Disclaimer: The Sentinel and its characters belong to Pet Fly, UPN, and Paramount and no copyright infringement is intended.

    This story may be archived by the Cascade Library.

    Rated PG-13.

    Warning: This story contains nastiness, some of it physical, directed at children.

    Note: To have things make sense, let's first play with some dates. Although we are told that Jim Ellison is 10 years old during the childhood parts of "Remembrance," the actor who played him, Ryan de Boer, was born on 21 Dec. 1985. Since "Remembrance" was broadcast in March of 1998, Ryan was probably twelve when the episode was filmed. I think this age works better for Young Jim, who certainly didn't look like a 10-year-old. So, I'm going assume that Jim was 12 or 13 during the autumn (football season) of 1973.

    I can't find a DOB for Ben Baxter, the actor who played Young Steven, but I'm assuming he's around seven. We know (as much as we know anything) that Jim's mother, Mary Margaret, was born in either 1938 or 1940. I'm going with 1940, which puts her at 33 in late 1973, and makes Bill Ellison 35. (It's also my assumption that the 'Grace' we hear William speaking with in "Remembrance" is William's second wife/Stephen's mother. This isn't original with me - I think I read this on SentinelAngst, sourced to someone semi-official.)

    I'm also pulling in a few characters from The Magnificent Seven, from the popular ATF AU created by Mog. I'm assuming that Ezra Standish is around nine in 1973-4. In the broadcast version of M7, Ezra's mother Maude was played by Michelle Phillips, who is 19 years older than Anthony Starke (Ezra), so I imagine her as being ~28 in this story.

    Is that clear as mud? Great!

    Oh, one more thing - usually, I try to be very consistent about point of view. In this novella, I've just tried to tell the story how it wanted to be told. I'm sorry if this is distracting! I really do know better.

    That One Is My Other Brother

    by Helen W.

    November, 1973

    CHAPTER ONE: A Sentinel Walks Into a Bar...

    "Look out, fellas, here comes Maggie!"

    Something slimy in the voice of her boss and most recent meal ticket, Larry Whogivesashit, caused Maude to pause from filling pints with cheap, watery, overly carbonated beer to take in the woman who'd just entered Larry's private little gambling hole. The woman was a little older than her, and probably close to six feet tall, with short, curly brown hair. She wasn't heavy, but she could end up huge if she didn't watch herself. Dressed for a night-on-the-town with the girls, straight out of the Montgomery Ward catalog. So where were the girlfriends?

    A few of the regulars swore and tossed down their cards at Larry's announcement, and Stew Mills up and went out the back, but Rick Flanagan simply rocked back and chuckled, so there couldn't be anything really wrong with the newcomer. Like he was performing a ritual of some sort, Jimmy, who helped Larry run the floor, stopped talking up Sal, the tart who often came in with Jack Harlan, and headed to the card cabinet and pulled out a bunch of cellophane-wrapped decks.

    Maude delivered the round she'd prepped to Flan's table, then went to stand by Larry, who had stayed in his favorite perch observing the mood of the two-dozen men and girls who'd chosen to spend their Friday evening loosing money in his club. "What's up with her?" she asked softly.

    "No use whispering, hon," said Larry. "Maggie can hear a pin drop from a hundred yards, can't cha, darlin'."

    And, still at the top of the short flight of steps which led down into the club, the woman looked up from the umbrella she was trying to shake dry and flashed a full smile.

    "Sees really well, too. REALLY well. Maybe even through the cards."

    Across the room, the woman shrugged, then strode to Flanagan's table and took the seat that Jimmy, who'd just plopped down three fresh decks, pulled out for her. Her movements were strong and large, but with just a hint of hesitation to them, as if she was very nearsighted - as if she wasn't sure each step wasn't going to cause disaster.

    "Bet she makes a killing. Why do you let her in?"

    "Because two of her uncles are police officers and her dad's cousin's the fire commissioner."

    The woman looked up, nodded and shrugged, then refocused her attention on Flanagan, who obviously enjoyed her presence.

    As Maude made to go back to fixing drinks, Larry gripped her elbow so hard it hurt. "Get her drunk and get her out," he mouthed.

    - - - - - -

    All she needed was a thousand dollars. That's what the lawyer had said. Five hundred might be enough, but a thousand would do it. She couldn't come up with a thousand dollars, not with what Wallace Drug and Grocery paid, but maybe 'Maggie' could turn two hundred into a thousand with a little luck and some close observation.

    Except that she never could win a lot off of Rick Flanagan, who'd been at Larry's club four of the six times she'd come. She could read him as well as she could anyone, could tell what cards he held once she'd seen them face-up a time or two, but still Rick played her even. Rick winked at her, though, and the message was clear - clean out these other bozos.

    A thousand. She'd win that, and then quit.

    The barmaid came over with something large and fruity-looking. The drink had one of those cute little umbrellas, two orange slices, and three cherries. It looked like a little bit of summer, out of place in November in Cascade, Washington. "On the house, Maggie," said the girl in a soft southern drawl.

    "Oh, I don't go by Maggie," she replied, "I'm Mary Margaret Ellison." She didn't usually use her married name - she'd been divorced nearly a dozen years, since Jimmy was a baby - but something about being down here in an illegal club, called something that wasn't really right, made her want to wrap herself in as much normalcy, as much legitimacy, as she could. Which, come to think, wasn't much, and never had been.

    "Mary Margaret," repeated the barmaid. "Fits you better, darlin'."

    As she receded, Mary Margaret picked up her first hand. "That new girl looks a bit high-class for here," she commented. Like one of those girls that she knew from when she was going with William back when he was a student at Rainier, just more southernlier.

    "She's just using Larry," said Rick. "None of us know why. She and her kid were living with her sister or cousin or something in East Cascade, but I think she moved in with Larry a few weeks ago. Care to bet on how long she'll stick around?"

    "Oh, I don't gamble," said Mary Margaret. "Ooops! I guess I do!" and she turned as much attention as she could muster to the game.

    - - - - - - -

    "Good choice on the drink, doll," said Larry as he sidled up to Maude while she prepared gin-and-tonics for some of the regulars. "Maggie doesn't like the taste of alcohol."

    "Think she has super tasting to go along with the super hearing and seeing?"

    "No doubt about it. But she's looking to get drunk tonight, she just doesn't know it."

    "Has she gotten drunk here before?"

    "No, but she's never been as desperate before."

    "Desperate? Whatever for? Think she's trying to flee a husband?"

    "Could be," allowed Larry, "but she's never had a ring on."

    As Maude watched, Mary Margaret finished her drink. Downed in ten minutes; the gal wanted to get plastered. Maude quickly prepped a replicate and brought it out with her next load.

    - - - - - -

    Mary Margaret won the first hand, lost the second to Rick. She was up ten dollars, but she needed so much more. A thousand. That would be enough to get that lawyer to force William to let her see Jim whenever she wanted, maybe even force William to let her have Jim stay over every now and then, now that she had a place of her own.

    A thousand, a thousand...

    Wait, what was that card?

    Larry'd dimmed the lights a little a moment ago, and she couldn't tell what the guy to her left was holding, though she'd gotten a good look at all most of the cards in this deck. But that had been under different light. It was almost not fair.

    Concentrate...

    And now, she was down 20. She needed a drink... ah, there we go! Another tall, fruity drink, this time with FOUR cherries. Maybe Larry DID like her.

    - - - - -

    At the rate Mary Margaret was downing her mai tais, Maude was glad she hadn't gone too heavy on the rum and chanced drawing the woman's suspicion.

    As she delivered the third, Mary Margaret giggled, "are you sure I don't owe you anything?"

    "No, still on the house," she replied. "Would you like something else next?"

    "Oh, I know next to nothing about drinks," said Mary Margaret. "I've been on - uh - medi-medicashun..." she grimaced, seeming to notice for the first time the affect that downing two mai tais fast was having on her. "Valium. Uh, don't tell anyone, okay?" She looked at Flan; of course he had to be listening, he was two feet away, but he was looking away and that seemed to be enough for Mary Margaret. "William made me take Valium after I had Jimmy. I stopped when I could, but then my phys-phys-"

    "Psychiatrist," supplied Maude.

    "Zichrist put me back on it, and it worked. I got a job 'an everything. But I couldn't drink, that's too dangerous, and I wanted to be good so that William would let me be with Jimmy more..."

    Hal Murray, a regular who'd just assumed the seat across the table from Mary Margaret, cleared his throat loudly. "Round of bourbon, sweetheart. To celebrate the vision of loveliness we have gracing us tonight."

    Shitshitshit. While Hal didn't ooze Larry's creepiness, he was a thorough cad. With Rick sort of looking after Mary Margaret, presumably out of the goodness of his heart, Maude hadn't worried too much about her. But Hal had obviously noticed an easy target when he saw one, and she didn't expect Rick to be anywhere near gallant enough to head him off.

    When she got back to the bar, Sal was frowning. "I don't like this," she said.

    "Wouldn't think you'd care," Maude said, feeling no need to be kind to the sort of women she met at Larry's place.

    Sal ignored the slight. "I've seen her here before. She stayed sober and cleaned out a couple of the guys too stupid to know she reads minds, or some-like. Something's different today."

    "When does she come in?"

    "She was in last year right before Christmas, and Jack says he saw her one year in early June. She told me she was getting a little extra cash for presents. Maybe there's a bunch of birthdays in June in her family or something."

    It didn't look like Mary Margaret was cleaning up tonight.

    Mary Margaret rose to her feet and headed toward the ladies lounge in the rear, brushing against chairs and nearly colliding with the support column in the middle of the club. After a quick glance to Sal, Maude decided she'd take a powder break herself. She plopped a bottle and four shot glasses down in from of Hal and headed towards the back of the establishment.

    - - - - - -

    Mary Margaret felt odd. Things were too bright, but out of focus, not hyper-clear like when her senses were out of control. Her clothes weren't scratchy for once, and she felt like she could say or do anything she pleased.

    So this was what being a little tipsy felt like. It was pretty nice. And the neat thing was, she was as sharp and as coordinated as ever. Looking in the small mirror above the sink wedged between the stall and the gray wall, she brought up her right hand and touched her nose with her index finger. See, no problem. She was nowhere near being drunk.

    The door swung open and the barmaid came in. "You okay, hon?" she asked, her drawl soothing.

    "Fine," Mary Margaret answered. "Never been finer."

    "I think Hal's sweet on you. You okay with that?"

    Hal? Oh, the guy across from her. Gross, but neat. Neatly gross. "You really think?"

    "I think he'd like to take you home."

    "I was going to take a taxi. I only live four blocks from here, but I don't like walking after about 11," Mary Margaret felt compelled to explain.

    "Home with him."

    "Like share a taxi? But I don't know how late I'll be staying."

    "Like, he wants to take you to HIS home."

    "Oh!" Oh. "I'm not that sort of girl!"

    "Well, just be careful, okay?" drawled the barmaid. "If he starts getting too fresh, you be firm with him, okay sugar?"

    "Uh... okay," said Mary Margaret. Anyway, she was sure she could turn that littler-than-her man into a pretzel. A crunchie munchie pretzel, no, maybe soft like at the ball park...

    - - - - -

    By the time Maude finished up in the ladies room, Margaret had re-entered her table's game. "I think she'll be okay," Maude told Sal, who seemed to have completely given up hanging off of Jack in favor of chatting at the bar.

    "Don't be too sure," Sal said. "She's downed two shots of Hal's bourbon."

    "Thought she didn't like the taste of alcohol."

    "I don't think she's tasting much anymore."

    Larry joined them. "Doing great, girl," he said, giving Maude's bottom a pinch she'd have loved to have dodged. "Hal will have Maggie out in a half-hour. She doesn't seem to have that super vision thing going anymore anyway, and I doubt she can hear us, though Rick's being an ass and is steering some dough to her to keep her going. I should have tried this years ago."

    "You DID try last Christmas," said Sal. "She hardly touched her one an' only beer."

    Okay, so Sal was brighter than she looked.

    Maude checked the clock she kept behind the bar. Mary Margaret had only been there for about 90 minutes. Five drinks in 90 minutes.

    Another round, another shot. This was going to get ugly.

    - - - - - -

    Hal pulled the pile of cash towards himself and smiled. "Let me spend this on the table. Hon, another round of whatever these folks want."

    Rick and the other man placed their orders but Mary Margaret suddenly realized she felt a little off. Maybe another trip to the powder room was a good idea. She started to get up but the chair seemed to be on a slippery bit of floor because she almost fell flat on her face. Hal was at her elbow, though, steadying her. "You feeling okay, Maggie?" he asked. "Would you like some fresh air?"

    "Don't call me..." she tried to say, but the words sounded a little garbled.

    "Let's walk outside, okay?" said Hal.

    Maybe that was a good idea. Her jacket appeared from somewhere. Oh, the manager'd fetched it. How nice of him. "My umbrella..." she managed, and Hal showed that he had that also. Larry was sure being good to her, first all the free drinks then getting her stuff for her.

    "You coming back?" asked Rick, rising too. "Maggie, would you like me to come too?"

    Wow, TWO suitors. At least, she could pretend, if only for a little while. Rick was old enough to be her father but he was so kind to her always, it almost made her cry. She sniffed and said, "No, Rick, Hal, I'm okay."

    Rick sat back down. "Hal, behave yourself," he said.

    Well, there you had it. No way would Hal try anything if Rick told him not to. Everyone here listened to Rick, you'd think it was his club, not Larry's.

    She took three wobbly steps and paused. "I forgot," she said. "I have to win a thousand..." and she realized she'd better get to the powder room fast. Hal was steering her the opposite direction, though, and the urge to be sick faded a little. Yeah, she'd be better off if she just got home. They'd be there in 5 minutes. With Hal with her, there was no reason to even wait for a taxi.

    The blast of November air felt wonderful for a moment, but then Hal was tugging her the wrong direction and around the side of the building, then pushing her up against the wall and he had his hand inside her coat and inside her blouse and his lips were attacking her mouth...

    "Subtle, Hal," said a voice - the barmaid. "If you'd waited 'til you got her inside somewhere you'd probably be scoring tonight."

    "Maggie and me are just heading to my car now," he said, pulling back a little.

    "Mare, do you want to go with this creep?" the barmaid asked.

    Mary Margaret shook her head, then wished she hadn't because the world wouldn't stop moving. Had Hal really been trying to...

    She looked at the barmaid, but couldn't quite bring her into focus. "I don't feel well," she said.

    Hal swore and continued the way they'd been headed. The barmaid gripped her arm where Hal's fingers had pressed in; it hurt, and she pulled back.

    "'Sokay, sugar," said the barmaid, "Didn't take much to scare him away, did it? Would you like me to see you home? You said you live nearby?"

    "Yeah, up on Prospect..." she looked around. Which way was it? But the barmaid was pulling her toward a car. Hal's? No, there was a thing on top of it, it was a taxi. The barmaid opened the door for her and guided her in, then went around to the other side and joined her in the back seat.

    Taxis were always hard, but her sense of smell seemed to be broke.

    A minute later, the barmaid was paying for the taxi out of Mary Margaret's pocketbook and then guiding her, umbrella and all, out of the vehicle and toward the entrance to her building. The keys didn't seem to want to lie right in her hand; without Mary Margaret really willing it to happen, the barmaid had taken them and opened the outer door to her building, then guided her in and, after asking her for her apartment number, led her down and into her little basement place.

    "You think you're going to be sick, sugar?"

    Mary Margaret shook her head. She hated being sick - hated the loss of control, the sensations, the overpowering taste.

    The next thing Mary Margaret knew, she was sprawled across her sofa and the barmaid was handing her a couple of aspirin and a glass of water. "Take these, at least," she said.

    Mary Margaret complied, then, before her brain even registered why, she was across the living area and lunging for the toilet. The pills came out first, ripping their way up her throat, followed by a burning stream of awfulness. "That's it, hon," said the barmaid, "bring it all up. You'll feel 100% better." Mary Margaret doubted it.

    A moment later, she was back on the couch watching the barmaid take in her little apartment. Casing it? Trying to decide what color curtains the high-set windows needed?

    No, just trying to find something to drape over her, it seemed. As the barmaid lightly tucked her pink afghan around her, Mary Margaret realized she didn't even know the woman's name. "You should get back to work," she said, hoping the words sounded clearer to the barmaid than they did to her.

    The other woman shook her head. "I'm done for tonight," she said. "Maybe forever. Can't take much more of that sort of work."

    "How long..."

    "How long have I been working at that particular den of inequity?" she drawled. "About a month. Usually I do bookkeeping, but I thought it would be fun to learn how to run a card game, and Larry was sweet enough at first. Didn't think I'd be spending all my time getting drunks drunker."

    "I don't know what got into me," said Mary Margaret, blushing at the thought of being one of the barmaid's 'drunks'. "I usually... uh, it's just that I needed the money. So that I can save my son. I didn't mean to drink much at all."

    "Your son's Jimmy, right? You mentioned him earlier. I understand. I haven't seen my son much since I moved in with Larry. I'm afraid Larry doesn't have much patience for children."

    "Then why do you live with him?"

    The barmaid laughed and settled onto the floor next to her. "Tell me about your boy, hon."

    Mary Margaret reached and snagged a tissue from the box on the coffee table and dabbed her eyes. She'd worn eyeliner tonight for the first time in years, and a bit had run and was starting to sting. "Jimmy sees real well, just like I do," she said. "William doesn't let me visit him but four times a year, and I've been okay with that, ya know, because I've - I've had my own problems. But last month Jimmy, he saw, he saw..."

    The barmaid was kneeling inches away, listening to her like nobody ever did. "What'd your boy see?" she asked.

    "A mur-mur-" and Mary Margaret realized she was crying. "A murderer running away. He found a body and knows who did it and William wouldn't let him tell the police what he saw and William says he'll have me committed if I say anything..."

    "Oh, that sounds awful," said the barmaid, gripping her arm. "Listen, hon, I want to hear all about this, but you've got to sleep this off now. I'll stay here, okay, in case you need me?"

    Mary Margaret nodded and accepted the fresh tissue the barmaid handed her. "I'm okay. I'll be okay."

    "'Course you will be," said the barmaid. "But let me stay, okay?"

    "'Kay," said Mary Margaret, feeling the drag of sleep. "Thanks. I - I don't even know your name..."

    "Maude. Maude Standish," the barmaid said with a smile.

    CHAPTER TWO: Maude and Mary Margaret

    Poor lamb, thought Maude as she felt Mary Margaret relax into sleep. Dealt a bad hand and playing it worse. Why did fate keep tossing people like this into her path? If only she had the willpower to let them flail. But all her life, she'd put so much time and effort into helping others; it was no wonder she hadn't gotten further in life herself.

    Well, what was one more stray? She might as well see what she could do for poor Mare here before clearing out of Larry's place and heading back south for the winter.

    She stood and surveyed the apartment. Or was 'cave' a better description? Tiny kitchen, tiny bathroom, tiny furniture that seemed half-scale when compared to Mary Margaret. Walls bare except for a crucifix by the front door and a framed copy of Dali's "Last Supper" above the sofa. Not even a proper place to sleep; the pillow and pile of blankets on a side table had clued Maude immediately that the sofa doubled as Mary Margaret's bed.

    Just path the bathroom there were two more interior doors. The first proved to be a shallow linen closet. Maude opened the second door and switched on the light to find what was obviously a woman's idea of what a boy's bedroom should be. The bed was neatly made and covered with a bedspread sporting the logo of the local basketball team, the Cascade Jaguars. As if to give equal time, Seattle's several minor-league professional sports franchises provided pennants for what must have been the closet door. There was a little desk with a lamp and a dictionary and a thesaurus and a book of famous quotations. Not a speck of dirt anywhere.

    My oh my, Mary Margaret had it bad. Maybe she should loan her Ezra for a week and cure her. Wouldn't that be a trip! Ezra in this little place, with all that sports crap. Ezra, who'd probably get beamed if anyone ever threw him a ball, and couldn't handle an hour out on the Gulf of Mexico in his grandpa's boat without complaining about being seasick.

    Well, at least the room was a place to sleep.

    - - - -

    Maude was awoken the next morning by the smell of coffee. After straightening the covers - she figured that it would be bad form to leave the Jaguar wrinkled - she pasted on her best 'I want to be your friend' smile before emerging from the bedroom.

    "You're still here!" Mary Margaret exclaimed, looking no worse for wear. Ah, the wonder of vomiting, one of the few useful things Maude had learned during her semester of college.

    "Just wanted to stay close," said Maude.

    "Thank you," said Mary Margaret. "But... well, I guess it's okay."

    "Excuse me?"

    "Well, see, I have to have a bedroom for Jimmy. JUST for Jimmy. For him to come stay with me sometimes, maybe live here someday."

    "Well..." said Maude, thinking fast. "As long as YOU don't sleep in there, it's not like you are using it for your own purposes, right?"

    "I guess..."

    "I mean, as long as you didn't charge anybody rent, there's no reason that someone else couldn't spend the night there pretty regularly."

    "I don't know..."

    "You just can't put your own stuff in there. But no judge or lawyer or whatever would want you to just WASTE the space."

    "Uh, what are you saying?"

    "Oh, nothing," said Maude. "Just speculating. How about we both have some coffee and you tell me some more about your Jimmy."

    And so she did. Mary Margaret had gotten pregnant at about the same age as Maude had, but in her case Mare'd been the townie. Still, the guy who'd knocked her up had married her as soon as she'd realized she was pregnant, and Mary Margaret had been happy enough about things at first. As near as Maude could tell, though, pregnancy had completely wigged Mary Margaret out. She'd started to see things nobody else could see and hear what nobody else could hear. She'd given birth in an institution, drugged out of her mind, and the marriage hadn't lasted long after that, with her husband's family raising the baby and her still in a nuthouse. By the time she was out, her ex had remarried some chick named Grace "outside the church, of course" and they'd had a kid of their own and everyone had figured that Jimmy was best off with no contact with his real mama until he was old enough to understand things.

    A couple of years ago, Mary Margaret had finally been allowed to start seeing her son periodically, first under supervision, then by herself. Her ex had even come up with deal that if Mary Margaret could live on her own and have a place for Jimmy to stay then he'd let their son spend occasional weekends with his mama.

    All that had changed the month before, though. Jimmy had seen the impossible - seen a man leave a murder site, from way too far away for a normal person to make an ID. "William said there was no sense in getting involved in a murder," said Mary Margaret. "Said that nobody would believe Jimmy anyway, except maybe the killer. Said that it would do no good and put Jimmy and the rest of them at risk. I said that, if Jimmy could prove he had great eyesight then the police would have to believe him... He's my boy, after all, and some of my family is on the force... But William said it might not be good enough, said he didn't want people thinking Jimmy was a - a freak..."

    "Oh, the poor lamb," said Maude. "So William doesn't care that there's a murderer free?"

    Margaret shook her head. "I just don't understand it."

    "How's Jimmy taking it?"

    "I don't know! William was furious that Jimmy called me to tell me what he saw, and that I took Jimmy's side. He's forbidden Jimmy to try to contact me - he even had my phone number changed without my consent, so that Jimmy couldn't just call. That's why I need money for my lawyer again. To try to get the court to order William to let me see my Jimmy, maybe even prove that I've met my half of the deal by having this place and a room just for Jimmy. He's old enough to make his own decisions about when he sees his real mama!"

    "William could do that - just change your phone number?"

    "When you're an Ellison in this town, you can do what you please," said Mary Margaret. "Oh, yeah, and William and Grace are divorcing, so it's not like he can say that he's providing Jimmy this wonderful, stable family. I have as much a right to Jimmy now as he does!"

    So William might be influential, maybe even wealthy. Interesting. A wealthy man, newly single, raising a kid who could get a jump on the rest of humanity. A kid very unlike her Ezra, whose talents so far seemed to start and end at being a smart ass. Interesting indeed.

    Time to see how nice a Catholic girl Mare here really was.

    Schooling her features, Maude shook her head slowly. "I wish I could help you somehow," she said.

    "Oh, no!" said Mary Margaret. "You've been such a good friend already, and we hardly know each other. You were so - so thoughtful last night. And I really don't have anybody I can talk to about things. Not important things."

    "Well, I just couldn't let that awful man at the club take advantage," said Maude. "It's not like I haven't had my share of difficulties that way myself."

    "But surely Larry protects you..."

    "Oh, I can handle them these days. But I'm practically SELLING myself to a man I don't care about, just to have a job and roof over my head."

    "Surely there's lots of stuff you could do!" said Mary Margaret. "I mean, you seem really smart."

    "Seeming smart and having the degrees to prove it are two different things, as I'm sure you know," said Maude. "Like you, I had Ezra too early, and had to leave school. Since then, I've done this and that, but nothing really pays."

    "Where's Ezra staying?"

    Maude sighed. "We lived with my parents for a couple of years, off and on, but I just couldn't stand their - their JUDGEMENT, you know?"

    Mary Margaret nodded as enthusiastically as Maude had expected her to.

    "We came to Cascade a few months ago because my cousin lives just out of town and offered us a new start. But it turned out they don't really have room for the both of us, and yet they have been really good to Ezra. I thought it would be best if he stayed with them and I gave them all some breathing space. I thought I'd have been able to establish myself here by how, but it's been hard for me to find reputable work..."

    "It's just WRONG that you have to compromise yourself!" said Mary Margaret. "I've - I've never had to do that!"

    "Yes, well... I think maybe you're just a better person than I am," said Maude, with a sniff.

    "Nonsense," said Mary Margaret. "The Lord just gives us all different challenges, is all."

    Wait for it...

    "Maude, I've been thinking," Mary Margaret said after a moment's silence. "You could stay in Jimmy's room, if you'd like - you know, until you get your feet under you. You could - you could use my phone to make calls, and use this as your address, and everything. Whatever you need. I'm mostly at work anyway - we'd hardly trip over each other at all."

    Maude was surprised that the tears that filled her eyes weren't forced. "Why, Mary Margaret, that's the nicest thing anyone's offered me in - in, I don't know HOW long!"

    CHAPTER THREE: In Which Maude Gets a Real Job

    William Ellison had a theory, passed down from his father: You could always tell how good a worker a girl was by how much the other gals hated her. By this measure, Maude Standish must be outstanding, because, in the three weeks since he'd hired her, he couldn't walk down the hallway without seeing some cluster of his employees whispering about her. On company time, of course.

    Like the girl could help being more capable than her thin resume had suggested, or being a real looker for that matter. And, anyway, it was his business who he hired and fired. He hadn't really needed more staff, but she'd shown up looking - well, like someone had taken the time to show her how to put makeup on right - and had said she'd work cheaply, for the local experience. And if this annoyed the other girls, who maybe had thought they'd get him to hire their girlfriends or something if a position opened up - well, they should come to him with their complaints, not whisper about poor Maude. Not that Maude let it get to her. She was the first girl in in the morning, always sunny and cheerful, always had coffee going by the time he got in, was so good at prioritizing that he'd asked her to take on some of the tasks of his personal secretary, Amy, who thought a hangnail was a crisis.

    And things were getting worse with the other girls. Amy and Steph, who usually covered for her, had been in the break room (gossiping, no doubt) and had missed a call that, it turned out, had been from their most touchy customer. Maude had rushed in and grabbed the phone on the fifth ring; after ten minutes of her sweet-talking, she'd transferred the call to him. Seems her bit of southern-style customer attentiveness had gained them a good-sized order.

    A rap on the doorframe grabbed his attention. Maude, looking more troubled than he'd seen her before. He didn't like seeing her look unhappy.

    "Mr. Ellison," she purred, "I don't know how that sweet thing Amy missed this, but the deadline on the Paterson Industries bid package is this coming Monday at noon."

    "What!" William snapped his chair from a partial recline to its most vertical. "How could she miss that? How close are we to being ready?"

    Maude handed him a folder. "The outside says the due date is the 17th, but the internal paperwork all shows the 3rd," she said.

    William looked through the documentation; like he'd remembered from when Amy had brought it to his attention several weeks prior, Paterson Industries needed instrumentation which his division of Ellison Inc. could supply at a good price, but the specs of the RFP didn't match exactly what he could deliver. There'd be pages of justifications to write, performance comparisons to document. He'd been planning on starting the work the following Tuesday and pretty much doing nothing else for the rest of the week. There was no way, beginning at 3 p.m. on a Friday, he could meet a Monday deadline. He couldn't do the work by himself in that timeframe, and it was above the level of work he could expect from Amy, even if he could compel her to work all weekend.

    Maude picked up the folder from where William had let it slide onto his desk. "If we start now, we might both get some sleep Sunday night," she said.

    "What do you know about putting together this sort of proposal?" William asked, wondering if he understood her correctly.

    "Not a lot, sir," she said, "but I've seen several of your more ordinary bid packages leave the door and I think I could handle the boiler-plate stuff and let you concentrate on the technical parts." She issued a quick laugh. "In a pinch, I can even forge your signature."

    William had to chuckle too; her laugh, her high spirits, were damn infectious. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he said.

    - - - - - -

    It was amazing, though Maude, how a job which normally would have had her considering slitting her wrists could be pretty interesting if you didn't think of it as a way to get paid shit but, instead, as a role she was playing in a limited engagement. Getting hired had been easier than she'd expected, she'd just low-balled her job expectations. Seeing how the women in the office put so much effort into trying to look good for the boss that they didn't bother to watch their own backs had made her bold enough to engage in a little creative deceit her first week - she'd snuck a new request-for-proposals out of the office, had a copy made with a later deadline, and slipped the altered version into That-Bitch-Amy's in-box. Amy had done the rest for her - produced the folder and put it onto William's schedule too late. Meanwhile, Maude had done a little research on the needs of the customer, and read through similar types of contracts in the office files. Then, she'd simply switched the original document back in and had her copy destroyed. And William had fallen for it. The only disappointment was that he'd so far been so frantic to get the package done that he hadn't started screaming at Amy yet. Well, a girl couldn't have everything.

    - - - - -

    Maude was amazing, thought William. If she was a man, he could see her being his partner in a few years. He found that he could hand whole sections off to her and have her draft out specs that needed very little, if any, modification before she typed them up. It was as if she knew Paterson Industries as well as he did. And, the whole time, she was fresh and cheerful. You'd have thought she was used to working late into the evening.

    They worked into the wee hours of Saturday morning, then were back at things by 9. Sunday was a duplicate of Saturday - which he regretted, since this necessitated having Sally, his housekeeper, watch his boys on her day off.

    A few of the other girls came in to help here and there, but they were next to useless, and Amy wouldn't even meet his eye. Maybe it was time for her to move on.

    Finally, Sunday at 5, the package was sealed. Maude offered to deliver it, but William wanted to hand-carry it himself to the all-night post office, to be overnighted to Seattle.

    "Then, let me buy you a steak," he said.

    "Why Mr. Ellison, I'd be delighted!" Maude replied.

    - - - - -

    It seemed only natural that Maude let up a little on her hours over the next several weeks, coming in closer to 10 than to 7 and leaving on the early side. After all, she'd put in enough extra hours on the Paterson proposal!

    Anyway, she was getting bored. She'd proven she could out-shine an office full of dim-wits; she'd gotten William Ellison to buy her dinner, but they'd been too tired to even meaningfully flirt with each other; and living in Mary Margaret's little apartment was starting to wear.

    Mary Margaret herself, though, was a gas. Totally unselfconsciously, of course. And, with a little help from Maude, she was proving to clean up nicely. Maude had talked her into wearing a little makeup advertised as being kind to sensitive skin. She'd also gotten her to wear shoes with a little bit of a heel - there was no hiding that she was tall, she might as well give some shape to those long legs of hers - and had convinced her to give over her bow blouses and frilly skirts in favor of straight, almost military lines. Mary Margaret still came off like a nun on holiday, but less like one just off acid.

    Maybe by the spring Maude would even have Mary Margaret ready to date that "nice Mr. McDonald" who seemed to come into her drugstore just about every day and always chose her register. Wouldn't it be funny if Maude got Mary Margaret married off before she scored a second date with William Ellison?

    Yes, it was past time to mix things up a bit.

    The Thursday before Christmas, Maude met Mary Margaret at the entrance to the drugstore as she left for the day. "Maggie, I just learned the most, well, astounding thing! You'll never guess who my boss is!"

    Mary Margaret had only a hazy notion of the sort of work Maude had found for herself. Until now, Maude had been fairly reticent, and Mary Margaret hadn't pried; she knew all about secrets. Still, it warmed her to be brought more into Maude's life.

    The good feeling lasted about fifteen seconds. "I'm working for your ex!" Maude exclaimed, like she was giving Mary Margaret a treat. "Isn't that something!"

    "W-w-william?"

    "Yes! Though I should have known. You know why? Because he told me not a week after I started that not a girl there measured up to his ex-wife."

    What an odd thing for William to say! Though the wording sort of sounded like William. "I'm sure he meant Grace."

    "Grace?"

    "His second wife," explained Mary Margaret. "They just separated about a year ago."

    Whoops. "Oh! No, he said your name. 'My ex-wife Mary Margaret.'"

    "I'm sure he was just trying to insult the girls who work for him," said Mary Margaret, looking away so that Maude wouldn't see her cheeks redden. Damn her Irish complexion!

    "Well that may be, but I have to agree with him," said Maude, taking Mary Margaret's arm and starting to lead her along the city sidewalk like a school-girl. "You're something else, kiddo!"

    "Uh, thanks..."

    "But, hon, I have to ask you something, and it's okay if you say no, alright?"

    "Uh, sure," said Mary Margaret, half-jumping over a puddle.

    "Would it bother you... would it be okay if I started to, you know, see William a little?"

    "See? As in date?" Mary Margaret halted and Maude swung around to face her, wide, hopeful eyes gracing perfect skin.

    "As in, date," echoed Maude with a laugh. "Or is he such a, I don't know, creep that I should stay as far away as I can?"

    "He's not a creep, just a little, uh, dictatorial, I guess," said Mary Margaret.

    "You mean, he's a man," said Maude, smiling.

    "Not all men are like that!"

    "I'm sorry, honey," said Maude, schooling her features to show remorse. "I don't mean to upset you."

    "I'm not upset!" said Mary Margaret, wondering if the direction the conversation had progressed meant that she'd given Maude her blessing. Wondering if she really did care.

    "Wonderful!" said Maude, laughing again and squeezing Mary Margaret's arm tighter. "So what should I do next?"

    "Do?"

    "To make him notice me. We work really well together. We click, you might say."

    Mary Margaret laughed. Yes, she could see Maude and William together, at that. She could also see them killing each other, which, well, could also have its advantages.

    Then it came to her. "If you and William become involved... can you, I don't know, encourage him to let Jimmy see his mama?"

    "You know, darlin', I was thinking the very same thing!" said Maude. "This could work out well for everyone."

    - - - - - - -

    Though Christmas Eve wasn't a legal holiday, William had sent everyone home at noon, with pay. Maude Standish was still at her desk an hour later, though, typing away. He rapped on her door; most of his girls would have been startled, but of course she didn't jump, just looked up with those perfect dark eyes. "Don't you have some place better to be?" he asked.

    "My, that's a pretty personal question, Mr. Ellison," said Maude.

    "Excuse me," he said, not sure that she was joking.

    Maude laughed. "I'm sorry," she said. "Christmas just gets to me a little. I don't even have a place to go to mass. My own dumb fault, I guess."

    "Mass?"

    "I've never missed a midnight mass," said Maude. "I'm not really religious, but there are some things in life you just have to do."

    It was funny - William felt the same way. Maybe...

    "Maude, I don't want to be forward, but... I'd be honored if you'd accompany me to mass at St. Maria's tonight. The boys are with Stephen's mother in Seattle, and I'd really appreciate the companionship."

    Thank you, Mary Margaret! "Why, Mr. Ellison! That would be just - just lovely."

    And lovely it was. They met at 8 for dinner at the same steakhouse they'd been to a few weeks prior, but this time neither was exhausted. Afterwards, they toured some of the more merrily decorated neighborhoods of Cascade, looking at lights and sharing tales of other places they'd been at Christmastime.

    Mass was, well, mass. St. Maria's was the largest church in Cascade; nobody recognized either of them, and William even chanced accepting communion, which he was sure Father Johnson at his own parish would have balked at.

    Their night ended with a chaste kiss on Mary Margaret's doorstep. Maude would have been happy to have gone home with William, but he hadn't offered. Silly man. Still, they'd made plans to get together the following Saturday, and Maude's cousins were expecting her to come out and play mommy for Ezra in the morning, so maybe it was just as well.

    Inside, Mary Margaret was still awake, sitting in the dark, paging through a photo album. "This is the first Christmas I won't see Jimmy since I got better," she said.

    "Oh, child!" said Maude, coming to sink onto the sofa next to her. "Is there anything I can do?"

    Mary Margaret shook her head. "I'm just very glad... that you don't smell too much like my ex-husband right now."

    So there were some advantages to decorum in the sexual realm, it seemed. Would wonders never cease.

    CHAPTER FOUR: Ezra and the Ellisons

    "We are a normal, respectable family and you live here, with me. Auntie Sandra just watches you in a pinch."

    "Yes Mother."

    "And you aren't EVER to correct Mr. Ellison or, heaven forbid, me."

    "Yes, Mother."

    "And no eye-rolling."

    "Of course not, Mother."

    "You're being sarcastic, Ezra. It doesn't suit you."

    "I don't know what you're talking about."

    The slap was completely expected by both Maude and her son; in theory, Maude hated people who hit children, but Ezra wasn't a normal child. He was - universal revenge for the hearts she'd broken in high school. Or maybe payback for misdeeds in a former life.

    Ezra rubbed at his face, but didn't cry. He'd stopped crying - real crying, not tears for an audience of aunts or cousins or grandparents - very young. Maude couldn't understand how a kid who could control his emotions so well hadn't picked up how to control his mouth. Her occasional use of corporal punishment was nothing compared to the bruisings he managed to provoke from other boys. Her cousin Sandra fretted about this to her at every opportunity; Maude figured that when Ezra had had enough he'd stop bringing it on himself.

    Ezra found the little apartment his mother was living in to be pretty interesting. The craftsmanship was pretty good, for this generation of construction in the northwest. Sort of craftsman meets art deco meets really cheap hardwood. The furniture was comfortable too; the sofa was much more bouncy than the vinyl stuff at Auntie Sandra's house. .

    "So your roommate sleeps out here and you get the bedroom?" he asked.

    "Yes. Oh, Ezra, you have got to see this bedroom!"

    Ezra propelled himself up and across the room in three leaps. Maude swung the door open and said, "Wouldn't you LOVE to live here with me?"

    "Oh, Mother!" The room was hilarious. A Junior Jock paradise. "How on earth do you stand it?"

    "It's a trial, kiddo," she said. "Now you see why it's essential that you not screw things up for me?"

    Ezra squared his nine-year-old shoulders and said, "Now that I comprehend the stakes, you can be assured of my virtuous conduct."

    - - - - - - - -

    Maude was out on the curb waiting for William, chatting to some kid. It struck William as something he wouldn't have imagined Maude doing.

    Maude greeted him with a peck on the cheek, then stepped back. "William, there's someone I've been wanting you to meet - my son, Ezra."

    "Son??"

    "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ellison," the boy chanted, almost sing-song-like. "My mother says wonderful things about you."

    "Uh... I'd thought we'd drive down to the Cascade winery."

    "I'm sure Ezra would love that," said Maude. She paused. "I'm sorry... I just assumed you'd know that I would never spend a Saturday apart from my son, what with the hours I work."

    "I, uh, somehow missed that you had a child," said William, still a bit off-balance.

    "Oh, my! Well, I guess I haven't really had a chance to decorate my desk. Yes, I've got my Ezra."

    "Well, um... Ezra, would you like to meet my boys?"

    "Are they near Ezra's age?" Maude cut in. "I've seen the pictures in your office, of course, but I've no idea how old they are now."

    "Uh, yeah," said William. "Jim is thirteen and Stevie is seven. Is it okay if I duck down and make a call? My housekeeper can get them ready and we can all go somewhere together."

    "Uhhh..." began Maude. Décor aside, William catching a glimpse of Mary Margaret's name on an envelope or some such would be disastrous.

    "I, uh, took the phone apart last night," said Ezra. "I thought I could get it back together again..."

    "But there were pieces left over," said Maude. "Which I've always thought was a bad sign." She laughed and tried to school her features to show fond indulgence. "Boys will be boys, I suppose."

    They ended up driving back to the Ellison residence. For Maude, the house was love at first sight. Maybe not quite as grand as she'd let herself imagine, but big enough, especially compared to Mary Margaret's hole.

    A young boy charged out the front door shouting "Daddy! Yay!" as they pulled up. So she'd made one person's day at least. Not the housekeeper's, she realized moments later as the woman, perfunctorily introduced as Sally, launched into an unneeded frenzy of straightening. Well, she'd make amends as needed.

    As William mixed cocktails, Maude gestured Ezra over. She had first intended to whisper to him, then realized that, in this house, that might not be sufficient. Instead, she pulled a small spiral-bound pad of paper from her bag and scribbled, "Go find the wonderkind and be as pleasant as you can be. Remember, he can hear EVERYTHING."

    Ezra nodded and turned the paper over. "Your Command, My Wish, Mother Darling," he scrawled, then darted off.

    - - - - - -

    The first thing Jim noticed about Maude was that she smelled a little bit like his mother. That was just too weird. She'd brought her kid, though, who was keeping Stevie occupied. So she had her pluses.

    He listened in a bit now to the littler boys. Stevie was showing Ezra his baseball cards and Ezra was oohing and ahhing. Okay, maybe overdoing it a little.

    Jim returned his attention to his model lunar module. It was so frustrating... he could see how he could improve it, add details like finer grooves on the shielding, but he just didn't have the dexterity or the equipment to do a better job. That nobody but him would ever miss the touches didn't make him feel any better. Well, mom would be able to tell, but mom was out of the picture for now.

    Damn dad and his screwed-up values.

    There was a bang on his door and the other boys did that fall/run/jump-into-the-room thing little kids did.

    "Don't you dare TOUCH this table!" Jim hissed. Stevie ran to Jim's double bed and started jumping, trying to touch the ceiling with his open palm. Ezra, though, headed his way; at Jim's glare, he slowed. "Apollo 11?"

    "No, 12."

    "Of course," said Ezra. "I should have known immediately. No laser ranging retroreflector. Only 11, 14, and 15 have those. Theirs are still working up there, you know. Should be for years."

    Jim nodded. "Know a lot about space?"

    Ezra shrugged but Stevie, still bouncing, said, "Ezra knows loads about all sorts of stuff. He made up things about each Giant, using only the letters in their names."

    "You like baseball?" Jim asked.

    Ezra shrugged. "I've learned to express appropriate outrage about the fate of the Pilots, and I've picked up a bit on the San Francisco teams for protective coloring."

    "Tell him about the words you made up!" said Stevie.

    Ezra blushed a little. "Oh, and I've anagrammed all the Giants and Athletics starters. Just, you know, to have something to do."

    "Like, 'Madam, I'm Adam'?"

    "That's a palindrome," said Ezra. "I'm no good at making those. I think that takes a particular class of brain."

    "Palin, palinn, palindrome!" said Stevie. "If we get a pony, I want to name him Palindrome!"

    "Shut up, Steve!" hissed Jim. His brother could be such an idiot.

    "No, call him Onomatopoeia!" said Ezra.

    "Pee! Pee!" said Stevie.

    "Don't encourage him!" pleaded Jim.

    "Well, it beats alliteration!" said Ezra. He jumped onto the bed and flexed his legs a little. "Pee! Pee! Urine! Piss! Piddle! Number one! Liquid excretion! Wee wee! How am I doing, Jim?"

    "Trying too hard," said Jim. "Stick to pee and poop."

    Jim secured his model on a shelf above Stevie's normal level of destruction, then surveyed the mess his bed coverings were becoming. "Like kites, Ezra?"

    "Go fly a kite! Go fly a kite!" chanted Stevie.

    Ezra dropped to sit on the end of the bed, keeping a weary eye on the younger boy, ready to dodge if needed. "I've never had cause to dislike a kite," he said.

    "Smartass," said Jim. "Would you like to go fly one?"

    "Uhhh..." Ezra suddenly looked a little sad.

    "WITH us, doofus," said Jim. "Out back. The wind's just right."

    Ezra brightened, but just for a moment. "Isn't it too cold out?"

    "No way!" said Stevie. "I've got LOTS of warm clothes! Come on!" He grabbed Ezra and the two were off again.

    - - - - - -

    The following Monday, Maude found a plain cream envelope waiting for her on her desk. "You make me as high as our boys' kite," read the unsigned note it held.

    A little later, Maude found an excuse to slip into William's office. He stopped what he was doing and stared at her for a disconcerting moment. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked.

    "Marry me or promote me," said Maude. "Either would get me a place with consistent heat." It wasn't what she'd been planning on saying, but what the hell?

    "You don't have heat?" Yes, now William was engaged.

    "Sometimes. Sometimes too much. Sometimes not enough. I'm almost ready to send Ezra to stay with some relatives."

    "Well," said William, but nothing more. Maude issued what she hoped was a shy smile, placed some papers in need of his signature in his IN basket, and left.

    A week later, he asked her and Ezra to move in. "I can't live with a man I haven't slept with," she protested. That was taken care of forthwith.

    - - - - - - -

    A live-in girlfriend was one of the last things he ever expected his father to acquire, Jim mused as he stood at the upstairs hall window watching his father help Maude out of the family station wagon. Or maybe Maude was his dad's mistress. That implied more sneakiness, though. He wished he could call Mary Margaret up and ask her. For a mother, and a nutso hyper-religious one at that, she always told him the truth, or at least her version of it, about this sort of thing.

    Stevie joined him, standing amazingly still: only one foot tapping. "I like Ezra," he said.

    "Why?"

    "Because he always takes my side," said Stevie, giving Jim a sideways smile.

    Jim had to laugh a little. As far as he was concerned, Ezra always took HIS side. Which probably meant that Ezra always took Ezra's side.

    "Is Ezra going to go to my school?"

    "Yeah," said Jim. "It will be his third fourth grade classroom. If he never learns long division, he'll have a great excuse."

    "Long what?"

    "Never mind." Come to think, Ezra had probably known how to do long division when he was younger than Stevie. Just yesterday, Ezra had tried to explain something he called 'probability' to the both of them, and all that Jim had really learned from the experience was not to play cards with Ezra. Stevie'd gotten bored quickly and built a fort out of a spare deck; Ezra had declared this 'very unprofessional,' but turned out to know a few card tricks and had quickly gotten back onto Stevie's good side.

    "Can I tell all the bullies that you'll beat them up if they pick on Ezra?" Stevie asked, tugging on Jim's sleeve.

    "Uh, sure, I guess," he said. "What makes you think anyone would pick on Ez?"

    Stevie just shook his head. It was amazing what Jim didn't understand about life.

    Everything Ezra and his mother owned seemed to have fit into the back of the station wagon, with maybe even a little room to spare. A few suitcases, a large metal trunk, and a couple of boxes - which looked like they weighed a ton, from the way their father was carrying them. Sighing, Jim headed down to be useful.

    It turned out that the boxes held books. Lots and lots of books, all belonging to Ezra. Jim and Stevie helped him unpack them and put them on the shelf in Stevie's room that Jim had put together the previous night.

    For a kid in danger of being held back in second grade for another year if reading didn't click for him soon (a fun fact Jim had been over-hearing all about for months), Stevie seemed fascinated by Ezra's collection. Most of the books seemed to be on how things worked - how to launch rockets, power a train set, raise parakeets even. "I read some fiction, too," said Ezra, "but I generally get those out of a library, or buy them cheap and sell them back to a used book store when I'm done."

    "You've got a lot of stuff on detective work," noted Jim. "And Old West gunmen."

    "Well, you never know how life will turn out," said Ezra. "I want to be prepared no matter what opportunities present themselves." That startled Jim a bit; he couldn't imagine ever being anything but one of the good guys.

    "What's this one about?" Stevie asked, holding up a medium-thickness red book which bore the title 'HYPNOSIS: Theory, Practice, and Applications'. More than most of Ezra's collection, it smelled of mold and formaldehyde, and Jim was glad that it was Stevie, not himself, who had the bunk beds and thus got Ezra and all that came with him.

    "Oh, that's my Rhodes. My hypnosis manual," said Ezra, rescuing the book from Stevie and passing it to Jim.

    "Hyp..."

    "Hyp-no-sis," said Jim, leafing through the book despite the smell. He'd always wondered whether hypnotism was for real. "As in, hypnotize. Have you read it, Ez?"

    "Of course. A couple of years ago. It's a pretty quick read."

    "Can you make someone cluck like a chicken?"

    "Yes," said Ezra.

    "Can you make someone lay an egg?" asked Stevie, grabbing the book again and shaking out microscopic shimmers of dust.

    "Doof," said Jim.

    "Well, can you?" Stevie persisted.

    "You can do all sorts of things with hypnosis," said Ezra. "Anything that the mind is physically capable of achieving, if the subject is essentially willing and smart enough."

    "Smart enough?" Jim had always figured that hypnosis, if it wasn't a crock, was one of those things that only worked on weak-willed sissies.

    "Absolutely," said Ezra. "It takes a certain degree of mental control to allow oneself to be subject to another's will. It's not something that comes naturally. It's really a fascinating subject. Either of you can borrow the book, if you wish, even you, Stevie - it's no more complex than the daily paper."

    "I hate books!" said Stevie.

    Ezra looked truly nonplussed. "How can you hate books? You can learn EVERYTHING from them."

    "I know everything I need to already. Or I ask Jim."

    "Stevie can't read yet," Jim explained, a little embarrassed.

    "Can too," said Stevie.

    "Of course you can," said Ezra. "What does S-T-O-P spell?"

    "Stop."

    "N-O."

    "No."

    "P-A-I-N I-N T-H-E..." started Jim.

    "It spells, 'My brother is an arrogant, oppressive, insensitive SOB,'" said Ezra, glaring at Jim. Then, to Stevie, "Do you like being read to?"

    "No," said Stevie. "It's stupid."

    "His teacher says we're supposed to read to him every day. Look over there." Jim gestured toward Stevie's own bookshelf, which held a number of tall, slim volumes. "He's got a lot of picture books, but he won't stay still long enough to get through them, forget trying to read him anything with a real plot, though I've tried. And it's not like he pays attention to the words on the pages even if he's listening instead bouncing off the walls."

    "None of you read right," said Stevie. "Not like..."

    Not like his mother, the absent Grace, Ezra realized. Maude had briefed him on Ellison family dynamics, and they really hadn't sounded that bad, by his standards. Clearly, though, they were having a tangible effect on Stevie, one that he might never recover from if his school work - no, more his ability to learn, adapt to any situation, and function independently of those around him - was suffering. And clearly William was too stupid to put the pieces together, or too bull-headed or selfish to figure out a solution.

    What a bunch of screw-ups. No wonder Maude was attracted to them.

    Jim was now leafing through the hypnosis book again. "Have you ever actually hypnotized anyone?"

    "Welll... no."

    "Hypnotize me!" said Stevie. "Bet you can't!"

    "I bet I can't either," said Ezra. "Like I said, you really have to want to be hypnotized to receive any benefit."

    "Benefit?" asked Jim.

    "Hypnotism is a powerful therapeutic tool," said Ezra, "though advances in pharmacology are making it increasingly unfashionable. Which is a shame, because hypnotism, done well, gets at the roots of problems, and doesn't have unpleasant side effects."

    "Pharma...?" As usual, Stevie looked to Jim. "What's he talking about?"

    "Drugs," said Jim. "He says that hypnotism works better."

    "Drugs?"

    "You know. Like what made my mom sleepy, before she got better. But you probably don't remember Mary Margaret that well, do you?"

    "Of course I remember Mary Margaret!" said Stevie. "She's funny! Why doesn't dad let you see her anymore?"

    "Shhhh!" hissed Jim.

    "Works better for what? Not making mommies sleepy?" Stevie persisted.

    "Nooo..." said Jim. How could he ever explain things to Stevie if his little brother couldn't, or wouldn't bother to, figure out the parts that couldn't be stated?

    "Lots of times, bad things happen to people when they are little kids," said Ezra. "They try not to think about them, but end up building their whole way of looking at the world around what happened. Like if you hurt your foot and try to avoid walking on it, the rest of your body starts to hurt. Hypnotism can help you remember what happened, so that you can apply your more mature mind to the problems it raises. Does this make sense, Stevie?"

    "Uhm..." When Stevie's foot hurt, someone - usually Sally - would put a band-aid on it, even if there wasn't any for-real blood, and then it felt better. Sally might even give him an extra slice of apple pie, if it was banged really bad.

    "It's also useful for helping with insomnia - that means you can't sleep - and for helping you maybe remember where you left something important," Ezra continued. "Or even for helping you develop a more positive outlook on life."

    "What about making it so you don't feel pain?" asked Jim.

    "Yup," said Ezra. "Though I personally think I'd prefer the services of an anesthesiologist for surgery."

    "Uh, Ezra?" asked Stevie, "Can hypnozeez make you forget things instead of remember them?"

    "Well, I suppose," said Ezra. "Though no reputable practitioner would do so. Is there anything you'd LIKE to forget?"

    "Not me!" said Stevie, indignant. "Jim saw Mr. Foster kill Mr. Heydash and it's making him a grump. Could you make him forget all about it?"

    "Stevie!" hissed Jim. This was not something they talked about!

    "Well, it's true!" said Stevie.

    "Killed?" said Ezra. Did Maude know? What could he get from her in exchange for the story?

    "Yeah," said Stevie. "Jim saw it, real clear."

    Jim's complexion had gone as pale as Ezra's own; Stevie's tale, or some version thereof, was obviously true.

    "No I didn't!" said Jim. He took a long breath. He'd never, ever discussed this with anyone, not after that awful afternoon when nobody would believe him and Mary Margaret had said that he had to do whatever his dad said. It was time to set at least Stevie straight. "I saw... A few months ago... I found Mr. Heydash's body in the woods, and I saw Mr. Foster running away. At least, I think it was him."

    "Jim tried to tell the police but dad says he can't, says nobody would believe him."

    "And maybe Dad's right," said Jim. "Maybe my mind just made up what I saw, because Aaron Foster is such a jerk."

    "You don't believe that," said Ezra. "We simply have to make the authorities see reason, then. Or bring Mr. Foster to justice ourselves!"

    "It's not a game!" said Jim. "Mr. Foster really could hurt us. He's got guns. Hell, his dogs could kill us."

    "I'm not afraid of any irascible canine!" said Ezra.

    "The hell you aren't," said Jim.

    And of course he could tell, Ezra realized. For the same reason Jim could see something that no adult would believe. He made himself calm down. "I'm sorry, Jim," he said. "I know you must have thought a lot about this, and the limits of what you can do."

    "I hate knowing who killed Bud," said Jim. "Hate that I couldn't stop it."

    "Bud?"

    "Mr. Heydash. He was a pretty swell guy." Jim sighed. "Promise you won't tell anyone, Ez, even your mother?"

    "I swear it," said Ezra solemnly. Still... "You know, you could just lie and say you were closer."

    "They know where I found the body, and that's where I was when I saw Mr. Foster running."

    "Then say he was really closer than he was. Surely the ends justify the means in this situation."

    Jim looked startled by Ezra's suggestion. "I couldn't lie - not about something like this!" he said. He picked a bit of lint off his sweater. "Anyway, they could tell I was lying. I sure'd be able to."

    "I doubt anyone could, especially if we practiced before you went forward."

    "Someone else with my... someone else could."

    Ezra finally shrugged, letting the argument end. He wasn't going to win this, and didn't want to agitate Jim further.

    "So, can you make Jim forget he ever saw it?" said Stevie, showing a longer attention span than Ezra had heretofore witnessed from him.

    He shrugged. "Maybe. But that would also be a sort of a lie too, wouldn't it?" And one that bothered him a whole lot more than giving false testimony to the authorities. Messing with someone's mind that like that... well, it seemed - dangerous.

    "Maybe I can show you a few tricks, so that you don't think about it so much, and it won't bother you so much," he offered.

    "Like - what?"

    "Okay, sit comfortably," said Ezra.

    Jim backed up so that he was sitting against the lower bunk, then crossed his legs. Stevie scooted back with him, giggling.

    "Now, I want you both to close your eyes."

    Jim did so; Stevie closed his left eye, then his right, then his left again. "I closed both my eyes," he said.

    "Stevie, do you want this to work?" Ezra asked. "Do you want Jim to be happier?"

    The question made Jim uneasy, but set Stevie into motion. "I'm gonna see if there's anything else that Dad needs help with," he said, hopping up and leaving the room.

    Jim opened his eyes. "I've been trying to get him to leave me alone since he started to walk. How'd you do it?"

    "He's a good kid," said Ezra. "A smart kid. Let him be one."

    Stevie the Pest? Well, whatever. Jim repositioned himself and closed his eyes again. "What do I do now?" he asked.

    "Just what you're doing," said Ezra. What he himself was going to do was more the question. Should he try to get Jim to fall asleep, then give him some suggestions? Or just instruct Jim in a little of the power of positive thinking?

    He opted for a combination.

    "Let me tell you how hypnosis really works," he said. "Fundamentally, our minds have two parts - a subjective mind, which rules our sleep, and an objective mind, which is rational, and can object to things. If we can convince your subjective mind that something is true, then it takes evidence for your objective mind to reverse it." He was about to conclude, 'do you understand me,' but, no, that wasn't how a hypnotist dealt with a subject. "You understand this."

    Jim, eyes still closed, nodded. Whatever. If a nine-year-old understood it, he wasn't about to say he didn't.

    "Now, take deep breaths, Jim." As the older boy complied, Ezra continued, "I'm going to say something very important, Jim, and you are going to believe this." But what should he actually say? "You aren't responsible for all the evil around you, Jim. You know this. Every day, as you wake up, I want you to - no, you are GOING to - tell yourself this. From now on."

    Sure, thought Jim. He could do that.

    "What you tell yourself before your objective mind takes over, you will believe."

    Jim opened his eyes. "Ah-ha!" he said. "So you're saying that I really AM responsible for not being able to..." He stopped. What was he saying - did he feel GUILTY about Bud, and not just down about keeping silent? But Bud's death wasn't his fault - he hadn't been there when it'd happened, he'd just found Bud's body.

    "What! Well me!"

    "I think - this hypnosis thing's got a lot going for it." He wasn't about to tell Ezra about his mini-revelation. But he felt all-of-a-sudden lighter than he had in months.

    "Every morning," said Ezra. "Remember."

    - - - - - - - -

    Jim had a little homework that evening, which as usual he did while listening to his hi-fi over headphones. He didn't finish until after 9, way past Stevie's bedtime. As he turned off the radio, though, the distinct sound of rustling came from the room next door, and the murmur of Ezra's voice.

    "I do not like green eggs and ham," Ezra was intoning very seriously. "I do not like them, Sam-I-used-to-be."

    "That's Sam-I-am!" corrected Stevie.

    Jim slipped out of his room and opened his brother's door a crack. The middle of a blanket had been attached somehow to one of the slats supporting the upper bunk of Stevie's bed, and two lumps pulled out the fabric so that it formed a tent. A glow, hopefully from a flashlight, came from under the blanket. "No, keep it on the words," said Ezra softly. "Keep shining it along the page so that our eyes know where to look."

    The low murmur of Dr. Seuss resumed; Jim decided Ezra Standish had been sent by God.

    CHAPTER FIVE: Life in Suburbia

    Maude had never had a better gig.

    She'd quit her job as soon as William had asked her to live with him, of course. Now she was living the life - no office, no cooking, no cleaning, and she was finding Ezra bearable for the first time in years, all thanks to the attentive Sally and the company William's boys provided her son.

    Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be the possibility of trips to Paris or the Orient she's imagined - William was pretty strapped, between house payments, a live-in housekeeper, and the settlement that Grace, on her way out of the family to law school of all places, had wrangled. And, he worked long hours, though not as long as he claimed of course, being a man. So, for now at least, it was public school for the children and, perhaps eventually, occasional weekends in Victoria for the adults.

    William, for his part, was a very happy man. He'd finally found a woman who truly understood him, who was both willing and able to put the needs of others in front of her own.

    Of his two wives, Mary Margaret had been a stupid mistake on his part - someone he should have never become involved with. Marrying her when she'd gotten pregnant had been the most honorable thing he'd ever done; divorcing her a kindness to them all. But the whole ordeal had taken the years when most of his friends had been busy finding themselves more, well, appropriate wives, and by the time he'd been untangled enough to play the field again all the best girls had been claimed.

    Then he'd met Grace. She'd been a bit too brainy, a bit too moody, and she tended to sound off on topics that nobody else cared about, but she was attractive enough, and Jimmy had needed a mother. William had truly thought that they could manage to be happy together. But she, or maybe it was her psychiatrist, had decided that she was made for better things than the life he was working himself to the bone to provide for her and the boys.

    Well, life in the best part of town wasn't beneath his Maude!

    Ezra settled into his new school more smoothly than usual. He'd slipped up a bit and let on that he was a bit above grade level in math, which, instead of scorn or derision, had gotten him a trip to the sixth grade for an hour every morning. It had also gotten him quizzed a bit about his performance in other areas; he'd been pretty sure he'd nailed the 'bright 4th grader' level in reading 'til his teacher had out-right looked in his bookbag and seen that he'd been reading a (pristine) Nabakov he'd snagged out of an Ellison bookcase. "Well, it's not like they're reading this in 5th or 6th either," Mrs. Grady had said, and had let him stay in her class. The last thing he'd needed was to spend all his time among kids a foot taller than him, doing work which might actually take some effort! Maude would have had his hide.

    School also presented challenges to Stevie, though his were of a more conventional variety. His teacher was mean and nothing made sense most of the time, but it was fun to play with the other kids in his class and he was pretty good at not listening to any of the grown-ups or letting them hurt his feelings too much. And, now that Ezra lived with them, home was also fun for the first time in a long time.

    Jim was making through the winter by Not Thinking About Things. This was easier now that there were two new people in the house. Ezra was fun to have around - more sophisticated than Stevie, but still a little kid, really. Not complex or difficult or dangerous. Maude was also okay. She took the time to talk to him that no adults except Mary Margaret or Bud ever had. And Maude had the advantage of being alive and sane. It wasn't like they had great, deep conversations or anything, but she would sometimes ask him about the music he listened to, the shows he watched, his opinions on the various Jags and what he thought their strengths and weaknesses were, that sort of thing.

    Several times, though, their conversations took unexpected, even troubling, turns. Once, Maude produced a fresh deck of cards and demonstrated a few slights of hand, which impressed Jim, especially since Maude was a woman.

    Then she began asking him what cards she was holding throughout her tricks, and got a little mad when he didn't know. "Come on, aren't your eyes any good?" she asked, in a much meaner voice than she ever used around William - in the voice she reserved for Ezra when they were alone together. But, even though his eyesight was better than that of anyone else he knew, he'd never been any good at seeing through card or magic tricks. It wasn't so much that she moved her hands too quickly, he just didn't know WHERE to look. He was left shrugging and feeling stupid and slow.

    "I've been handling them for a while," she said. "Don't the cards look a little different from each other?" Well, of course they did, but there was no way he could memorize the scuff marks on 52 different cards.

    Another time, Maude handed him a lock. "I can't remember the combination," she said. "Could you be a dear and open it for me? And then tell me the numbers?"

    This was actually something he did sometimes for the guys at school, usually right after Billy Longly showed off his double-jointed pinkies and before Lucy Harris did her rolling-eyes-into-her-skull thing. So he guessed Maude must have somehow heard about his lock trick, maybe from Ezra or Stevie, though he'd never shown it to them. He almost opened the lock for her without thinking. But - if Maude knew he could do this, William might find out, and Jim did NOT want his dad knowing he not only could open locks by feel and sound, but did so pretty much whenever anyone asked, to be a good sport or just for laughs or to show off a bit.

    So, he did something he tried never to do - he lied. "I, uh, can't do it," he said, handing the lock back.

    "Are you sure?" she asked. "A lot of boys your age can."

    And that, Jim knew, wasn't true. What was Maude doing this for? What was she after? What did she know, or think she knew, about him?

    - - - - - - -

    Winter slogged through to spring. The change of season meant one thing in the Ellison household - baseball. Stevie was anxious to play his first year of Little League minors instead of tee-ball, and cajoled Jim and Ezra into spending hours in the back yard practicing.

    Ezra found the actual playing of baseball to be, if not precisely enjoyable, then at least manageable. There was none of the tangle of limbs and mindless ball-chasing of basketball or soccer, the new in-sport in the Atlanta suburb where he'd spent half of second grade. The skills needed for baseball where well-defined, and could be learned individually, then strung together. You caught a ball in various manners, depending on its speed and trajectory; then, once control was established, you delivered it to a location dependent on your position and the situation of the game at hand. Hitting was a function of ball speed and placement, with bunting being a subspecialty specifically designed for the less-than-muscular. Pitching, catching, fielding - all could be learned, and since it was all Stevie wanted to do, and Jim was a willing teacher, Ezra found himself getting rather good, and doing rather well in the modified games they played with other boys (and a few girls) in the neighborhood.

    Watching Ezra and Stevie progress was a lot more satisfying for Jim than he'd ever have thought it would be. A couple of times, his dad suggested that he should be spending his time playing with kids his own age instead, developing his own skills, but what was the point?

    Things came to a head the day before league tryouts. For once, his dad was in the living room when Jim came home from school, looking very pleased. "I got a call at work from Mr. Johnson," he said. "They're considering you for captain of the Sharks, if you do well tomorrow."

    Uh oh. Well, he'd known this conversation was going to happen sometime. "I'm not trying out," Jim said. "I'm, uh, sitting out the season." There was no way he was going to do anything which put him in contact with Aaron Foster, let alone Aaron's dad.

    In two seconds, his dad was out of his chair and grabbing his collar. "Listen here, Jimmy," he said, "I've had it with your moping and slouching around here all the time. You are going to try out, and you are going to land that captaincy."

    Jim tried to stay completely still. If he thought himself away, this wouldn't be happening. He had to concentrate on something else, anything else... Sally stirring something in the kitchen, the den television showing some soap that Maude liked... 'This just in,' a voice cut through the syrupy soundtrack. 'Cascade Police have announced the arrest of local truck driver Wayne Hollow for the deaths of three area businessmen, including Karl Heydash. These and other deaths have been attributed to the Country Club Strangler..."

    Jim twisted from his father's grip and sat down hard on the floor, William's enmity now seeming trivial. "They arrested someone. Some guy, for killing Bud. Not Mr. Foster. Some other guy."

    Startled, William stepped back. "What? Well, good. Nobody will be talking to you about it again, I'll make some calls and see to that." He looked around, seeming a bit lost. "But you might have to testify, at that, since you found Bud's body... I'm sure you'll do fine..."

    "DON'T YOU GET IT!" Jim yelled, climbing to his feet; he'd never yelled at his father before. "They've got the wrong guy!" And he waited for his father to - what? Hit him? Yell back, at least?

    Instead, William just shook his head. "They don't arrest innocent people, boy," he said. "Maybe this guy didn't kill Bud, but he's probably done plenty of wrong in his life."

    "But I can't let him get charged with a, a murder he didn't commit!" said Jim, more weakly now.

    "You can tell what you saw, in anybody asks," said William. "Let the adults worry about the rest, okay? The day Bud died, when you found him, everyone realized that you couldn't have seen what you told them. They'll realize the same thing again."

    He must be able to do something! Okay, he could PROVE he had good vision, but... well, he wasn't responsible for the fate of the world and all the stupid people in it, was he? Like he told himself every morning?

    "You'll try out for Little League," his father continued, in the same reasonable voice. "The high school coach comes to some of the games. If you want to play for North Cascade next year, you'd better play Little League this year."

    Jim shook his head. "Don't make me, Dad."

    William looked up to see Maude now standing in the doorway. "Okay, son," he said. "Not this season."

    Maude came in and wrapped her arms around Jim. "What's gotten you so upset, Jimmy?"

    "It's nothing," said William.

    "Yeah, nothing," Jim echoed.

    - - - - - - -

    "Your older son seems so sad sometimes," Maude told William later as they lay in bed.

    How best could he explain things? "I don't want you to think this is a dangerous neighborhood, darling," said William. "But Jimmy, well, he found a body. One of our neighbors. Back in October."

    "Poor Karl Heydash? Of course I've heard all about it, from that busy-body Colleen Harris down the street. It was Jimmy who found the body, though?" How on earth had THAT little fact slipped the rumor mill?

    "Um, yes," said William. "Jimmy was a bit spooked today because they've made an arrest. Hah, you think he'd be relieved, but, you know, kids..."

    "Oh, my," said Maude. "Well, I don't blame him. It must be dredging up painful memories, no matter what else."

    "He'd just found out, before you walked in," said William. "We were discussing baseball... I guess he overheard the TV."

    From two rooms away, Maude mused. Goodness, William, how much of an open secret do you want Jim's unusual talents to be? But it seemed that it was fine if everyone knew the truth as long as nobody acknowledged it.

    "Well, I'm glad I came in when I did," said Maude.

    "Yes... I sometimes forget my boys need mothering as much as they need a father's guidance."

    Maude laughed. "I do what I can," she said. But, what an opening... "I've been wondering about Jimmy's mother."

    "My first wife? Mary Margaret? You'd hate her. She's nothing but a bad influence on Jimmy, and I've done everything in my power to minimize her contact with him. Unfortunately, she's got some relatives in the PD - low friends in high places, you know - and they've blocked me from legally severing all ties."

    "Well... maybe you shouldn't push too hard there. Jimmy's a bright boy, and getting old enough to make his own decisions. Is she - is Mary Margaret dangerous?"

    "She wouldn't hurt a flea, though she might drive it out of its mind."

    "And she lives nearby?"

    "Right downtown, last I heard."

    "Then, maybe... yes, this would work. Give me her number, and I'll call her up and see if she'd be open to lunch with me and Jimmy. I think he really needs his mama, and it would be perfectly safe, with me there."

    "Uh..."

    "Wonderful!" said Maude, kissing William soundly to stop any further argument.

    Down the hall, Jim's attention had been grabbed by the mention of his mother's name. Maude's suggestion, her willingness to trample - to not even seem to notice - his father's objections - it was unbelievable.

    At last, thanks to Maude, he was going to see his mom. How could he have been suspicious of her?

    - - - - - - -

    The next day, Stevie and Ezra, quite frankly, romped at Little League tryouts. But that was nothing, in Jim's mind, compared to what happened later.

    Ezra called him into Stevie's room and closed the door. "You might have noticed that Stevie didn't bring home a retention-warning notice last week," he said. "As you probably know, if he is to be retained, the family has to be formally notified by the end of March."

    Jim had considered Stevie's failing 2nd grade inevitable, and had figured that his brother was just hiding the letter somewhere.

    "We've negotiated him attending summer school. We couldn't have pulled it off two months ago, but now... well, Stevie, are you ready to show Jim?"

    Stevie nodded and pulled down one of his Seuss books - 'Hop on Pop.'

    "Up, pup, pup is up," Stevie read. "Cup, pup, pup in cup." He was doing it!

    "It's a first-grade book, for sure," murmured Ezra, "but that doesn't really matter. From here out, it's just a matter of practice. His comprehension has always been fine, despite his apparent lack of attention."

    "Pat, cat, Pat sat on cat..." continued Stevie, and then, a bit later, "Oh, my favorite part! 'Father, mother, sister, brother, that one is my other brother.' I like to read this, 'brother, brother, that one is my other brother. That can be Ezra!"

    CHAPTER SIX: Families Are Strange

    What would he say to her? Would it be okay to hug her? What would she think of Maude, and would Maude like her enough to want to let him see her again?

    The last thing Jim expected was that his mother would embrace Maude first, then turn to him and take him by the shoulders. "Oh Jimmy! You've grown so much! How's Stevie? And Ezra - are you boys getting along?"

    "Yeah," he stammered, finally being pulled close by his mother. "We're all doing fine."

    "Great!" Mary Margaret exclaimed.

    "I was thinking we'd take your mother shopping," said Maude. "Mare's going away this weekend, down to San Francisco with a quote-friend-unquote, and she absolutely needs something less frumpy." And the women were laughing together now.

    "You KNOW each other?" Jim finally managed.

    "Of course we do, Hon," said Maude. "Now let's get going!"

    So in between stores Jim filled Mary Margaret in about the details of his life. The unimportant stuff. There was no chance, no space for real conversation, for the almost-wordless communication that he and is mother had always seemed to share. Two hours later, they were dropping Mary Margaret off at her place; he stared back at her as she entered her building.

    "I'm sorry I couldn't let you two talk privately," said Maude. "I promised your father."

    "I might as well have not even have seen her."

    "Ridiculous," said Maude. "You'll realize in time that I'm right."

    "And you lied to my father. How do you know her, anyway?"

    "Long story, kiddo," said Maude. "And your father never asked if I knew her or not, so I couldn't have lied to him. Anyway, doesn't she look marvelous? I think she has a good shot at happiness with Stan McDonald."

    "Happiness?"

    "She's been very lonely for a very long time. Your father hasn't made life easy for her."

    "I thought you loved Dad."

    "I'm fond of them both," said Maude with a laugh. "It's something I don't expect a boy your age to understand." She sobered. "I don't have to tell you that it would be best for all of us if William doesn't know that Mary Margaret and myself are acquainted."

    Pulled into another lie. And Maude seemed to be getting a kick out of it, maybe just for the sake of hiding something from William. But, he wasn't responsible...

    - - - - - - - -

    Maude dropped Jim off at home, then continued on to who-knew-where. The house was mostly quiet, Ezra and Stevie probably still at baseball practice and Sally wherever she went on her day off, but his father's presence was impossible to miss.

    "I tell you, you should SEE the boy!" William was saying, presumably into the phone in his study. "You'd never think he was only seven! Playing like a nine-year-old, at least!"

    It was unusual to hear his father say anything positive about either him or Stevie unless he was trying to, well, sell them in some manner. He closed the front door carefully, to keep his presence from being detected, and continued to listen.

    "Well, I'm more relieved that his marks are improving," came Grace's phone-altered voice. Since his dad had gotten together with Maude, some of the tension had left the relationship between his father and stepmother.

    "It's the competition this kid of Maude is giving the boys," said William. "He's a complete fairy, let me tell you, but he's a smart one, and Stevie doesn't want to be outshone. Ez - that's the kid's name - he's also been trying his hand at baseball, though I don't think he ever touched a bat before he and his mother moved in. Anyway, there's no way Stevie would let a kid like that best him at sports, and it's done Stevie nothing but good."

    "Fairy, you say? I'm not so comfortable with the influence this boy might be having on Stevie."

    William laughed. "Relax, Gracie, he's only nine, and Stevie could twist him in half. And Jimmy's around too."

    "Well, okay," said Grace. "How is James doing, anyway?"

    "Well, the business last fall, it hit him hard, you know that. I've just been giving him his space."

    "That's what I'd do," said Grace. "His grades are still good?"

    "As good as ever," said William. "I frankly wouldn't want them to be any better. Being a bookworm never got anyone anywhere in the world."

    Grace laughed, a crackle over the line. "Well, I'm trying to prove that one wrong."

    William laughed too. "Of course, I can't let him drift like this for forever. I'm going to have to light a fire under his rear one of these days."

    "Something I'm sure you'll have no problem doing, when the time's right," said Grace.

    Outside, Jim now heard the chatter of young voices, accompanied by the bump-bump-bump of a bat being dragged along the sidewalk. William heard too, and quickly ended his conversation with Grace after confirming the logistics of Stevie's next weekend visit with her in Seattle.

    The boys burst into the house and started to regale Jim - how Ezra had been asked by the coach to demonstrate bunting, how Stevie might be starting at shortstop. Jim had to laugh and tousle both their heads.

    He couldn't get his father's comments about Ezra out of his mind, though. What did 'fairy' mean? And, whatever it meant, how was it dangerous to Stevie? What right did his dad have to say things against Ezra, anyway? Didn't he love Maude, and didn't that mean he had to love Ezra?

    Ezra slipped into his room later, while he was working on his model of the Cheyenne Mountain Complex. He'd begun it a year before, then put it aside after Grace had given him a few Apollo-related models for his birthday. Those done, he was ready for a bigger project again.

    "Is that a moon base?" Ezra asked.

    "It's an Air Force facility in Colorado," said Jim. "They built it inside a mountain. There's not a lot available publicly about what's inside, but I thought it would be neat if I could get some basic plumbing going in, and make the air circulation system work. After I get the inside finished, I'm going to make a shell out of clay. It should look pretty realistic when I'm all done."

    "Neat," said Ezra.

    "Yeah," said Jim. "I'm only putting in a few floors, to keep the scale reasonable. I'm betting they have more like 20 or 30."

    "Wow. You could hide anything in a place like that."

    Jim nodded. "Even maybe even a time machine, or aliens, or something."

    "I thought the government kept all that stuff in New Mexico or Nevada."

    "Naw, those places are too far from cities. Cheyenne Mountain's near Colorado Springs. Much easier logistically."

    Ezra laughed. "You know, I can see your dad saying the exact same thing."

    Jim paused, then jabbed a tricky piece in with a little more force than was needed, maybe. "I'm NOTHING like him," he said.

    "Well, not in some ways," said Ezra, "but you both like order, and you both have a lot of discipline and expect everyone else to, too. It amazes me that your dad and my mom have lasted so long."

    "You make it sound like you expect them to break up, or something."

    "Noooo... it's not like I've seen anything. But my mother never stays with anyone very long. She's really bad at sticking with plans all the way through."

    "Plans?"

    Suddenly, Ezra realized that he was scarily close to confessing the real reason behind Maude's interest in William. But nobody would benefit from the truth.

    His next thought was that Jim was probably picking up on his unease at his near-slipup. "Never mind. There are stories I could tell, though," he said, hoping that would be enough cover. Of course it would be, he quickly assured himself. Jim just didn't look for deceit in people.

    "*I* think that they're in love," said Jim. Except... he looked closely at Ezra. What had his father called him?

    But Ezra, as was often the case, seemed to know what he was going to say before he'd even formed the thought. "Your dad doesn't like me much," he said.

    "Yes he does!" was Jim's automatic reply.

    "Now I *know* you know something specific," said Ezra with a laugh. "Did you overhear something, or did he talk to you directly?"

    "He, uh... Ezra, what's a fairy?"

    "A FAIRY? William J. Ellison called me a FAIRY?" Ezra stood back, hands on hips, looking just like his social studies teacher, Mr. Harris. The next instant, before Jim knew how to react, Ezra had dropped onto the bed and was - what? - giggling into his hands.

    "My oh my," he said. "Your father has obviously never lived in San Francisco OR New Orleans."

    "Uh... I don't know..."

    "I've lived both places, just a month in Cisco but with my grandparents in the French quarter off and on all my life. Fairy? I can *do* that, if you think it would make him happy. Do you think it would?"

    "I don't know... I don't think you'd better..."

    "Never mind," said Ezra, wiping his eyes on his t-shirt's upper sleeve. "I guess your dad doesn't have a wide range of slots to stick people in, and just took a stab. It's okay."

    "Ummm... is it safe to say you don't like my dad?"

    "YOU I like," said Ezra. "Stevie too, though I don't think he's mature enough for what I'd consider friendship. William and Maude... well, it's my considered opinion that they deserve each other."

    "But your mom dotes on you!" Well, most of the time.

    "Jim, you KNOW that's an act, don't you? You have to have picked up on things, like when she's giving me instructions or passing me notes on my demeanor?"

    Jim shook his head. "I try not to spy on people."

    Ezra laughed again. "Well, it's a good thing you're the kid with super powers, not me!" he said. "I'd be in everyone's business."

    "It's not... I don't think I've ever seen anything, or heard or smelled or tasted or felt anything that you couldn't have, that did me any good."

    "REALLY? Never?" Ezra had figured that Jim's abilities had their downside, but had never guessed that Jim might consider them a liability over-all.

    "Never," said Jim. "I mean, I guess I could cheat on tests or something, but I never would, and you don't need extra good sight or hearing to do that anyway. Kids cheat all the time. And sometimes I do, you know, those tricks at school, but being able to fart on key gets more respect."

    "Well, Sam Johnson IS mighty talented in that regard," nodded Ezra, having a deep appreciation for the particular talents of the kid Jim was referring to.

    "If I could wake up tomorrow and not have super-anything, I'd be happier," said Jim. Did he really mean it? It was strange to be talking so openly about both his feelings and his senses.

    "Well, you might be really glad you have them someday," said Ezra.

    - - - - - - -

    "So how do you think your boy's doing?" asked Maude as Mary Margaret poured hot water on their bags of Lipton.

    "Oh, he's grown so much!" said Mary Margaret. "And changed so much! Grown up. I hardly knew what to say to him."

    "Well, you two will be able to get better acquainted soon enough," said Maude. "I'll give a very positive report to William.

    "Thanks!" said Mary Margaret with a giggle. "I feel so, I don't know, sneaky I guess!"

    "Do you like it?"

    "Yes!" said Mary Margaret. "Deceiving William doesn't bother me in the least."

    "You're growing up yourself, Hon," said Maude. If only she could effect the same changes in young Jimmy! With each passing week, though, the possibility of figuring out some use for the boy wonder seemed more and more remote.

    - - - - - - -

    William stood outside Stevie's door for a moment - silence - then walked softly the few steps to Jimmy's door. Again, all signs were that Jimmy was asleep, but he didn't have great confidence in his ability to tell with his older son.

    Well, he'd have to assume that Jim wasn't being devious.

    In the master suite, Maude greeted him in one of her delicious red things. Yes, he indeed was the luckiest man on the planet.

    Well, business first. "How did today go?" he asked.

    "Today?" Maude looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled. "Oh, you mean our little get-together with Mary Margaret. It went fine."

    She went back to braiding her long, blond hair for the night.

    "So... she didn't, you know, try to do anything inappropriate?"

    Maude laughed. "I don't think the woman would know the meaning of the word. And, in front of her son??"

    "I mean - did they talk, at all, about that mess last fall?"

    "Poor Karl Heydash's murder? No, it didn't come up. But I don't imagine either of them would risk anything just now, do you?"

    "Well, no, I suppose not..."

    "You don't understand the ties a woman feels toward her children, darling," said Maude. "I'm sure Mary Margaret knows what's best for her son, and won't do anything to jeopardize your good will."

    "She could try to take him from me."

    "Hmmm.... no, I really can't see her doing that. She mentioned she's dating someone, and, I have found, well, that having the custody of a child can really destroy a relationship before it gets off the ground."

    William sat next to her on the bed and drew her close. "I think being a mother makes you all-the-more attractive, darling," he said.

    'Works both ways, hon,' Maude mused. Well, for the time being, at least.

    CHAPTER SEVEN: A Boat, A Boat, A Boat, They're Riding on a Boat

    "A boat a boat a boat, we're riding on a boat, a boat a boat a boat, we're riding on a boat, a boat a boat..."

    Ezra put his hands over his ears and edged closer to Jim. "How do you stand this?" he whispered.

    Jim smiled. "The upside of being me. I have to ignore sounds all the time; right now I've got my Stevie sifter on maximum."

    "A boat a boat a boat..."

    William Ellison, sitting next to Maude on the opposite side of the 34' vessel they'd chartered for the day, opened his mouth to say something probably not very understanding or supportive to his younger son; the owner, 'Captain Mel,' picked that moment to start the engine, drowning both Stevie and his father out effectively.

    "And you don't mind the engine either?" Ezra had to stand on his tiptoes to reach Jim's ear.

    Jim shook his head. "Naw... no big deal, really," he answered loudly. "My mom can't deal so well, though."

    The dock retreated; 100 yards out, Captain Mel upped the throttle and the boat turned out of the small harbor and into Puget Sound proper. Stevie left them to scramble up next to the captain, and Ezra wondered if it would be beneath his dignity as a not-quite-10-year-old to follow. It took him about 90 seconds to decide that maturity was over-rated, leaving Jim to stare out across the water at the passing shoreline. Backyards, docks, trees, kids and old men fishing - it was a rare opportunity to really see how well he could see small things from a distance, as opposed to up-close. Of course, he didn't know how much normal people could see, but he bet, for instance, that only he could see the momma mallard with her ducklings in the inlet they were passing, or the colors in the kite a little girl was flying in the field beyond.

    A hand on his shoulder startled him - his father. "Don't stare at anything too long," he murmured into his ear. And then his father was back with Maude. It was disconcerting, these infrequent bursts of concern from his father.

    Soon they were far enough from land that even Jim could barely make out the houses. Up into the Strait of Juan De Fuca, his dad had said they were heading. After a few minutes, the boat was brought to a halt and Mel and the smaller boys came down to the fishing deck. "A fish a fish I'm gonna catcha fish," sang Stevie. Ezra groaned and sank into one of the chairs; Jim was just grateful Stevie hadn't paid attention to the name of the waterway they were bobbing in.

    Ezra was looking at the horizon dubiously. "We're pretty far out," he said. "And the sky is a lot darker than when we left."

    "Aye, matie," said Captain Mel. "We'll be looking at some right choppy seas soon enough. Won't perturb the salmon none, though."

    "Aye, matie!" said Stevie. "Matie check matie! Oh, look, there's the spear gun!" He lunged for the dangerous-looking contraption; fortunately, Captain Mel seemed to be anticipating Stevie pretty well - better than his dad ever seemed to manage - and deflected the boy with a Batman fishing rod.

    "And here I left my tranquilizer gun at home," hissed Ezra. Strange; usually Ezra was the one with infinite patience with Stevie.

    Before Stevie could take his rod apart, Maude set about teaching him how to bait the hook. William stood back a bit and smiled, pretending, Jim assumed, that he was ready to jump in at any time and take over. As if William really had time in his life for fishing! But Maude had thought it would be fun, and so here they were.

    "You okay?" Jim asked; Ezra was starting to look a little strange.

    Ezra nodded, but Jim could see him swallowing. "I hate being out in open water," he said in a low voice. "It's okay when we're moving, but I can't take just bobbing. Makes me feel sick. I thought Puget Sound was noted for its tranquility."

    Jim shrugged, helpless. "Does your mom know?"

    "Probably. Excuse me." And Ezra, very calming and deliberately, walked to the railing and threw up.

    "Jeez, Ez!" said Jim, coming next to him as soon as he realized what was happening. "You okay?"

    "I will be," Ezra said, then spat into the water.

    "Is there anything I can do?"

    "No," said Ezra. "I just have to cope."

    Jim turned and looked back at the others on the little vessel's deck. Maude had wrinkled up her nose, so she'd clearly noticed, but made no move to join them. And it didn't even really smell; he'd have noticed if it did!

    "Well, maybe the water will get calmer soon," Jim offered, needing to say something.

    "Doubt it," said Ezra, returning to his chair and huddling down into its fold, looking miserable and small.

    "Come on over and look at this thing," his father called, holding up the spear gun.

    "But..."

    "Go on," said Ezra. "Stop hovering."

    So Jim let himself be taught about the various local types of trout and salmon. As soon as he thought he could get away with it, though, he returned to Ezra. "I could ask dad to bring us back in."

    "Yes, you could," said Ezra. "But don't bother. Please. He already hates me as it is."

    "Leave the boy alone," his father called. "He'll be fine."

    Reluctantly, Jim joined his father and Maude, now at the stern. Mel, with a smile towards Jim, ducked into the cabin and emerged with a canteen and some Saltines, which Ezra was eventually coaxed into nibbling.

    "He's just trying to get attention, you realize," said Maude, nodding towards her son.

    "The best thing we can do is let him be," said William.

    So Jim stood with the adults and Stevie. To his relief, nobody gave him a job or made him hold anything - he supposed that the unspoken understanding was that he was on Ezra duty, though to acknowledge this would be to admit that the boy was suffering.

    What bastards they all were.

    Lucky bastards, though. William, with some direction from Maude, managed to reel in two coho salmon and almost spear a lingcod.

    The sky continued to darken into a deep gray, and the shore became a smear, then vanished entirely. Boring, so Jim looked down into the water instead. Could he see deeper than other people?

    Stevie pulled on his sleeve. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the west. A squall was approaching, like a bathroom shower gone bionic.

    "Beau-ti-ful, isn't it," said Mel. "It'll be on us soon, but don't worry, the line will be past us in an hour. But, we'd better see about getting the gear back into the cabin in a moment."

    The wind picked up as the rain neared, and the water changed from being merely choppy to rising and falling in turn. Ezra gave up the pretense of eating the crackers and moved to lean over the side of the boat again. Mel handed Jim a pair of heavy raincoats, nodded Ezra's way, and then finished securing the boat.

    It was fascinating how the water under the squall reacted to the rain. The shorter, more chaotic chops seemed to be beaten down, but the swells got higher and more energetic.

    Mel climbed up to the bridge and grabbed some gear, then moved into the cabin, followed by the other adults and a struggling Stevie. "I don't want to be in there! There are dead fish in there!" he started to shriek.

    The engine fired up and the boat headed forward and into the waves - safer, Jim reckoned, but no less rough than their previous orientation.

    It was now easier to see the rain-splattered water than the rain itself; the disrupted surface rushed at them, and then the boat was being splattered. "I'm cold! I'm wet! I need to go to the bathroom!" Stevie was announcing loudly, his voice only slightly muffled by the engine.

    Jim put on one of the too-large raincoats and draped the hood of the other over Ezra's hunched back; the younger boy wordlessly wove his arms through the sleeves, then went back to leaning over the edge of the boat.

    "You still throwing up?" Jim asked, feeling stupid.

    "Thinking about it," said Ezra.

    - - - - - - -

    "Stephen, if you don't sit down and shut up RIGHT NOW, I'll tan your hide!"

    Why did his daddy have to be in such a bad mood all the time? Didn't he know that he wasn't feeling good? And he REALLY didn't want to be too close to those three dead fish. It had been so exciting when his dad had brought them on board. But then he'd seen their blood, and that had made his stomach do a clench.

    Maybe if he just didn't think about them, he'd be okay. He was good at not thinking about things.

    Stevie looked out at the older boys. Poor Ezra was really sick, and nobody except Jim seemed to care. Not like how Sally took care of him when he had the flu, or like his mommy had, when she'd lived at home.

    He wanted his mommy.

    The boat had been making big, big rocks for a while now, and at first it had been fun. Better than a ride at Mount Blue Park. But now he thought that the big rocks might be why he was starting to feel really pretty sick. Though the bloody fish didn't help.

    His mommy would never make him sit next to dead fish.

    Suddenly, he knew he was going to throw up. But where? Out in the rain with Jim, like Ezra? The deck looked wet and slippery. What if he fell? Instead, Stevie lurched forward towards the little bathroom, or head, or whatever Captain Mel called it...

    His father grabbed him. "I said, SIT DOWN."

    Well, that did it. Without his quite even knowing it was happening, the puke was coming up his throat and out his mouth and nose and heading straight for his father. William, finally clueing in, grabbed him and turned him mid-stream; not his brightest move ever, as this meant that fully half of Stevie's lunch landed on Maude.

    Captain Mel reflected that this was why he wore wet-weather gear.

    Sick and scared, Stevie started to cry. And wail. "Mommy! Mommy! I want my mommy!"

    "Your mother is in Seattle," hissed William.

    Maude, remembering why it was that she liked to leave much of the parenting of her own son to other people, found herself with a lap-full of vomit-covered newly-eight-year-old. "There, there," she said, trying find a clean spot to pat maternally.

    Her glance strayed up and out, hoping to see things clearing up. Ten feet away, Ezra had turned and was now leaning against the aft rail.

    He saluted.

    - - - - - - - -

    This was not how William's day was supposed to go. They were supposed to be spending an afternoon doing some serious salmon fishing, something that William had hoped would compare well to the tuna fishing that Maude had talked about doing as a girl on the Gulf of Mexico. He was also supposed to be enjoying passing on this skill to his sons; that he didn't actually know anything about fishing was only a minor inconvenience, as he was paying Mel cold cash to both drive this boat and make sure they caught stuff.

    Huddling in a small semi-enclosed cabin drenched in puke was definitely not part of the plan.

    He reached into his left pocket and checked that the small box hadn't gotten dislodged. Should he still give it to her today? He'd bought the ring a few days previous on a whim, but its importance had been growing in his mind all week. It was going to serve as a token of his love and affection where, perhaps, words failed him. It was not an engagement ring, no, it wasn't time for that yet, especially since his divorce wouldn't be finalized for a few more months. And there was no way he could swing an expensive engagement ring right now anyway. But this ring would mark Maude as his, and he found this very appealing.

    The rain stopped a half-hour after it started, leaving the sea calm. Mel had a reenergized Stevie strip down to his underwear, then hosed him off. Maude and William cleaned themselves off as best they could with damp towels. The rods re-emerged, and even Ezra tried his hand at baiting a hook and casting a line out.

    After getting as fresh as she could manage, Maude decided to give the spear gun another go. "Um, darling," said William, looking uncharacteristically tentative.

    Maude stopped what she was doing. This was going to be amusing, whatever William had in mind. She affixed her favorite smile and waited.

    William pulled the ring box out of his coat pocket. "Ummm...." he said, "I don't want you to think I'm being too forward too quickly, but...."

    How many carats would it be? Two? Two and a half?

    William opened the box. It... was a quarter-carat diamond surrounded by tiny, pale green emeraldss. "It's lovely," Maude managed.

    "I want you to think of this as, as more than a friendship ring. And a promise of more to come..." William stammered.

    Oh. "That's so sweet," Maude said, mustering considerably more enthusiasm. She slipped it onto the ring finger of her right hand; it fit perfectly, bless him. She rose and gave him a long kiss. William really was a sweetie sometimes.

    - - - - - - - - -

    Jim noticed the ring-giving but didn't pay it much heed. Neither Maude nor William seemed to be making too big a deal of it, so he mostly occupied himself with enjoying the now-mellow motion of the boat and studying the interplay of the sunlight and the water's surface.

    Ezra, on the other hand, was nervous. Nobody had ever given Maude a ring before, well, not one that wasn't hot. What game was she playing? Surely she was going to give up on Jim being potentially useful for petty con work any day now.

    Once home, William insisted that the boys watch while Sally set about gutting and cleaning the copious quantities of ice-packed salmon and halibut they hauled into the kitchen. Then Maude and William ducked out for a late dinner, and Ezra couldn't find an excuse to stay up late enough to catch his mother after her return.

    The next day, Sunday, William left mid-morning for "a few hours in the office." Ezra held his curiosity in check until Jim and Stevie went out into the yard to toss a ball around, then grabbed a pad of paper and tracked his mother down.

    /What's the significance?/ he wrote, nodding at the ring Maude still wore.

    /Just friendship/ Maude wrote back.

    /Oh good - I was afraid you'd gotten engaged./

    /Well, that's now Plan B/

    /!!!/

    /He's perfectly tolerable. I'll drop hints I'm interested in marriage. I doubt he'll put on any preconditions. In a year or two, we leave./

    But... /Haven't you complained he's practically indigent from alimony already?/

    Maude shrugged and gestured at the house and its furnishings. /Equity, dear boy,/ she wrote. / Don't worry, darling. I'm getting the hang of social climbing and passing as wife material. My next husband will be an improvement on William./

    She smiled. "And you always accuse me of not planning far enough ahead," she said aloud.

    CHAPTER EIGHT: Oops

    Jim hadn't meant to be suspicious. Really. Ezra always seemed prepared to think the worst of the adults in the house, but Jim didn't think that was fair. His father had to work hard to take care of them all. Maude had them all to look after.

    But after Ezra had mentioned that he and his mother exchanged notes to keep from being heard, every crumpled up bit of paper in a wastebasket seemed a little suspicious. He'd even looked at some, but they'd turned out to be nothing - old envelopes, or, once, the amazingly contentless rough draft of a letter from Maude to her parents.

    He hadn't even been thinking about communication between Ezra and Maude when he noticed the pad of paper out of place in the living room. It was the sort of thing that Sally just didn't let happen, but, since it was Sunday, she wasn't there doing the constant tidying that Jim had grown up expecting. Well, he could give her a break and put it back in his father's office himself.

    The top sheet was blank, but it had some pretty clear indentations. Not the sort of thing he usually looked at too closely - it was too much like spying. He couldn't help noticing, though, that the indentations varied in depth, and that they seemed to be from two very different writing styles.

    Yes, one was the scrawl that Ezra used; the other was Maude's handwriting, recognized from the letter draft he'd seen the other week.

    Bingo.

    Jim tore off the top few sheets and retreated to his bedroom. Two minutes later, he threw himself onto his bed face-first. Damn damn damn!

    He stayed in his room until his father came home, then asked to see him in the study. As soon as the door was shut, he handed the sheet to his father. "Read this."

    His father looked at him. "Jimmy, don't go lording things over me. If this says something I need to know, just tell me."

    But Jim couldn't. He looked around - a pencil! He pressed it into the sharpener for a fraction of a second, then placed the paper on his father's desk and rubbed the side of the lead over the indentions. Ezra's words leapt out of the page, white shapes in the brown; Maude's were slightly less distinct, but still were clearly legible to anyone.

    His father read the sheet, his eyes going upwards and down several times. "Where did you find this?"

    "It was on a pad of paper - I was going to put it back in here and I noticed that I could sort of read the top sheet..."

    William folded up the paper and put it in his back pocket. "Come with me," he said, very calmly. "We're going into my office."

    The ride into town was done in silence - nothing too unusual there. The office was empty; Jim wished it weren't Sunday. What was his father planning? Was he going to do something to him?

    His father took a folder labeled 'Paterson Industries' out of a filing cabinet. "I've always had suspicions - I think Maude may have monkeyed with his late last fall," William said, taking out a stapled document. "Maybe changed dates to make one of the other girls look bad, then switched the real proposal back in at the last minute. Do you - do you smell her on it?"

    Obligingly, Jim sniffed, but of course it was a useless exercise. The whole place was permeated by the scents, or, more accurately, the perfumes and aftershaves, of a dozen people. He shrugged. "I can't tell anything."

    "What about - what about finger prints. Are hers on it?"

    Jim squinted, trying to make sense out of the greasy residue all over the white sheets. "Maybe you could have the police dust it or something," he said. "But Maude probably touched it no matter what, right? She was your secretary."

    "Police! Are you crazy!" William threw the folder back together and into the cabinet.

    The scary calm was giving way to - something else. William turned and pushed Jim backwards to the wall, his hand firm and completely unable to be defended against. "What is the USE of these - these cursed abilities of yours, if you can't tell me something I really need to know? CAN YOU TELL ME THAT? Why have them - why tell me things you learn from them - when you can't FINISH THE JOB?"

    "You've got the note..."

    William smacked him across the face, hard. "Maude can explain it. She will be able to explain it, and that runt of hers will go along with it. I need to be able to *know* whether or not she'll be telling the truth."

    A thought seemed to occur to him. He backed off a bit and started to pace a tight arc around Jim. "Can you do that for me, Jimmy? Can you tell me whether she's lying to me, when I confront her? Can you? You'd tell me the truth, right?"

    "I don't... I can't always tell, especially when someone's a really - when someone is used to being dishonest," said Jim.

    "YOU WORTHLESS FREAK!"

    And his dad was gone, slamming the door to his office and then the door leading outside. A moment later, the Buick revved up and peeled out of the lot much too fast.

    Jim sat down on the stinking beige carpet and cried.

    - - - - - - - - -

    William Ellison wasn't a large man. He wasn't given to temper or drunkenness. In the months Ezra had lived under his roof, he hadn't seen William ever lift his hand to his older son, and seen Stevie spanked only twice; both times, Ezra had frankly admired William's restraint, since, on both occasions, he'd have been tempted to throttle the kid.

    But William was a grown man. And Ezra was only nine. The way William drove up, the way he slammed the car door and charged into the house - it was going to happen again. Ezra wasn't going to be able to defend his mother. It had happened twice before, and it would probably keep on happening until he was big enough to take them on, or until Maude figured out a way to keep from bringing doom on them.

    Maybe Jim... but Jim wasn't with William. Where had he left him?

    This was bad.

    Ezra crept downstairs. William had found Maude drinking tea in the kitchen.

    "Explain this!" William shouted, waving a sheet of paper covered with dark smudges.

    "I..." clearly Maude didn't know what William was talking about either.

    "You and your brat, plotting to take me to the cleaners! Out of here. Call your cousin. I want you gone by this evening."

    Maude started, "I can explain, darling! Ezra and I were working on a drama together. That sheet must have been under one of our dialog scenes. Right, Ezra?"

    Ezra nodded. "For school. You can ask Mrs. Grady about it tomorrow. It's part of my enrichment program."

    With William's attention on Ezra, Maude dared show her disgust at his explanation. He'd said far too much; he shouldn't have given William something that could be verified. But - he hadn't been trying to sustain the relationship, he realized. He just wanted to get them out alive, without any bruises if possible. If Maude DID get her way in the end... it would hurt Jim and Stevie. No, this farce of a family had to end, for everyone's sake.

    William deflated. "Tomorrow I'll call," he said. "I want you both elsewhere tonight. But... but I won't make you take your stuff if you don't want."

    "If you don't trust me," sniffed Maude, "I don't WANT to stay another half-hour. Ezra, start packing your boxes. I'll call Sandra. That is, if you deign to let me use your phone."

    In truth, it took almost two hours to get their stuff assembled and arrange to be picked up. Sandra and her husband were both coming, in separate cars. Usually uncle Henry had seemed to want as little contact with Maude and Ezra as he could manage, but he'd probably been convinced that, as a man, it was his duty to take part in their evacuation.

    Where was Jim??? Could William have done something to him? Would he get to say good-bye? These thoughts occupied Ezra as he packed. Finally, he wrote a quick note - just Aunt Sandra's address and phone number, and 'I can't tell you how sorry I am for all this' - and stuck it under Jim's pillow while Stevie, who'd been sticking to him, sad and scared, all evening, was in the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, while he sat on his boxes in the foyer, William found it, waved it in his face, and tore it up. If uncle Henry hadn't been there, he'd probably have been hit, he knew. Damn all these people.

    Then they were loaded up and were driving out of the development. That's when Ezra saw Jim. 'So that's what 'dragging your feet' means,' he thought. He started to unroll his window - "DON'T" barked his mother's cousin.

    "I'm sorry, Jim," he said then, in a low voice. "206-555-5647. 206-555-5647. I'm sorry, Jim."

    - - - - - -

    Jim wouldn't normally have given a Chevy Malibu and a Pinto wagon driving down Cedar St. a second glance, but hearing Ezra's voice saying his name... it was impossible to miss something like that. Damn, it had happened. It was all over.

    206-555-5647. Got it.

    CHAPTER NINE: Everything Is Ezra's Fault

    Jim hadn't thought life could get any worse. He was wrong.

    It wasn't the lead story in the Cascade Times, so he almost missed it. In fact, his father, engrossed in the business pages, must not have seen it either, or else he'd for sure have taken steps to delay Jim's knowledge. But there, on the second half of the front page of the City section at his father's feet, was the headline 'Accused Serial Killer Found Dead'.

    Wayne Hollow had killed himself. An innocent man... and Jim could have cleared him...

    He ran upstairs and grabbed all the cash he had in his room, not knowing why. Then, without even thinking consciously about what he was doing, he was on his bike and peddling for Mike's Gas. A dime in the phone... and he was calling the number Ezra had given him. Ezra's Aunt Sandra - actually, some sort of cousin - answered the phone, then hung up when he identified himself. Jim counted to 20, then called again; this time, Ezra picked up as well, on another line. "Please, Aunt Sandra, I want to talk to him," he heard Ezra plead in a little-kid voice that was totally unlike him. "Please. He's my best friend."

    Wow, Ezra was a good beggar.

    While Aunt Sandra was considering things, Ezra whispered his address. Jim had no idea where it was, but Mike's had maps.

    It turned out to be an hour's bike ride through suburban Cascade. Jim had never realized that his bike gave him such mobility; he'd never realized that he could just not go to school and do what he had to do.

    Ezra was waiting at the door. "We're flying to New Orleans tomorrow," he said. "Jim, I'm so sorry."

    Jim just shook his head. What did he want from Ezra? "Wayne Hollow is dead. Killed himself..." He paused to get more air.

    "Come in," said Ezra. "Let's go downstairs."

    "Jim, darling, so nice of you to come say good-bye," said Maude, coming up behind Ezra, looking like a rose.

    "Stow it, Mom," said Ezra.

    Though Jim had been thinking about just what he'd say to Maude - what words he could use to tell her how much she'd hurt his family - he found Ezra's rudeness shocking. Without really knowing why, he waved and shrugged apologetically before following Ezra downstairs.

    The basement family room was dim, illuminated only by several high, curtained windows. Ezra didn't turn on any lights. They plopped down on an old brown sofa, next to a pile of boxes and suitcases. Everything the Standishes owned in the world, Jim figured.

    Ezra sighed. "Where should we start? You first, or me?"

    Jim shrugged. He didn't know what he wanted from Ezra. Just to know that someone understood the way he felt right now, with someone dead who shouldn't be?

    "Can you tell me what happened between Mom and William?" Ezra asked. "Before your father and you left the house yesterday. I was upstairs, and I never did get a good look at that paper your father was waving around."

    "I found a pad of paper. You and Maude had been using it to write back and forth about Maude's plans. Something about Plan B being her marrying dad and soaking him."

    Ezra laughed without humor. "So that's what William was talking about. Neither of us got a good look at the sheet. All in all, it could have been worse."

    "Huh?"

    "Plan A was Maude seducing you into a life of confidence games."

    "Oh."

    "Because of your unusual abilities. I never thought it would work."

    "I thought..."

    "Jim, Maude and I... well, we aren't good people."

    "That's a lie!"

    "See! I even lie about lying."

    Jim shook his head. "This isn't funny, Ez. You have to leave Cascade, leave school..."

    "I don't think I'll have any trouble being admitted into 5th grade next September, even if I don't ever end up with any paperwork. Do you?"

    "That's not what I mean! You deserve better. You deserve things to be the same for more than a few months."

    Ezra shrugged. "I make do."

    Jim slumped further. "It all just sucks." His fist found his mouth and he bit down, at first lightly, then with more force.

    "Stop it, Jim, you'll break the skin and your father will have another fit."

    "I don't give a damn about what he thinks."

    "Jim, your father has his faults, but he's always THERE, you must realize? You'll always have a place to sleep. There are far worse specimens of humanity out there than William Ellison."

    Jim now crossed his arms, digging his nails into flesh. "Shit. Damn."

    "What are you thinking just now?"

    "That I wish I could redo yesterday. Or go back and tell people about Mr. Foster. I don't know."

    "You know..." and Ezra stopped. "I really think our parents splitting up is for the best. Maude's not really good for anyone. But... I think I can help with the Wayne Hollow mess."

    "News flash," said Jim. "Dead is dead."

    "But what if you couldn't remember that you saw Mr. Heydash's body, and Mr. Foster running away? Jim, this guilt you're carrying, for something you never did - it's really scaring me."

    "I could never forget anything like that!"

    "Well... maybe you could." Ezra tore at one of the boxes and pulled out a book - the red one on hypnosis, the book they'd both looked through the day Ezra and Maude had moved in. "Can you give me a minute to look through this? I think I can hypnotize you into forgetting what you saw. And... yeah, it all ties together. I think I could make you think you have normal senses. That is, if you want..."

    "WHAT?"

    "If I can convince your subconscious that you don't have super vision, then there's no way you could have ID'd Mr. Foster. Whadaya think?"

    What was the expression? Ignorance is bliss?

    "Think it could work?" Jim asked

    "What have you got to lose?"

    A lot, actually, but that was the whole point, Jim figured.

    He looked through another couple of books while Ezra poured over the hypnosis book. Ten minutes later, Ezra closed it and said, "Okay, I think I've figured out an approach. Now, first, I have to be assured that you WANT to do this. You want to be normal."

    "How are you going to define normal?"

    "I'm going to calibrate you to me."

    "Ha! Ezra, you are many things, but..."

    "My hearing and vision, doof."

    Jim bopped him with a throw pillow. Man oh man, he was going to miss Ezra.

    "I could also maybe, you know, make you forget me."

    "NO!"

    Ezra looked - delighted. Well, that was a sight. A moment later, though, Ezra had reassumed his normal air of detachment. "The thing about you needing to WANT to do this is, not only is it the only ethical way we can proceed, but it won't work if you don't give yourself totally to the hypnosis. You have to want to have your senses become less acute."

    "I understand."

    "I have to convince your subjective mind of the truth of the limits of your senses. If I can weave everything together well enough, your objective mind - that's your waking mind - won't be able to unravel things. As long as nobody goes around talking extensively about the Country Club Strangler, or your sight or vision or whatever, everything should be fine."

    "Nobody at my house ever talks about any of that."

    "Yup. And I'll try to make you insensitive about what you might come across about Wayne Hollow or Mr. Heydash. Okay?"

    "Okay," said Jim. "Uh, what will you tell me when I wonder why you were hypnotizing me?"

    "I'll think of something," said Ezra. "I'd probably better not tell you now - I don't want you thinking about it." Of course, if Jim was able to recall this conversation then the whole thing would have been a failure, but why take chances.

    Ezra had Jim sit cross-legged on the couch and perched on the low coffee table in front of him. "We're going to start with text-book hypnotic sleep induction, okay? This won't seem that different from what we did back in January. Now, close your eyes." Jim obeyed. If Jim kept on listening, and he could manage to keep any doubt out of his own voice and phraseology, this just might work.

    "Raise both your arms to the side," said Ezra, and Jim lifted his arms away from his body. "Stretch. You can stretch further. Good, Jim," Ezra continued. "Now, I'm going to tell you something funny but true. You can't put your arms up any higher. Try." Nothing. Wow, Jim was a good subject, probably because of the self-hypnosis he'd been doing a few months before.

    After a moment, Jim's right arm started to move fractionally. "Now, you find you can raise your arms," Ezra said. And Jim did so. His face slackened; this seemed to have been proof of Ezra's control, just like the book had implied.

    "Now, it's time for you to go to sleep for me," said Ezra. "You are tired; the ride here was long and hot and you just want to sleep. Everything will seem clearer after you sleep. You body is getting heavy. Keeping your eyes closed is the simplest thing in the world. You can't open your eyes even a little bit." Nary a flutter. "They are closed because you have to sleep now; you can't stay awake, you don't want to stay awake. You are going into a deep sleep and you will stay asleep until I wake you up."

    Oops, what if Jim was REALLY asleep?

    "Take a deep breath now." Jim did so. "Hold 'til I count to five. One, two, three, four, five. Now exhale." After several repeats, Jim was still following his commands.

    "Continue resting. You are very tired," said Ezra.

    Now, to get busy. He grabbed some paper and a pen, and made up what looked like an eye chart. Big E at the top, rows of decreasing size going down the page. He leaned it against some books in a shelf across the room from Jim, then crouched by the other boy. Ezra could read down to line 4 comfortably, and make a guess at line 5. The bottom line was unreadable. He retrieved the paper and wrote a line of still-smaller letters, then placed the paper back in the shelf. Okay, that would do for distance.

    For close-in vision calibration, he grabbed a dictionary off the shelf. The writing was legible from about two feet, but not three. Not a great tool, but it would do, he hoped.

    Would he need props for hearing? Probably not.

    Taste? Ezra ran into the half-bath, grabbed some Dixie cups from the dispenser, and filled them with lukewarm tap water. Then, he went up to the kitchen and grabbed the sugar dispenser and the salt and pepper shakers.

    Smell? He darted into the laundry room. A load of whites was ready to be started. Ezra grabbed one of Uncle Henry's socks - it smelled a little, but not too strongly. Then he obtained a clean wash cloth from the linen closet and headed back through the living room.

    Maude, on the living room sofa reading Vogue, looked up and raised an eyebrow. "It's complicated," Ezra said.

    What was left? Sense of touch! Well, like hearing, he'd wing it.

    Ezra resumed his perch in front of Jim. "On the count of three," he said, "you will stay asleep but open your eyes. One, two, three."

    Jim's eyelids parted. Holy Mercury.

    Well, here went nothing. "Jim, I am going to teach you how to see," said Ezra. He walked over to the chart and covered the bottom two lines with his hand. "Read the top letter for me."

    "E," said Jim.

    "Now the next down."

    "R A V."

    "Very good," said Ezra. "You can also read the next two lines with decreasing ease."

    "Yes."

    "But you cannot read the next one very well. You can't tell whether the first letter is an R or a P. You can't tell whether the next teller is an O or a D."

    Jim nodded.

    Ezra said, "I'm going to remove my hand and you will not be able to read these two lines at all. They will just be squiggles." He then lowered his hands. "Now try to read the very bottom line."

    "I can't," said Jim.

    Wow wow wow!

    "That's good," said Ezra. "That is perfectly normal, 20/20 vision. Your vision is completely normal. What other people can see, you can see. You can't see what other people can't. It's an impossibility."

    He removed the chart from the bookcase and picked up the dictionary. He opened it randomly, then held it up about 18 inches from Jim. "Read the first entry you see," he said.

    "Platypus. Noun. A..."

    Ezra removed the book from Jim's field of view. "Excellent, Jim," he said. "You are as good at seeing as anybody. But you can't read this if I hold it more than an arm's length away. Nobody can do that."

    He held up the book further from Jim. "Read it again. Anything."

    "Play, verb," started Jim. Ezra began to move the book up and down, closer and further. Jim blinked.

    "You can't read this page this far from your eyes," said Ezra. "Try again."

    Again he held the book level with Jim's eyes; this time Jim said, "I can't read it."

    "Nobody can," said Ezra.

    He then asked Jim to take a sip of tap water. Jim did so, making a slight face like he always did.

    "That tastes a little bad," said Ezra. "This part of town has lousy water. But it's not bad for you. It's been filtered many times. Now I'm going to give you some other water. This water has no taste whatsoever. " He handed Jim another of the little cups, and Jim sipped.

    "How does it taste?" Ezra asked.

    "Fine. It doesn't taste like anything," said Jim.

    "That's what good tap water always tastes like," said Ezra. "That other water you drank, it was from a fish tank. That water is foul. But tap water tastes good."

    He then shook just a little bit of sugar into the tap water. "Sip this," he said. "Some people think that you can taste the sugar in this water, but they can't, and neither can you."

    Jim sipped without comment.

    "And now salt..." Ezra repeated the process, then added a little pepper. The water was starting to look gross, but Jim didn't comment.

    Ezra then took the final cup and put in a stream of sugar. "This is very sweet water," he said, and handed it to Jim. "Now drink it."

    Jim took a sip. "That's very sweet," he said.

    Ezra put generous portions salt and pepper into the water, and again told Jim what he would taste and let him drink.

    "You have the same sense of taste as everyone else," said Ezra. This would have to do; he couldn't go through every substance in Sandra's kitchen. But Jim's mind would hopefully pick up the pattern and mute other tastes to the same degree.

    He then handed Jim the clean wash cloth. "Can you smell anything?"

    "Detergent," said Jim.

    Ezra took the wash cloth from Jim and handed him the dirty sock. "How about this."

    "Detergent, sweat, mud, maybe grass..."

    "Yes, everyone can smell that sock! This wash cloth is very clean. It only smells a little bit." He held it a few feet from Jim. "You can't smell it now. It's not dirty like that sock." He moved the wash cloth closer. "You can't smell it now either." And he held up the sock at the same distance. "You can smell this, just a very very little bit."

    He handed Jim the wash cloth. "Can you smell it now?"

    "Just a little bit," said Jim, holding the cloth to his nose and sniffing deeply.

    "Good," said Ezra. "That 's how everyone's sense of smell works. You're NORMAL, Jim."

    Now for hearing. "Watch my hands," he commanded. He brought them together soundlessly. "I just clapped my hands. Could you hear it?"

    "No," said Jim.

    "I'll do it so that you can hear if you listen very carefully," said Ezra. "You will hear this clap but it will be very soft." He brought his hands together, this time allowing them to contact with a small amount of force. "Did you hear anything?"

    "Yes, a little," said Jim.

    "That's normal," said Ezra. "Just like you are. Can you hear anything else?"

    "The TV upstairs, there's a truck about a block away, I think I hear a plane, probably a Boeing..."

    "Yes, you can hear all that," said Ezra, "but it's getting dimmer." He put his hands over Jim's ears. "Dimmer and dimmer. When I remove my hands, you won't be able to hear anything except me speaking."

    He removed his hands, and whispered, "You can hear me whispering." Then, with hardly any sound at all, he said, "But not now."

    Golly, what if he'd just removed Jim's ability to hear anything other than his voice? "You can also hear the TV upstairs a little. But nothing fainter."

    Well, that would have to be good enough. One more to go... Ezra said, "I'm going to touch you and you aren't going to feel it. Close your eyes." When Jim complied, Ezra ghosted his hand across Jim's knees. "You didn't feel that," he said. "I'm going to touch you again and you will not feel it." This time, he leaned forward and passed his hand past Jim's ear; Jim didn't flinch. "Very good," said Ezra. "You aren't the least bit jumpy. Now, you are going to feel me this time, but it feel very soft." And he tapped Jim on the leg.

    "I felt that," said Jim.

    "Good," said Ezra. "Now I'm going to press you harder. You will feel it, but it's not an press that hurts." He again leaned forward and put his weight gradually onto Jim, then rocked back.

    "Now I'm going to slap your face. It will only sting a little. It will not hurt you." With his right hand, he hit his own face to figure out how hard to swing, then duplicated the impact on Jim. Jim only flinched a little.

    "You are very good at feeling things, just like a lot of people are."

    Now, to see how much he could do about Jim's memory of Mr. Heydash and Mr. Foster and Wayne Hollow.

    "Jim, did you like Mr. Heydash?"

    "Bud was a great guy," said Jim. "I wish my dad was like he was."

    "What happened to him?" asked Ezra.

    "Aaron's dad murdered him. I saw Mr. Foster run away. He got away with it because..."

    Oops. "Jim, you are getting very sleepy. When I count to three you will close your eyes and fall into a very deep sleep. One, two, three."

    Jim fell silent.

    "Deep breaths," said Ezra. "On the count of three, take a deep breath, hold, release..."

    After a couple of minutes of deep breathing, Jim seemed as compliant as before, and Ezra felt ready to try again. Authority, that was key.

    "Jim, in October you found a body. It was the body of your neighbor Karl Heydash, but you didn't recognize it. You didn't know him very well. He was just some guy. Tell me he was just some guy."

    "He was just some guy."

    "He was probably killed by Wayne Hollow, but we'll never really know because Mr. Hollow killed himself in jail. He was afraid what might be learned in the trial. You are never going to think about this again because it's a waste of effort. You told the police you thought Aaron'a dad did it, but you couldn't have seen it because your vision isn't any better than anyone else's. You aren't going to think about this any more. You saw someone that could have been Aaron's dad or could have been Wayne Hollow running. You didn't know Mr. Hollow so you thought it was Aaron's dad but you don't know. And when you wake up you won't think about it any more.

    "You are going to be hearing about Wayne Hollow and the Country Club Strangler a lot over the next few days. It doesn't matter. You would rather talk about the Giants and when Seattle will get a baseball team again.

    "And, when school starts in September and you're in the 9th grade you are going to forget all about finding Mr. Heydash's body, even if anyone asks you about it between now and then." That should cover any end-tying that the police might do over the next few months.

    Was there anything else he could do?

    "You are best off if you don't think a lot about what happened the past few months but... you will always think nice things about Ezra Standish. I was always just trying to be a good guy, okay?" Darn, posing things like that as a question could undo everything! But Jim didn't seem to have been ill-affected.

    "When you wake up, you will remember that we discussed..." What?? What was awful enough to require the sort of brain-mucking they were dong?

    Well, boats were awful. But Cascade was a port city and Jim was going to be around boats now and then no matter what.

    Well, it wasn't actually the BOATS that were the problem...

    "...your fear of deep water," he finished.

    It would have to do.

    "When you wake up, you will be energized and ready to face your family. You will awake on the count of five. One, two, three, four, five..."

    And Jim was himself, blinking and stretching. And feeling pretty good, if puzzled. He remembered biking to Ezra's relatives' house, but not why they'd been playing around with hypnosis. "What did we just do?" he asked.

    "I was trying to see if I could get you over your fear of open, deep water," said Ezra.

    "I don't like open water?" Jim thought he did... hadn't they been out on the Sound just a few days ago?

    "You hated our trip on Saturday," said Ezra. "You were a wreck. Don't you remember?"

    "No..." But he couldn't really remember what he'd done on the boat.

    "Then it must have worked!" said Ezra.

    He got a piece of paper and wrote an address. "Here's where my grandparents live. Maude usually stays there a few weeks licking her wounds between schemes. Sometimes I stay with them, sometimes she takes me with her or finds some place else to stick me. But you can always get in touch with me through them."

    Jim took the paper. "And if you ever need anything... Seriously, Ezra, you're a good kid. You can do anything you want with your life. Understand?"

    "I understand," said Ezra.

    Jim was going to miss Ezra, but he couldn't remember why he'd been so desperate to see him this morning. They'd had to talk about - something. The deep water thing? Must have been.

    Well, he'd better get to school before the administration figured out he was missing and called his dad.

    The boys walked upstairs together. Maude appeared and gave Jim a hug; he stood as stiffly as he could. Then he was on his bike, heading back towards his part of town.

    Things seemed more, well, drab than they normally did. Weird.

    - - - - - - -

    Maude joined Ezra at the door as he watched Jim ride down the driveway and into the street. "What did you do to him?" she asked.

    "I'm not sure," said Ezra. "But, could you do me a big favor? Ask his real mom to never, ever, EVER mention anything about that murder last fall, or his senses. I think he's forgotten all about all that stuff."

    Maude took a step back. What, exactly, was she raising here? "You seem to have found an unusual use for dirty socks."

    - - - - - - -

    William expected his heart to be broken. But, if this was heartbreak, it wasn't so bad. Maybe he was just used to it.

    At least he had Ezra out of his house. He couldn't identify what it was about the boy that got to him. He wasn't a jealous man, and, truthfully, Ezra hadn't seemed to have had that much of his mother's attention anyway. No, it was how he interacted with his sons that had annoyed him. Always using those big words.

    But he had to admit, the competition with Ezra seemed to have gotten the kids moving academically, particularly Stevie. Yeah, he really should continue in this vein - get them competing against each other more. Only that way would they work up to their full potentials. And what could be more important than that?

    EPILOG: Not Quite 'The Brady Bunch'

    October 1974

    Jim's dad had no idea where he was going, but over the past few months his father's approval had stopped mattering so much to him. Even when his father threatened him with a belting, it just didn't seem like such a big deal anymore. Things just didn't seem to hurt like they used to.

    The wedding was outside, under an awning at Kennedy Park. His mother, dressed in pink, rushed over as he got off his bike. "I'm so happy you came!" she said. "Now my day will be perfect!"

    She took his hand and led him over to a tall, thickset man with a bushy hair and a thick mustache. "Look who made it! My son!" she gushed.

    "And soon to be mine," said the man. "But I won't make you call me dad. Please, call me Stan."

    "Uh, sure," said Jim.

    "And your step-brothers and sisters are over there," said his mother, gesturing to a nervous-looking group of teenagers, mostly older than him, who looked about as out-of-place as he felt. "We wouldn't have scheduled the wedding so soon, but they really need a mother. Come, let me introduce you... Oh, it will have to wait, I've got to talk to Reverend Sanchez before we start..."

    And his mother was off.

    He was considering going over and saying hi, but then his aunt Millie was pulling him over to some of his other relatives, and he dutifully stood still and listened to them tell him how much they missed seeing him and how much he'd grown. And how they looked forward to seeing more of him, now that his mother was going to be a respectable woman again, one no judge could say no to.

    A few minutes later, the service got itself going, and he was told which folding chair to claim, when to stand, when to sit.

    Maude, of all people, was there, standing next to his mother and looking elegant and out-of-place. No Ezra, though. He really wanted to know how Ez was doing, but there was no way he was going to initiate any sort of contact with Maude, and she seemed to feel likewise.

    Then it was over and he had a step-family. More step-family.

    A cake appeared and someone produced a large outdoor stereo system. Early Beatles started playing and the grown-ups started dancing. All around him, people were saying how nice it was that Mary Margaret was finally getting a chance at happiness.

    She looked radiant. Now he knew what that word meant.

    After a while, the cake was cut up and distributed. His mother and step-father fed each other, then everyone toasted the couple and Jim managed to take a few sips of champagne himself.

    The newlyweds started saying good-bye to people; he gladly accepted another hug from his mother and a handshake from Mr. McDonald-oops-Stan. "See you after you get back," he said.

    "Oh, yes," said Mary Margaret. "There's no way your father can limit our contact now."

    "Maybe I could even... maybe... live with you?" He'd never seen his mother's place, but back before his mom and dad had had some big fight last fall she'd told him all about the room she'd set up just for him. She hadn't mentioned anything about it recently, but...

    "Well..." and now his mother looked a little nervous. "The house we've bought is pretty big, but Stan has four kids of his own... you can have the sofa, though, sometime, maybe..."

    Jim managed to smile. "Yes. That's what I meant," he said.

    * * * THE END * * *

    Note: Ezra's book on hypnosis is "Hypnosis: Theory, Practice, and Application," by Raphael H. Rhodes. My version was published in 1950 by Gramercy Publishing Company.

    All feedback welcomed, negative particularly! helenw@murphnet.org.

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