Miss Lucy Parker
and other short stories

By Q. Kelly

Ride the Rainbow Books

www.ridetherainbowbooks.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance

to actual persons living or dead or actual events

is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced

without the permission of the author.

"Miss Lucy Parker and Other Short Stories" Copyright © 2011 by Q. Kelly

Cover by Leigh Ann Britt.

Thanks to Leigh Ann Britt for her great job on the cover. You rock.

Q.Kelly on the Web:

http://qkelly.blogspot.com

http://qkelly.wordpress.com

I would love to hear from you!

Email me at yllek_q@yahoo.com

Table of Contents

Miss Lucy Parker

A Weird Situation

The Interview

First Day at Work

Every Day

The Doctor

Guardian Angel

Miss Lucy Parker

Miss Lucy Parker was sitting on her front porch when a Volkswagen Beetle—the new kind, and pink—PINK!—turned onto the winding road that led to Lucy's farmhouse. Lucy frowned. There are pink Beetles? She did not like Volkswagen Beetles. Hippies and their ilk drove Beetles. What was wrong with a good, sturdy American car? Lucy let her needlework drop onto her lap. She adjusted her spectacles. Seemed like the Beetle was heading for her house. What in the world?

Someone was lost. That was it. Because hippie cars, much less pink cars—PINK!—rarely showed up in them parts. Lucy scowled at the prospect of visitors. The house was dusty, and she had neglected her grocery shopping. Well, she just would not invite these people in, whoever they were. She’d tell them to get lost, and they would get on their way. She would do it nicely, of course. Miss Lucy Parker was a proper lady. She would overlook her visitors' hippie beads, headbands, their weird way of talking and their aroma of marijuana.

Lucy checked that every strand of her hair was secure in the severe bun she’d fashioned that morning. Lucy was proud of her hair, which was a lovely soft, smooth silver. After her inspection, she could not help but survey the liver spots on her hands. The spots were brown and ugly. Some liver spots, on other people, did not look too bad. They blended in. Lucy's liver spots were so visible, so brown, so misshapen, she sometimes wondered if they took delight in taunting her. One liver spot had the audacity to look like the devil, complete with two horns protruding from its head.

The pink monstrosity turned into Lucy’s driveway, and Lucy struggled to make out its occupants. However, her failing eyes, even with the spectacles, were no match for the tinted windows. Lucy laid her needlework on a side table, but she slipped the needle into her dress pocket. Just in case. These hippies could be robbers or worse. Lucy braced herself for the inevitable exertion that would come with lifting herself out of her chair.

Hands on armrests. Push. Pain pain pain.

Get knees and legs to cooperate. Pain pain pain.

Lucy's body ached all over, screaming with every tiny move. Not for the first time, Lucy found herself looking forward to the time when she wouldn’t be in such excruciating agony.

Death.

Death would liberate her.

Success. Lucy had risen from the chair, although she was breathing heavily. Oddly, however, her pain was gone. She would contemplate the issue later. First she had to deal with hippies. Lucy straightened her dress and waited for the hippies to show themselves.

The driver’s-side door swung open, and a lithe, slender woman with curves in all the right places slithered out.

"Oh my Lord," Lucy whispered. Her heart clenched at the shameful debauchery before her.

The woman flashed a brilliant white smile framed by blood-red lips. A short, tight, equally blood-red dress hugged her body, and impossibly high golden heels adorned her feet. Late-afternoon sunshine pierced the visitor’s giant hoop earrings, and Lucy was momentarily blinded. When she could see again, the clash of the car's pink and the woman's red made her wish she was blind again. The woman had red hair, wavy, unnaturally shaded red hair down to mid-back.

The visitor threw Lucy an enthusiastic wave, displaying two sets of fiery red fingernails. The shameful debauchery sauntered up the sidewalk and up the porch. She tossed back her hair.

"Hello, Lucy Parker," she purred. She had black eyes, black, black eyes, and she fastened her glittering gaze on Lucy.

Lucy's horror grew. This was impossible. This couldn’t be. No sensible person would dress like this and bat her eyelashes like this at some old codger. Lucy shifted her gaze back to the car. Something, or someone, was in the back seat. Gradually, a recognizable shape formed through the windows.

Lucy was looking at the crumpled, pudgy figure of ten-year-old Bobby Smythe from the next farm over. She was not at all fond of the mischievous, spoiled towhead. And now he was with this ill-mannered woman. This woman must be a Smythe, albeit a Smythe from the city. She certainly was as ill-mannered as the rest of them.

"What do you want?" Lucy made sure disapproval shaded her voice.

"Oh, no, no," the visitor said, and bemusement danced in her eyes. "I’m here to help you."

"Me?"

The woman winked. "You ask for my help all the time. You are quite tiresome, to tell you the truth."

Lucy could not believe the woman’s nerve. "Leave!" she snapped.

The woman frowned, and her black eyes morphed into slits. "That’s no way to treat a visitor. Why, only a few minutes ago, you wished for me as you struggled to get out of that chair. You wish for me at holidays because you’re alone. A spinster, never married, no family, friends all dead. You’re a lonely, feeble old bird who loves no one and is loved by no one."

Indignation swelled in Lucy. Just like a Smythe, this woman was. "Did Bobby put you up to this?"

The visitor cast a glance at the slumped boy in the car. "Bobby went a few moments before you did. Tractor accident."

"Went? Accident?"

The visitor’s horrible red lips opened in a gasp. "Goodness! I never did introduce myself properly, did I? Forgive my manners." She held out a hand. "I’m Death. You can call me Death. It’s nice to meet you. Oh, by the way, you’re dead."

Lucy had gotten mad, truly mad, only two times in her life. The first time was when she was twelve years old and a hunter accidentally killed her dog. So what if it was an accident? A hunter should know better, and Walter would never be back. Now, that Walter was a dog to be proud of. He was well mannered. Respectful. He was no hippie dog. He carried himself with pride and dignity. He comforted her when she needed comforting. He was a chocolate lab and the only dog she'd had. The only dog she'd needed.

The second time she got mad was when—well, Lucy would not think about that.

Now she had been mad three times. Rage threatened to take over the skin and bones that comprised her body. This prank was uncalled for!

"Turn around, Lucy Parker," the visitor ordered. "Turn around and look at your chair."

Lucy did not want to turn around. But the visitor’s unnatural eyes bored into Lucy as if probing her very soul. Lucy Parker turned, little, shuffling old step after little shuffling old step until finally, she faced the chair. She was looking at herself. She was slumped and still, but on her faded lips was a little smile. Her eyes were closed.

"Ohhh..." Lucy keened. It couldn’t be. How could it be? She, Lucy, was standing, alive and breathing. But then who was in the chair?

"You didn’t suffer. It was peaceful. Heart attack."

Lucy forced her gaze downward, to her wrinkled and spotted hands, to her faded, loose dress. She pinched herself. The pinch hurt. Trick of her mind? But she was solid. But the evidence in front of her was unmistakable. "I didn’t mean it," Lucy whimpered. "Honest, I didn’t. I take it back!"

Death chuckled. "Too late. No can undo what’s done."

"This is a cruel joke. You're a tramp. You're not the Grim Reaper. Look at your car, for goodness' sakes!"

Death's lips twisted in amusement. "Let’s go. I have a lot to accomplish today, Lucy Parker."

"I am not going anywhere."

Death sighed. "Look, don’t be frightened. Come with me. You’ll be reunited with your parents."

Lucy bit her lip. She had not thought about her mother and father in years. Actually, she’d never known her mother, who had died giving birth to her. Her father had quickly remarried, and it was his new wife Lucy had called Mother. Lucy never liked her. Never liked her father either, for that matter. Lucy's biological mother used to occupy her thoughts a lot. What did she look like, what things did she enjoy? Her father had refused to talk about his first wife, instead favoring the virtues of "moving on."

"Well?" Death’s impatient voice broke Lucy’s thoughts.

Lucy stole another glance at the old woman in the chair. That’s me. I’m dead.

Lucy stiffened. No, she wasn’t going to do this. She was going to die on her own terms, when she was right and ready. She wasn’t going to let this red harlot of a devil take her. Lucy Adela Parker had too much dignity to ride in a pink hippie car.

"Hey, lady," Lucy said. "I’m not going anywhere."

"Fine." Death balled her hand-claws into fists and launched one at Lucy’s nose.

*****

Lucy awoke in the front seat, to passing trees and to Bobby's screams. "Let me out of here! Let me out of here!" Bobby lunged for Death's neck, but she sent him flying back with a closed fist.

"Hush, boy. Didn't your mother teach you manners? Tsk. Hey! You're awake, Lucy Parker."

"That didn't hurt." Bobby's voice from the back seat was small. Scared. "There's no bump. How come?"

"I told you. You're dead."

"Am not!"

"I give up." Death snapped her fingers. "There. That'll keep him quiet for a while."

Lucy twisted to look at Bobby. He was still, as if he was sleeping. Lucy pursed her lips. She had always wanted to strangle Bobby Smythe. But... "You could have been more understanding. Being dead is not easy to process."

Death harrumphed. "But does he have to be so rude?"

"Well, it...I..." Lucy gave up. She glanced outside; dusk was settling in. The familiar sights of Harkin, a couple of towns over from her house, greeted her. The car passed the clapboard white church she'd attended as a child. Car. I'm in a pink hippie foreign car. Lucy shuddered. "Why did you punch me in the face instead of snapping your fingers?"

"So when you woke up and saw you had no black eye, no pain, no whatever, you would know you're dead."

Hard to argue with that. "Where are we going?" Lucy asked.

"Gotta pick up another passenger. Name's James Paulson. Know him?"

"No." Lucy clasped her hands in her lap. "And then after that?"

"That's it. Just you three. Maybe I fibbed a bit about having a lot to do."

"I meant, where are we going after you, ah, pick up this man James?"

"Baby."

Lucy blinked. "What?"

"Baby."

Lucy couldn’t believe her ears. "You're calling me a baby?"

Death rolled her eyes. "No. James Paulson. He's a baby, not a man. Infant." She pretended to cradle a child in her arms. "Wee one. Comprende?"

"Yes. I'm not a fool."

Death let out a big barking laugh, showcasing her gleaming white teeth. "Chill. I'm just playing with you."

"Could you cover your...bosom?" Lucy wished she had a blanket to throw over the abundant, perky mounds.

Death threw Lucy a sidelong, almost flirtatious glance. "I like you, Lucy Parker." Merriment danced in Death's dark eyes.

Lucy grunted her disapproval. "A proper lady covers her assets."

"Well..." Death drawled. "I never was a proper lady."

The car barely missed toppling over a cliff. "Keep your eyes on the road!" Lucy shrilled.

"Chill. You're dead. Nothing's gonna happen."

"Well, I never!" Lucy muttered.

Death shrugged and sat back, hands clasped behind her head. "Ahh, it's good to relax."

*****

It was dark when the car stopped in a crowded trailer park. The hollering of an infant pierced the stillness of the night and then intensified. "That must be James," Death observed.

"How is he, ah...going to pass on?" Lucy could not conceive of anything more horrible than snatching a baby’s life.

"His mom gets so frustrated with his weeping and wailing, she takes a pillow to him. Right about...now." Death snapped her fingers, and on cue, the cries stopped.

"How horrible!" Lucy recited a prayer in her mind. Dear God, forgive that mother. She knows not what she does. Look over her soul and that of her child. Amen.

"I've seen worse." Death shook her head, and for a second, she was almost human. Weary. Burdened.

"When you snap your fingers, the person dies?"

"Yep. Be back in a jiffy. Oh, and don't try to escape. I'm locking the doors."

Lucy watched Death maneuver her way into the trailer, sashaying in her gold heels with practiced ease. Once Death had disappeared from view, Lucy sprang into action. She grabbed the door handle. It did not budge. She tugged in vain at the glove compartment, and then eyed the side window. "I won't feel any pain," Lucy reassured herself, and she reared her elbow back. It connected solidly with the glass window.

But nothing happened.

"Well, well." Death slid back into the car, clutching a bundle to her bosom. "Didn't I tell you not to bother? Hey, will you hold him? I forgot the baby seat." She grinned apologetically.

Lucy glared at the other woman. "You do it. The car drives itself, right?"

"Yes, but I've gotta catch up on paperwork. I'd rather do it now than in the office."

Lucy crossed her arms, still smarting from her inability to escape. "He's dead, isn't he? So why not put him on the floor?"

"Well, Miss Lucy Parker. I didn't take you to be the type to let a child roll around in a car."

"I've never been fond of children. But!" Lucy held a finger up. "That doesn’t mean I approve of you...of you killing them!"

A hooded look flashed into Death’s eyes. "And you think I like it? I follow orders. That is all I do. Look..." She sighed. "Look, it wouldn't hurt him to bounce around, but it's just not something I'd like to do. I’m not going to let a baby roll all over the car. Please, hold him."

"Fine. But you do me a favor."

"Don't try to play me, Lucy Parker. I've been doing you a favor all along. Now, hold him." Death shoved the baby boy into Lucy's arms, and the car roared to life.

"Don't worry," Death added. "Your journey's almost over." She reached past Lucy and grabbed a wad of paper from the glove compartment. "Paperwork, paperwork. Paperwork. Ugh!"

*****

Lucy reckoned she must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew, the car was parked outside a great white castle illuminated by floodlights. It was still pitch black outside.

Lucy could not breathe for a moment. The castle loomed above her, leering menacingly. At the same time, it was beautiful, lovely. Lucy craned her neck, but the castle and the starry sky were all that were visible. No buildings were nearby. Bobby was gone; so were the baby and Death. And the driver's side door was wide open.

Lucy's heart skipped a beat, and she inched toward possible escape. She hiked up her flowery print dress and lifted her wrinkly old body over the middle divider. No pain. No pain whatsoever. Lucy wanted to weep with joy. Being dead is kind of nice.

Lucy placed one foot, then the other, on solid ground. She perked her ears for a sound, any sound. She peeled her eyes for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

"You're awake." Death materialized, seemingly out of nowhere. "Ready to go in?"

Lucy jumped. "Don't scare me like that!"

"Well, don’t try to escape, then," Death drawled.

Lucy glared at her. "What's in there?"

"Everybody." Death smiled at Lucy, a genuine, warm smile that found its way to her heart. "Your parents. Your grandparents. Your friends. They're waiting."

"This is Heaven?"

"If that's what you want to call it. Come on." Death entwined her arm with Lucy's and led her on.

"Is Walter in there? My dog."

"Afraid not. Only people allowed."

Lucy brushed away the sharp jab of pain in her heart. She would truly never see Walter again. "Were you the one who took my mother and father? My real mother, I mean. She died having me. Was she sad to leave me?"

Death kept her eyes focused on the castle's entrance. "I've only been in this area a few years, so I can't help you. I'm sorry."

Lucy gulped, disappointed. "Oh. I need to ask you something else."

"Mmm-hmm."

Lucy's words came in a rush. "I had a baby when I was sixteen years old. I was young, confused and ashamed. Mother and Father sent me away to school and made me give up the baby before they let me come home. I...what I want to know is, what happened to my baby?"

"I don't know." Death smiled sympathetically. "I really don't know. I'm sorry. Maybe you'll be reunited in there, hmm?"

Ivory-lined gold doors swung open of their own accord, ushering Lucy and Death inside. Lucy had expected the castle's interior to look like something out of a fairy tale, but she was sorely disappointed. Vaulted ceilings reached toward the heavens, but that was about it. The inside was basically a cavernous, empty space. Lucy shivered, even though the temperature was just right.

Sitting at a desk in the middle of the space was a pudgy, pale man. He glanced nervously at Death.

"Lucy Adela Parker. 124098-978," Death said flatly.

The man swallowed. "Lucy Parker. Right. Ah, uh ..."

"Oh, no," Death whispered. "Oh, no, you don’t."

The man shrugged. "Hey, I—"

"Oh, damn you!" Death breathed. "I was hoping to knock off early and grab a drink. And now I gotta go all the way back."

Lucy blinked. "What do you mean, all the way back?"

"Larry here made a mistake," Death hissed. "Tell us, dear. How did it happen?"

"Oh, well, see, um, ah..." Red flushed Larry’s face. "I mixed up today’s dates with next year’s, see—and ah, I just noticed it. You know. So, um, ah, it’s too late for the others—that kid and the baby. Their bodies have been found, and besides, they’ve already gone in."

"Bloody hell!" Death was quite mad. "Are you telling me I could’ve been skiing all day, and instead I’ve been—oh! I can’t stand you, Larry! This is the last straw! I’m—oh!"

"Sorry," Larry said feebly.

"I don’t know why he keeps you around," Death snarled. "But whatever."

"I’ll...I’ll give you an extra day of vacation. Two days."

This seemed to appease Death a bit. "Make it three days." She bit her lip and turned to Lucy. "Guess what? You get one more year."

This did not appeal to Lucy. She’d forgotten what it was like to be pain-free and to walk nimbly. She bet she could jog if she wanted to. She could run a marathon! No, she didn’t want to go back to that horrible old farmhouse and to those creaky, aching bones. She wanted to go in "there," whatever "there" was, and meet the biological mother she had never known.

"I’m sorry," Death whispered. "But we have to do it."

"Well, can’t I—you said it’s too late to take the others back because they’ve gone in. Can’t I just go in, and—"

"No, Lucy," Death murmured. "I’m sorry. Really, I am. But you can’t. And now we need to go back, before someone finds your body."

*****

Death was silent and pensive for the drive back, but Lucy asked her a few questions. "Am I going to remember this? Maybe as a dream?"

"Of course not. No, you’ll wake up on the porch, maybe shivering a bit because it’s kind of cold, and you’ll scold yourself for taking that long nap."

"And you’ll be back next year. Same day, same time."

Death clenched her jaw. "Yes. God, Lucy. I’m so sorry. Larry’s such a...he’s an incompetent ass. He’s been here four months, and this is the third time."

Lucy stared out the window at the night rushing by. "Just when I was beginning to like being dead."

"I’m sorry," Death repeated.

"What’s it like?"

"What’s what like?"

"Being Death. How’d you get the job? Are you...well, you’re dead. Aren’t you? Or are you a ghost, or—"

"Being Death sucks." The statement came devoid of any emotion.

"It sucks. It was fun at first. It was new and different. And I mostly did bad people, the ones who deserved to die. But..." She shook her head. "I’ve been doing this a long time, Lucy Parker. It’s boring."

"How long?"

"Too long."

"Can you...could you resign? Or something?"

"Or something." Death sighed. "Yeah. That."

"What?"

"I can’t tell you."

"Why not? It’s not like I’m going to remember."

"I can’t, Lucy."

"I’m not going to remember. So why not tell me?"

"Lucy," Death said warningly. "Enough."

*****

"Well, here we are," Death said.

Lucy got out of the car. She avoided looking at her farmhouse, at the silhouette in her chair. She ran her hands over the pink paint. The car was not too bad. It was a smooth ride. Seemed to handle well. Goodbye, pink hippie foreign car. At least for now.

"When you're ready, I'll touch you on the shoulder," Death said. "And you'll be back in the chair."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Could I try a run first?"

"Go ahead. A brief run."

Lucy stretched her arms. Flexed her legs. She started slow, jogging, really, then became more bold, more confident. Her strides lengthened. Her legs exclaimed in joy. She was running, running, running, feeling the air in her hair, feeling life course through her, running without pain, without ache. Lucy put her frail body out of her mind and let herself run like a deer, like she had when she was a child.

Before long, she reached the crest of the hill that overlooked the Smythe farm. Every light seemed to be on in the farmhouse, and a long line of cars protruded from the driveway. Mourners for poor little Bobby Smythe, tractor accident victim.

I should take something over tomorrow. If I remember.

"Lucy." Death materialized again. "It's time. I'll walk you back to the house."

*****

Miss Lucy Parker awoke to a black sky glittering with stars, and she was a mess of shivers. "Good golly," she muttered. "I could have caught my death!" She set her needlework on the side table. Her hands felt like ice.

Lucy braced herself for the inevitable exertion that would come with lifting herself out of her chair.

Hands on armrests. Push. Pain pain pain.

Get knees and legs to cooperate. Pain pain pain.

Lucy's body ached all over, more than before, screaming with every tiny move. Not for the first time, Lucy found herself looking forward to the time when she wouldn’t be in such excruciating agony.

Death.

Death would liberate her.

Success. Lucy had risen from the chair, although she was breathing heavily. She straightened her dress and went inside to warm up and go to bed.

THE END

A Weird Situation

At the moment, I am in a weird situation. A very weird situation. I'm at dinner, in a fancy restaurant, with my boyfriend. I thought he was going to propose, and I couldn't wait to say yesyesyes. But he is not proposing.

He says he turns into a woman for a little bit each day, and that's why he's been nervous about staying nights with me. It happens from midnight to seven a.m., he says. He tells me all this in a clear, steady voice, and his blue eyes are neutral.

I blink stupidly for a few moments, and then I laugh. And laugh. Louis has never been a jokester, but he's gotten me good. "Stop!" I half-scold him. "That's not funny."

He lowers his gaze. "No," he admits. "It's not funny. And it's not fun at all. And…you're the first person I've told. I should've told you earlier. I was terrified at the thought you'd leave me."

"Louis, come on." I glance around the crowded restaurant, scanning over the men in their slick suits and the women in their fancy dresses. "Give it up."

"Karen, Karen. I... I..." Louis is stammering now. "It's true."

I laugh again. "Fine, okay. Stay with me tonight. Prove it."

"I will," he says. "I will. Even if it means losing you."

*****

We go back to my place after dinner, and I start to neck a little with Louis. I give it up after a few moments, though, because he clearly isn't in the mood. The time creeps to eleven thirty, then to eleven forty-five. Louis has never stayed past eleven o'clock.

At eleven fifty-five, Louis says he ought to go into the bathroom, so that I won't be too startled by his morph.

"Sure," I say, humoring him. "It's instant, is it? You change in a split-second?"

"No. Gradually, over a minute."

"Sure, okay. Go in the bathroom. See you soon."

Louis gets up and heads into the bathroom.

I settle back into the couch and can only shake my head. Louis has always been a bit weird, a bit off, but this...this prank, whatever he's pulling, doesn't seem to have a point. But whatever. I love the guy. I'll put up with his antics. He's worth it. I love him desperately, so desperately, with all my heart. I have, ever since we met a year ago. We met at a library. Louis is a bumbling, shy librarian, and I found him—even his stutters—cute. He admitted to me several dates later that he'd never had a girlfriend, had never been with a woman sexually. This would normally turn me off, but I felt right with Louis. We clicked instantly, and the first time we had sex was amazing. He "gets" me. I really do want to marry him one day, but I'm afraid he's too shy to propose.

No problem. I'll do it myself if need be.

Midnight comes and goes. Nobody emerges from the bathroom, but I hear scuffling. Finally, the doorknob turns. I figure Louis will come out in a wig, maybe some makeup, a dress. We'll have a good laugh, and finally, finally, finally, he'll sleep over. I'm tired of making love and not being able to fall asleep with him.

The person who emerges from the bathroom is not Louis, however, and my body goes cold. My heart freezes. The person has red hair (like Louis does, but his hair is shorter), and the person has blue eyes, like Louis has, and the person is the same height—five feet eight inches—as Louis.

But.

But. This person is a woman. Most definitely a woman—a gorgeous woman dressed in the same clothes Louis wore when he entered the bathroom. Gone is Louis' scruff, his slightly oversized nose, his lopsided grin. The person in front of me has a soft face, a perfect nose, and...and...

Oh, God.

My disbelief thaws. Somehow Louis snuck a stranger in. I leap from the couch and dart into the bathroom. No Louis. "How'd he do it?" I ask the woman. I live in a third-floor apartment, nowhere near a fire escape. "Where is he? Where's Louis? This isn't funny!"

"No, it's not funny," the woman says. Her voice is gentle and soft. Lovely. "It's me. I'm Louis."

I stare and stare. The woman's chin quivers, and tears pool in her eyes. She dabs at them hastily.

"How?" I whisper. "How'd he do it? And why? How is this funny? What's the point of this stupid joke?"

"It's not a joke!" the woman shrills. "I have been like this all my life. Mom and Dad took me to doctors, specialists, witch doctors, everyone, but no one could help. You think I like it? I don't!"

"You're not bad," I concede. "You have acting potential. Now come on, tell me where Louis is."

The woman's shoulders slump. "I told you on Valentine's Day that I love you. I gave you a gold necklace, and then we made love for the first time."

Anger washes inside me. I can't believe Louis has confided personal details to this woman. "Whatever," I snap. "Just go, all right? And tell Louis that...oh, I don't know. That this isn't funny. He better have a good explanation."

"I should've stayed here for the morph. I should have let you see me."

"Yeah, whatever. Just go."

"What if I come back at seven? Let you watch me change back?"

"Go! And you can tell Louis that he and I are over. Over!"

"Please, let me come back at seven."

I pick up Louis' briefcase and shove it at the woman. "Get the hell out of here."

*****

For the next few days, I am as angry as I've ever been. Louis calls and calls and stops by, both at my apartment and at the department store where I work. I refuse to see or talk to him. I really had thought Louis was the one. He made me laugh, and he was smart and handsome in his off-kilter way. He was well-mannered and respectful. Not at all like the other brutes I had dated.

God. My heart is crushed, and I spend my evenings at home, alternately stewing and crying. I do not tell any of my friends about my relationship with Louis being over, mainly because I hope we can work it out somehow. Not for one second do I entertain the possibility Louis is being truthful. It is impossible, physically impossible, period, for a man to change into a woman for seven hours each day.

It just does not happen.

After a week passes, my anger gives way to confusion, to disappointment. Was Louis's stupid stunt worth throwing out one wonderful year, one wonderful man, out of the window? Maybe not.

I miss Louis so much. I figure, what the hell. I'll give him a chance to grovel his way back into my good graces. So I go to his apartment at eight p.m. on a Friday. He's home, as usual. And he is thrilled to see me. He throws his arms around me and kisses me and kisses me. It's just like before, for five wonderful minutes. Then I pull back and lash into him. "What the hell! How could you think that was funny? Who is she?"

"But it's true, Karen." Louis dabs at his blue eyes just like the woman did.

"Louis, come on," I plead. "How do you expect me to believe you?"

"I was stupid. I should've let you watch the morph. But stay tonight, okay? Watch me tonight."

"Fine," I huff. I'm so happy to be with Louis again, and I rationalize that once midnight strikes and nothing happens, he'll break out into a big grin and explain everything. Or go "Gotcha, I got you, hahaha." If he does that, I'm killing him. He has no idea what the past week was like for me.

In any case, Louis has slumped in obvious relief. "Thanks, Karen," he says, and he wraps his arms around me. He smells so good, so manly. He's a man, one hundred percent. I know it, and he knows it.

He kisses me again, tenderly, and leads me to the couch. We sit, and he covers my hands with his. "Would you still want to be with me?" he asks.

"What?"

"Well, after...after you know that I'm a woman sometimes."

"Louis, come on! You're not a woman." I think maybe Louis truly believes this. Maybe he isn't all there mentally. Maybe he belongs in a nut house.

"Okay," Louis replies hastily. "Let's not talk about this. I'll pop in a movie."

"Great! Wonderful."

*****

We have such a good time that I almost forget why I was mad at Louis for the past week. But every time he glances at the clock, I'm reminded. At eleven fifty-five, he pauses the second movie. He swallows nervously.

I'm not sure why—maybe it's the raw, naked apprehension in his eyes—but for a second, and then two, and then for a full minute, I actually entertain the thought he is telling the truth.

Absurd.

"Karen, please know I love you," he says.

"I love you too, Louis."

"No matter what?"

"Um...sure."

"Do you want me to take my clothes off?" Louis asks. "So you can see better when it happens?"

Louis and I have never really paraded naked in front of each other. We've showered and bathed together a few times, but he's always been shy about his body—though it's a good one. I'm not shy about my body. At the risk of sounding boastful, I have a body to die for. Curves in all the right places, breasts not too big nor too small, nice, firm muscles, a tight ass.

Louis sees my hesitation and makes no move to strip. The clock strikes midnight, and nothing happens. But a couple of seconds later...

OhGodOhGodOhGod.

Louis' beard-scruff wilts and wanes. The just-a-bit-too-big nose is replaced in a flash with a petite nose—a woman's nose. The same nose on the woman last week. The short red hair becomes long, flowing, shiny hair. Beautiful, silky, smooth hair. Louis's face becomes a woman's. So does his body, and his clothes loosen.

By twelve oh one a.m., Louis the man is gone.

I can only stare and wonder if this is a dream. Or a nightmare. The woman speaks, nervously, in a voice that is not Louis's. "So...so...uh...well, what do you think?"

"Fuck," I wheeze. "Fucking hell. Jesus fucking Christ."

*****

Now the time is three a.m. I do not remember much of what transpired immediately after the "change." I recall a lot of staring on both my part and the woman's, and I had, still have, so many questions, all bottled up inside me and screaming for release, but I could only stare, stupidly and numbly. I wanted to touch the woman—run my fingers through her long, shiny hair, trace her face, bring Louis back, convince myself that Louis was pulling some huge caper.

About twelve thirty, Louis—no, the woman—launched into a long narrative about doctors and tons of tests, and how his parents had no idea what to think, what to do, and it's because of him his parents never had more kids, and his words ran together—Please, please, Karen, I love you, I really do, give me a chance. It was so hard for me to tell you, but I had to be honest with you. Pleasepleasepleaseplease...I know you want to marry me, and I want to marry you too. We could be so happy together.

It has taken me three hours, until three a.m., to find my voice. To ask a question. "What do I call you?"

This gives the woman pause. "I...whatever you like. Louis? It's what my parents do."

"You're not Louis."

"I am, inside. It doesn't matter what I look like on the outside."

"I'm sorry. I can't call you Louis, not when you look like this."

"Then name me."

I survey the woman and struggle to think of a name. "Uh ..." She is beautiful, she really is. One of the most beautiful women I've seen. High cheekbones, full, pink lips, pale, no freckles, almost like a porcelain doll. Where Louis was kind of ugly-attractive, this woman is drop-dead gorgeous.

"I can't name you," I finally say.

"Why?"

"Because...because..." I gesture helplessly. "That's a big thing. I'm not ready for it. You name yourself."

"I'm Louis."

"Okay," I whisper. "Louis. Louis."

The woman chuckles. "It's a relief to have told you. My stomach has been in knots, horrible, awful knots the past few months. I've been so nervous."

"I can imagine." I am still staring at her; I haven't taken my eyes off her.

This is Louis...my Louis. My man. "Do you like being a woman?"

The question gives the Louis-woman pause. "Uh..."

"Do you get periods and stuff? Do you have to shave your legs? Do they come out hairy?" On impulse, I dive to the bottom of the woman's jeans, lift the cuffs, and feel smooth, wonderfully smooth legs. I draw back, feeling wild, and I'm sure my eyes and my voice are going crazy, too. "Have you—oh, God. Do you masturbate? Both as a man and as a woman? Which is better?"

Louis-woman's face turns beet red, and he—no, she—he—the person—fumbles for a reply. "Yeah."

"Well, which is better?"

"Both have their advantages."

"Huh. Huh." Then the gravity, the ridiculousness of the situation, overwhelms me. I weep for a while, and I am glad that the woman makes no move to comfort me, because I really need my space. When I look up, my eyes no doubt red, I glance at the clock. Nearly four a.m.

"I can't do it," I tell Louis. "I'm going home. Please do not contact me again. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

*****

A weird thing happens four months later. I am at a bar, and about eleven fifty-five p.m., I excuse myself from my group of friends and go to the bathroom. I pee. Ahhh. My bladder really needed emptying. I pull my underwear up and go to the sink to wash my hands. I look into the mirror. I have a little beard.

Whoa. What?

As if I am floating outside myself, I glance down at my body. My tight black dress has ripped. I have a large, hairy chest. OhGodOhGod. Louis's affliction was contagious! Sexually transmitted?

The consequences if this affliction was sexually transmitted...oh, no. The past four months have been a blur. I bounced from man to man, having many one-night stands, all in a vain attempt to placate my confusion. I stare at myself in the mirror—at this handsome man. This is a man I could easily fall in love with—but wait, no. This man is me!

So handsome I am! Stunning. Good Lord.

How many people did my one-night stands sleep with after I met them? Have I started a new breed of half-male, half-female people? I groan. I should have stayed with Louis...Louis whom I miss desperately. My one-night stands have not helped matters any. I dash back into a bathroom stall before anyone comes in and catches a man in female territory.

I touch my penis. It responds. Nice. Feels good. I see with perfect clarity that I belong with Louis, I really do. Soon, we will find our way back together. But first, there's a whole city of women ripe for the picking. Yes, I definitely am a man—thinking with my dick!

It's not bad, not bad at all.

THE END

The Interview

Debby notices the booger immediately. How can she miss it? It’s right there, out in the open, swinging merrily from Mr. Thomas Hayden III’s nose.

The booger is green and lumpy.

Debby can hardly shake Hayden’s hand, but she manages. She has to. She’s been looking for a reporting job for months, and she is determined for this interview with The Mackarel Times to succeed. Hayden motions for Debby to sit across from him. He has an expansive, shiny cherry wood desk. His huge corner office overlooks the blue Mackarel River. Hayden is the editor of the newspaper. Later, Debby will be interviewed by others. But now she’s with Hayden, dark-haired, swarthy, bulky, boogery Hayden.

Debby has no idea what to do. She can’t ignore the booger any more than she could ignore a singing elephant. But she takes the seat Hayden indicated. She flashes him a big smile. Does he really have no idea?

Good God, how could he have no idea? Can’t he feel it? It’s pulsating! Debby squints to make sure. Yes, it’s pulsating. How long has this booger been around? Surely long enough for others to have noticed.

Debby catches herself staring. Luckily, Hayden is unaware. He launches into an introductory spiel. Debby wonders if she is being tested. The booger has to be fake. Maybe Hayden does this in all of his interviews.

But.

It can’t be a test. That would be...Debby can’t find the right word. Idiotic? Absurd? Pointless? The booger has to be real. Maybe she should indicate to Hayden that there’s just a little something dangling from his nose. Hayden will chuckle and excuse himself. He would return with a clear nose. Then they could both move on.

But what if Hayden is too mortified to face Debby again? She really needs this job. She has interviewed at more newspapers now than she can remember, and she had to claw to even get in for this one. On the flip side, if she keeps quiet about the booger, Hayden will find out later. He’ll know she knew and that she said nothing.

Debby slowly becomes aware that Hayden is gazing at her. His eyebrows arch in expectation. Debby tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She puckers her lips. What kind of question could Hayden have asked? "Well, ah..."

Hayden grins. "It’s not that tricky, is it?"

Debby forces a laugh. "Of course not."

Hayden has waited long enough. He brings his manicured fingers to his desk for an impatient dance. "Well?"

Debby takes a deep breath. She has to tell him, or she’ll go crazy. "Mr. Hayden, uh..."

Hayden frowns. "Yes?"

"You have, well, ah, see, you have a..."

"Oh! So you disagree." Hayden’s eyes widen, and his lips twist into an approving smile. "Well, that’s fine. Fine! That’s good. We at The Mackarel Times like independent thinkers."

He looks and sounds so pleased.

Debby is more torn than ever. How in the world is she supposed to tell him, this powerful man who possibly holds her future in his hands, about his booger?

Hayden’s booger slides farther down. In a couple of seconds, it is clinging by a thread. It is fighting for its life. Good God, Debby thinks. I have to tell him before that creature goes splat on his desk.

"Just a moment." Hayden ruffles through a stack of newspapers. "Where is it...ah! This clip from your college paper." He holds up one of Debby’s favorite pieces, in which she uncovered an embezzling scheme by the student body president. "This took balls, Miss Smith. This took good, hard, dogged work. That’s the kind of work we like here."

Debby grins. Her heart leaps in joy. She’s drawn to the shine in Hayden's black eyes. She forgets about the booger for a moment. Hayden likes her. He likes her!

Debby has a real shot at getting this job.

The intercom at Hayden’s side crackles to life, and he sighs. He gives Debby a look. She knows that look—it’s the "I’m sorry about this, but I’m a big, important person, and this is part of my job" look.

Debby nods sympathetically.

Hayden speaks crisply into the intercom. "Just a moment, Arlene. I’ll be right with you." He flicks the speaker off.

Debby takes this as a good sign. He’s turned the speaker off to focus on her, on inexperienced, bumbling, indecisive Debby Smith, who apparently has made a good impression on him.

"Miss Smith, ah..." Hayden suddenly has trouble meeting Debby’s gaze. His booger starts to drip.

Debby’s stomach roils. Hayden knows. He has just realized. And he’s embarrassed beyond belief. Hayden brings a finger to the general area of his nose. He smiles gamely. "If you’ll excuse yourself, Miss Smith."

Debby pushes her chair back. "Of course, Mr. Hayden." She trots past Arlene, the secretary, and into the hallway. Debby lets out a huge, relieved breath once she is alone. She sees the ladies’ room at the end of the corridor. Freshening up would be a good idea. That would give Hayden enough time to fix his problem.

Debby strides to the bathroom. She is determined that when she returns, she will not make Hayden feel self-conscious. If he brings the booger up, she will laugh. She will say she hadn’t noticed, or that it had been so small. Everything will be fine.

Debby is feeling pretty good about herself as she opens the bathroom door. She steps inside. The bathroom is white and sterile. There are four stalls, with no telltale feet peeking from below. Debby reaches into her purse for her lipstick. She glances into the big mirror above the sinks.

Her heart stops. Her life flashes before her eyes.

What is that? What in the world is that?

Debby’s jaw drops. "No, no, no," she mutters.

Good God!

Right there, swaying from her left nostril, is a monster that puts Hayden’s to shame.

Panic chokes Debby.

If you’ll excuse yourself, Miss Smith.

Debby has never been more horrified in her life. She reaches for a paper towel and makes quick work of the ghastly creature. This booger has cost her the job, she is sure of it. She cannot go back to Hayden now, no way, no how.

Debby slinks to the elevator. Yet another botched interview. Maybe journalism is not for her, after all.

THE END

First Day at Work

The setting: A fancy bank building in downtown Anywhere, USA. The time is eight a.m. People in smart, dapper business suits stream into the bank building. Most of the people know that the security guard for the past ten years has retired. But nobody bothers to say hi to the new guy until…

JOHN

John Wilson, forty years old, stops at the security desk. He surveys the new guard—slightly plump, gray-haired, maybe sixty years old, average-looking. Easy to beat in a fight but better than fat old Herb had been.

"You the new guy?" John asks.

"Yep."

"How's Herb doing?"

The guard shrugs. "Didn't know him."

"Well, welcome to the bank."

"Thanks." The guard smiles, exposing stained, old-man teeth. "Today's a happy day for me, actually."

"Yeah?"

"My twin girls turned eighteen right at four a.m."

"Eighteen, huh."

The guard gets a wallet out of his pants pocket, and John stifles a groan. This is why you don't say hi to the new guy. He makes you late to work. The guard offers John a picture. John takes it.

Woo baby. Eighteen. A good age. Primo age.

This guard has identical, blond knockout twin daughters. Tight red T-shirts, great racks, dangerous curves. The girls are tan, as in wholesome California tan. Ten years ago, John Wilson could've nailed girls like them. Now…well, he is not much better looking than the guard.

John hands the photo back. "Very pretty. You must be proud."

The guard beams. "They're great girls. Have you got kids?"

"Nah. I like the single life." Truth is, John has not liked being single for many years, but he is not about to tell this to some lowly security dude.

"I've been with Alice 25 years," the guard says. He offers yet another picture.

John takes it—woo baby again.

This woman must be fifty years old, but she is just as hot as her daughters. What a rack. Nice, juicy tits. Lucky security guard. John realizes he is staring and hastily hands the picture back. "I need to get up to work."

"Of course. Sorry. See you later."

"Yeah. Have a good first day." John heads for the bank of elevators. He gets into an elevator with a crowd of people. They stink—too much perfume, cologne, body spray. Too much fakery. John wonders what the guard's wife and daughters smell like. Those twins…wow. What if they kissed each other, with tongue and they got naked really hot and heavy, and…

And the mom walked in? Joined in?

Whoa.

When John Wilson gets off on his floor, he is smiling broadly, even as a kernel of guilt gnaws at him, calling him perv perv perv. Hot twin sisters and their mother. You can't get any better than that.

MARY

Mary says hello to the security guard a few minutes after John goes up. The guard seems nice enough, maybe a little bland. He is not wearing a name badge, but neither did Herb.

The security guard smiles, says hello back.

"Welcome," Mary says. She notices a framed photo on the guard's little desk. The photo is of a view from what seems like the top of the world.

"That's from a hike I took last month," the guard supplies.

"It's beautiful." Mary tries not to feel too jealous. "You hike a lot?"

"Oh, yes. With my wife and daughters. All the time."

Mary is thirty-five years old. She is overweight and not very attractive. She's tried hard all her life to get thin, but when it comes right down to it, she'd rather be in front of the TV, munching on Cheetos. Gallivanting outside is not for her. As a result, she does not have many beautiful pictures. Or much of a life.

The guard shows Mary photos of his gorgeous, statuesque wife and perfect daughters. Lucky man, this lowly security guard. When Mary gets to her floor, she detours to the vending machines and buys potato chips.

Time to wallow in depression again.

CHRISTOPHER

Christopher is a handsome, cocky young buck. Twenty-five years old, thinks he knows it all. Blond hair, blue eyes, six-pack abs. He started working at the bank one year ago exactly. He strides into the lobby, full of purpose, ready to attack the start of a new work week. He is used to Herb greeting him with a hello.

No Herb. It's some new dude. Right, Herb retired.

The guard is writing on paper and does not notice Christopher. Christopher has seen him before, though. Somewhere. When? Christopher goes to the elevators and struggles to remember.

Can't.

Maybe the guard's just one of those average Joes you see in lots of places. No. Damn it, Christopher has seen the guard before. Christopher, deep in thought, gets off on his floor. It's going to bother him all day if he doesn't figure it out.

Fine.

He goes to his desk, tosses his briefcase aside and shrugs out of his suit jacket. He trots down five flights of stairs and says: "Hey," to the guard.

The guard smiles, says: "Hey" back.

With a thud in his chest, Christopher remembers where he has seen the guard. The picture. That old picture. The guard has changed, that is for sure. He's gotten pudgy. He's aged. But the nose...no denying it. The security guard is Christopher's father, the man who abandoned his mother and him when Christopher was a baby.

Christopher swallows and scurries back upstairs. His long-lost father, James Ellington. A lowly, unattractive security guard. Didn't even recognize Christopher.

The bastard.

JOHN

At noon, John breaks for lunch. He takes the elevator down to the lobby. The guard's not there—bathroom break? But the guard's there at one-fifteen when John returns. John has been thinking about those twins and that wife all day. Three excellent racks.

"Your kids," John asks. "What are their names?"

"Alyssa and Marie."

"And your wife?"

"Liza."

"Nice family. Really. You're lucky."

The guard beams. "Thank you, kind sir."

"What are the twins doing for their birthday?"

"Partying with their friends. Isn't that what all the kids do nowadays?"

John grins. "You got that right." He is going to the gym after work, for the first time in weeks. Time to get back in shape. He wants those girls, that wife.

MARY

When Mary returns from her lunch break, the guard shows her more pictures he took from various hikes. The guard has been ALL over. Literally. Grand Canyon. Appalachian Trail. The Alps. Yes, these Alps.

Where has fat lazy old Mary been? The grocery store. McDonald's. Burger King. Pizza Hut.

She goes up to her office and sniffles. She gets more potato chips and three Snicker bars. She regrets ever saying hello to the security guard. She will not talk to him again.

CHRISTOPHER

Christopher fumes all morning. His father! His very own father. How could the man not recognize him?

Christopher is distracted and doesn't get much work done. He breaks for lunch late, at one-thirty. He says hello to the guard on his way out. Still no recognition.

Christopher grabs a burger, some fries. He ought to call his mother. Tell her, "I found him, Ma. The dirty old bastard. I found him." No. He'll spare her that pain. His ma is doing well. Remarried, to a dream man. Christopher won't call her.

But he can't let his biological father get away with what he did to him and his ma. Dear old dad should be knocking off work at five o'clock. Christopher will follow him home.

JOHN

John finishes work at five o'clock and heads to the gym. He jumps on the treadmill. He sees plenty of fine chicks. Plenty of ugly lard asses, too. Tomorrow he will ask the guard (subtly, of course) if he, his wife and daughters belong to a fitness club. Perhaps something like: "I'm not happy with the gym I go to. You belong to one? What do you recommend?"

That'll do very well.

John finishes with the treadmill and decides he'll lift some weights. Then he sees her. The wife. The guard's wife!

She is more beautiful than in the picture. And she is making eyes at him, at John! John puffs his chest out. He still has some charm after all, some swagger. He goes over to the wife. She is not wearing her wedding ring. Her name is Carrie, which isn't what the guard said it was.

Whatever. John does not care if she's lying. He just wants to nail her. They flirt and agree to meet for dinner later that week. When John gets home, he is about to burst. That poor old security guard. His wife runs around on him! John isn't complaining, though. No sir.

MARY

Mary goes to McDonald's after work and gets supersize everything. She hates that security guard. Really hates, hates him. No, she doesn't hate him. She's jealous. Fat, ugly old Mary.

She munches on her hamburger. The restaurant is nearly empty, but at a nearby table are two young women. Identical twins, blond hair, blue eyes, tan, the whole shebang. Lucky bitches. They are everything Mary always wanted to be but never could be.

She has recognized them as the security guard's children and hates him (and them) even more. Right when Mary is about to leave, one of the girls comes over to her. "I really love your necklace," the girl says.

"Really?"

"Yes. Ohmigod. I just love pearl."

Mary can't help but smile. "I've always had good taste in jewelry," she admits modestly.

"My sister and I were about to go shopping. Would you like to come with us?" the girl asks.

Mary cannot reply for a moment. She is supposed to hate this girl and her sister.

But.

But. She has nothing waiting for her at home. Nothing good, anyway. Nothing healthy.

"Sure," Mary chirps. "Lead the way."

CHRISTOPHER

Christopher follows the guard to a dumpy apartment building in a gray part of town. At least his father, good old James Ellington, is not living some carefree life. The guard goes inside the building, and Christopher scowls in his car for some time.

A long time.

He's got to call his mom. Get her permission to…to what? Confront his father? Beat the old man up? Christopher calls, but no one's home. He drives to his own apartment and grabs the picture of his father, just to make sure.

Yes. No doubt. The guard is his father.

Christopher takes the picture back with him to the guard's apartment. Damn it. He can't wait any longer. He calls his mother again and leaves a message on the machine. Then he gets out of his car. Time for a touching, fist-filled reunion.

THE SECURITY GUARD

The security guard, when he gets home, places his wallet on the kitchen counter. He makes himself a bologna sandwich. He sits in front of the TV. It's been a pretty good first day at work. Lots of nice people. Bit boring, but oh well. That's what happens when you're a security guard.

After the bologna sandwich is gone, the security guard gets his wallet. He glances through the pictures. Ahhh. If only. The security guard has no family. He made Liza, Alyssa and Marie up. He does not hike, either. The hike photos he printed from the Internet with his good high-quality printer. The photos of his "wife" and "daughters" he snapped at a park a few weeks ago.

He got so tired at his old job of people looking at him in that sad way. People thinking: Lonely old man. This new job is better, so much better.

A knock sounds on the door. The guard frowns. No one ever visits. He goes to the door and peeks through the peephole. It's a young man, and he seems angry. Huffy and pacing.

Kinda looks familiar, too.

Against his better judgment, the guard undoes the chain latch and the door lock. He opens the door. The guard remembers who the man is now. One of the bankers from the new job.

"I can't believe you didn't recognize me," the young man hisses. "It's me, Christopher. Your son! Your Christopher. Remember me, huh? And my ma? Alice. Who you married then up and left!"

The guard swallows. He has never been married. Never dated anyone named Alice. He has never been confident enough to date a woman, really. Thank goodness for prostitutes.

"I'm sorry," the guard whispers, hoping the young man will not hit him. "I've never been married."

Christopher shoves a photo in the guard's face. "Tell me this isn't you, good old James Ellington!"

"My name's not James Ellington, and that's not me."

A ring pierces the air, and Christopher snaps a cellphone out of his pocket. He barks into it: "Yeah?" He stiffens. "Ma? Ma, I'm—what? What? What?"

He listens for a long time and then clicks the phone shut. All fight has left him. "Sorry," he says to the guard. "I'll go now."

"What happened?"

A muscle clenches along Christopher's jaw. "Ma just said she doesn't know who my father is. She snapped a picture of some random guy one day."

The security guard reaches for the picture and studies it carefully. "That could be me," he admits. The irony of the matter does not escape him.

Christopher is about to cry. "Why did Ma have to make up that story?"

"Who knows," the security guard replies quietly. Then: "Do you want to come in?"

Christopher sniffles. "I don't want to bother you."

"No bother. No one's here but me. And you."

Christopher looks around a long moment. "Yeah. Yeah, all right. I'll come in."

THE END

Every Day

Every day for one year he plans his death. Every day he means to follow through. Every day he does not. So, as the moon shakes its head in disapproval each night, he thinks: Tomorrow. He will do it tomorrow. Really.

Tomorrow becomes today at six thirty-seven a.m., when the alarm wakes him. He never sets his alarm for ordinary times that end in a zero or a five. He likes to be a wee different. He stares at the ceiling for a while, and then he lumbers to the toilet. After he pees, he washes his hands and tries to avoid looking in the mirror. Most mornings, though, he catches a glimpse of himself, and he winces. He is uglier every day. His head is watermelon odd, his hair is scarce, and the bags under his eyes are moving toward suitcasehood.

After the bathroom trip, he goes back to his bed and sits. He thinks about Vicky, his wife, his childhood sweetheart. How he misses her. How he cannot bear to stop her life support. The guilt would destroy him. So he’ll kill himself first. With no one left to make decisions on Vicky’s behalf, the rehab center will be forced to stop the feeding tube.

At seven twenty-five a.m., he finishes thinking and nods in satisfaction, having reassured himself that everything is in order and that he is not merely passing Vicky on to another helpless, gutless oaf. He does not even have a loud, indignant, overbearing mother-in-law. He dresses and eats breakfast, always four Krispy Kreme donuts, because it’s his last meal. He deserves a good last meal, doesn’t he?

At nine o'clock, he is at the rehab center and at his wife’s side to say goodbye. To, in raspy little whispers, beg her forgiveness. "I’m so sorry, Vicky," he says. "I’m sorry I can’t let you go. I’m a coward. But we’ll meet again soon. Yes..."

Today she is in a wheelchair. He takes her brittle, dusty hand. He kisses it gently so it doesn’t crumble in his fat, clumsy grasp. "Goodbye." By eleven a.m., he is at his apartment again. He has no job to go to; he quit two days before he decided to kill himself. Of course, he still lives.

But today is the day. It always is.

He gets the gun from a drawer and sits at the kitchen table. He stares at the gun. Nothing to it, really. Disengage the safety. Bring the gun to his head and fire.

Die.

It’s child’s play. Easy ducky. He likes easy ducky. Such a cute little phrase. It always makes him think of the bathtub ducks from his childhood. And then he gets to remembering. Splashing in the tub, in the pool, his mother’s mouth-watering cookies, throwing baseball with his father, meeting the little girl down the street and falling for her instantly. Vicky. He always knew he’d marry her. How could anyone resist the auburn curls and devilish green eyes?

Now Vicky is faded wallpaper, and so is he.

At this point in the day, he pays less attention to the time, but usually about six p.m., he prods himself to get a move on. Some days, he even brings the gun to his temple. And then he tells himself to go on, go on, go on, finish the job. What is he dawdling for? Thanks to quitting his job, he has no insurance and little money. Every day, his stockpile dwindles, and Vicky’s bills mount.

His stomach gurgles. He’s hungry. So he fixes himself a nice big sandwich—usually roast beef. Why not? It’s his last meal. He deserves a nice last meal, doesn’t he?

After dinner, he gets the gun, goes to his bedroom and curls up on his bed. He does not crawl under the sheets, nor does he change into pajamas. No sir. He won’t have people finding his body in pajamas. He has more class than that. No, they’ll find him in this nice suit he’s worn all day, even if it is a bit wrinkled...

He sighs. He really ought to iron the suit. And why is he in bed, anyway? When people find his body, he ought to be on the couch. More dignified. So he pulls himself out of bed and changes into housework clothes. He irons his suit and surveys the apartment. The place is spic and span from the previous day’s cleaning, but still...is that dust he sees? A speck of dirt? He will not stand for people finding his body in a dirty apartment. So he mops the floors and scrubs the bathroom and dusts and vacuums.

After this exertion, he is filthy, and he stinks. So he showers. Afterward, he smells like raspberries and cream. He dries himself off and struggles into his freshly ironed suit. He gets the gun and sits on the couch. Another staring match with the gun ensues. Going to do it, he thinks. Right now.  But sleep threatens to overwhelm him. He thinks: Tomorrow. He’ll do it tomorrow. Really. So he goes to bed.

He usually sleeps well, and most of his dreams are happy movies, in which Vicky is laughing and singing and twirling again.

*****

Every day for one year he plans his death. Every day he means to follow through. Every day he does not. But on the three hundredth sixty-sixth day, at nine oh three a.m., the rehab center woman, pale, blond and without personality, tells him Vicky’s time is just about up. He is behind on her bills. Insurance is balking. He needs to pay up or...wellyouknow.

He manages a stoic nod for the woman. "Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of it."

She smiles and goes away.

He grasps Vicky’s dusty skeleton hand again and whispers his traditional goodbye. He goes home. He cries. He gets his gun. He brings it to his head. He swallows. Easy ducky. His apartment is clean. His suit is fresh and wrinkle-free.  Nothing to worry about now. Easy ducky, easy ducky. Boy, these were the days, huh, playing in the tub with his ducks and boats and frogs. The good old days, a child’s life. His hands shake, but he presses the gun to his temple. He is not dropping the gun, no way. He has a job to do, and maybe it has taken him a while longer than planned, but damn it, he is going to finish what he started.

If only he weren’t such a coward! If only he had the strength to let Vicky go...but how can he? She is his wife, his best friend, the love of his life. He cannot pull the plug on her. No way. He will die first. Maybe one more donut?

No.

He is about to pull the trigger, but then he realizes he has never celebrated Vicky’s life. Sure, after the accident, he always remembered her birthday by bringing two cupcakes, one for him and one for her, and eating both. And he recalled their wedding anniversaries by bringing her roses and lilies and reminiscing with her still body about her walking down the aisle in her long, flowing white gown and then...and then Vicky tripping, and laughing, her rich, golden, honeyed tones erupting, but why? Why has he never celebrated his wife’s life? If any life ought to be celebrated, hers ought.

He nods in determination. This he shall do first.

He places the gun on the end table and drives to the grocery store for a cake. Vicky loved chocolate cake; to him, chocolate cake is eh. Vanilla is better. But he will get chocolate. He spends a couple of minutes scrutinizing the assorted cakes before a pimply, plump girl waddles from a back room to the counter. She asks if she can be of any help. NANCY says her name tag.

"Ah," he says to Nancy, and he indicates a rather tiny, round cake with white frosting. "I like that one. Could you write a message on it? In blue. Dark blue. Vicky’s favorite."

"Of course." Nancy smiles. Her teeth are yellow, and he tells himself to ignore it, that it doesn’t matter how often she brushes her teeth. She is only a cake girl. "What do you want me to write?" she asks.

He considers a moment. "In honor of a wonderful woman and a wonderful life."

Nancy sighs regretfully. "That’s too long. But if you want a bigger cake, it’s only $4 more."

"What do I need a big cake for? Okay. In honor of a wonderful life?"

"How about great? Means the same as wonderful, but it'll fit better."

He shoves his hands into his pockets. "Fine, fine. Great it is."

Nancy goes in the back to work on the cake. Five minutes later, she proudly presents her work to him.

IN HONOR OF A GRATE LIFE.

He stares. And stares. Grate? Grate? What the hell? Vicky deserves better than this. He sure is not going to celebrate his wife's life with a misspelled word. But he looks into Nancy’s brimming pimply-pizza face, into her eager-to-please eyes. Puppydog.

He can’t do it. He can’t scold her. He knows instinctively that she has few bright spots in her days as it is.

"Thank you," he whispers. "It’s lovely." And it is—other than GRATE.

She exhales a nervous breath. "Really? It’s my first cake. Oh, I’ve done lots at home and for friends’ parties—that’s how come the lettering’s so fancy, but, see, this is my second day here, and... you like it? You really like it?"

His stomach clenches. "It’s great, Nancy. Just great. Thank you." He forks over $1 bills and turns to leave.

"Was Vicky your wife?"

He faces Nancy again. "Vicky is my wife. Not was. Thank you."

Nancy blinks stupidly. "I'm sorry, sir. I thought that, well..."

He holds up a hand. "It's fine."

"Did you used to work at the McDonald's near the civic center?"

"Huh?"

"I feel like I've seen you before. What's your name?"

He grins wryly. "Nancy, my name doesn't matter. I'm Vicky's husband. That’s who I am. That's all that matters."

He leaves the store, tosses the cake into the trash, and drives to another grocery. This time, he makes sure to write in clear, neat handwriting the message he wants. He ends up with a terrific cake. Then he goes to pick out candles. How many to buy? He isn’t sure. He’s celebrating Vicky’s life—her life—the years when she laughed, sang, danced. But should he count the years she lay bedridden in that horrid coma and then the persistent vegetative state? Those twelve long years still going on?

He decides yes. Yes. He will. Vicky is his wife, not was. So her cake gets sixty candles.

*****

He goes home and lights the candles. He blows them out one by one. It doesn't take long. He eats the cake for both him and Vicky. When he is finished, he is very full. He scribbles a note on the napkin for the rehab center people: Please stop the feeding tube. Stop all of Vicky's life support.

He recites a quick prayer and gets the gun. He brings it to his temple. His heart is hammering, and he is sweaty and numb all over. He takes a deep breath. This is it, really it.

Now it is time for his last thought. What should it be?

Vicky, I love you. I'm so sorry. See you soon.

He fires. Easy ducky.

THE END

The Doctor

Light glared off the doctor’s bald head. He was a short, sallow man with beady dark eyes. His white lab coat was much too large for his small frame and nearly spilled onto the sterile white floor.

The doctor was in possession of not-so-good news.

The girl had been bad, very bad indeed. She flinched when the doctor narrowed his eyes at her. He tingled in anticipation of giving this news to the girl and her mother. Perhaps to compensate for his shortcomings or to give him a handful of power in a world where looks were important, the doctor liked pointing out to people just how bad they were and just how many grievous sins they had committed.

And the girl in front of him was as naughty as they came.

She was twelve years old. Her hair was mostly the color of strawberry, but it would probably be more blonde than red in a few years. Her eyes were an emerald green, and baby fat gave her face an innocent, angelic look.

But she was no angel.

She was pregnant.

And there was her mother, standing anxiously behind the girl.

Poor mother.

She had been so worried about her only child; why was Ashley throwing up so much? Why was Ashley fainting every other day? Why was Ashley so pale?

The doctor did not much like Linda Lou, the mother. For one thing, her fingernails were so long and sharp that they were true claws. And they were painted such a garish, blinding red the doctor could hardly see past them. No, the doctor could not imagine himself with the mother.

But he could see himself with the girl. As a matter of fact, he was pretty sure he would be thinking about her when he got in bed that very night. His hands would crawl into his boxers. He would groan with pleasure.

"So?" asked the mother, and she squeezed her daughter’s shoulders. "Did you find out what’s wrong with Ashley?"

The doctor let out a heavy sigh, as if he was not able to bear the burden of his knowledge any longer. "I did. I found out what’s wrong."

The girl's eyelids fluttered, as if she wanted to disappear.

The doctor smiled.

The poor, clueless mother.

"Well? What is it? Will Ashley be all right?"

The doctor frowned in pretend thought, all the while enjoying the moment. Just how would Linda Lou react? They were so unpredictable, these hillbilly mothers. But the doctor got the feeling he would enjoy this particular scene.

"Well." He cleared his throat. He slowly ran a finger over his clipboard. And finally, he had wrought all he could from the moment. He opened his mouth, not caring that he was exposing crooked little teeth. "Ms. Jones, your daughter is pregnant."

The girl’s eyes went wide, as if she could not believe the doctor had actually said it, that it's true, yes, yes, it's true, she was pregnant.

The mother’s mouth fell open. Shock paralyzed her whole being. She was quite comical-looking, actually, and the doctor was tempted to laugh.

Yes, the poor woman really had no idea.

The mother clamped her jaw shut. "Ashley is not pregnant. Don’t be ridiculous! She’s twelve years old! Redo the tests."

Gravely, the doctor shook his head. "We ran them twice to make sure. There’s no doubt. Your daughter is pregnant."

The mother stared and stared at the doctor, and it was all he could do to keep his expression serious.

The mother turned to her child. "Tell him, Ashley. Tell him you can’t be pregnant. You know how people have babies, right?"

The girl, small and white and trembling in her chair, cowered under her mother’s probing gaze.

"Well? Tell him."

Ashley squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

"No? You won’t tell him? What? What?" The mother took a small step back. "Oh my God. You are pregnant." Anger burned in her eyes. "Pregnant? Pregnant! Oh, I ought to—who’s the father? That kid Mark you hang out with all the time?"

The girl would not look at her mother. She steadfastly refused to. She glued her gaze to the floor, her breaths frozen in her chest Linda Lou was not having any of it, and she dug a claw into the girl’s shoulder. The doctor grinned. Now this is more like it.

Ashley yelped in pain, but her high, whinny cry died away quickly.

"Who is the father?"

The girl answered, but barely. And still she looked at the floor.

The doctor frowned. He could not hear her. That was no good. He took a step forward. The girl’s mother had not been able to make out the mumbles either, and she kneeled.

"Bob. Bob," the girl whispered. Pure terror filled her voice, and she shuddered just saying the name.

The doctor held his breath in mouth-watering anticipation.

"Bob?" Linda Lou repeated. And still the doctor held his breath; this would indeed be a day to remember always, for Linda Lou’s voice had become cold, like little sharp shards of ice. "Bob? You mean my Bob?"

The girl nodded slowly, and she ventured a pleading look at her mother. "Momma, he made me...he made me."

Linda Lou fluttered a talon-tipped hand over her heart. "Not my Bob. My Bob! How could you?" Linda Lou’s face contorted into a grotesque mask. "Ashley, how could you?"

The doctor stood, completely stunned, as the mother’s rage grew. The girl was just as stupefied, for she, too, could only stare, her eyes big, round and fearful, as her mother exploded into a monster. Suddenly, the doctor wished he was far, far away. He was not enjoying this scene, after all. He wondered if the mother would look at her daughter in the same, loving way she did when they first came in. Somehow, he suspected not.

The doctor began to feel sorry for the girl. Maybe he would not think about her in bed that night, after all.

THE END

Guardian Angel

My name is Gabriel. I am a guardian angel who watches over children. Not to toot my own harp, but I’m good. Really good. I’ve been doing this for seven years, and not once have I failed in my mission. You can’t say that about most guardian angels, bless them. I love my job, and I am truly lucky to have watched over and taken care of all these children. I only handle one child—well, okay, sometimes two or three children—at a time. My current charge is a five-year-old boy named Billy. I hate to play favorites, but, well, I’ll admit this: Billy’s my favorite thus far. There, I said it.

I am not sure what it is about him, but there’s some ethereal quality that sets him apart from the other kids. Billy’s a darling little cherub. He has golden, tousled blond hair, and his eyes are clear blue. His voice is sweet and innocent.

He suffers, though, and it kills me. His father treats him so badly. I don’t know how his kindergarten teacher can ignore those telltale bruises on his arms and legs. Maybe she’s like Harlan, too. An abuser. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit. The horrors I’ve seen over the years from all sorts of people, rich and poor, young and old. But Billy is a truly brave boy. He keeps smiling and going and laughing. He’s a fighter.

I haven’t been able to do anything substantial about his situation, but that’s going to change today. This is Billy’s big day, and I’m so excited—both for him and for me. I know he’ll be confused at first, maybe sad, even, to be away from his abusive home. It is the only life he has known. But like all the other children, he’ll come to love his new home and his new playmates. His life will truly begin, and no one will lay a hand on that innocent child again.

That’s right—today, Billy ascends to Heaven.

What is Heaven like for children? Well, in a nutshell, it is wonderful! Completely wonderful, at least when the confusion of being in a new place wears off. There is food (pizza! candy! cake! chips!) aplenty and all the TV anyone would care to watch. But, don’t worry; Heaven is educational, too. The kids take classes and put on plays. They participate in sports. Their brains don’t rot, and they become astounding physical specimens. There is no pain and no suffering. I could not be prouder of the role I play in bringing the children to their eternal place.

I have spent the past few hours getting Billy’s spot in Heaven ready. The other kids helped, too. I have tried so hard not to betray just how much I care about Billy, but I think the other children sense it. I’m going to have to figure something out. Like I said, I hate to play favorites. I know, I know—I should stop worrying. I’m probably being paranoid for no reason. But, hey, I’m a guardian angel. I have to worry, hmm? Worrying is my job.

Right now, I am watching Billy wake up. Most mornings, a fight between his parents starts his day off with a bang, and this chilly December morning is no different. His father has just slapped his mother because she forgot to sew a loose button on his shirt.

"I can’t go to work like this!" Harlan roars. "Fix the button now, bitch!" He is a big, tall man, teetering on obesity. His skin is pasty pale, like it’s never seen the sun. His hair is limp brown, and his eyes are stupid and thick. He has a piggish nose and a high voice. I don’t know how he got Donna to marry him. She is dull and washed out now, but she used to be beautiful. I’ve seen the pictures. She could’ve been in movies, even. There’s one photo that particularly haunts me. It’s of Donna, when she was fifteen years old, with her mother. They’re on a boat at the lake. They’re laughing. They’re carefree. They’re beautiful. They’re full of spirit and promise.

The Donna I know is not the same person in that picture. I am glad I will save Billy from Harlan's curse.

"I’ll fix the button right now," Donna whispers.

Harlan jams the shirt in Donna’s face. "Hurry," he hisses.

Harlan is a banker. He is a big, important banker used to giving orders. Donna starts on his shirt, and he thunders to the bathroom.

Billy stirs. His long, light eyelashes tremble, and his lids flutter. His blue eyes peek out. He’s awake.

He lies in bed for a few moments. He is silent. He stares at the ceiling, unblinking. I wish I could reveal myself to him and tell him everything will be all right. But I cannot, not just yet.

Billy hears his father tear into his mother. She has not finished her task in time. Harlan slams Donna against a wall, and Billy winces. This is something no child should have to hear, and my heart breaks for this beautiful blond boy.

Harlan thrusts Donna against the wall again, and Billy reaches for his teddy bear. Billy loves that bear. His name is Moe, and he’s old. He used to be Donna’s. Moe is missing one ear and patches of fur. Still, his face is serene, and he’s soft and comforting. I think Billy will miss Moe most of all when Billy ascends. I’ve considered coming back and getting Moe once Billy is in Heaven. It’s against the rules, big time. Still, I might do it. We’ll see.

Billy kisses Moe and climbs out of bed.

I look at the clock on Billy’s nightstand; it’s a big digital clock with red numbers. Billy’s known how to tell time since he was four; he’s an incredibly smart child. He’s also running late. He seems to realize this too, and he frowns. He won’t have time for breakfast; it’ll be another hungry morning for him.

Billy's frown turns into a little smile.

I cannot help but grin. Perhaps Billy is thinking that he will run into that nice man. That nice man, of course, is me. On mornings when Billy doesn’t get breakfast, I sneak him a Pop-Tart or a granola bar during his walk to school. For those occasions, I make myself visible and dress as a businessman.

Billy pulls off his pajamas and throws on sweat pants and a T-shirt with practiced ease. He grabs his little blue backpack from the floor.

The bedroom door flies open, and Billy jumps straight up. He gives a little cry.

"What you doing, boy?" Harlan yells.

"Getting ready for school," Billy whimpers.

"Did you brush your teeth, huh, boy?"

Billy slinks back and shakes his head.

"Then do it!" Harlan hollers. "Jesus Christ, do I have to tell you to do every little fuckin' thing?"

A blackness swells within me. I don’t like it when the Lord’s name is uttered in such a way.

Billy cringes too. He averts his eyes, and my heart fills with love for him. Billy has never said the Lord’s name in vain. Billy is such a good, pure boy.

Billy disappears into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth and kisses his mother goodbye. He and Harlan leave the house together. Billy gets into Harlan’s car, and my heart thuds.

This has never happened before.

Billy always walks to school. Greenfield Elementary, in this quiet residential neighborhood, is four tiny blocks away. Why is he riding with his father? Billy was supposed to ascend to Heaven during his walk to school.

No matter. This does not rattle me. I simply misunderstood God's instructions. Billy will ascend after school.

*****

I am not the stereotypical white-robe-wearing, halo-headed, winged angel that has become a part of popular culture. Most angels aren’t. Sure, some like to have a little fun, and they dress up in that garb. But it’s rare. Being an angel is a pretty isolated job, too. We get our orders and follow through. We have little contact with one another. We each live in our little part of Heaven. Our missives from the boss, from the big man, from God, whatever you call him, usually come in the form of phone calls. Yep, phone calls. Cellphone calls, to be more exact. Sometimes, we’ll see the boss in Heaven. Not often, though. He’s out and about a lot. He handpicks all of the angels. Some of them are old as dirt, and so is he. Others are new and young, like me. I don’t know exactly how old the boss is, but he’s older than the universe, right?

There’s something about him, some vibe he gives off, that puts me at ease. Whatever questions I have don’t matter. I grew up reading the Bible and going to church. When it came my time to ascend, I was fifteen years old. I accepted my calling with grace and dignity. The boss was so impressed that he offered me the opportunity to be an angel right on the spot.

Wow!

The memory, the honor of it, still sends chills up my spine. People, including my own parents, always thought I wouldn’t amount to anything. My teachers said I was slow and retarded. I was always bullied in school. Through it all, I sought refuge and comfort in the Bible and in God.

Before I ascended, I imagined God as a huge man, perhaps seven feet tall, with long, flowing locks and a snow-white beard. I was not disappointed after my ascension. He is all I imagined and much more. He has lively, twinkling blue eyes and a mischievous grin. He made me feel right at home, yet he made it clear he was not my friend, if you know what I mean. He was a parent figure. I had rules to follow, and as long as I obeyed them and kept doing so, I would be rewarded.

One of the angels, a wiry fellow named Jamal, told me what happened to Azrel, who disobeyed the boss. What Jamal said was so horrible, I blocked it out. The boss doesn’t need to worry about disobedience from me. He never will. Still, I’m tempted to grab Moe, Billy’s teddy bear. It would really help ease Billy’s transition. I could have Moe waiting for Billy in Heaven! How awesome would that be? God wouldn’t mind too much, would he? But of course he would. He views all sins equally.

However, as I wait near Billy's school for his dismissal from kindergarten, Moe weighs on my mind more and more. Maybe God will call soon, and I can talk him into it...

Yes. That’s it. He will call. All I have to do is wait and have faith.

*****

But God does not call. At two thirty, the school bell rings. Seconds later, children, many of them laughing, stream out of the sprawling, red-brick building. A line of school buses awaits them, and an even longer procession of yawning housewives and scowling househusbands wait in their cars. I’ve already eyed the vehicles, and there’s no trace of Harlan or Donna. Billy will be walking home as he always does.

He sets off, a small, lone figure weighed down by his blue backpack. And this child is only in kindergarten! The schools are giving out too much homework.

There is no spring in Billy’s step, and why should there be? For all he knows, this afternoon will be like all the others. He’ll arrive home to his bruised mother, whose dull eyes would only see the people on the TV screen. She’ll barely acknowledge Billy. He’ll have to fare for himself until his father clomps home from yet another draining day at work and takes out his frustrations on his wife and son.

I take a deep breath and peek around. I am on a sidewalk, invisible as always. No one is watching, so I make myself visible. I am dressed as the sharp businessman who sometimes slips Billy breakfast. I have black hair, spiky and ultra-cool. My eyes are green, so dark sometimes they appear black. I am tall and muscular and handsome. No one from my pre-angel life would recognize me.

The Gabriel they knew was short, pudgy, ugly.

The crossing guard waves Billy across the street. I keep an eye on the boy and take a roundabout path to meet him. Once the school and the guard are out of sight, I am ready.

"Billy!" I call out.

The child stops and cocks his head. He turns toward me, and light floods his face. "Mr. Arch!" he cries. He is so happy to see me. "Do you have a Pop-Tart?"

I go over to him. "Not now, sorry. Hey, how was school?"

Billy furrows his brows and pushes a mop of blond hair out of his eyes. "Hey, I’ve never seen you after school."

I grin. Didn’t I tell you this was one smart kid? "I got out of work early. Hey, I have an idea. Wanna hear it?"

Billy bobs his head eagerly.

"My car’s right over there, at the curb." I point toward my red Cavalier. "I’ll take you for some ice cream. Isn’t that better than Pop-Tarts?"

Billy hesitates. "I’m not supposed to go with strangers."

"But you know me. I’m not a stranger. So, how about some ice cream?"

Billy contemplates some more. I do not rush him. He will say yes.

And he does. "Okaaay," he answers. "Chocolate?"

"Whatever you want, my boy."

Off we go. "You’ll love Heaven," I tell him as we get into my car.

Billy doesn’t hear. His eyes are closed, and he’s already dreaming of chocolate ice cream. His ascension has started.

*****

Days pass, and Billy continues to be distraught. He has not calmed down like the other children did after their ascensions. They and the other angels tell Billy that Heaven is a great place, that he’ll live like a king and be able to do anything he pleases.

Billy says he pleases to go home. The oldest child in my group, Chas, a red-haired boy of fourteen, frowns. "You can do anything except that," he clarifies.

I ask if having Moe will help. Billy only stares at me and trembles. He’s scared of me now, and it breaks my heart. I do love this boy so.

Word about Billy's difficulties gets around to God, and on the seventh day after Billy’s ascension, the big man glides in, his hair and beard flowing behind him. He heads straight to Billy. "Child," God says. "What’s wrong?"

Billy’s tears evaporate immediately. "You’re not God," he whispers, defiant.

The boss arches an eyebrow. "Why do you say that?"

Billy wrinkles his nose. "I don’t know."

I do not understand this. The big man has always put me at ease, from the moment we met, from the moment I ascended. He puts everyone at ease. Except this little Billy.

I can tell this unsettles God, too. He strokes his long beard and stares at the little boy under him. "Billy," the boss finally says. "You read the Bible, don’t you? You say prayers with your momma. You go to church with her."

"Momma says Heaven is nice and cool, and everyone flies around and no one’s hurting. Momma says Grandma and Grandpa are in Heaven. This isn’t Heaven! Grandma and Grandpa aren’t here!"

"Your momma was wrong," God replies evenly.

Anger flushes Billy's cheeks. "My momma wasn’t wrong!"

The boss snickers. "I think you need to go to that other place, where the bad children go."

A cold fear grips my heart. I want to tell God to give Billy a few more days. He’s just a boy. A scared, confused little boy who wants his teddy bear.

The boss is looking at me. "Gabriel," he barks. "Something on your mind?"

"I think..."

"Yes?"

"Let me get his teddy bear. It’ll help him feel right at home."

"No," God growls. He crosses his arms. "I’m not going to break the rules for this child." He snaps his fingers, and a dark, hooded figure rushes in. "Take Billy to that other place."

"No!" I cry.

"Don’t you dare challenge me," God hisses, the fire of truth overtaking his gaze.

My stomach churns. God has tested me, and I have failed. God knows what is best. Always. Always. I will pay the price for questioning him.

"I’m sorry," I whimper.

"Take both Billy and Gabriel to that other place," the boss commands.

I wet myself. I am so scared.

"God, no, please, God," I beg. "I don’t want to go to Hell!"

*****

Now I am strapped into a gurney. In minutes, I will die from lethal injection. There are curtains around me, but in my mind's eye, I see what is happening just outside. People file into the room and sit. They stare at the black curtains, wondering when they will get to see me. Their faces are big, curious and fearful. Some have hate in their eyes. Others have love and compassion. I wonder if Billy will come. I wonder if Harlan and Donna are still together.

I am not sure how many years have passed since I saw God, but I feel him with me. Always. He is part of me. I hope I’ve done enough to regain his trust. The police said I kidnapped Billy. They also said I killed Chas, that beautiful red-headed fourteen-year-old boy, and eighteen other children, over seven years.

The police said I kept the children in my basement without food and water and that I starved them to death. What rotten nonsense. I explained to the police that I was a guardian angel and that my mission was to bring Billy to a better place. I told them about my fall from God’s grace. The police only laughed. They asked me to identify God and the other angels from a book of pictures, but I could not. I would not.

They also said they had a witness who saw Billy get in my car. At my trial, Billy testified, and he had Moe in his arms. Doctors and scientists also testified about DNA and blood matches from the other children. Newspapers said I was the furthest thing imaginable from a guardian angel. I have looked in the mirror many times since I was sentenced to death. I am no longer handsome. I am the pudgy, ugly Gabriel of old. I have prayed to God every night since he banished me. I have called out to him to forgive me. "Please, God," I begged night after night, my hands clasped together as I kneeled at my bed. "Dear Lord, forgive me. I did not mean to question you."

He has yet to answer me.

I admit I am confused. I thought I had already ascended. Why am I about to ascend again? Why did God breathe life back into my mortal body? I try not to dwell on this. God works in mysterious ways, and I certainly will not challenge him again. I only hope that after I take my last breath, I find myself back with him, this wise man who puts me so at ease. I do not want to find myself with the red-faced, horned devil.

Now, big needles poke my veins. I keep my face still. I do not look at the men who are doing this to me. If this is what God wants, I shall do it without complaint. The curtains fall away, and I allow myself to scan the people who have assembled.

Billy, Billy. Is Billy there?

A group of red-headed people is up front. I remember them from the trial. Chas’s mother weeps pathetically. My heart goes out to her. This woman, in the name of God, pleaded for my life during the penalty phase of the trial. She said the jury was wrong. They should have found me insane. She said I was sick and that I did not know what I was doing. Even now, she weeps for me. She will go to Heaven, I am sure of it. She has a kind heart. Chas will be so happy to see her.

And then my gaze locks onto Harlan. He is squinting at me from the front row. I stifle a cry. I don’t know how I overlooked him before. He is as big and as mean-looking as ever. Donna, little and frail, sits with him.

Billy, Billy!

Where is my favorite child?

A young man, perhaps barely out of his teens, is at Donna’s side. He is rail-thin. He has dirty, limp blond hair, and acne chokes his face.  He isn’t Billy, is he? Not my beautiful, innocent Billy.

The young man meets my eyes for just a second. I know those blue eyes, even though there is no fight in them.

My heart falls. Yes, this young man is Billy. He has come to say goodbye, just as I hoped he would. But he is distorted now. Harlan has killed Billy, like he killed Donna. Even though they breathe, they are dead inside.

The air around me changes. The process of putting me to death is about to begin. I squeeze my eyes shut before anyone can see my tears. Tears for my beautiful Billy.

A thick, gravelly voice asks if I have last words.

I dare not speak, lest anyone discern that I am crying. I do not want people to think I am crying for the wrong reasons. I am not crying because I feel sorry for myself, or because I finally accept whatever guilt they are trying to foist upon me.

I am crying for Billy, the beautiful, pure, sweet child who is dead inside. He should have stayed in Heaven.

THE END

CHECK OUT Q. KELLY'S OTHER BOOKS

The Old Woman and Other Lesbian Stories: Short-story collection with nine stories.

The Old Woman: Jessica is a pretty good best friend, but she goes too far when she dares Rachel to ask an old woman on a date. Rachel has no choice; otherwise Jessica will do the asking, and Rachel has no intention of humiliating the old woman. Turns out maybe Jessica's idea was not so bad after all. There is a lot more to Ada than her age.

Funeral: Olivia takes a drastic step to combat lesbian bed death.

The Lesbian Curse: Becky and Katy are in middle school and tussling over a boy. Becky curses Katy, saying Katy will become a lesbian.

Polly Wanna Cracker: Polly is a bird. A parrot, to be exact. She follows the goings-on of her human family, especially Faye, the daughter, and Glenda, the mother. Polly knows their secrets too. Will Polly spill the beans when she finds herself able to talk after bonking her head against a window?

What Girlfriend?: Bobbie hopes her one-night stand won't pull the U-Haul trick.

Haunted: Haunted people? Sure, they're everywhere. Haunted houses? Oooh, spooky. Good movie fodder. Excellent for campfire scares. Haunted cars? They’re not unheard of. But haunted pens? Yep, they exist, as Linda and Victoria find out when such a pen brings them together.

Fortune: Best friends Jackie and Emma go to a fortune teller. Emma is shocked when the teller reveals to Jackie that Emma is her secret admirer.

Lili from the Future: It's a dream many people have; your future self visits you and fucks you.

Lizzie: Twelve-year-old Shel is not sure if her best friend means it when he says he's going to kill a person.

*****

Waiting: Caris Ismay, 30, is falling in love with a woman she dares not pursue, and at exactly the wrong time. Caris knew that life after having her baby would be different, especially since her wife did not love her anymore. But Caris never expected post-baby life to be this difficult. Dale, her wife of three years, is in a coma that turns into a vegetative state. Lena, Dale's 29-year-old daughter, is put in the awkward position of revealing Dale's secrets to Caris.

Caris and Lena share a perfect, passionate kiss that they cannot stop thinking about. Plus, they can help each other in ways no one else can. They try to build a friendship, but their growing attraction gets in the way. Can Caris and Lena move past the taboo of their attraction and find their path together?

*****

Strange Bedfellows: What happens when the queen of the ex-gay movement decides to come out of the closet? The person who helps Frances Dourne with this enormous task is a call girl Frances hires. A call girl with a secret of her own. Can they learn to trust each other enough to find the love they seek in each other's arms?

Frances is grappling with something else, too. Her daughter, Marissa, has been gone 11 years. She was kidnapped by her father on her third birthday. Frances hopes her coming out will ease the way for Marissa's return.

*****

The Odd Couple: Morrisey Hawthorne and her four-year-old son, Gareth, have a pretty good life. Then one day they meet Charlene Sudsbury, who is trying to move on from the suicide of her son, JP, three years before. Gareth is nearly the mirror image of JP, and Charlene connects instantly with him. Not quite so with Morrisey, who can't escape fast enough after Charlene shows her a picture of JP. Charlene is convinced Morrisey is hiding something and sets out in search of the truth.

Despite the circumstances, the two women form an unusual bond and end up with a lot more than they bargained for. But when an old friend of JP's resurfaces, he challenges the fragile trust Morrisey and Charlene have been building. Can these two women overcome the obstacles that separate them from the happiness they seek?

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