Especially if I'm the cause." Her voice was firm, her expression unwavering.

"So, if going to war is what you want, then go with Godspeed and my blessing. I can't promise I'll wait for you. That's my answer."

I was not worthy of her.

A strange dream. I was running as fast as I could, leaping barbed wire, debris, hillocks of mud and turf, my rifle in my hands, helmet bouncing uncomfortably on my head. My bandolier of ammunition thudded against my chest with each step. The going was muddy; my feet slipped and slid as I tried for purchase.

I dropped into a trench, breathing hard. I could hear the explosions of bombs going off around me, sending up huge sprays of mud and rocks. I was showered with it. And blood, bits of flesh, bone. I risked a peek over the top of the trench, to orient myself to my goal.

The bombs stopped, and I made another dash for it, hoisting myself with all my heavy equipment, over the muddy lip and running in the mud again.

My object was a girl; I thought it was Judith. She was wearing a long, romantic, loose velvet gown of the most bohemian, modern style. It draped and flowed around her slender form, shimmering and fluttering in the breeze. Her soft curls blew around a pale, heart-shaped face. As I ran closer, I got a better look at "Judith's" face.

It wasn't Judith at all; but who else could it be, my sleeping brain wondered. This girl had dark brown eyes, large in her small pale face with its upper lip out of balance with her lower. Her hair, instead of Judith's ebony curls, was long, loose soft brown waves, flowing over her shoulders and down her back.

Her expression was one of pain and longing. She extended her hands to me, the gown gracefully falling away from her wrists as she gestured. "Edward! Edward, hurry!" she cried, stark urgency in her voice. I needed to run faster than I was able, to save her. My equipment weighed me down like iron. I wasn't strong enough to overcome its weight.

But, my attention was diverted as I ran. I looked around at the bodies of men and horses littered around me on the battlefield. I recognized Mike, Chris, George, Big Dave, my father, and, most horrifyingly, my mother. She lay sprawled in the mud, her eyes open, unseeing. I stopped to try to help her. I couldn't lift her; the girl called my name again, "Edward!"

I woke in a clammy sweat, sitting up quite suddenly with an incoherent shout.

I put it down to grief and too much liquor.

It was hot. Sweaty hot and sticky humid. I was sitting in the left field grandstands at Cubs Park; it's now called Wrigley Field. Bottom of the sixth, we were up by two runs.

Perhaps "sitting" was too formal a word to describe my posture. I was slumped in my seat, my long legs fully extended out in front of me, showing my silk socks, the back of my head resting on the edge of the seat back, arms crossed over my chest. I had my straw hat tipped forward, so it rested on the bridge of my nose. I was dissolutely staring at the game from this position, and alternately sunk in misery.

"Hey," Chris kicked my ankles, and a beer appeared in front of my face. I took it from him; the cold felt good against my sweaty palms. I tipped my hat up, took a (careful) swig, and replaced my hat to its former position. This was my…well, one of many, beers that afternoon.

I'd basically been drunk or sleeping it off, for a month.

Ever since Judith and I decided, soberly, maturely, to call it quits.

I'd then been behaving less than mature, and was certainly rarely sober, ever since.

The alcohol made the misery almost bearable.

Misery of my own making, certainly. It didn't make any less awful.

We'd tried to continue on as before, thinking at least we could enjoy the time that was left to us; sitting on her porch in the glider of an evening, talking. Going for a walk. I always brought her flowers. Her favorite was a pinky-orange Gerber daisy; she thought them cheerful.

But our time was strained, formal. The warm intimacy I'd shared with her was gone. It was when she quickly turned her head, when I'd tried to kiss her lips that I knew it was over for good. My heart had twisted, sunk to my stomach. That was all the normalcy, happiness, I was allotted.

I'd heard she had started seeing a new beau, a boy who lived several houses away. His father was a doctor, a good one. David Greenberg, was his name. I stopped calling on her, with no other good bye than the good evening I'd wished her from her front porch, two weeks after our talk at the museum.

For a time, I'd walk by her house, and sneak into the side yard, and stare at her window. Then, I was overwhelmed with my own pathos, disgusted with my sentimentality.

I started my bender at about that point. At least, I could giggle at my own pathetic life when thoroughly intoxicated.

I peeked out the side of my hat. Chris had resumed his seat next to me, and was wiping his brow with his handkerchief, his own straw hat tipped back on his head. I giggled at the sight, then sighed.

Chris had been my comrade-in-arms throughout the last month; we'd hit, I'd swear, every music hall, dance parlor, bar, pub, inn and club in town. My mother was beside herself (it was her fault, after all, that I was at such loose ends, I'd remind myself whenever I started to feel sympathetic); my father at first thought it was amusing.

He was starting to worry now.

He'd even made the mistake of suggesting (I wasn't supposed to have overheard this) that my mother allow me to enlist now. What an explosion that caused!

I was pretty much determined that I was going to go enlist soon, anyway. I just didn't want to hurt my mother when I did it. I figured the worse I behaved, the happier she'd be to see me go.

"Hey, didja hear?" Chris interrupted these dark thoughts, poking me in the arm to get my attention. "What?" I muttered.

"Mike's sick, got some kind of typhoid or something. Going around Fort Meyer or something." I shrugged, unimpressed. Soldiers were always getting sick with something in those days, the hazard of enforced close quarters. But, I had heard that there was some nasty form of typhoid or diphtheria or something going around. Lots of people were coming down with it. Many were dying. Certainly, not anyone from our neighborhood; these types of outbreaks were confined to the slums, or poorer neighborhoods. We were immune. To the extent I never gave it a second thought.

Just then, he Cubs hit a hell of a ball, way out into left-center field. It looked like a triple. I jumped to my feet, cheering with the rest of the crowd as the triple turned into a home run, due to a fielding error.

"He going to be ok?" I asked, when we sat back down again. I re-slumped, and adjusted my hat to its former position, after swilling down most of my beer. Damn, it was hot!

Chris shrugged in response. "His mother's hysterical, of course. Wants to jump on the train and head right down there. In fact, I'd heard she'd gotten as far as the station, when his father managed to find her and talk some sense into her." He chuckled. I snorted. Mrs. McAllister and "sense" were not two words I'd use together. I giggled again at the thought.

"So," I mumbled, after a minute, "What are you going to do? Take that job in New Orleans, or join up?" Between heat and beer, I was barely awake at that point. A pleasant sort of relaxed sleepiness fell over me.

"I'm thinking about heading out, taking that job. Haven't figured when, though," he said, staring out to the field.

"Who's going to cover my back, if you don't join up with me?" I was joking, of course. "Aw, Ed, you'll have no trouble finding plenty of folks who want to cover your back!" We both burst out laughing at that.

When the Cubbies had won the game, we hopped the trolley and headed home. I was going to nap, and then we'd meet up and go lay waste to Chicago night life. My plans were destined to change.

My father's car was parked, somewhat haphazardly, in the garage, the doors wide open. It was very early for him to be home, and something just wasn't right.

I opened the back, kitchen door, and wandered in, taking off my hat and planning an ice-box raid before heading upstairs to sleep off my early afternoon of beer, in preparation to begin my late-afternoon, early-evening of beer.

My father was lying in the middle of the kitchen floor, coat off, tie loose, shirt partly unbuttoned. My mother was fluttering around him, panicked.

Then, I noticed the blood. There was blood on his shirt, in his snowy white moustache, where it stood out starkly. It looked like blood had been sprayed onto his face.

I froze.

"Mother? What's wrong? What happened?" I asked, my voice hoarse. I sobered up fast.

"Oh, Edward, thank goodness you're home! Your father, he just…he just…he came home and said he didn't feel well. He started coughing and coughing and there was all this blood and he fell over!" My mother was verging on hysteria.

My father's eyes fluttered open as I bent down to look at him closer. "Oh, Ed, my boy, good, you're home. Not feeling so good, maybe you can help your mother get (wheeze)…me (wheeze gasp)…upstairs… (hack hack cough cough)."

He grabbed his handkerchief and held it to his face, which turned quite purple. The kerchief was already speckled with blood, and he coughed more into it. I made an instant decision.

"Father, I'm going to drive you to the hospital. Mother, get some cold cloths and some more kerchiefs. I'll bring the car around. NO!" I exclaimed, as my father started to not only try to sit up alone, but was clearly going to try to stand, "No, just sit here and rest. I'll be right back." I patted him on the shoulder. He was steaming hot and soaking wet. Mother had raced from the room to get what we needed. I ran for the carriage house.

When we managed to half-carry, half-walk him to the car that I had reversed up to the back door, I noticed it wasn't blood sprayed onto his face, but that little blood vessels across his nose and cheeks had burst, giving him a freckled look.

It was disturbing. I hoped it would go away when he got better.

Half-way to the hospital, he started vomiting blood over the side of the car. Not much, just choking it up when he coughed. But it frightened me to my core. My mother was bouncing on the seat next to me, holding her hat on with one hand, as I pushed the car as fast as I could. Occasionally, she'd turn to check on my father, who alternately slumped, exhausted, against the back of the seat, and coughed over the side.

I tried to focus on each task, one at a time. Panicking, or getting too far ahead of the next ten minutes wasn't going to be helpful. Drive the car, shift the gears, blow the horn, steer, brake, turn, stop the car, shut down the engine. Get out of the car, figure out how to get my father into the hospital.

One thing at a time, one thing at a time. I kept repeating it, hoping for calm.

We managed to get him into the hospital, where we were met with chaos. A room full of sick, coughing people, many of whom had the same symptoms as my father. Some well-heeled, some not. I told the stressed, harried-looking nurse on duty my father's name. Her eyes widened, and she scurried off. She never returned.

We waited and waited. My father got sicker and sicker. He was now mostly unconscious, only coming around to cough blood into his dwindling supply of handkerchiefs. He was deadly pale, those blood blotches standing out hideously on his skin. People buzzed and milled around. The room was full of the sounds of the sick.

At one point, my mother went striding off, to see if she could find someone to at least speak with us, get us on some type of list to see a doctor. My father came around again, coughed some more, and tugged at my sleeve. He was slumped against me, in one of the chairs we'd managed to wrangle. His voice was so soft and hoarse, it was hard to hear.

"Ed, my boy. Take care of this. I don't want those damned nurses to get their hands on it." He was fumbling in his pocket, and finally drew out a little dark blue velvet bag. He pressed it into my palm. "What is it?" I whispered.

"Just a little something I found for your mother. I was going to give it to her today. Hold on to it for me, until we're out of here, won't you?" He began coughing again. "Certainly, Father. I'll keep it safe," I promised.

It was reassuring that at least he thought we'd be back home, safe and sound. I tucked the little bag into my pocket. It felt light, and there was something hard and weighted in the bottom. I didn't look.

My mother reappeared, with three orderlies in tow. The burly men looked chastened and not a little frightened. One was pushing a kind of bed with wheels. She looked like a triumphant, avenging angel.

One who's hair was half out of its pins, in a blood-stained white-and-yellow organdy frock.

The orderlies promptly loaded my father onto the little bed, and wheeled him off down the hall. We followed, half running to keep up.

"How did you do that, Mother?" I said in awe. She smiled grimly. "It's all in who you know. And how much money you've donated to this damned hospital. I commandeered a phone at a nurse's station, and started calling the very nice men on the board of directors." We turned down a corridor. "They were appalled we'd waited so long, and promised their best physician would care for your father, as soon as he arrives for his shift." She sounded smug; but I thought she was entitled.

My father seemed to initially improve, once he was in a clean bed and nightshirt. But then, he got much worse. The sun was setting; the windows were open and an electric fan was whirring overhead. But the room was hot, still and stuffy.

I was feeling a little dizzy, but I put that down to the heat, stress and beer. Mother was resting in a chair, near Father's bed. I could hear his labored breathing across the room, where I sat.

And suddenly, almost in unison, both Mother and I started coughing. I couldn't stop. It suddenly felt like my nose, throat and chest couldn't get clear of fluid. I bent forward, trying to clear my head and chest. And suddenly a rush of fluid came out of my mouth, some of it bloody. I remember thinking, "Oh, this isn't good."

The next thing I recall, is the calm, collected, very pale face of the handsome, blonde doctor looking down at me. I was in a lamp-lit room, with many other people. I was lying in a lumpy bed, covered with an old blanket. I was shivering and sweating at the same time.

I remember the doctor's impossibly cold fingers on my forehead, at my throat, on my wrists, checking my vital signs. He made a note in a chart, and handed it to a nurse. He smiled briefly at me, and moved on to the next bed, the next dying patient.

Where was my mother? Shouldn't she be here at my bedside? Where was Father? Was he any better? Worse?

I tried to sit up, to look around and gain my bearings. I immediately started coughing again, hard, hacking coughs that sent a flash of pain through my ribs, my back.

The doctor was back by my side in an instant, gently but firmly pushing me back down on the bed. "Just lay still, son. Rest. Take it easy," his deep, smooth voice soothed. His hands felt impossibly strong.

My coughing eased, and I immediately fell asleep again.

I awoke to bright sunlight, pouring through the open windows. More people in the room. The handsome, kind doctor was no where to be seen. A few nurses and orderlies were moving about.

A nurse stopped by the foot of my bed to look at my chart. "Excuse me, ma'am?" I asked, my voice too soft and hoarse to be heard. She looked up. An older, worn-looking lady, she had a stern face. She stared at me hard, and then moved on.

Where was my mother? I kept wondering, worrying about it. I began to cough again, crying out in the pain it caused my ribs and chest and throat. I still couldn't seem to relieve the pressure, the congestion in my chest. I was half-coughing, half-vomiting. I leaned over the bed to spit into the little basin there. I saw it was half full of fluid. Mine? I didn't remember coughing that much.

An orderly came to empty the little basin as I collapsed back onto the bed. And promptly passed out again.

While I slept, it seemed the room got even more crowded; all of the patients whispering, praying. A great humming, buzzing crowd. The nurses and orderlies were also whispering and talking out loud. It seemed their voices doubled and echoed over themselves. Must be too much fluid in my sinuses, I thought, it's causing my ears to ring.

Night-time again. My eyelids fluttered open, and I coughed weakly. I knew I was getting worse. I could hardly breathe, from the heat in the room and the unimaginable pressure in my lungs. I couldn't swallow, my throat was so sore and full of fluid.

The handsome doctor's face floated over me, full of worry. He looked tired, deep purple circles under his oddly golden eyes.

A loud clap of thunder sounded over head, causing the electric lights to flicker. At last, I thought, some relief from the heat.

It was very quiet in the ward. I heard soft coughing, but no other footfalls from staff.

The doctor leaned over, and began to whisper in my ear. "I'm Doctor Carlisle Cullen," he said, "And your mother ordered me to save your life, in the only way I can, now." His voice had a faint accent I couldn't place. His breath was amazingly cool against my cheek, and he had an indescribably good smell. Especially compared to the overwhelming smell of sickness in the room.

"My mother," I croaked the question, "Is my mother ok? Where is she?" I felt panic rising.

"I'm sorry to tell you, son, but your mother passed this afternoon. Your father passed yesterday. You've been intermittently unconscious, or I would have told you sooner." His face, so close to mine, was deeply sorrowful.

Had I the strength, I would have burst into tears. But I was too weak to cry, too sick to fully grasp what he was telling me. Mother, dead? Father, dead? Impossible! This man, however kind, must be lying to me.

And then, I was suddenly aware he wasn't. For as plain as day, I saw my mother's face, still, eyes shut, the color drained from it. I saw a pair of white hands pull the sheet over it. I saw my father's face, his mouth twisted up as he fought for one last breath, and suddenly stilled.

I couldn't cope. What I'd feared so, as a child, suddenly washed over me. My mother, taken from me, never to rise from her sickbed again. The unimaginable: my father also gone! He'd never been sick a day in his life. I never once feared for his health.

I must have lost consciousness again. When I opened my eyes next, barely able, it seemed, to lift the weight of my eyelids, the storm was in full roar outside, the wind thumping against the side of the building, rattling the windows, the rain spraying hard against the glass. A crack of thunder and a flash of lightening caused the electric light to fail, and then blink back on.

The doctor was still sitting on my bed, so carefully I was hardly aware of his weight. His eyes met mine intently.

I was aware again of a whispering sound in the room, as though all around me, people were talking amongst themselves, quietly. Little pictures flashed through my head, of places I'd never been, people I'd never seen. How very odd, I thought. This sickness must cause hallucinations. I heard prayers, demands, wishes and little pieces of conversation that were unintelligible.

My eyes fluttered closed again. The doctor leaned forward; I could smell his pleasant aroma. What nice cologne, I thought dimly; I should ask him where he got it.

"Edward, you're dying. You won't live much longer, maybe another hour at the most. I can heal you, but you will be permanently changed. This was your mother's dying wish, that I save your life in whatever way I could. Are you willing?" His voice was quite serious. I could see my mother's living face now, hear her voice, "Save him! Save my son! I know you can! Only you can save him! Let him live!" she hissed fiercely, her green eyes blazing out of her white face, her mouth smeared with blood. And then, her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed back onto the pillow, her red hair spread wildly around her.

I nodded. I owed this to her, to carry out her last request. Whatever this man had to do to save me, I would let him do it. I would live, for her.

"Are you certain? The process will be very…painful. I will care for you, and you can stay with me, for as long as you choose. I will do my best to teach you how to live in this new life, but there are rules you must follow. Are you willing?" His voice was stern, it brooked no opposition. If I refused, I would die.

As simple as that.

I nodded again. "All right. I'm going to carry to my home, and begin the process there." I felt myself being lifted off the lumpy mattress, the blanket tucked around me. I began to cough weakly again. "Hold tight," he whispered, "Here we go."

Pain. Searing, agonizing, burning pain. I must have moaned out loud, because I heard Carlisle's calm voice in my ear, "It's almost over. You're almost done. It's almost over," he repeated.

I don't know how long I burned. It seemed endless, eternal. While I burned, Carlisle told me what he was, what I was becoming. He explained his life to me, his philosophy, why he decided, now, to create a companion.

I just happened to be in the right place, at the right time.

None of this made sense. Vampires? Really? Surely he was joking; this must be some new, experimental medicine that I'd agreed to take. Despite the careful, scholarly explanations he gave, I still didn't understand. Couldn't understand.

I wish there was a way I could help relieve the pain, but its part of the process. I heard Carlisle's voice in my ear, or so I thought.

"Why? Why is this 'part of the process," I managed to spit out between clenched teeth. There was a pause. "The venom is changing you, and it burns human flesh," Was the calm response. How did he know that? I didn't say that out loud, did I?

"You must have, or I wouldn't have heard it," I hissed. Ah, the pain was excruciating! The conversation was a small distraction.

I KNOW I didn't say that aloud! I would have responded, but a fresh wave of pain crashed over me, leaving me breathless. My heart began to race, faster and faster, faster than a dead run. I thought it was going to explode.

Almost done now. It's almost over.

My heart gave two last, heavy thumps and then stopped. Surely, this meant I was dead? But nothing changed. Time seemed to freeze.

And everything did. Time unfroze again, and sped forward.

First, the scents wafting through the room were unimaginably complex, some I was certain I'd never smelled before. I spent a few long moments just sniffing, trying to sort them all out.

Once I'd cataloged all the smells in the room, something that seemed like minutes, but was probably less than a second, I moved on to sounds. I heard conversations all around me, some of them sounding like they were doubled or tripled, voices talking over each other, just slightly out of time. I heard the hiss of a breeze against the side of the house, a car engine starting, the scrape of a chair on a wooden floor. Dogs parked, children shrieked as they played. So much noise! And so many voices! It was almost overwhelming, an onslaught.

Then, I moved on to touch: I could feel the fibers in the sheet on which I lay, the nightshirt that covered me, each lump and hillock in the mattress beneath me. My fingertips stroked the sheet, marveling at the detail I could sense. What kind of material was this?

Finally, I decided it was time to open my eyes.

Every mote of dust was perceptible to my eyes; every grain in the wood paneling and molding, Ever fiber in the velvet curtains that hung on the windows, and every scratch and bubble in the those windows. Late afternoon sun was streaming through and it lit everything, seeming to make each object it touched, glow from within.

I looked up at Carlisle. I gasped.

He was easily the most beautiful being I'd ever seen. I began to believe he must be an angel of some kind, his face was so perfect. He smiled at me, and I gasped again. His smile transformed his face completely from perfection to…unbelievable.

I sat up. One instant, I was flat on my back. In the next, I was upright, staring hard at Carlisle. I got a distinct feeling of alarm from him, and he moved back slightly. I reached out my hand, and touched the tips of my fingers to his face.

His skin didn't feel like skin. More like, silk or stone or some strange combination of both.

He chuckled softly. "Good afternoon. I see you're feeling better," he continued to smile warmly at me.

I chuckled, too, at his little joke. The sound of my laugh startled me. It sounded like the deep ring of church bells. I stopped laughing, but the sound seemed to reverberate in the room around me.

I looked around at the room; it appeared to be a conventional bedroom, decorated in the slightly overblown art nouveau style. All was in good taste, however, and was clearly of the highest quality.

My new eyes could easily perceive that.

Now, I began to understand what he'd told me while I burned. I began to understand the change. I looked down at my hands; they looked like plaster casts of my own hands and arms, and legs and, pulling my nightshirt away from my chest, I looked down; yes and my chest, and…other things, too (something of a relief). I looked like me, but carved from marble.

How remarkably calm he's taking this. Still, I'm glad I took leave from the hospital. One never knows. Sigh.

"Am I calm? I can't tell," I asked out loud, my voice so strange in my ears. Again, it sounded like deep bells chiming.

"How are you doing that? Answering questions and such, before I speak?" he asked politely.

"Is that what I'm doing? You aren't saying these things out loud?" I was perplexed.

Tell me, Edward; has it always been easy for you to know what people are thinking?

I was looking at his face, so I knew his lips hadn't moved. I'd felt no little breeze from his mouth in speech.

I was stunned. I could hear thoughts?

I nodded, in answer to his question. Ah, well. That explains it. A latent ability the venom has brought to the fore, just as Elazar theorized. How interesting.

I was confused, and wanted to ask more questions, but I was distracted by a scent. A very strong scent. It smelled like…human blood. Very close. Just outside the window.

Before I'd realized I'd done it, I was standing by the window, looking down. There was a man walking along the sidewalk below. Whistling.

Carlisle was at my side in an instant, with a firm grip on my arm. No, Edward. We don't feed on human blood. I'll show you how to hunt, as soon as we can leave without being seen. Can you wait that long?

I nodded. I just then noticed, it felt like my throat was on fire. How strange that I still had a sore throat, after everything I'd been through. I swallowed. It was a bad one, too. Felt like someone had run a white-hot poker down my neck. I moved forward, unconsciously drawn to the scent. I WANTED that man's blood, urgently. I suddenly had a strong image of grabbing the man, pulling him into an alley, and tearing his throat open with my teeth. The fire scorched my throat; relief would be hot, pulsing, thick, wet and salty.

Carlisle firmly pulled me back into the room, away from the sunlight and the window. If I'd resisted at all, I don't believe he could have stopped me. But I was stunned by the power of that scent.

I noticed, as Carlisle passed through a sunbeam, his skin suddenly sparked and flickered. I put my own hand into the beam of light, and saw the same reaction.

I stood there for a while, twisting my arm and hand in and out of the light, completely engrossed and distracted, until it slowly faded into dusk.

"Come, my…son. Change into some clothes, and we'll hunt," said Carlisle. It seems strange to call him my son. But, that he is.

Which reminded me. "Carlisle, what happened to my parents?"

"Change and hunt first. Then, we'll talk," he replied, as he walked out of the room and shut the door behind him.

Managing my strength was a challenge; I inadvertently tore the nightshirt apart in the act of pulling it over my head. I heard a low chuckle from outside. "Slow, deliberate. You're learning how to use your hands again," he advised. I kept repeating that to my self as I carefully pulled on the underwear, linen pants, white cotton shirt, braces, socks and shoes Carlisle had left for me. They smelled…familiar.

Oh! These were my clothes, from my bureau and wardrobe at home. He must have stopped by the house and retrieved them for me. I sniffed deeply at the sleeve of my shirt. Home was in that smell; the scent of our drying room, in the cellar, next to the furnace room. The smell of Maureen's hands, folding the clothes, ironing the shirt. A deep throb of homesickness almost overwhelmed me.

Then, the thirst raged.

The next week, Carlisle was constantly by my side, instructing and guiding my "vampire education" in his calm, scholarly way. I appreciated his detachment. It made it easier. He took care of some of my personal business for me, closing up the house, securing my family's personal possessions, helping me make a claim for my inheritance.

Learning to control my urge to drink human blood was something of a challenge. We hunted frequently, sometimes staying out in the woods for days, hunting deer, elk, even bear when we could. I made a mess of it at first, but over time, it got easier, neater and cleaner. It didn't completely dim the thirst that flared up around humans, but being sloshingly full of animal blood helped a great deal.

Carlisle was also helping me control the onslaught of thoughts and images that threatened to overwhelm me at times. My head was constantly abuzz with them. I could hear everything. It took many years before I felt more comfortable with my ability, learned to filter and ignore thoughts. At times, I thought I would go mad with it.

The pettiness and unkindness of most human thought depressed me a great deal. I had been raised to believe people were basically kind and good. Being able to hear thoughts, turned that belief on its head.

My greatest delight was my speed. I could run faster than I'd ever moved before; driving a motorcar paled in comparison. I raced locomotives at full speed, beating them to the crossings. I loved the breeze in my face and I never tired. I could hold conversations with Carlisle, without loosing breath.

When he could keep up with me, that is. I regularly lapped him, only to hear his polite cough, "Ah, Edward? I'm back here, son," and a low chuckle as I slammed on my brakes and spun around to find him.

But, I was growing uneasy. What was I? What was I to become? What was my life now? These questions darted through my head constantly, when I wasn't distracted by my new gifts and abilities. I wanted to live; I wasn't tempted to try to end my…afterlife…as Carlisle had been when he was made. But, what to make of it all?

And all the while, I was putting off the inevitable.

I had to go home.

Simply the hardest thing I had ever done. Only leaving Bella was harder.

The sun had just set on another hot, humid Chicago summer day. I made my way, gliding through alleys and back streets, back to my parents home.

Carlisle, bless him, had collected my parent's belongings from the hospital, before the orderlies could pocket them for themselves. He'd driven the car back to our carriage house, and made certain the house was locked tight, window shades drawn.

He'd concocted some story for my father's lawyers, accountants and managers about a long-lost cousin, so I, as Edward Cullen, was gifted my parent's estate. Bitter irony, as my college fund no longer mattered.

Molly had died, shortly after my parents, of the same ailment. She was at home, and several of her children had died with her. Carlisle was able to ascertain that much.

No one had heard from or seen Maureen since "That Day". It seemed like that silent woman had vanished into thin air. More likely; she'd died anonymously at some hospital or other, and was buried in an unmarked grave.

Like my parents. Carlisle wasn't around when they'd wheeled their bodies out of the morgue, or he would have done something to ensure they were buried in the Masen family plot, in Bachelor's Grove Cemetery. I don't know where they are buried today. So many people died in the epidemic, there were mass burials in communal graves. Whole families, like mine, died. No one to identify the remains, plan funerals, ensure the dead had their grief, their mourners. Was I lucky? Or was it better to have died with my parents? One way or another, my life was over, the life I'd planned (or not; more, simply expected) burned away.

I first did a reconnoiter of the neighborhood; the McAllister's house was shut tight and dark. It looked almost abandoned. Several other houses on our street had the same look. I wondered how many others were afflicted with the same ailment that had claimed my family's life.

I didn't hear any new information. The St. John's house had lights on, a phonograph record playing. The thoughts of his parents and little sister were not helpful to me.

It took me many long moments to approach the back door to my silent house. Carlisle had given me the key; he was confident enough now in my restraint that I could be left unsupervised. He was fulfilling his last shift at Cook County Hospital, then he'd bring the moving wagon to load up anything I'd want to keep.

After that, we were off for upstate New York, and a new life there.

Life. Hah. Is that what this was? I still didn't know.

I carefully, minding my new strength, put the brass key in the lock and twisted. I took a deep (unneeded, but habitual) breath, and turned the knob.

The door swung open. I reached in and flicked on the light, although I didn't really need to.

Everything was just as we left it. A kitchen chair overturned, where my father fell out of it. Carlisle had cleaned up the blood, though; I could smell the bleach.

A pie was moldering on the counter. I'd planned to take a slice up to my room to munch before I fell asleep, "That Day". The smell was off-putting. I walked through the house, toward the front door. Carlisle had mentioned it appeared there was a note pinned to it. He'd left everything for me to find; didn't want to impose or interfere.

I felt like an archeologist, uncovering a ruin of a life, many years in the future. Some unnamed, unknowing sudden disaster had claimed the lives of the inhabitants of this place. And like Pompeii, everything was perfectly preserved in place. Frozen in time's amber.

Just like me.

I found I didn't need the light, as I made my way forward.

Under the brass mail slot, lying on the floor, were several telegram envelopes. I picked those up, first, and stacked them neatly together.

Unlocking and opening the front door, I unpinned the note, marked, "Lizbet". I shut the door without locking it, and flipped the little square of folded paper open.

It read: Lizbet: I hope Ward is on the mend and that is the reason you're not answering the 'phone or door. I have bad news; Michael is dead. He died in Fort Meyer, Kansas, of some kind of typhoid that no-one's seen before. They're shipping his body home soon. I'll call with the date and time of the funeral. Please let Ed know. I'm hoping he'll agree to give the eulogy.

Yours,

Martha McAllister

Oh. Dear. God. No. Not Mike. Mike can't be dead, too. My head spun, and I sank to the floor, staring blankly in shock. I read the words, "Michael is dead," over again. I noticed there were little splotches, that had run some of the ink. His mother's tears?

The paper felt slightly crispy in my hand. It clearly had been many days since she'd written and pinned it to the door.

Had she heard yet? "Ed" was dead. So was Ward. So was Lizbet.

I flipped through the telegrams, looking for an answer, any answer.

One from Chris, dated eight days ago: Ed –stop- on my way to NOLA –stop- at Paducah –stop- hope dads better –stop-will write when arrive –stop- your pal Chris stj –full stop-

Some for my father, mostly business communications.

One from the Zimmerman's, addressed to my mother. Judith was engaged. To a David Greenberg.

The cherry on this particular dung sundae.

I sat for many long moments, trying to absorb it all.

I wanted to scream in rage, at the bitter unfairness of it all. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to me! Not to "us"! My life was supposed to be what I wanted: glory as a soldier, a wife, a family, children, grandchildren. My parents living to comfortable old age, watching their grandchildren play on the front lawn, run wild through the house.

Not die in their 30's. Horribly and painfully die, nearly anonymously in a hospital sick ward.

If I screamed, as I so wished, my new voice could be heard for blocks. It wasn't something I dared.

So I buried my face in my fists and moaned softly for a while, rocking back and forth, there on the polished wood floor of the foyer. I slowly calmed after a little while. My emotions seemed to swirl quickly through me, coming and going as swiftly as a summer thunderstorm. Which was probably beneficial, since they seemed far stronger than any human emotion I'd ever felt. If I'd had to feel them for any length of time, I don't know how I would have stood it. And, as easily distracted as we are, something soon caught my attention, something out of place.

There was a little pile of something shiny on the piano. I stood, and went to examine it.

Carlisle had placed my parent's personal belongings on the piano. Not wanting to invade our privacy and go upstairs, but wanting to leave them somewhere I'd find them, he'd left them here.

My father's heavy gold watch and fobs. His cufflinks and shirt studs. His fountain pen, money clip, calling card case, wallet, all the little bric-a-brac he'd carried with him every day. Even a little paring knife, presumably for his nails.

My mother's earrings, bracelet, combs, gold neck chain with a tiny gold charm on it; a disk with my initials and birthdate on it. Her engagement ring.

My money clip and cuff links. And a little velvet jewelry bag. I pulled the tiny cords to open it, and shook out the contents into my palm.

It was an enormous diamond, probably 5 or 8 carats, cut in the shape of a heart. It was mounted as a charm, perhaps for her bracelet.

And then I remembered. Their 20th wedding anniversary was this week.

I sat for a long time in the dark, fingering that little charm over and over again, feeling the little points and facets in detail I'd never have been able to sense before. The whole time, the thoughts kept flipping through my mind: Who am I? What have I become? What is my life, now? What will happen to me? I thought over and over again, like a numbing mantra.

Finally, I dropped the charm back into its bag, and stuffed it into my pocket. Enough. This wasn't helpful. It was time to get to work.

I was upstairs, sorting through my mother's jewelry, deciding what to keep and what to sell, along with the other debris of our wrecked lives. I wasn't sure why I was determined to keep so much of her jewelry; it felt like keeping part of her, part of them, as my father had given most of it to my mother for anniversaries and birthdays over the years. Sometimes, just because he saw something pretty in a shop window and thought of her.

It felt odd to want to keep her engagement ring, especially. After all, who would I ever marry? But, I kept it anyway, closing it in the little velvet box my mother kept it in when it wasn't on her finger. I had already boxed up my phonograph collection, and some other things such as some books and clothes. I was determined to burn any photographs I found. I didn't want the intense reminders looking at such images would bring.

Suddenly I heard the front door stealthily open. I heard their mendacious thoughts before I smelled the two dirty humans, trying to silently sneak into my house. I hadn't been paying attention to the sounds of their approach, until they were in the house, preoccupied as I was with my tasks and my grief.

The only light was from the kitchen, but it was enough to cause them to call out, "Rag and bone! Rag and bone!"

Right. They were just here to collect junk. I waited, and listened.

I could hear them moving about the house. It seemed there was one male, one female. The scent of human wafted up the stairs; my throat lit itself on fire, like a blast furnace.

Although I was gaining more control of my "gift", I still wasn't entirely sure if I was hearing thoughts or voices. I also received images from their minds as they moved around the house.

"Whoa, Nell! Look at this place! This place is like a mansion; just look at all this stuff!" said the male, his voice excited. I caught the image of the little pile of trinkets on the piano. He was busily lifting each up and examining it, before stuffing it into a battered satchel he carried.

The female was slowly drifting around the front room; she'd found a jacket my mother had hung on the coat hook. She tried it on; if I had a stomach, it would have flipped sickeningly.

"Oh, this fits me perfect," came the high-pitched, girlish whisper.

The male decide to try his luck upstairs. I heard his shuffling footfall on the stair case. He made the first turning, into my room.

I don't think I made a conscious decision to do it. I flashed to the door of my bedroom, and surprised the man going through my dresser drawers. My throat was in agony, the desire for his blood overwhelming all thought.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you'd heard us knock; just the rag-and-bone, you know. We're just looking for things you don't need. We can use it, you know, give it a home," he wheedled.

I stood still, examining the man. His scent was intoxicating; I could hear the rich slosh of blood in his veins, see the pulse throb in his dirty neck.

He must have seen the look in my eyes, the desire to kill him where he stood, because he started backing away and pleading, "Hey, we'll only take what you don't need. If you don't want to give it us, that's all right, we'll keep walking. Plenty of homes we ain't been to yet."

He was shorter than I, and much scrawnier. His thoughts were greedy and violent. He was thinking of a way to incapacitate me, or kill me, so he and "Nell" could finish their looting in peace. Maybe sleep in that big bed he'd caught a glimpse of, in the other, bigger room down the hall, when he paused at the top of the stairs.

It was about then, the thought of these two creatures fornicating in my parents' bed still oozing from that twisted brain into mine, that I lost all control, and became what I was.

A killer. A hunter of humans.

A vampire.

He was easy; offered no struggle, no resistance. I damn near twisted his head off his shoulders in my greed for the artery in his neck. Biting into that soft flesh for the first time, feeling the hot, pulsing flow of blood filling my mouth, all other desires, needs and wants were concentrated in that one moment, that one thing.

Human blood. The fire in my throat was instantly slaked. I felt stronger, more powerful, if that was possible. I drank greedily, thirstily, feeling his heart slow and slow as I drew every last drop out of him, like a child sucking on the corner of a favorite blanket.

At the end, a series of images flashed through his mind; up to that point, he was still trying to figure out how to kill me, and why his neck hurt so badly. Images of a cruel, impoverished childhood in a place I didn't recognize. Travelling in train cars as an adolescent, coming to the big city, where the pickings were greater.

His name was "Buck"; he found Nell begging on the streets of Detroit; they came to Chicago not long ago.

He enjoyed beating her, enjoyed the pain in her eyes as he struck and humiliated her. He enjoyed her crawling back to him, begging for forgiveness.

I would have been sickened, if the hot flow of blood into my mouth hadn't been so overwhelmingly satisfying and delicious.

Finally, the images scrambled, and faded out. His heart stopped with a final "tha-thunk". I dropped him to the floor.

I felt absolutely no remorse or regret for taking his life. He did more of a service in death, by yielding his blood to me, than he'd ever done alive.

I looked incuriously at his sprawled body for a moment. Then I heard Nell call out, "Buck? Buck? Are you upstairs? Is there anyone here? Are they going to give it to us?" The whole thing had taken less than a minute. As I lifted my head to listen to her, I caught her scent, and my throat raged again. I wanted more. Much, much more.

I headed downstairs.

The female was even tastier than the male. She seemed to know what was coming for her; she stood completely still, staring blankly at my face. I caught the random thought, "Is he an angel? He looks like one? Maybe he's my angel!" in her baby-girl mental voice. She found me beautiful, alluring. Well, that was a first for me, as far as I knew.

I couldn't resist a little gothic drama; why not? She'd be dead soon. And I was, after all, a vampire.

"Yes, Nell. I'm your angel. An angel of death, my darling. I've come for you." I moved slowly forward, chuckling inwardly at my melodramatic lines. Her eyes widened, her breathing sped up, coming in quick little pants. It blew her scent over me. Blood and more blood. She sighed, "oooohhhh," and fell into my arms.

Her tiny little body was hot; maybe with some illness, I didn't know. I pulled the mat of dirty hair away from her neck, and drove my teeth in, drinking hard and fast as soon as the first drops hit my tongue. I bathed the gash with venom as I drank. I crushed her warm little body to me; I thought I heard bones popping. Her blood was sweeter than his, but thinner. I briefly wondered why, but then I started catching images from her brain.

A crowded, disease-ridden orphanage was her first memory. Then, the streets when it became clear to the hardened director of the facility that she wouldn't be adopted, there would be no kind savior for her. She stole, begged and sold her body for enough coins to buy cheap, stale food. She stabbed a man for his wallet once, but usually preferred to pick the pockets of her "customers".

She met Buck, who promised her riches and fun in Chicago. She didn't mind the beatings much; she thought that was normal. In all, a very Dickensian existence.

I think she wanted to die.

Carlisle found me, several hours later, seated at the piano. I had started with Bach, and had moved to Mozart, playing hard and fast, my fingers incredibly nimble and skilled. I was enraptured by the sound I was now able to coax from the instrument. I played pieces that frustrated me in life; they were laughably easy now. I enjoyed racing my way through them.

It was like running, that same feeling of euphoria, the rush.

Nell's body was now cold, slumped on the floor like a pile of old rags. Buck's body was still upstairs in my bedroom. I'd recovered the items from his satchel and pockets, and spread them back out on the piano's lid.

"Oh, Edward," Carlisle breathed, taking in the scent and sight. "What ever have you done?" I shrugged, zipping on to an etude. "They were stealing from me, both miserable little mendicants. You should have heard their thoughts as I killed them. The world is better off without them."

"I had thought you understood my ethos. I don't ever drink from any human, for any reason, even the evildoer. I'm not judging you, son, you're young. But," he stopped, unable to form words to express the thoughts zipping around in his head.

As I played, I sorted my way through his thoughts. He was a bit disgusted, but understanding of the almost unmanageable blood lust I must be feeling.

He was right about blood lust. I'd briefly considered, several times, ripping the bodies apart in an effort to get every last drop. But frankly, now they were dead, the remaining cold blood held no appeal for me.

He was also trying to figure if I could be taught, if he was the only vampire capable of the kind of restraint and control that allowed him to work and live around humans daily. I realized I'd failed, and disappointed him. It hit me like a blow.

I stopped playing, rose from the bench and was at Carlisle's side in an instant. I put a hand on his shoulder, "I'm trying, really I am. I understand your principles, and, if it makes me less of a monster, makes me able to live with myself, I'll try harder. But Carlisle, I just couldn't take…they wanted to…" I stopped. If I'd been human, I would have been on the verge of tears.

He turned, and put an arm on my shoulder. I hung my head, unwilling to look into his eyes, to see the difference there between his life and my choice this evening. He tucked his other fist under my chin and firmly lifted my face to his. "My son, we all make mistakes. It's what we do with the lessons our mistakes teach, that makes us who we are." I could feel the compassion and kindness flowing from him. His eyes searched mine; he didn't recoil from the sight of my blood-red irises.

He was truly a good man. I could stay with him. He could be my friend, my surrogate father. I made a resolution at that moment. I would strive to make this man proud of me. I would strive to ensure that he never regretted his decision to make me his companion, son, friend. It seemed a worthy calling, a way forward.

For the first time, since I became a vampire, I hugged Carlisle. At first, gently, then more and more firmly, until I felt him wince, and heard the thought Ouch! He certainly is very strong now! "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot," I said softly, relaxing my arms.

And quite suddenly, everything hit me at once. My parents' death, my best friend's death, my transformation, the end of my life, my hopes and dreams for my self. All shattered and blown away. I sank to the floor, Carlisle dropping with me. I sat for a long time, dry-sobbing into my hands, Carlisle rubbing my back, or just sitting with his arm over my shoulders.

Finally, my tearless sobs came to an end. I looked up, into Carlisle's warm, golden eyes and handsome, sculpted face. "What do I do now? Who am I now?" I asked plaintively. I truly had no idea, no clue. My life had been burned out of me with my flesh and blood.

How do you become a man, live a life, when you're permanently fixed at the age of 17, like an insect in amber? How do I carry out my resolution?

"The only thing I can offer is a little piece of wisdom I heard once, long ago. 'Decide that you area man. Behave as if it were absolutely true, and the rest will fall into place.'" He continued to stare into my eyes, trying to force the import of his words into my brain.

He needn't have bothered; it was the first useful piece of advice I'd received in a long time. I needed to hear it a year ago, even.

In the following days, as we slowly packed up my old home, I clung to those words like a drowning man clings to a floating piece of wreckage. I repeated it over and over to myself, whenever I felt particularly lost or overwhelmed. That, and my resolution. It gave me purpose.

The house would be sold, along with most of its contents. The piano would be shipped to our new home in New York State.

And, Ness, that piano now stands in your grandparents' front hall. You've played the same piano your grandmother did.

Carlisle and I loaded the bodies of the two thieves into the back of my father's car. While I continued to load the removal van, Carlisle drove off in the car to dispose of the bodies. I learned upon his return, that he buried them in my parent's plots in the cemetery. I was momentarily upset, but then I saw the humor in the gesture. The turn of the Great Wheel; the wealthy in an unmarked, pauper's grave, the thief in the grave of the rich man. A pause in his train of thought, then: Funny old thing, life.

I had one last thing to do, before we left. I had to find Big Dave Johnson.

As we cleared out the house, I found one last jar of plum preserve on the shelf in the cellar. I stood for a long moment, holding the heavy glass vessel in my hands, taking in the complex colors and textures I could now perceive, and recalling some rapidly fading human memories.

I made a decision.

After a few phone calls and one surreptitious errand downtown, I headed to the South Side, a small package under my arm, after dark.

I made a few inquiries, and found Big Dave with little trouble. I knew I could trust him anyway; but hearing his thoughts for the first time, made me certain.

A truly kind and good man, doing the best with what he had, and looking after people he cared for; children and a wife, a no-account brother, other relatives, friends, his neighborhood. I was glad and proud to have been able to call him my friend.

I stayed in the shadows, my hat pulled low over my face.

"Mr. Masen? Ed Masen? I'd heard you died!" he said, shocked. His thoughts were confused; What the hell? I guess they were wrong, 'cos that's him alright. His voice sure sounds strange. Maybe still has a sore throat?

"I'm still not very well, so you might want to keep your distance," I said. He smelled delicious, but tonight my better instincts were in control. And, I'd hunted extensively, to allow me some peace of mind around so many humans.

"How are your folks? I'd heard your daddy…" He stopped, unwilling to continue. I caught an image from his head, of my father smiling warmly at him, shaking his hand at the same time clapping him on the back, thanking him for some job or other he'd done well. If I had a heart, it would have twisted painfully at the image. I recovered swiftly.

"Yes, my parents are unfortunately both gone. I'd rather you not say anything about having seen me tonight. I'd prefer to remain…deceased."

"I won't say a word. I was talking to myself, if anyone asks."

"Thank you. I wanted to ask you to pass something on for me," I said, holding out the package.

"No problem, happy to do it. Who does it go to?" He took the package, noting the name with some surprise. "Liza? Well, sure, I'll take care of it. Can I ask what's in it?" He was definitely curious. So, I told him the truth. Just not all of it, right away.

"Just a jar of plum preserves our cook put up. I thought she might like it."

He was instantly skeptical, but didn't say so out loud. Plum preserves, right. He come all the way to the South Side, just to give that little gal a jar of jam. Humph. I wonder how much money is in here; feels heavy. Well, no matter; I'll make sure she gets it; she sure could use it right now.

I answered before I could stop myself, "No, there's no money in there. Just a receipt and a safety deposit box key, with instructions on how to use both." He started, wondering how I'd known what he was thinking.

"And, Dave, here's something for you and your family. I hope it makes your lives a little easier. Thank you for all you've done." I held out a fat envelope. It was full of all the cash I found in my father's little safe in his study.

I had to argue with him, to get him to take it. I'd heard his thoughts about his two children, a baby boy and a little girl, at home, and his wife working two jobs. I was glad I'd had the foresight to bring this gift with me. I urged him to take it, for their sakes. That did the trick.

I thanked him again, and disappeared into the night.

Epilogue

I was grateful the rental car had GPS, although the engine lacked the power I was used to. So many landmarks had changed, I wasn't quite sure how to find my old neighborhood, much less my house.

Writing the above drove my curiosity. I thought enough time had passed, I'd be able to bear the pain of seeing the house again.

Bella had wanted to come, of course. Emmett volunteered, as did Carlisle. In the end, like a pilgrimage, I knew I had to do this alone.

Bella was not happy, but I thought I'd finally gotten her to understand. She lifted her "shield" just long enough to reassure me she had, before it slammed back down, and she strode from the room.

Ness, not surprisingly, understood the best. Especially after reading what I'd written. "It's ok, Daddy. I think you should go by yourself. It's necessary," she piped in her child's voice, patting my arm reassuringly with her warm little pink hand.

I'd held her in my lap for a while, playing little finger games with her, like we did when she was a littler girl, and talking about what Grandmother had taught her in "school" that day (Ness is home-schooled, for now). She showed me her "mind pictures"; what she imagined Polonius looked like as a ghost (remarkably like Carlisle), what Hamlet wore, how big Elsinore was (she'd used a watercolor sketch by Alan Lee as a blueprint) and so forth.

She was working through Shakespeare right now, Esme guiding her reading, and teaching her critical literary writing. Ness was doing quite well with her insight and understanding. She had a fine, intelligent mind, and, so far, a kind child's heart.

I loved my daughter with every fiber of my being. She was, along with her mother, the core of my existence.

"Turn right," said the dry, metallic female voice on the GPS. I could see on the little animated map that I was now two blocks away.

Instead of turning, I continued on, knowing that I could loop around and park on the opposite side of the street. Less conspicuous, should anyone be at home.

"You missed your turn," said the voice, sounding slightly annoyed. I clicked the sound to 'mute'.

The neighborhood was well-manicured and maintained, and obviously well-to-do. One or two of the old Victorians survived. Most were far newer, remodeled extensively, or simply torn down and rebuilt in the style of whatever era the homeowners thought stylish.

As I came around the corner, and pulled down the street, I couldn't suppress a gasp.

The house, aside from the color, had not changed at all.

Oh, it was freshly painted, re-roofed, a new walk poured to the porch, a new macadam driveway. But, even to the retro-style glider on the porch, it looked the same.

I sat in the car for a moment, warming my hands on the heater. Alice and I chose the day carefully; warm, but overcast, with the promise of rain later. Alice fully supported me, and completely understood. She saw it going well, but carefully kept her other visions from me. "It should be a surprise," she'd said, smiling in that infuriating way she had, when she knew something I didn't.

There was a woman, on her hands and knees next to the driveway. She was working installing little solar-powered lanterns along the driveway. There were stakes marking the precise intervals of the placement, and some open cardboard boxes scattered on the lawn behind her. A white sheet of paper was in her hands, obviously instructions.

I studied her for a while, listening in as well.

She was petite, but with the figure of a serious, perhaps marathon, runner. Lean and muscular, with little body fat. She wore a very large, well-worn man's shirt, tied at her tiny waist, and a pair of battered cotton Capri pants. Her meticulously pedicured feet wore bright pink flip-flops; her hands, holding the instructions she studied, were also carefully maintained, in a short, tasteful manicure. She wore several expensive-looking gold rings, including an elaborate wedding set, laden with diamonds. Her dark skin glowed with good health and expensive moisturizer and maintenance.

I couldn't see but the side of her face, as she was half-turned from me. Her hair was pulled back beneath a blue kerchief, and poked out in a little bunch behind.

I was always amazed at the number of thoughts any woman I listened to, could keep revolving in her head at once.

This woman was thinking the following: Ok, drive the stake at the contact point, diagram a, insert the unit following diagram b; I wonder if I'll finish this by the time Dave and the girls get back…A quick check of the expensive wrist-watch on her left wrist: damn it, no. Which means I'll have to finish after dinner. A flash of a container of chicken in marinade; that must be dinner. When will I get my run in tonight? I hope not too late; I hate running in the dark…a brief feeling of fear and apprehension, a vision of a dark figure in an alley was he following me? I have to call Glenda about that damn project again. Why can't that girl get anything done on time…etcetera etcetera.

I decided to get out of the car, and walk over. My hands felt almost hot to me by this time; warm enough not to startle her when I shook hands.

She barely registered the car door closing, focused as she was on her chores for the day. I strolled over, hands in pockets, my sunglasses still in place. I deliberately let my shoes scuff the pavement as I walked, as warning of my approach.

The woman still started a bit when she realized someone was walking up the drive toward her. "Oh, I didn't hear you walk up! Can I help you?" she asked. Her face, now that I could see it, wasn't pretty in the conventional sense. However, careful grooming, skin care, good health and an intelligence and kindness that radiated out from her warm smile and deep brown eyes made up the difference.

"Well, I hope so," I said, smiling warmly myself, in response, "I'm doing a little family research, and I think my great great grandfather built this house. I promised my dad I'd come have a look."

"Oh, my, really? We just finished renovating it; how exciting! Oh," she exclaimed, jumping to her feet, "I'm Liz Johnson," and held out her hand.

"Edward Cullen," I said, extending my own. She didn't flinch, so the heater must have worked.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked. Her thoughts were fluttering around; she seemed distracted by my voice. Maybe I was going for too friendly with its tone. "We moved in three years ago; we just finished the last of the work, with the landscaping, about a month ago."

"Wow," I said. As I'm used to 'vampire time', three years seemed long. "That must have been a lot of work," I added, hoping I sounded both impressed and sympathetic. I secretly hoped they hadn't changed too much, but I didn't know what would be less painful: if it didn't look at all the same, or looked exactly the same.

So far, the exterior spoke of a careful restoration, with modern touches.

"You have no idea," she said, a sour look on her face. I got a lot of frustrated aggravation coming from her head; late contractors, delayed orders, more work than they thought was initially necessary and so forth. "We had to install new plumbing, wiring, heating and air conditioning, repair a lot of plaster, replace a lot of plaster, and on and on. Fortunately, the structure was fine," she finished, ticking off the work on each well-groomed finger.

I stood, looking at the house. My parent's window was around the side and back. One of mine looked out over the front. I stared at it, afraid to know if my room had changed. I still pictured the body of that thief, sprawled on the floor.

Liz cleared her throat lightly, "Um…have you managed to find out much about it? From your family, I mean?"

Her voice brought me back to the present. I smiled quickly at her. It had the intended effect. "Some," I replied, "I know it was the first of its kind built in this neighborhood. And that the design came from Frank Lloyd Wright's Chicago studio."

Her jaw dropped, her eyes wide, "This is a Frank Lloyd Wright house?" I hastened to correct her, "No, no. The design came from one of his staff at his studio. But it's based on his aesthetic and design principals."

"Oh, ok, I see," Liz stated, sounding just a little disappointed that it didn't come from the pen of the great man Himself.

I heard what was coming next, as she considered it before asking, "Would you like to come in and look around?" I demurred, not wanting to impose. But, she insisted, as I knew she would.

As we were heading up the driveway to the front porch, a dark blue BMW SUV pulled into the drive way. Liz turned, and waved. "My family's home. Excuse me for a moment, please," and moved back down the driveway to help extract two little girls from the back seat, and murmur to her husband who I was and why I was there.

As the husband exited the car, I drew a sharp breath.

For there was the living face of Big Dave Johnson. Slightly thinner and smaller, but still him to a "t".

And then, I saw the youngest girl, who'd buried her face in her mother's waist in a hug. As she pulled away to examine the stranger standing in their driveway, I drew another gasping breath.

Liza.

I was staggered. What random association of molecules and atoms had lead to the Johnson's to unwittingly buy and live in my family's home? A more perfect circle I could not imagine. I was tempted to disappear right then, and not spoil the moment.

Not to mention, at some point, obviously, Big Dave' genes and Liza's genes matched up. Maybe this generation, maybe generations ago.

Wow. Just, wow. No wonder Alice didn't want to "spoil the surprise".

Dave was walking toward me up the driveway, the two girls having dashed for the house, backpacks flopping behind, eager for the after-school treats awaiting them in the kitchen. He introduced himself, and stared hard at me, suspicious. I looked too rich, too smooth. I pulled off my sunglasses, to look him full in the eyes. I explained again why I was there. He seemed to relax. In his mind, I kept hearing, I know this guy somehow. How do I know him? And finally, He looks real familiar. No, he's just looking at me like he knows me.

We chatted about all the work done, and work still to do on the house. And Dave extended the same invitation.

With a deep breath, I took him up on it.

Fortunately, the smell of the house was completely different, the result of modern paints and finishes. No more beeswax, lacquer or resin. The paint colors were more modern; crisper and more saturated than I remember. Where our piano once stood, was an arrangement of deep, overstuffed chairs, coffee and end-tables, with reading lamps scattered about. Children's books and toys, a few throw blankets littered the floor and furniture.

By the fireplace was a large, retro-modern couch, in celery green fabric that resembled suede.

All the woodwork was carefully refinished, in the same color I recalled. The floors also were beautifully restored. I remembered my mother complaining about scratches and wanting them refinished, shortly before she died. Now, they would meet even her exacting standards.

This was both harder and easier than I'd thought. So much was the same, and so much had changed.

The Johnson's and I wandered the house, chatting, asking each other questions. I tried not to give away too much information, and answered "I don't know," or "I'm not sure," selectively.

But, I did want them to know. I wanted them to understand the history of this house. History that I'd lived.

The kitchen was unrecognizable, having been completely gutted and remodeled. It was pretty, with lots of high-end appliances and fixtures. My father would have approved of the modern gadgets Liz had installed.

During our conversation, I learned that the house had changed hands several times. The Johnson's had to do a lot of work to restore its original layout, and especially peel back layers of bad flooring and wall-to-wall, to expose the wood floors underneath. "And," said Liz proudly, "They were in almost perfect condition! Just needed a little refinishing," she said. "The only part of the renovation that came in under budget," added Dave sourly. And then laughed. Not the type of man to hold a grudge or stay angry long.

I stopped for a moment on the upper stair turning, and crouched down to peer through the banister rails. Dave and Liz looked at me curiously when I straightened up. "Seems like a good place from which to eavesdrop," I explained.

They both burst out laughing. "Do you know how many times we caught either Sondra or Melissa, up past their bedtimes, listening in on our dinner parties?" exclaimed Liz. I smiled and shook my head. Smart girls.

Their parents were smart, too. I managed to glean from their minds that Dave was a wealthy accountant, working for a large firm. He and Liz both attended Moorehouse College, where they met. She ran a national non-profit education association.

I looked into my old bedroom; it was now the domain of the littlest girl, and painted pink and white. A frilly, pink-and-white coverlet spilled over the large, soft bed, placed exactly where mine used to be. She even had a little desk under the window.

I resisted the temptation to check if the drainspout was in the same location.

As I walked out of the room, I noticed the little piece of molding was still loose, in fact, it was completely ajar, and acting as a garage for several toy cars.

Liz saw the direction of my gaze; she was very observant. She laughed. "Maybe your great grandfather was responsible for that," she said. "Oh? How so?" I asked, fighting a smile.

"Well, it was obviously somebody's hiding spot; I think a teenage boy." Now I was startled. "Really? How do you figure?" The images from her head hit at the same time she spoke, stunning me. I'd completely forgotten.

"We found a very old pack of cigarettes, some 1915 Cubs baseball cards, a weird-looking little leather ball, and what looked like a dried-up corsage. Maybe from a prom or something."

"Wow," was all I could manage, my voice drying in my throat. "The cards sound valuable. Did you sell them?"

"Nope, they're in a safety deposit box. Not sure what I'll do with them yet," replied Dave, "Threw out the rest, except the ball. Turns out, it's an old baseball, maybe from the same year."

I was starting to get slightly depressed, and wondered what the point of this expedition was. This house belonged to someone else now; it hadn't been my home for a long, long time.

My home was 1,600 miles away, in a tiny town on the Olympic Peninsula. And I longed, suddenly, to go back there.

I guess it was 'closure', in modern parlance, the flip of homesickness from here to there.

As I left, thanking Liz and Dave for letting me snoop around, Dave made a comment that had me laughing all the way to the car.

"There's one weird little thing about this house, though, that I just can't fix, no matter what I try." I looked at him, waiting for him to go on. I heard the comment from his head, and was trying not laugh too soon.

"Every time it rains hard, the basement smells like…pickles."

I drove around the neighborhood for a little while, absorbing all I'd learned, and checking on my former neighbor's homes. At some point, someone had torn down the Pulanski's, and made their property part of a large yard and garden. A newer, 1970's era house now straddled both properties.

Chris's house had been replaced with a 1950's-era Bauhaus-style box. The current owners were going for a cleaned-up, retro feel. They missed. It was just ugly.

Michael's house, surprisingly, was still intact, and was being heavily remodeled and renovated. Scaffolding was everywhere, and the wrought-iron widow's walk was in the process of being replaced.

I don't know what happened to his parents; if they died in the same epidemic that claimed my family.

I do know that Chris made his fortune in New Orleans. His descendants are now among the wealthiest and most prominent citizens of that city.

The South Side of the city was undergoing "urban renewal", with new public spaces, new restaurants, shops, condominium units and so on. I got out of the car, and wandered a little, remembering the filthy, exotic dangerousness of the area in and around Bronzeville. Too clean and safe now for a vampire's liking. I smiled to myself.

I drove back to the Johnson's, as I now thought of the house. Liz hadn't gotten around to finishing her project, instead neatly stacking the boxes on the porch.

The house was dark and silent; I could hear the vague dreams of the occupants as they slept.

Quietly, as quietly as only a vampire could manage, I finished installing the little lights. I silently stacked the boxes, left the instructions and little warranty papers in their mailbox, and disposed of the boxes in the new garage (the carriage house apparently hadn't survived).

It was the least I could do.

Funny old thing, life.

I guess it's what you make it.

The White Stripes "Rag and Bone" inspired that section (and I know there weren't really "rag and bone" men in the U.S. but I liked the idea). Carlisle's advice to Edward is from Anne Rice's Cry to Heaven. And Douglas Adams deserves credit for the closing lines, from Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Auth.