This is the story of the Aztalan Wintaka. This is what must remain. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * In the Shade * * * * CHAPTER I: Answering Prayers * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 旼컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴� The Family 쳐컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴커 � � � Jim McGuire - central character � � - male, 42, writer/assistant editor for "Stork" � � - divorced from Sarah three years earlier � � - father of young Margaret (lives with Sarah) � � � � Jason McGuire - Jim's grandfather � � - raised Jim since he was six � � - history teacher, retired because of his � � secular teachings � � - political, peace and environmental activist � � - � native North American � � - keenly interested in native culture � � � � Mattie McGuire - Jason's long-dead wife; Jim's grandmother � � � � Sarah Flynn-McGuire - Jim's ex-wife � � - lives with their daughter, Margaret, � � "on the coast" � � � � Margaret Cory McGuire - Jim's little daughter � � - lives with her mother, Sarah � � � � Bernice - Jim's trusty St. Bernard dog � � � 읕컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴컴� "Jason Kolry McGuire was a complex man; you had to know him very well to say that you knew him at all. In his final days his memory left him. His memory will never leave those of us who loved him." Amid all of the sanctimonious drivel that constituted his grandfather's eulogy these words stood out in Jim's mind. Reverend Carter would have preferred that a close friend of Jason McGuire deliver the eulogy. But months before his death the old man had specifically requested that the Reverend give his eulogy. Stuck with the job, Rev. Carter chose to compromise frankness for the sake of tact and decorum. He was certainly not about to give his true opinion of the deceased: "Jason Kolry McGuire was a deviant egomaniac; to know him was to despise him." No, that would be unchristian and totally inappropriate during a eulogy--especially from a man of the cloth. *De mortuis nihil nisi bonum*. Years ago Grandpa McGuire's campaign to remove prayers from the local schools had pitted him against the Reverend. As a history teacher at Gopher Brook High School Grandpa had opposed school prayer in his classroom. When forced to hold a daily opening prayer the old man had found an effective response. On the first day, a Monday, he had the class recite the Lord's prayer. On the second morning the class read long passages from the Torah. The third day saw them bowing towards Mecca. On the fourth day the class chanted Buddhist mantras. Oddly, those parents who had no qualms about forcing other people's children to recite the Lord's Prayer were not so keen about their own children mouthing "pagan mumbo jumbo". That night the same people who had insisted on school prayer reversed their decision. Starting immediately, prayers of any sort were *forbidden* in Gopher Brook High. Just before the commencement of classes the next day Principal Studwell informed the teachers of this new policy. "Odin will not be pleased," joked Grandpa McGuire. This incident did little to endear him to Rev. Carter or his flock. The local congregation never forgot this fiasco. The elder McGuire's opposition to Christmas ornaments on the premises of the town hall had further alienated the Pastor. Arguments about the separation of Church and State, official sanctions and respect for minority religions held little sway in Gopher Brook. Few people understood these ideas. Fewer still agreed with them. Reverend Carter's parish included more than half of the population of Gopher Brook. These "pillars of the community" were conspicuous by their absence from the funeral. There *were* a few in town who had admired the old man. Those on the fringe of Gopher Brook society took a perverse delight in seeing their more conservative co-residents rankled. J.K. McGuire was also very popular with his students. They liked his activism and zest for debate. They loved his occasional use of current slang to describe a historical dilemma. Most of all they loved his stories. During class their teacher would reveal intimate glimpses of historical figures. He would include details of events that other teachers would choose to overlook. Role playing was a favourite venue. "Imagine this," the teacher had asked his students. "You are the President of the United States. You have remained comfortably neutral during the first two years of the Second World War. England and Germany are locked in mortal combat. Your industries are busy producing war materials. Business has never been better. The population is happy. Only a few of them suggest entering the war and those few aren't unanimous about which side you should take. Joseph Kennedy and Charles Lindbergh argue that you should join on the side of the Germans. Others tell you to join the fight for democracy. Most say `Stay out of it!' "Politics is `zugswang'. That means that a politician is fine as long as he or she doesn't try to actually *do* anything. Any move is fatal. Unfortunately, eventually the politician will *have* to do *something*. So you remain neutral as long as you can. After all, why go looking for trouble? "One September morning in 1941 a member of your staff bursts into your office. Naval Intelligence has cracked the Japanese communications code. It seems that the Japanese government is upset by the fact that its enemies are receiving arms and supplies from America, while America `hides behind a skirt of declared neutrality'. Intelligence has just discovered that the Emperor's armed forces are planning to attack Pearl Harbour in early December. Four of your aircraft carriers are scheduled to be docked in Pearl Harbour at that time. If the Japanese manage to destroy them they may force a stalemate in the ensuing war. There will be many warships docked in the harbour but only the aircraft carriers are crucial. "So what do you do?" "Easy," answered one student. "I rush down extra ships and ambush the Japs." "But there are spies and reconnaissance around the harbour," the mentor informed his pupil. "The Japanese will know your every move. You might just as well tell the Japanese that you know their plan." "So why not do that? Tell them you know they're coming. They'll call it off, won't they?" "Yes, I'm sure they will," agreed their teacher. "Well, wouldn't that solve the problem and avoid the war?" "No," said their teacher quietly. "That will only tell them that you've broken their code. The enemy will change their code, destroy your Intelligence Network, execute your spies and call off the Pearl Harbour attack in favour of a later assault--one in which they really *will* have the element of surprise. No. You must not let on that you know of their plan. And you mustn't let anyone else spill the beans. No one in America--and especially nobody in Pearl Harbour--may know of the attack." "So what do you do?" asked the class. "Perhaps," offered the old man, sounding very Sherlockian, "I compromise. Maybe I wait until a few weeks before the attack. I send orders for the first aircraft carrier to go out on manoeuvres. No particular destination. No grand purpose. Just zigzag around the ocean a few times and then stand by for further orders. A few days later I send a similar order to the second carrier. I tease the enemy with the third and fourth carrier until a few days before the attack. Then I sent them out to sea, one after the other. The crews grumble but do as they're told. If and when the devastation hits Pearl these crews will thank God for their good fortune. This dilemma is called the `Coventry Conundrum'. Winston Churchill faced this exact problem when he learned that the Germans were going to bomb the small cottage town of Coventry in England." "But what about the sailors on the other ships?" asked Bobby Spencer. Bobby was one of Grandpa McGuire's better students. "The Arizona? The Missouri? What about their `good fortune'? Don't you think they deserve a warning? A fighting chance?" The teacher nodded but said nothing. He would not belabour a point. Provoking thought was much more important to him than instilling ready-made conclusions. This approach contrasted sharply with the names-and-dates approach of others in the History Department. The man's rapport with his students widened this rift between Mr. McGuire and the other faculty members. After classes were over students would congregate around Mr. McGuire's desk and hear other, more fantastic stories: science fiction, adventure and fable. The man was a born storyteller and could hold young imaginations spellbound. He could also add a twist to the end of many well-worn stories. "The chief of the Manhattans surveys the bounty that he has received from selling his island to the colonists. He smiles and turns to his counterpart among the Europeans. `Now that we have sold you the land,' the crafty chief offers, `can we interest you in the sky?'" J.K. McGuire made learning fun. This would not be tolerated for long. Jim remembered the day his grandfather was forced to accept an early retirement. The School Board had buckled to the pressure applied by members of Reverend Carter's church. The good citizens of Gopher Brook were wary of the influence over their children that this "scatter-brained lunatic" had earned. The History Department sealed his fate by failing to support him. Jim approached his grandfather on the day of that ignoble retirement. But the patriarch smiled at his grandson and laughed. "I look at the bright side," joked the old man, "at least they didn't make me drink hemlock!" "Hell, if I were you I wouldn't be laughing. I'd be *pissed off*. I mean, they've stolen much more than your job. This was your career. Your pride. Your *dignity*, for Christ sakes." It was a slip of the tongue; Jim knew better than to mention the word "dignity" around his grandfather. How many times had Grandpa rented "Ghandi" and forced Jim to watch it with him? Each time Grandpa would stop the movie, point at the television and say: "You see, this man shovels shit with more dignity than we could attend a royal wedding!" On this occasion the old man stared at his grandson, shook his head and said: "Dignity can be lost. Never stolen." The students organized and walked out of their classes in protest over Mr. McGuire's dismissal. School officials and parents failed to end the dispute. Principal John Studwell was a deacon in Reverend Carter's church. Not surprisingly, his sympathies lay with the forces which had demanded Mr. McGuire's retirement. Principal Studwell was the living embodiment of the Peter Principle. He had been promoted to his present position after failing miserably as a teacher. From pulpit and school lectern Principal John Studwell had preached the evils of sin. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Three years earlier scandal had broken out when a student named Sarah Fraser accused Mr. Studwell of impregnating her. Tongues began to wag. Mr. Studwell denied the charge. A blood test comparison with the foetus? No thank you, was his response. He said that he did not want to flatter the accusation and compromise his privacy by submitting to such a test. The same man who had routinely body- searched students for drugs and weapons now sounded like a civil libertarian. It became common "knowledge" (i.e. well-worn rumour) that Mr. Studwell had not only impregnated her but had also paid for the girl's visit to an abortion clinic. To fellow members of the Pro-Life Coalition Mr. Studwell denied this second accusation, publicly reaffirming his opposition to "legalized murder". But when ladies from the local chapter of the National Organization for Woman showed up in his office demanding a clarification Mr. Studwell proclaimed his support for any woman's right to plan a family. Columnist Kevin Morley of the local Gopher Gazette made note of these inconsistencies. "Mr Studwell," wrote the pundit, "would do well to listen to General Omar Bradley, who once advised: `Be guided by the stars; not by the lights of each passing ship.' This is not the first time Mr. Studwell has revised his views to fit the circumstance and the public's mood. He is constantly swaying to the winds of current opinion. It seems that the man lacks the courage of his convections. What an irony: a principal without principles!" Mr. Studwell's job survived the scandal after it boiled down to a question of credibility. Who did the people of Gopher Brook believe: a "silly preggo slut" from the wrong side of the tracks who didn't even use birth control pills or the deacon of their local church? No one stopped to wonder how 14-year-old Sarah Brook could have known about birth control; Principal Studwell and the P.T.A. had vetoed sex education at Gopher High. With time, fewer and fewer cared. The girl and her family moved away. Local rumour-mongers found new characters to assassinate. The issue of Jason McGuire's forced retirement had come to a head. The students continued their walkout. A lawyer from Corbeil Corners threatened a class action lawsuit. The School Board caved in. It quietly advised Principal Studwell to re-instate Mr. McGuire. Parishioners and staff urged him to resist--at least until the School Board explicitly ordered re-instatement. Would the board members dare issue such a written order, facing an election the next year? Kevin Morley descended onto this issue like a bird of prey. His newspaper column reminded its readers that the Principal was employed by the School Board. Would this particular Principal force the issue by insisting on an explicit directive before re- instating Mr. McGuire? Would he risk his own position here? Of course not. Principal Studwell waited two days in order to portray to parishioners and staff the image of a man under intense coercive pressure. Then he had his secretary phone Mr. McGuire and offer him his job back. "In typical Studwellian fashion," wrote Kevin Morley, "our Principal has capitulated. Mr. Studwell obviously lacks the intestical fortitude for such brinkmanship." Jim was at home when the phone call came. He had expected his grandfather to be overjoyed at this new development. Such was not the case. In a sad but resolute voice Mr. McGuire Sr. said that he would announce his decision at Assembly on Friday. What decision? Wasn't it a foregone conclusion that he would accept? Didn't he love teaching? Indeed, didn't he *live* to teach? Jim remembered the date: Friday, November the 29th, 1981. Grandpa woke up early. He took a shower. Shaved. Muttered something about Sicilian tradition as he solemnly donned his best clothes. Jim wondered what Sicilian tradition had to do with a 3/4 Irish, 1/4 native North American getting dressed in the morning. Grandpa put on the tuxedo he'd worn to his wedding decades earlier. The same tuxedo he'd worn at the funeral of his wife and the funeral of his daughter, Jim's mother. The same tuxedo he would later wear to his own grave. "You're quitting, aren't you?" asked Jim. "Can't quit. They retired me." "You know what I mean. You're going to give it up." The old man sighed. He stood silent at the mirror, carefully adjusting his bow tie. "Will you come with me?" his grandfather asked. "Uh, yeah, of course." Jim had been surprised by the invitation. His grandfather did not usually include Jim in his career. He didn't "bring the office home". And Grandpa had never taken him to the high school. Not since Jim had graduated from it fifteen years earlier. Jim felt certain about one thing. If Grandpa was, indeed, going to decline the offer he would at least go out in a blaze of glory. Surely Grandpa would lambast his colleagues and principal. He'd expose them for the jealous, incompetent hypocrites they were. He might even drop a bombshell or two. Maybe he would finally reveal how a publicity-shy John Studwell had asked him to broker the arrangements for that abortion three years ago. Perhaps Grandpa would relate to the audience how it felt to accompany little Sarah Fraser to that clinic... The two McGuire men arrived at the school an hour and a half before the scheduled assembly. The students had returned two days earlier, when the announcement of the re-instatement offer had been made public. Grandpa McGuire waited until classes were in session before entering the building. With his grandson beside him he strode into the Principal's office. "Good to see you, Jason," blubbered Studwell, "glad to have you back." "Who does he think he's kidding?" thought Jim. To Jim's astonishment his grandfather extended his hand and shook hands with Studwell. Jim found himself doing the same thing. "It's good to be back," concurred his grandfather. "You remember my grandson, Jim." "Yes, of course. Hello, Jim. Please, take a seat." Jason McGuire declined politely. "No, thank you. Jim and I haven't had our morning coffee. We just wanted to check in here on our way to the cafeteria." "Jas?" asked Studwell. "Yes?" asked the teacher. "I hope that we will be able to put all of this behind us." "It is behind us. It's all behind us now. Assembly at 10:00?" Studwell nodded. The two McGuires left his office. Jim waited until they were a few steps down the hallway before confronting his grandfather. "Gramps, what was that all about? What are we doing shaking the swine's hand? After everything that asshole has done--" The senior McGuire stopped his grandson with a wave of his hand. "Jim, lad, let's not forget who we are. This tit-for-tat bitterness isn't our way. There are many Studwell's in this world." "That doesn't mean I have to like him." "No, I suppose you don't have to *like* them. Nor do you have to *be like* them. We know what Studwell is. But what are we? And what will we become?" These were harsh words coming from such a gentle soul. Jim studied his grandfather. He expected some sign of triumph. Or bitterness. Determination. Maybe even fury. What he saw was despair. In the cafeteria Jim breached the subject. "Why so glum, Gramps? The coffee's not that bad!" "Battery acid tastes better." "Seriously, why so serious? They've offered you your job back. They've given up. You've won." "If this is victory," Jason observed, holding his coffee in front of him, "then this shit must be champagne." He took a drink and winced. As he put the cup down he gestured towards a small group of students gathered around a table across the near empty cafeteria. "They're a captive audience. Their parents don't have much say about sending them here. It's the law. Compulsory attendance. And this is the only high school around." "Yeah, so?" "I've always tried to do more than just teach their children a bunch of naked facts. I try to get the kids to think. With open minds. Even if opening minds widens the generation gap. Yes, even if opening minds closes churches. It's my job to make them think for themselves." "Well, I understand that, but--" Jason McGuire stopped his grandson with a wave of his hand and a shake of his head. "That's not all. We can lead them to water. Hell, we can even make them drink. The trick is to inspire the kids to *want* to drink. The trick is to make them thirsty. After all, thirst...thirst is more precious than water. I wanted to show them how much fun it is to learn things. Not just history. Anything. Learning. Languages. Computers. Literature. Geography. Anything." "So what's the problem? You can still do that." "No. You see, I always thought I was helping these kids. And their parents. I guess I was flattering myself. You see, the truth is that these parents don't want me. They just want the facts. Just the facts, ma'am. Just tell the kids what they need to know to get good college entrants exam results. Cram the facts in, spit them back up at exam time, then forget 'em. This isn't education, it's regurgitation. The kids aren't being taught. They're being graded. Like eggs. We even make them Grade A." "Look, I know you're a little dispirited..." Again the elderly McGuire shook his head. "You don't understand. This hasn't got anything to do with me. It's about what these people want. We can make them hire me back. But we can't make them like us. We can't make them like what I'm trying to do. I've stated my position to them as precisely as I could. Now, they've had their say. They've spoken loud and clear. And even if we could dictate tastes the question would arise: should we? Of course not." "But you still think they're making a mistake." "Yes. But that's their right. In fact, the freedom to make such mistakes is their most sacred right. And I won't twist any arms to deny these people that right." "I'm still not sure I understand." Grandfather McGuire glanced at his watch and stood up to leave. "Come on. Assembly's starting." The LGI--Large Group Instruction--room was spacious enough to seat most of the student population. Attendance was mandatory, which meant that between half and two thirds of the student body usually showed up. The rest would usually duck out for an early lunch break. On this day, however, the LGI was filled to overcrowding. The lack of space was exacerbated by the presence of about twenty parents. During his years as a teacher J.K. McGuire had noticed that, given a choice, people of conservative leanings tended to sit at the very front of a room. Behind them the liberals would position themselves. At the very back one would find the free- thinkers and rebels. Bomb throwers. Occupying the vast space between the liberal/conservative block and the revolutionaries would be the apathetics. These diffidents comprised the true "audience", often more interested in the struggle between the extremes than in the efforts of those onstage. Jason McGuire smiled wryly as the students unconsciously arranged themselves in the LGI. "Nothing involving humans is truly random," he had once observed. Jim stood in the wings as his grandfather joined Principal Studwell, his two vice principals and the chairman of the School Board onstage. The parents murmured their dissatisfaction as the senior McGuire took his seat. As usual, Principal Studwell commenced the proceedings with the national anthem. The parents participated wholeheartedly in the singing. Jim imagined that they were trying to make some obscure point with their enthusiasm and presence. Studwell introduced those onstage. School Board Chairman Phillip Sutter gave a mercifully short speech about educational objectives and priorities. To Sutter the school system's only objective or priority was keeping these youngsters off the streets and out of the way. Sutter once joked that kids should be neither seen nor heard. They were bad for tourism. Bad for law and order. Bad for business. Sutter saw students as minor glitches in an otherwise smooth-running school system. Jason McGuire had often giggled at the Chairman's attitude. Grandpa referred to himself and the other teachers as glorified babysitters--"Sutter's sitters". Sutter had consistently vetoed class excursions to factories, businesses or historical sites. Too much chance of things getting out of control. Too much chance of embarrassment. Far too much chance of the students getting a useful education. The Gopher Brook school system was designed to avoid such things. Most adults in the area reflected Sutter's attitude: keep the kiddies off the street. After all, what are we paying taxes for? Principal Studwell reassumed possession of the microphone. After some mealy-mouthed praise for Mr. Sutter's efforts Studwell cut to the chase. "This week, after much thought, we have decided to bring our most esteemed colleague, Mr. McGuire, out of retirement. We have all missed his presence here at Gopher High. Speaking for myself and the School Board, I would like to welcome back Mr. Jason McGuire." Offstage, Jim rubbed his sweaty palms together. As usual, the air conditioning wasn't working. The small portable fan whirling behind him did little to alleviate the heat in the LGI. Jim tried to cut the tension by joking with the school secretary. "Don't stand too close to that fan," he chuckled, "I have a feeling something's going to hit it..." Grandpa rose to take the podium. The students erupted into triumphant clapping and cheering. Not everyone in the audience was happy, though. Mrs. Johnson rose up from her front row seat and yelled "Pagan!". Another woman cupped her hand to her mouth and shouted "Go home, McGuire!" Other parents chimed in with jeers and hissing. Reaction from the students was immediate. A boy in the back row bellowed at Mrs. Johnson "Sit down, you old trout!" Just behind her, little Freddie Johnson whined "Yeah, Ma, sit down. Please!" Jason McGuire glanced over to his grandson. Jim was thinking about what his grandfather had said to him in the cafeteria. Jim was beginning to understand. Mr. Studwell raised his hands in the air, calling for order. Mrs. Johnson labelled the boy in the back seat an obnoxious punk. The boy in question called her "a senile old bat that must've overdosed on Geritol this morning". The shouting match between friends and family was too much for Freddie Johnson. He covered his face and ran from the LGI. Studwell stepped across Jason McGuire to regain the microphone. "Could we have your attention? Please, take you seats. A little peace and quiet, please." No-one listened to Studwell. Force of habit. "PLEASE! ORDER! TAKE YOUR SEATS AND BE QUIET!" he insisted. The bickering between parents and students continued. "Grow up!" bellowed one of the parents. "Up yours!" volleyed the students. Parents scanned the group of students to find their own children. Most of their children were hiding their faces, sinking low in their seats or joining Freddie Johnson in exile. "EVERYONE: TAKE YOUR SEATS AND BE QUIET OR I WILL HAVE TO CLEAR THE LGI!" Studwell's voice was becoming shrill and threatening. The rancorous debate persisted. The kids wondered why the parents were here in the first place. One parent dubbed the students "ungrateful wretches". Both sides ignored Studwell's screeching over the microphone. "WILL EVERYONE PLEASE SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!" hollered Studwell. The students began stomping their feet and chanting "TROUTS!" Parents joined in condemning their counterparts as "PUNKS!" This was not the Oxford debates. "ALRIGHT, THAT DOES IT! ENOUGH!" Studwell was about to announce a course of action. McGuire interrupted him by stepping back up to the microphone and raising his palms in the air, asking for calm. The melee subsided immediately. There was only the sound of people taking their seats. Then quiet. Studwell gawked in amazement at the transformation. He turned and stared at the old man, who simply looked back and shrugged his shoulders. Then the teacher turned his attention to the crowd. "I'd like to thank everyone for coming here today," McGuire began softly. The old man's tone contrasted sharply with Studwell's hysterical approach. The audience strained to hear the speaker. Mr. McGuire had their complete attention. "During these past few days we have all learned a great deal about the education system: its goals, methods and structure. We have been addressing the question of who is served by the school system. Many of us believed that it should be structured to serve the needs of the educators. After all, it is the administrators and teachers who spend the tax dollars, impart knowledge to the students and serve the community. But the events of this last week have served to change this attitude. Schools may provide us all with our income, our careers and our vehicle for educating the youth of this town and surrounding area. It does not exist, however, to serve our purposes. And that is as it should be: leave it to the educators and we will be teaching only what is convenient. Fast food for the mind. Silly pap. Meaningless quadratic equations in math, names and dates in history, capital cities in geography, boring jumping jacks in Phys Ed, musty old tripe in English classes. None of this will help our graduates in the real world. None of them will even know the laws of our society. None will be able to spell the word `entrepreneurship', much less engage in it! We will graduate students who cannot even fill out a simplified tax form. Some won't even be literate! We will continue to release our children into the world with the dangerous notion that they have been educated. As for sexual or social responsibility, well, those subjects were never even discussed. "Others would assume that the educational system should serve the students. After all, they are the direct beneficiaries of the process. It is their attitudes, futures and outlook that are being moulded by our efforts. `Surely the education system should be geared towards the needs of the students', these people would say. Many of the young people gathered here today have adopted this stance. But who defines these needs? We agree that the students are too young to make such decisions. If so, we might find ourselves teaching Creative MTV Watching, Nintendo Tactics and Progressive Partying 101." The students laughed. Parents smiled. "So who defines these needs, if not the students or teachers? It is obvious that we must leave the definition of student needs up to those who can be held responsible. In our society we hold the parents responsible for their children. Since this is the case we must leave this decision up to them. How do you, the parents, want your children to be educated? If they do not get a practical and useful education it will be you, the parents, who will suffer. Your children will not succeed in the competitive world of business. They will sink into despair and unemployment. Worst of all, they won't be able to leave the nest. You'll be stuck will these `punks' for life!" Now it was the parents who were laughing. The students smiled as they watched Mr. McGuire earn their parents' admiration and affection--just as he had long since earned theirs. "During my tenure I have learned far more from my students than I have been able to teach them. You know, this education stuff is a two-way street. I've learned the value of an open, questioning mind. The value of creativity. Trust. Hope. Infectious optimism. These kids have reminded me of how everything really is possible. We old fogies tend to forget these things. We get calloused. Our eyesight dims with age. We find it harder and harder to see the beauty and the opportunities that surround us." Mrs. Johnson and the other parents were disarmed by Mr. McGuire's intimacy and insight. The students enjoyed his informal language and demeanour. "During my years here I have enjoyed seeing my kids--I've always thought of the students as `my kids'--embrace education as an adventure. A gallant struggle against our archenemy: ignorance. Learning is a process that cannot end with graduation. But it should always be seen as fun. Otherwise, the process will certainly end when it is no longer mandatory. "I've always been thrilled to see my kids accept their diplomas. I've especially loved seeing them come back years later to tell me how they've done. "I will miss all of this," said his grandfather. Then, without another word, he left. No good-bye. No farewell. No bombshells. The drive home began in silence. The two McGuires said nothing until the truck passed McMurdock's farm, halfway to the McGuire house. "I wonder if they understood," wondered the old man. "You wonder if *they* understood. Hell, even *I* didn't understand. What were you trying to do, run for office?" "Hardly." "Well, I certainly didn't..." "You will, Jim. In time. All too soon you will understand." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * In the Shade * * * * CHAPTER II: Decline and Fall * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Jason McGuire spent his retirement years hosting entertainers and artists of the younger generation. Some were famous. Household names. Celebrities came to avoid the glare of public scrutiny. Jason's retreat remained a well-guarded secret among the national and international artistic communities. The address was passed around in conspiratorial whispers at parties, as if it were the name of an exclusion nightclub or fashionable guru. At first the residents of Gopher Brook mobbed these stars of screen, stage, literature and art. But with time the locals became used to seeing well-known musicians and actors shopping at their general store. Requests for autographs died out. Not all the creative people who came to the "Hotel McGuire" were established artists. Struggling performers found inspiration talking to the old man. The McGuire sanctuary was a sure cure for writer's block or artistic depression. Well into the late hours of the night Jason would toil on plot lines and dialogue with a budding playwright or screenwriter. In the mornings he might take a long walk with a developing artist, pointing out possibilities in the most mundane countryside. Afternoon might find him coaching a nervous actor before a role or a talk show appearance. Reporters or paparazzi that showed up to hound the "celebs" found it impossible to get accurate directions to the McGuire estate. The local residents would route many of them to the town dump. Other guidance brought them to the Greyhound bus depot. Many would be sent on a wild goose chase through the back roads of the area. None ever found their way to the McGuire's. The townspeople liked the celebrities more than they disliked "that old crackpot". In the Gopher Gazette Kevin Morley once wrote a teasing article alluding to this conspiracy of silence and the town's reputation within the artistic community. Morley called it the "secret notoriety" of the town. Outsiders reading the paper would have no idea what was Morley blithering about. But Gopher Brookers understood. They distilled the phrase "secret notoriety" down to "sec-not" (or "seek not") and adopted the expression into their local jargon. While his grandfather entertained this constant stream of literati Jim struggled. He paid his share of the bills by reading and editing manuscripts for Stork Books, a west coast publishing company. Twice Jim had augmented his income by writing books of his own. Pulp fiction. Lots of sex. Political intrigue. Murder. Betrayal. The kind of books people forget faster than they read. "Everyone disappoints their parents," Grandpa McGuire was fond of saying. Jim wondered if the old man was referring to Jim's literary efforts. His books weren't the masterpieces that some of Grandpa's guests produced. But was this any reason to ignore Jim's efforts entirely? When Jim brought up his books the old man would wince and change the subject. Jim became jealous of the encouragement that his grandfather lavished on their guests. Jason McGuire would work for hours to help writers and artists he'd never met before. Total strangers. But never a word of support for his own grandson. Why? One day Jim determined to find out. He cornered his grandfather while driving him into town to shop for groceries. "How come you don't like the books I write?" Grandpa looked away. The truck was driving by Horton's farm. A herd of cattle was grazing in a depression. On a hill apart from the herd a calf suckled at its mother's teats. Light morning drizzle formed droplets on the front windshield. While Jim concentrated on the road ahead of him Grandpa McGuire turned his head, fixing his gaze on the cow and calf. Word around town was that Ed Horton was strapped for cash. These beef cattle would all be heading for the slaughterhouse soon. As the truck turned the corner at Fulsom Creek the cattle faded from sight. "Look," insisted Jim, "I know they weren't Pulitzer prize- winners but they were good enough to publish. Weren't best sellers but they weren't a total bust either. Fifty thousand copies isn't anything to sneeze at, you know. And the second one sold seventy thousand copies. Morley reviewed 'em. He didn't pan them. I made a lot of money from those books. Bought this truck. So how come you don't like them?" For a moment the old man said nothing. "What else did Mr. Morley say about your books?" asked the senior McGuire. During a visit to the McGuires' the critic had been less laudatory about Jim's work. After a few drinks Morley had characterized the books as "steamy trash novels read by lonely women in the privacy of their bedrooms". "These books aren't literature," Morley had scoffed, "they're cliterature." Jim bit his lip at the memory of this rebuke. "And you agree with him?" Jim asked his grandfather. "There are other things to write about," observed the elder McGuire. "Other things that need to be said." "Look," countered Jim, "I know you'd prefer that I write about peace, the environment, social responsibility and justice. Like your friends do. Politically correct shit. But that stuff doesn't sell. People don't want to read that bullshit. It's boring. I'm not Reverend Carter, you know. People don't pay money for me to preach to them. That's a fact of life. And, besides, this is the only kind of book that I can write. I'm a hack writer. That's the simple truth. I accept it. Why can't you?" Grandpa McGuire stared down at his feet. He shook his head. His voice betrayed a deep sadness as he spoke. "I've done a very poor job of preparing you." Jim threw up his hands in exasperation. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Prepare me for what?" The septuagenarian looked up, peering blankly out the front windshield. "For what is to come..." Jim clenched his hands around the steering wheel. He hated when his grandfather came up with these mysterious edicts. He knew that there was nothing to gain by pursuing the subject. Grandpa would only stare wanly off into the distance and ignore him. The two men finished the trip into town without further conversation. On the way home Grandpa McGuire began telling Jim the old story about the dragon and the knight. Jim couldn't believe it! He'd heard this allegory a hundred times! He'd never understood it and couldn't comprehend why the old man insisted on retelling it time and time again. "Once upon a time," started Jason McGuire, "an evil dragon captured a beautiful princess and imprisoned her in its cave. The townspeople were too frightened to fight the dragon. But intimidation doesn't work on those that history remembers. One brave knight took up arms against the dragon. The knight took his lance and sword, jumped up on his trusty steed and rode into combat. "The fighting raged on for days and nights that turned into months and years. During this time some townspeople prospered, supplying the brave knight with armour and weapons. The knight sold his castle and property to buy these arms. But his descent into poverty did not dissuade the brave fighter. On and on he fought. Unfortunately, the battle was not going well for the valiant knight. The dragon's fiery breath had singed his skin. Its claws had torn his flesh away. The dragon's powerful tail had broken the knight's arm and leg. Still, despite imminent defeat, the man struggled on in battle after battle. "It was at this point that the dragon made a fatal mistake. The dragon had always lived with the fear that the townspeople would someday unite against it. Cowards fear courage most, you know. Now that the dragon had all but vanquished the knight, overconfidence struck. The dragon resented the townspeople who had supplied the knight with arms. In a fit of anger the dragon lashed out with his tail, killing many town residents. The townspeople were enraged. They took up arms beside the knight. Together, they surrounded the dragon and, after a pitched and bloody skirmish, slew their enemy. "There was much exuberance among the townspeople. Celebration went on for weeks. There was singing, dancing and drinking. The people claimed a great victory, sharing little credit with the tattered knight who had lead them into the final battle. Great tales were told of the heroism shown by various town residents. Little mention of the knight's contribution. And there was no discussion of compensating the impoverished knight. "In a speech to the townspeople the knight had some back- handed praise for his allies: `I never doubted your courage as victory bells chimed, so don't curse me for wishing it were all better timed.' "With that the knight retired from the revelry. Months later he died in obscurity. "In the heat of battle and the jubilation of triumph, however, everyone forgot about the princess. For decades the people could hear her chains rattling through the night air. If one listened carefully--very carefully--on quiet nights they could hear her cry: `SVAH-BOH-OH-OH-OH-OH-DAH. SVAH-BOH-OH-OH- OH-OH-DAH. SVAH-BOH-OH-OH-OH-OH-DAH'." Jim rolled his eyes in gratitude at the completion of the fable. "Grandpa," he complained, "you've been telling me that same silly story since I was a kid. I didn't understand it then and I don't understand it now. Why don't you just tell me the moral of the story and let it go at that?" "Jim, these `silly stories', as you call them, are the legacy of your family. They have been passed on from generation to generation, updated periodically to suit the times. My mother told me these stories, just as her father had told them to her. As for their meaning, that is for you to determine. You give them your own understanding. And pass them on to your daughter, to keep the legacy alive." "Grandpa, Sarah and I have been divorced for a year now. I don't see Margaret. When and if I do I'm certainly not going to waste our precious time together telling her a bunch of silly fables. Who do you think I am, Aesop? And besides, what if Margaret asks me what these stories all mean? I'll look like a moron!" "Jim," responded Grandpa McGuire, "I don't mind looking like a moron telling you these stories." Jim tried to defuse the situation with an apology. He hadn't meant to imply that his grandfather looked foolish. He simply didn't agree with the value of this "legacy" to his daughter. After all, Sarah and Margaret had their own lives now. Separate from Jim and his grandfather. They'd even changed their names back to Flynn, Sarah's maiden name. Jim's divorce was a sore subject between the two men. Jason McGuire had done everything in his power to keep the couple together. Sarah and he had always got along well. He had always cherished his granddaughter and treated her like a precious china doll. In the final months of the marriage he had pleaded with the couple to give it one more chance. Unfortunately, this begging was counterproductive. Jim blamed Sarah for "forcing" Grandpa McGuire to humiliate himself. Sarah felt caught between the two McGuire men. Jim remembered the long nights that his grandfather had spent playing marriage counsellor during this time. Often the old man would take Jim aside and expound about the differences between men and women in general. "You know, Jim, men and women approach things from very different perspectives. Men start with the presumption that characteristics are permanent while relationships are temporary. We don't say that such-and-such a person is *acting* like a jackass. We say that the person *is* a jackass. Permanent trait. But relationships? Well, friends come and friends go. And the idea that people fall out of love seems to be a uniquely male concept. "It's been my experience that women look at things differently. They start with the presumption that characteristics are temporary, relationships permanent. They are much quicker to forgive misbehaviour, saying that such-and-such a person is merely `in a bad mood'. Very temporary. Maybe this is why women stay with abusive husbands. They presume that the behaviour is temporary and hope--however forlorn this hope may be--that it will improve. But relationships, especially ones involving love, are permanent. To a woman love is forever. Falling out of love makes little sense to them. They figure that if you fall out of love you were never in love in the first place. Love is forever. If it doesn't last, it wasn't love. "For men, love is a room with only one door. We move in and out of it with complete freedom. But one thing is worth noting: with only one door a man must exit the same way he entered. We usually aren't even aware of what made us fall in love. It may be something obvious: her personality, her sense of humour, maybe even her good looks. More often, though, it's something very subtle. So subtle we don't even know what it is. Maybe it's the way she tilts her head or the way she walks. Maybe her perfume reminds us of some pleasant moment in our childhood. "But the perfume wears off. Mannerisms change. Over time, our perception changes, too. We begin to view their pride as arrogance. Their appreciation of our gifts becomes greed. The idealism that once drew us to them now seems to manifest itself in nagging. So even when women *don't* change *our view of them does*. "We see them as perfect madonnas. Angels. And we expect them to remain perfect. If they change we feel betrayed. Cheated. It's as if we feel that they've broken some unspoken contract. "For women, love is a room with no doors or windows. No one knows how they got there and no one dreams of a way out. It is a much slower and more arduous process, a woman falling in love. What is really tragic is that often the man has already fallen *out* of love by the time his partner has fallen *in* love. Ironic, isn't it? And there is another tragic irony: while the man hopes that his wife never changes, the woman often hopes to refine her husband. Smooth out some of the rough edges. Remember their premise: characteristics are temporary. Malleable. But men don't change. Men see change as a sign of weakness. An admission that their old self was flawed and in need of improvement. Meanwhile, the woman changes from moment to moment. Day to day. Year to year, as she matures. So both sides approach the other with unrealistic expectations." Jim squirmed as he listened to this pedantic preamble. "But what does this have to do with Sarah and me?" "You know, we men are always ready to admit that we don't understand women. `Women!' we say, `Who can figger 'em?' Women, on the other hand, understand us too quickly. `Men are only interested in one thing', they say. End of discussion. In fact, women don't seem to understand us any better than we understand them. This isn't surprising. We don't talk much. Especially about the way we feel. A woman asks `How do you *feel* about such-and-such?' Men ask `So what do you *think*?' Women would have a very difficult time imagining what it would be like if feelings were a taboo subject. How would they test their friendships? How would they test intimacy? Over the centuries we men have devised very subtle ways of determining these things. We men don't like public displays of affection--especially towards other men. So how do we know who our friends are? Women talk about their feelings with their friends; the more intimate the discussion, the more intimate their friendship. Easy. Direct. Not so with men. We have a much more complicated formula. We start by swearing." "Swearing?" asked Jim incredulously. "Yeah. Cursing. Two men meeting each other for the first time do not use foul language. As they develop a friendship the language becomes more colourful. That's their first test. The second is teasing. Insults. We have a certain `smile-when-you- say-that' mechanism. We insult our friends. If they take offence they fail the test. But if they're our friends they laugh, punch us playfully on the shoulder and tell us to `fuck off'. All very structured. Ritualized. Very predictable. "You know, women think that men sit around locker rooms all the time, talking about sex. Men never talk about sex. We may joke about it. Brag about it. Lie about it. We *never* talk about it." Grandpa was quiet for a moment. Jim imagined that he was missing some cue. Was Jim supposed to say something here? He remained quiet. "Women don't make very good men," continued the old man, taking up the slack in the conversation. "They cry. We figure that men who cry are wimps. Women don't tend to like watching sports. And they don't reduce things down to a sport. Work, politics, sex, money; all games to us. There's rules, risks, rewards, strategies. It makes our lives fun. Keeps us occupied." Jim was taken aback. Had his grandfather actually used the word "wimps"? "Of course, men don't make very good women, either. Some women consider us `amateur human beings'. We're all amateurs, really. Men and women. At getting along with each other, I mean. "Women and men have different speech patterns. You know, women and men both value efficiency in speech but they *define* efficiency differently. To women, efficient speech involves packing all their feelings and thoughts into a conversation, leaving nothing out. Women occupy a conversation, like an invading army. We men speak like hit-and-run guerrillas. Be concise. Say it as briefly as possible, then shut up. Say what you know, forget how you feel. That's our idea of efficiency. And maybe that's why the two genders are so often `out of sync' with each other. "Women use different words than we do. A whole different vocabulary. Words like `communicate', `relationship' and `commitment'. Commitment. Makes falling in love sound like being confined to an asylum. No wonder they call marriage an `institution'!" Jim snickered. Then a thought struck him: if Sarah and Margaret moved away he'd never have a chance to have such a conversation with his daughter. Jim didn't chuckle for long. "Ever notice how women always want to talk about their relationship? Sort of like a State of the Union address. We men don't understand this. After all, nothing much has changed. What's there to discuss? Ever watch that old TV show, `The Love Boat'? Ha! If love really were a boat women would dry dock it every half hour for inspection. Men would sail it until it sank!" Jim didn't laugh. He was still thinking about Margaret. "I remember talking to a young actress. Very pretty girl. Said she didn't go out much, though. Said that men only liked her for her body. Sex. I told her to think of the future; in another twenty years the men might not even want her for that!" "I'm sorry, you lost me." "I didn't mean to be cruel. I said I was sure that there were many unattractive women who would envy her. I told her that in order to be liked for more than her looks she would have to present more to the world. And another thing: why was she so focused on what her boyfriends wanted? What did *she* want? And what was staying home alone going to accomplish?" "Did this advice help her?" asked Jim. "I like to think so," answered Jason. "What happened to her?" "She married a very lucky man and gave birth to a beautiful daughter," explained the old man as he smiled and ran his hand across Jim's head. "And the daughter presented them with a wonderful grandson." The talk had its desired effect. Sarah and Jim reconciled their differences. For a month or so the two had a "second honeymoon". They talked like strangers. They played like children. And made love like tigers, desperate for a moment's contact, always knowing how short the mating season might be. The spell didn't last. The second wind died out. Jim retired to his den and wrote his second novel. One day he emerged to find Sarah and Margaret gone. No note, no fight, no explanation. Two weeks later a phone call from Sarah in New York City. Would he send her the rest of her clothes? Sure. Thanks. Well, take care of yourself, Jim. Bye, Sarah. Call me if you need anything. Jim and his grandfather never discussed the marriage again. In fact, the two men didn't discuss much of anything any more. Grandpa McGuire entertained his guests. Jim stayed in his den, reading books for Stork and watching television. The only time the two men spoke was when Jim drove his grandfather somewhere. Occasionally the old man would go on what he called "an adventure". Jim would have to drive him east to the capital or some other city in order to fight for one cause or another. Jim remembered the trip to Chicago. A group of Neo-Nazis were petitioning the city for a permit to march through Skokie--a largely Jewish community. Grandpa had pulled some strings in order to address the city subcommittee that was considering the application. "Neo-Nazis!" laughed the old man. "As if there were anything new about Nazism!" Jim remained silent as he swung the truck onto the Interstate. With four lanes and a speed limit of 65 miles per hour the driving would be much easier now. "I know what you're thinking, Jim," stated Jason. "Oh? And what is that?" "You're wondering why we're driving 800 miles just to argue this silly issue with a bunch of city slickers. Why don't we just let these people sort this out for themselves? That's what you're thinking, isn't it?" "Something like that," conceded Jim. "And you know what? You're right! It is silly. It's silly that in this day and age we still have Nazis. It's silly that we're actually debating this issue. You're absolutely right." Jim looked over at his grandfather. Should he turn the truck around and head back home? "I can't believe that in this day and age we're actually arguing about this," repeated the septuagenarian. Jim remained quiet, waiting for Grandpa to tell him to turn the truck around. But Grandpa simply giggled. "Listen!" said the elder McGuire, "Can you hear them? Can you hear them, Jim?" "Hear who?" "Our descendants," Jason explained. "Our descendants. I can hear them laughing at us." Jim rolled his eyes. Was Grandpa off on another one of his diatribes? Better cut him off at the pass. "Gramps, you know there will be a lot of people there to make the same argument you're planning to make. Some of your friends are going. Cohen. Stevens. Sinclair and Markham too, I think. All of them are going to argue against the permit. Maybe we won't be needed..." Jason's head snapped back. His eyes bulged out as he looked at his grandson. "Jim," he said in a shocked whisper, "you don't think I'm going to argue *against* the permit, do you?" The two men rented a motel just off the I-94. It was one of those cheap fleabags with an air conditioner that sounded like a jet engine. Turn off the air conditioner and the ninety degree heat strikes you like a blow dryer. Jim turned on the unit and recoiled at the noise. "Jesus!" he screamed as he turned it off, "Hiroshima was quieter!" "And cooler," added Grandpa McGuire. Jim crawled into his bed and muttered about sleeping in hell. Grandpa turned the air conditioner back on, walked over to Jim and handed him a pair of ear plugs. "I've slept in these places before," he explained. When Jim woke up he found his grandfather showered, shaved and dressed in the old man's favourite tuxedo. Black slacks. White shirt. Black shoes. Grey socks. But did he have to wear that insufferable pink bow tie? "I'm sorry, Jim. Did my singing in the shower wake you?" "No. It was the glare off that damned bow tie of yours." Jim hoisted himself up and groped his way to the bathroom. Not thinking clearly yet, Jim stood under the nozzle while he turned on the shower. "Suffering snailshit!" he bellowed as he jumped out of the stall. "Did you use up all the hot water?" "No," shouted his grandfather, "they've labelled the taps wrong." "Figgers." Jim re-entered the stall, adjusted the taps and stood under the downpour. At least water pressure wasn't a problem; water flew out of the showerhead like a shotgun blast. Jim was staggered by the force of it. "Christ!" he complained, "Now I know how Bonnie and Clyde must've felt." Jim's greatest tribulation was ahead of him. He still hadn't braved the motel's breakfast diner. "Couldn't we go to the Golden Arches?" he asked. It was a rhetorical question. Grandpa wouldn't hear of it. Something about recycling efforts. Too much styrofoam. And the food didn't taste much different from the containers, the old man argued. "And this garbage is better?" asked Jim, staring down at his plate. "This is used food. Looks like a prop from `The Exorcist'." "Think of it as a challenge, Jim." Jim tried the coffee. "Oh fuck!" he moaned. "They had better stuff to drink at Jonestown!" Jason ate his breakfast with resignation. And a lot of catsup. Jim balked, glaring down at the meal in front of him. "This reminds me," he said, looking up at his grandfather, "did we remember to flush the toilet in our room?" The subcommittee met in a small auditorium at City Hall. Obviously, the officials had not anticipated that so many concerned citizens and reporters would jam into this room for these hearings. There were enough people packed into it to film a deodorant commercial. Rabbis and Skokie residents lined up against skinheads and uniformed Neo-Nazis. The American Civil Liberties Union had representatives present. Libertarians and Holocaust survivors spoke eloquently for both sides. Neo-Nazis and frightened locals spoke much less eloquently for and against the granting of the permit. Then it was Jason McGuire's turn. Jim watched as his grandfather adjusted his tie and buttoned up his tuxedo coat. The senior McGuire cleared his throat as he stepped up to the microphone. Jim remembered the speech verbatim. "I'd like to thank the committee members for giving me this opportunity to speak. This is a very serious issue which we are considering. Few of us here agree with what the petitioners stand for. I certainly don't. But what do we lose if we deny them their right to speak? Do we not lose our own respect for that right? Will we redefine free speech to include only those thoughts that we happen to agree with? Only those thoughts that don't offend us? I wonder if our forefathers arguing for democracy didn't offend the established order of their time. I wonder if abolitionists didn't offend. I wonder if suffragettes didn't offend. I wonder if certain religious figures didn't offend. Didn't Galileo offend?" Jason McGuire was beginning to lose some of his audience. People began to shift in their chairs. They'd heard this type of posturing before. The background noise level in the room rose. "What would we hope to accomplish by denying these radicals the right to express themselves? Are we naive enough to think they will go away? Fade into the woodwork? Or should we fear that, denied the ability to speak their views, they may see no alternative but to act upon them?" Reporters sat uncomfortably, staring blankly into space. Committee members shuffled their papers. People in the audience turned to each other and began talking. Jason saw this and took quick action, shifting gears without warning. "I'm afraid of snakes," said the old man, opening his jacket as he spoke. Snakes? What was this about snakes? Did he say something about snakes? The audience hushed immediately. What was this foolish old man prattling about? "But I'm not quite so afraid of snakes when I know where they are," continued the man in the tux. Yes, he was talking about snakes. The audience reacted like sharks sensing blood, anxious to see someone humiliate himself in public. Quiet! Let me hear this idiot speak! "That is why most poisonous snakes on this continent have rattles--to warn us of their whereabouts. We can cut off their tails to stop the noise. But a rattlesnake without a tail is still a rattler, no less poisonous. And it won't be inclined to go away. The only difference is that now we won't know where the danger is. We may even trick ourselves into thinking that it no longer exists." Without another word Grandpa McGuire left the room. The audience sat stunned for a moment. Then sporadic clapping broke out, starting with some of the ACLU members. Onlookers cheered. Opponents of the permit sat silent. Many of the petitioners--too stupid to understand that they'd been insulted--stomped their feet in excited approval. Jim caught up with his grandfather in the truck. "Great speech, Gramps," he congratulated. "The ending was a bit abrupt, but that's your style. You were never big on goodbyes." The same was true when the old one died. He uttered no final words. He wrote no autobiography. He did not even leave a Last Will and Testament. He was never big on goodbyes. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * In the Shade * * * * CHAPTER III: Phoenix Son * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It was more than a year since Grandpa McGuire had died. Three years since the divorce. Occasionally some of Grandpa's friends would drop by "to see how Jim was making out". This was a thin pretence. Usually they were desperate for refuge against agents, debtors, fans and/or the law. Some were curious to see if Jim was continuing the open house policy of his grandfather. Jim tried to be a gracious host. No one was turned away. He would greet them at the door, lead them to the living room, fetch them a cold drink and begin polite chit-chat. How have you been? Oh, fine. How long has it been since we've seen you? Has it really been that long? Eventually the guests would yawn or glance at their watches and say "It's getting late..." Jim lacked the empathy and charisma of his grandfather. He couldn't keep an audience spellbound. He hadn't inherited Grandpa McGuire's ability to open heart and hearth to acquaintances. After a day or two the guests would leave. None of them ever returned. Jim hadn't written a word since the funeral. He still did some reading and editing for Stork. The bills had to be paid. Only now was he beginning to appreciate the inspiration that his grandfather had been. It wasn't that Jim used his grandfather's story lines. He considered them silly allegories with no popular appeal; no "bad guys", sex or violence. What Jim missed was experiencing Grandpa's ability to hold an audience spellbound with those diatribes and parables. If only *he* could hold such sway over an audience! If only people paid the same fascinated attention to *him* that they had to Grandpa. Even if it were an audience of one. Sarah, perhaps. Or Margaret. Without Jason's story-telling to draw upon the younger McGuire floundered. What was there to write about? And what was the point? The world had far more hack writers than it needed. "I heard a feminist woman say that men are useless," Grandpa had said shortly after the departure of Sarah and Margaret. "She didn't know how right she was. We *are* useless. Superfluous. And what's worse: we know it. When the ships go down it's women and children first. We used to have wars to get rid of `excess' men. Pacifism became popular only when war got too messy; when too many women and children were killed. We're hardly needed for procreation; the population actually booms after a war has killed off half the men. In the family the father is a luxury--a luxury that fewer and fewer families are affording these days." "So what's the point?" Jim had asked. "We don't always miss the things we need. It's like being deficient in a vitamin. Time goes by, our condition slowly gets worse. So slowly we hardly notice it. I've heard of an experiment some psychologists conducted. They put a frog in a pot with some water. They began heating it up. The frog simply adjusted his body temperature. As the water got hotter and hotter the frog continued to accomodate. Eventually, the frog boiled to death without ever trying to jump out of the pot. "We men get separated from our families and we never really understand how much we miss them. We forget how nice it was to be part of a family. We adjust too easily. Too well. Like the frog. "We never consciously voice it but we know, in the back of our minds, that we're...expendable. Unnecessary. Extra. Is it any wonder why we drive fast cars, play dangerous sports, smoke, drink, start wars and look around for other suicides? You know, we men take great pride in the fact that we're not afraid of dying. Sometimes I wonder if we aren't afraid of...*living*." Jim hadn't fully comprehended this sermon when he'd first heard it. But now that he was alone Jim began to understand what "unnecessary" meant. Sarah and Margaret didn't need him. Sarah had a good job selling computer software. Didn't even need child support. Knowing his circumstances she had told him not to bother sending money. Something about "shipping coal to Newcastle". Jim was more than proud of Sarah. He was envious of her. Sarah was *alive*. Jim was entombed in this cabin, lost in the northern wastelands. Sarah had her friends on the coast. Parties. Gatherings. Jim had only Bernice, his St. Bernard. And Sarah had little Margaret. Sarah would continue to play an integral role in raising their daughter. Sarah was part of a process that stretched back to the beginning of humankind and forward to its ultimate destiny. It was something primordial. Perpetuating the species. Sarah's role was important. She was needed. In every sense of the word Sarah was vital. Little Margaret would be starting grade one in a couple of weeks. Margaret was a survivor. She would do well with or without a father figure around. Jim sat in front of his blank computer screen. He had the best hardware and software that money could buy. His system had excellent word processing, style checking, text searching and print spooling programs. The computer itself was state-of-the- art for that era: a 60 Megahertz 80486-DX with 128K cache memory, eight Megabtyes of Random Access Memory, Super VGA colour monitor and a 426 Megabyte hard disk drive boasting a fast 9 millisecond access time. With a 14,400 baud fax-modem Jim could use his phone line to exchange manuscripts and revisions with Stork. At 17 pages per minute his laser printer could produce documents in seconds. Facing $20,000 worth of computer equipment Jim could not produce a single word. After an hour the screen was still blank. Jim swung clockwise 180 degrees in his leather swivel chair. He stopped as he faced the east wall of his den. Shelves of old books--mostly Grandpa's--stretched from floor to ceiling along this entire wall. Perhaps, if he read for a while, an idea might come to him. Sure. Read a little Vonnegut, some Voltaire, a dash of Kirouac and a sprinkle of St. Exupery. Jim shook his head in disgust. What would come out of such a combination? Mutant Princes from Mars? A restless feeling overcame him. If only he could write a best seller! To be free of money worries! He could set up a trust fund for Margaret. Wouldn't have to sit here like a fool wishing that his computer could write books for him. He could assert that his grandfather hadn't wasted his time raising him. He would be able to demonstrate that, at one time, a man named Jim McGuire had passed this way. These things were important to him now. Jim could deal with the feelings of uselessness. That was part of being male. He could handle the loneliness. After all, he had Bernice the St. Bernard with him. At least Bernice would never leave him. It was cold comfort to know that even Grandpa had suffered from loneliness. Jim's grandmother, Mattie, had died when Jim was only seven. Jim didn't remember her very well. But he remembered how disconsolate his grandfather was without her. "Jim, do you know what a taboo is?" Grandpa asked a few days after Grandma's funeral. The young boy shook his head. "Do you remember last week when you couldn't sleep because you were afraid of the boogie man? Remember how you didn't want to tell me that you were afraid of the boogie man?" Jim nodded. "You knew that the boogie man doesn't really exist, didn't you?" Again the boy nodded his head. "A taboo is like the boogie man. It's something people won't talk about. We know we shouldn't be afraid. But, in fact, we're so afraid of it that we refuse to even talk about it. "You know, we used to have lots of taboos. Boogie men. Death. Guilt. Even love! Lots of taboos." "But we can talk about those things now, can't we?" Jim asked. "Yes, we can. But there's one taboo left. One of the boogie men still survives." "Which one is that Grampa?" "Loneliness. You know, it's almost funny. We can talk about anything. We can admit to anything. On the talk shows we see people admitting to murder, abuse, theft, anything. But we can't talk about loneliness. And loneliness isn't even a crime! The worst of it is that the lonely usually don't even have anyone to tell it to." "Are you lonely, Grandpa?" The elder McGuire nodded. "Maybe it's never been said by one human being to another. But I'm telling you, Jim: I am lonely." Jim remembered how he had felt at that moment. Even a seven year old knows that loneliness comes from being alone. Grandpa had Jim there but considered himself alone. It was as if Jim didn't exist. The Invisible Child. With Grandpa, Sarah and Margaret gone, Jim felt that way again. But worse than these feelings of isolation and insignificance was the feeling of powerlessness. Grandpa had felt powerless too. A few months before he died the old man sat motionless on the living room couch, staring blankly at the coffee table in front of him. "Something wrong?" Jim had asked. Grandpa McGuire did not respond. "Gramps!" shouted Jim as he snapped his fingers in front of his grandfather's face. "Earth to Grandpa. Is there anything wrong?" "Yes," replied the septuagenarian, "very much so." Jim waited patiently for further disclosure. Grandpa had recently been diagnosed as having Alzheimer's. His speech was slower now and his memory lapsed at times. This was one of his last fully lucid moments. "Jimmy, when we were young we thought we were gods. Invincible. Many of my friends went off to war in Europe and Asia. Some didn't make it back. Must have been a shock to them; they all thought they were invincible. And powerful. Thought we could change the world ourselves. We even thought we had magical powers. Used to yell at the television set, trying to direct the football players. At the bowling alleys...we'd twist and yell at the ball. Thought we could change its course after we'd thrown it. Used to judge everyone all the time. Like God on Judgement Day. Hard to figure the world was here before us. Hard to figure it would be here after we die. Used to get angry when people wouldn't do what we wanted 'em to do. Didn't make sense. "Yes, Jim, we were gods. Invincible. Immortal. Always sitting in judgement. Gods on a planet full of gods!" Jim squinted his eyes as he tried to keep up with his grandfather. "But now that I'm old I know how mortal I am. And I'm not so judgmental. The world was here before me and will get along fine without me. At last, I'm human!" "Of course you're human." "That's right. I'm not...all-powerful. Not all-knowing. I'm human. And so is everyone else, although they may be too young to know it yet. That's what this is all about. That's what all of this bullshit is all about." The elder McGuire was excited; his voice was stronger, his words were rushed and he was using a word like "bullshit". For this one last moment in the sun Jim got to see the old Jason McGuire. "What `bullshit' is that, Gramps?" "Life. Conflict. Self-examination. Philosophy. Humanity. Fate. Everything. Don't you see? We're all gods, becoming human! And until all of the gods become human we humans must protect them. We have to remind the gods of their humanity, even if they choose to ignore it. We have to see that they live long enough to discover their own mortality. Their own humanity. "And to do this we humans must draw strength from our own weakness." Jim remembered a time when he himself felt this way. In fact, on that occasion he too collapsed on the couch and stared blankly at the wall. Then it was Jason's turn to ask what was wrong. Jim had been very slow to reply. His eyes were moist and his voice was unsteady. Grandpa had caught him at a very bad moment. "I just got back from town," he began. "I saw Debbie Morrison on Molte Street. You know her. She was in my high school class. She lost her job when Siberry's went mobile." Siberry's had been a manufacturer of designer jeans. It had been the largest employer around Gopher Brook. When the union contract had come up for renewal the company demanded pay concessions. The union refused so the company simply packed up and moved elsewhere. "Going mobile" was a very common practice in the conservative 1980's. Many companies, large and small, took advantage of freer international trade to go overseas. Others, like Siberry's, simply moved on to the next town down the road. Siberry's made a big fuss about being "forced" to close down because of "unreasonable union demands". A week later, under a new name, the company with its same equipment and owners moved 200 miles west to Busterton. A simple change of address and name became a powerful union-busting weapon. "Debbie's husband left her a few years ago. She's got two kids. Living on welfare. When I ran into them on Molte they were trying to sell their furniture at Muldoon's Second Hand Store. A thirty five year old woman and two kids carrying a bed down Molte Street. Nice life! "I stopped her and asked if I could help. She didn't say anything. She was embarrassed. Friends shouldn't be embarrassed like that. Eventually she said that she could manage. I asked her if she needed anything. She just shook her head. Friends shouldn't have to lie like that. "I don't mind telling you that I felt like a piece of dogshit on that sidewalk. And it wasn't just her I felt sorry for. I mean, there was so little I could do. And what's worse, I was doing even less than I could. I sit here killing time, reading and writing shit, while Debbie Morrison is selling her bed on Molte Street." Jim was not the only one wiping tears from his eyes. "Pretty shitty," concluded Jim. But he always remembered what his grandfather said next. "The situation is, as you say, `shitty'. But there is something wonderful here." "Wonderful? And what the hell might that be?" "This is a very proud moment. Today, my grandson became a man." "Grandpa, I'm 39, for God's sake. I've been married. Got a daughter--" Jason stopped him with a wave of his hand. "I remember the day you graduated from high school. You looked down from the stage at me. I knew what you thinking then. You were thinking: `Today I am a man.' I know. That's how I felt the day I graduated. You felt the same way when you graduated from college. I remember the day you married Sarah. You looked at me that same way, as if to say: `Well, today, surely, I am a man.' And I remember the way you looked when you brought Margaret home from the hospital. "But today is the day that my grandson became a man. I'm very proud of you." Jim could never hope to understand his grandfather. But he was elated by the fact that this was the one and only time that Grandpa had ever said those words: "I'm very proud of you." Sitting alone in his writer's garret, struggling with his literary impotence, Jim did not feel elated. He couldn't bring Grandpa back. Hell, he couldn't even bring Sarah and Margaret back--and they were still alive. He couldn't force the world to buy his next book. He couldn't even force himself to write the damned thing! Jim stood up. Clearly, he was not going to produce anything worthwhile this morning. With his toe he hit the switch on the power supply to his computer. The morning sun filtering through Venetian blinds warmed his back as he crossed the living room. Indian summer. Late October usually had the residents of Gopher Brook shivering with cold and fear of snow. The walls of the house's main room were alive with native North American paraphernalia: a huge, gawdy mask, a ceremonial spear and a blood-stained buckskin shirt stretched across the west wall. The wall that divided living room and den sported another mask, shaman's rattles and ochre-stained cooking utensils. All of this was the legacy of his grandfather. Grandpa McGuire had been fascinated by these artifacts. Native archeology, sociology and history had always interested him. English was a second language in the McGuire household. Jason had taught his grandson what he called "the Language Of Our People". Jim refered to it as "LOOP" and assumed that it was a native American dialect. After all, Jason was one quarter native himself. Jim remembered when, as a child, he had been taken to various native meetings. "Pow-wows". He had always felt awkward there. These gatherings were not well attended by other non- indigenous people. Little Jim had been intimidated by the sea of red-skinned faces evaluating him. These faces stared blankly at him whenever he tried to communicate in LOOP. Perhaps it wasn't a native language, after all. Maybe it was Gaelic. Grandpa, on the other hand, felt at home at these outings. Jim remembered the time they attended a meeting of the Iroquois nations. The various tribes had met to discuss self-government. Some had argued that native groups should establish independence. Others feared abandoning the patronage of the federal government. Much to everyone's amazement the grand council solicited Grandpa's opinion. The old man addressed the leader of the independence faction. "Is your brother your brother?" Grandpa asked. "Of course!" was the reply. Grandpa then turned to the leader of the federalists. "Are you your brother?" "Of course not!" came the answer. "You need only remember that," Grandpa concluded quietly. The chief elder of the council smiled. He praised Grandpa's wisdom. Jim watched as the council decided to "correct an accident of birth", conferring honorary Iroquois status on Grandpa McGuire. Hearing that this honour would also extend to his offspring unsettled Jim. Caucasian boys of his age were generally more comfortable as cowboys than "Indians". Over the years that followed Grandpa was inducted into three more tribes: Hopi, Huron and Cree. He struggled for recognition of native rights in South American and Canadian parliaments and in the offices of the U.S. Congress. The old man got his nickname "White Owl" not from the natives but from a Canadian Minister of Indian Affairs who had more dealings with Grandpa than either man might have liked. Jim's thoughts returned to the task at hand. Where was the television remote control? Must be under all of this rubble on the coffee table. Pizza boxes, beer cans, papers, TV guides and place mats. Start by shaking all the pizza boxes. Open the ones that rattle. Nothing but mouldy crusts. Rustle the beer cans and shake the place mats. No luck. Drastic measures may be unavoidable. He may actually have to--gasp!--*clean up*. Wait a minute! There it was! Under the couch. Must have dropped it there when he'd fallen asleep last night watching CNN. The previous night's program had been about the media's role in the fight against drug use. CNN's contribution to the struggle has been the irradication of any need for barbituates. Click! The television sprang to life at the touch of the remote switch. CNN again. Some nonsense about this year's boogey man. Gaddafi, Hussein, Castro, Idi Amin, Ceaucescue. Whoever. The names where interchangeable. The stories remained the same. Another murderous tyrant who wouldn't buy arms from North America. Certainly not to be confused with Batista, Pinochet, Somoza or the Shah of Iran. Ten o'clock in the morning. Time to eat. Eating earlier than 10:00 A.M. was unthinkable. "It's like tomahawking your stomach," Jim would say. The McGuire "manor" did not distinguish between kitchen and living room. The refrigerator was placed conveniently beside the leather sofa. Behind this divan was a small preparation table with a toaster and microwave. There were two cupboards beneath the table: one for dishes, one for food. Utensils could be found in drawers between these cupboards and the table top. Jim opened the food cupboard. Empty. Not a crumb. "Jesus!" thought Jim, "This makes Mother Hubbard look like a hoarder!" One of these days he'd have to go into town and do some serious grocery shopping. Come to think of it, Christmas was coming soon. He'd have to do some gift shopping for Sarah and Margaret. What does one buy for a 6 year old girl? Jim's stomach growled: "Forget Christmas! Feed me! FEED ME!" Jim's digestive tract had learned to speak from watching "Little Shop of Horrors". Jim skipped around the sofa and opened the refrigerator. What have we here? Hmm, typical bachelor fare. Beer and cheesecake. "Breakfast of champions", he muttered. Cherry or blueberry cheesecake? Decisions, decisions. Blueberry seemed more appropriate to his mood. So blueberry it would be. Jim couldn't remember shopping for this cheesecake. It could've been there since the Big Bang for all he knew. Another decision: should he microwave it to destroy the germs? Jim pondered the questions for a moment. He came up with three reasons not to mike his dinner. For one, there wasn't any visible mould growing on it. Secondly, bacteria was the closest thing to culture found in Gopher Brook; why kill it? Thirdly, the beer had fermented; why shouldn't the cheesecake? As he tasted it Jim felt vindicated by his thoughtful choice. The "aging" process had given the cheesecake a unique, full-bodied aftertaste. "I'm a genius," he told himself. As he lay on the couch he opened his bottle of beer against the edge of the coffee table. Jim prided himself on never drinking beer out of a can. He was a slob, not a boor. CNN was showing the President of the United States railing against the proliferation of nuclear arms in smaller, non-aligned countries. "Harrumph!", grunted Jim. "That's like the Boston Strangler calling the Boston Red Sox `chokers'." As Jim finished his breakfast the President was calling for support in a war against the latest prospective nuclear power. Jim scowled. The guest seemed to suggest that the answer to nuclear weapons was conventional warfare. "It is true that there is a distinction between American republican and British parliamentary democracies," his grandfather had once argued. "The British have an intrinsic faith in government. They see it as benign at worst, protective at best. That's why socialism thrives there and not in America. But people in the States rebelled against that very government. Americans tend to view government as a hostile and intrusive entity. Hence, the War of Independence, the right to bear arms, the Wild West, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. And, since government is seen as an adversary, people in America tend to elect very mediocre Presidents. Men incapable of competently actualizing all of the malicious and invasive intentions ascribed to governments. No stuffy intellectuals in the White House, please. That's why, while parliamentary democracies elected Churchills, Trudeaus and, yes, Hitlers, Americans voted in Bushes, Reagans and Nixons. Some might describe the latter three as evil. No one has ever called any of them an `evil genius', like Hitler. "Take Nixon, for example. Here was a man who not only bungled the WaterGate cover-up but who actually retained tapes to prove it! What was frightening was the fact that Nixon would have survived the Watergate scandal. His downfall came when people began to perceive him as being too clever. Cunning. Calculating. Nixon's fate was sealed when the public began calling him `Tricky Dicky'. That's the irony. He was forced out of office for the one crime of which he was completely innocent: the unforgiveable `crime' of intelligence!" Jim smiled at the memory. Grandpa McGuire had taught him a unique appreciation of current events. Nothing, however, could make Jim appreciate CNN. With a deft flick of the remote control off switch Jim put himself out of his own misery. Jim carried his dessert dish and fork over to the sink. He took no notice of the crusted china and cutlery stacked there. There were a few clean dishes and utensils left in the cupboard. No need to do a wash yet. After depositing his dish on top of this heap Jim leaned against the counter. What to do now? He strolled over to the VCR and checked the tape. Damn! He'd forgotten to record "Donahue". Now, certainly, there was nothing to do. He wandered outside, letting the screen door slam shut. October was merciful this year. The sky was clear and the sun could still lure bathers out to perfect their tans. Late autumn left the wind scentless. There was no smell of pollen, blooms or harvest in the air. Most would not notice these absences. Jim breathed deeply, knowing that his allergies would not flare up. The last time he'd seen such weather in October was when Sarah, Margaret, Grandpa and he had gone to the coast to visit Sarah's parents, the Flynns. Ten years ago. Mrs. Flynn suggested that the men should rent a boat and do some fishing. Had they ever fished for marlin? No. Brook trout and smelt. But fishing was fishing. It was all the same thing, wasn't it? Sarah's mother smiled and suggested that the McGuires go and find out. Mr. Flynn agreed to tag along. Mr. Flynn was a golfer, not a deep sea fisherman. But he'd been out a few times. Compared to the McGuires Flynn could've played a title role in "The Old Man and the Sea". The threesome went to Walker's Wharf to rent a boat. They didn't anticipate a problem. The proprietor took one look at the McGuires, shook his head and muttered something about "flat- landers" being the worst sort of "landlubbers". A boat? All of the larger boats were already rented out. They would have to take two smaller dories. And a guide. Alright, bring out the guide. Impossible, replied the proprietor. All of the guides were already out for the day. At this impasse Flynn suggested a day on the golf course as an alternative. Walker sighed. His wife could look after the shop and he would accompany them out. He approached this task with the same enthusiasm as one might go to a dentist. Jim marvelled at the tackle. What was this, the anchor? No, groaned Walker, that was their sinker. A sinker? The damned thing must've weighed a hundred pounds! And the fishing pole! It looked more like a telephone pole. Why so large? Walker fitted on the sinker and the reason became obvious. The rod bent almost double under the weight. It was harder to make things sink in salt water, Walker explained, his patience straining with every minute. What was the club for? "You, if you ask any more silly questions!" Walker must have thought. "You'll see," Walker assured him. Old Man Flynn accompanied Jim while Grandpa McGuire went with Walker. This would allow the senior McGuire to mollify Walker while Jim would benefit from the limited experience of Flynn. As soon as the two boats settled in a location Jim stood up. Flynn turned around just in time to see Jim's sinker flying through the air like a wrecking ball, swinging towards his head. "How do you cast with this thing?" shouted Jim as his father-in-law ducked. Walker tried to keep a tight rein on both dories. But after an hour Jim's boat drifted out of earshot. "I've got a bite!" shouted Jim. From the tug on his line he knew it wouldn't be a salmon. A marlin, perhaps? Jim giggled with glee. Flynn had already moved to the farthest end of the boat. He now tried to move even further away. He almost fell overboard in this effort. Walker gasped as he spotted the tell-tale dorsal fins at the end of Jim's line. A shark! "I've got a marlin!" screamed Jim. "Cut the line!" hollered Walker. "It's huge!" exalted Jim. "Cut the line!" Walker bellowed. "I'm reeling him in!" vowed Jim. "CUT THE LINE!" Walker begged. For half an hour Jim fought his prey while Walker tried unsuccessfully to start his motor. Grandpa watched helplessly as Jim struggled to get the six foot shark aboard. Flynn recoiled in terror as Jim landed his quarry. Jim's fish took up the entire dory; both Jim and Old Man Flynn retreated to the gunwale at the front of the boat. Every minute or two Grandpa McGuire could see the shark thrash about and snap in the air. Jim armed himself with the club and batted his catch repeatedly over the head. Neither he nor Flynn could get to the back of the boat to operate the motor. When Walker finally got his motor started he towed the other boat back to the dock. Jim would not be discouraged. He dragged his catch onto the dock and exhibited it. Onlookers gathered around him. This was his finest hour. He couldn't hear the observers commenting about the fool who had not only landed a shark but displayed it so proudly! Walker strode out of his marina, down the length of the dock and handed the bill for his services to Mr. Flynn. Grandpa McGuire snatched it from Flynn's grasp and paid Walker in cash. The grizzled old seadog grabbed his money and started back up the dock. "Can we eat him?" asked Jim as Walker passed by. Walker stared vacantly at him. "Can we eat him?" repeated Jim insistently. Walker's patience snapped. "Eat him? EAT HIM!? You're fucking lucky *he* didn't eat *you*!" Jim's relationship with his father-in-law cooled somewhat after this trip. Flynn had always suspected that Sarah had married an idiot. This trip removed all doubt. "I can forgive you for marrying my daughter," allowed Flynn. "But I can't forgive this attempt on my life." The October sun edged toward its zenith. Jim knew well enough that he'd already passed his own. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * In the Shade * * * * CHAPTER IV: Kindling * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Jim was acutely aware of the fact that he was living in the past. Worse yet, the past was coming closer and closer in his mind. Memories which should be fading were becoming more vivid. This was backwards, aberrant and unnatural. It was a very perverse reverse. Not at all healthy. "That's it!" he resolved as he stood on his porch. "I'm not going to sit around brooding. There's work to be done around here." This was an understatement. It was also a rare moment of ambition and domestic pride. Jim was not Mr. Fixit. The fallen shingles gave the roof of his house a pock-marked appearance--the "Noriega" look. The jaundiced once-white walls had not been painted in decades. Holes in the eavestroughing had allowed spring rains to dig holes in the lawn. Yearly thaws had long since destroyed the concrete sidewalk that led to the front of the house. The lawn looked like a dandelion farm. Any distinction between lawn and the surrounding forest was now blurred by the encroachment of saplings and bushes. Termites had reduced his front picket fence to firewood; only the two gateposts remained. The straight one on the left was divoted by dry rot. The curved post on the right had retained more of its protective coat of paint; it still gleamed in the near-noon sun. Jim's eyes focused on the sign hanging at the other end of the driveway, near the road. Perhaps if he repainted the words "The McGuires" on its face and then applied some varnish... Paint and varnish. Where had Grandpa kept the paint and varnish? Must be downstairs in the old man's workshop. That had been Grandpa's sanctum sanctorum. Jim hadn't spent much time down there since childhood when he used to watch Grandpa fashion furniture and do leather work. Jim marched back inside, past the washroom and down the stairs. He went through the laundry room, stepping around the dryer, washer, furnace and freezer. The brown door to the workshop creaked as he opened it. He hit the two switches; one turned on the light, the other an intake fan that sucked the sawdust and dirt outside. Whirrrr! Tic-tic-tic-tic! The fan clattered against its wire frame as it spun. Nothing had ever worked quietly in the room--least of all Grandpa. Above the fan, the electric saws, drills and sanders Jim had always been able to hear his grandfather singing as he toiled. Jim scanned the workbench for paint and varnish cans. Underneath the router table he spotted some paint cans. Red, blue, yellow, beige. Any black? There! Jim grabbed the container of black paint and inspected it. Perhaps with a lot of stirring he could turn this sludge back into something useful. Now, how about some varnish? There didn't seem to be any. Maybe in the tool cabinet that hung from the wall above the work bench. Jim opened its opaque plastic doors and began surmising its contents, beginning with the bottom shelf. Drill bits, nails, wrenches and screwdrivers. Middle shelf? Leather stamps, hole punchers, fasteners and glue. Upper shelf? Light from the bulb in the middle of the room cast shadows over the upper shelf. At first, Jim squinted as he focused. Suddenly, his eyes sprang wide open. When he was six Jim had moulded a crude clay duck for his grandfather as a birthday gift. Grandpa had thanked him profusely for the gift. Every year for five years Jim had made his grandfather another clay duck. The later versions were progressively more detailed and intricate than the original. Each year the recipient of these gifts accepted them as a treasure. When he was twelve Jim got a weekend job at Bertons' Groceries in town. With a little money in his pocket the boy could afford to buy his grandfather birthday gifts. The procession of clay ducks halted. In the years since then Jim had assumed that Grandpa had accepted these silly ducks with grace, thanked the child warmly and then disposed of them in due course--probably during spring cleaning. There, sitting in a line on the top shelf of the old man's tool cabinet, were the five clay ducks. Jim felt each one, as if to confirm its continued existence. Grandpa was a hard guy to put out of your mind. The sign restoration project died stillborn. Jim closed the cabinet doors, turned off the fan and light, shut the workshop door and trudged upstairs. What now? Jim could hear a car along the road. He listened as the automobile stopped by Jim's mailbox. It must be Carla Brandenberg delivering the mail and newspaper. This was the high point of the day at McGuire Manor. Jim filled up one pail with water and another with dog food. He carried both out to Bernice in the back yard. It was his custom to "kill three birds with one stone": feed and walk Bernice and pick up the newspaper on the way back down the driveway. The dog grabbed a few quick bites before her master called her along for their walk. Bernice would have to wait for her breakfast just as Jim would wait for his newspaper. Bernice sniffed the air as the two headed up the road towards Horton's farm. What was it, Bernice? Rabbits? Ptarmigan? Another dog? At one point Bernice stopped and growled as she faced upwind into the forest. Jim saw nothing. Bernice's mood improved immediately as she rejoined her master. Ignorant of leash or collar--the McGuires owned neither--Bernice bounded along the side of the road like a puppy. Jim studied this for a moment. How could any creature move from fear to frivolity so quickly? Jim's life had few such ups and downs. Bernice had not been spayed. Grandpa would never tolerate such a thing. The two men had tried introducing her to some good- looking male St. Bernards. But Bernice would have no part of any arranged marriage. "Just our luck," Jim had muttered, "a dike dog!" Grandpa had fixed him with a withering glance. Jim knew better than to use a pejorative such as "dike" around his grandfather. Jim had blushed an apology under his grandfather's glare. A few months later Bernice ran off with a beau of her own choosing--probably that mangy mutt of Horton's--and produced a litter of six. Because the puppies were not purebreds they had to be given away. "Free to a good home", the ad in the Gopher Brook Gazette had said. It took the McGuires three months to find such homes for them. There was no mail. This was not a great disappointment. After all, who would write him? The bills invariably arrived during the first few days of each month. This was the eighteenth. Sarah never wrote. Jim's income didn't qualify him for many junk mail lists. Oh well, maybe the funnies in the newspaper would spark a chuckle or two. Doonesbury, Shoe, Andy Capp, BC, Tumbleweeds and The Born Loser had always been "must reads" on the McGuire homestead. Jim didn't get as far as the funny pages. The front page carried a picture of three prisoners of war allegedly being held in Vietnam. He stared intently at the faded photograph until he could be certain that it was not Captain Solem. Memories of Grandpa's "greatest adventure" forced Jim to take a seat in the wooden lawn chair on the side lawn. Bernice gobbled up her dinner and then curled at his feet, happy to have a few extra moments with her master. "We're going to Vietnam," Jason had announced one summer morning fourteen years earlier. No discussion. No vote. And precious little money. "What?" Jim had shrieked. "We're going *where*?" "Vietnam. Leaving tomorrow morning." "Vietnam? I don't suppose you mean some town in Kansas. Like London, Ontario or Moscow, Illinois?" "Vietnam. The country," pronounced Jason decisively. "Sorry, no chance. It's one thing hopping in the truck and driving you to Washington, Chicago, Ottawa. But Vietnam? I don't think the truck will make it to Vietnam." "Our flight leaves from Minneapolis at 10:00 A.M." Jim knew that arguing would be an exercise in futility. But what the hell, he could use the exercise. "Why Vietnam? Wouldn't Disneyland make a better holiday? Or the Epcot Center? Jesus! Death Valley makes more sense!" "We aren't going as tourists," warned the old man. "And what are we going to do about money? These flights aren't free, you know. I certainly don't have the cash, and you've given away all your money to those..." Jim stopped himself before saying "silly charities". He recognized that Grandpa could do whatever he wanted to do with his money, but did he have to contribute so damned much of it? "The trip is already paid for. We'd better leave for Minneapolis now." Jim never discovered how the trip was financed. The two men packed light. No camera. No traveller's checks. Just a few summer clothes, a light raincoat and a photo album that Jim had never seen before. On the way to Minneapolis the truck ran out of gas. Why weren't there more gas stations on these interstates? Jim passed the last one without a thought; he still had almost half a tank of gas! Oh, well. No big problem. Jim could see a gas station about a mile up the road. Jim started walking towards it when his grandfather stopped him. "I'll go, Jim." No dice. Jim argued that he was younger. The old man could stay in the truck. Jason countered that this trip had been his idea and that he would go for the gas. Eventually the two compromised: they would lock up the truck and go together. Jim would carry the gas back. Jason positioned himself at the side of the road behind the truck and stuck out his thumb. "Hitch-hiking? Gramps, the gas station is just over there. We can see it from here." "We're not going to that one." "And why the hell not?" Grandpa didn't explain. A car--the very first car--had stopped to pick them up. The driver was an elderly lady sporting a jaunty wide brimmed blue chapeau with a white hat band. "I don't usually pick up hikers," she said, surprised by her own largesse, "but I saw that you two were just out of gas." It was forty miles before they found a second gas station. Neither the lady nor Jim understood Jason's obstinacy. The woman offered to drive them back but Grandpa declined. She had done enough and the McGuires couldn't impose any more on her hospitality. She seemed relieved; driving back would cost her an hour and make her late for her grandaughter's seventh birthday party. The McGuires thanked her profusely as she drove off. Jason's magic thumb was much less successful on the return trip. Car after car passed them by as they walked along the interstate. Jim whined and complained every step of the way. Having left the gas station at 5:00 P.M. the pair made it back to the truck at 1:00 A.M. Jim poured the gas into the tank, sat in the driver's seat and demanded one last time why the first gas station wouldn't have sufficed. His grandfather said only one word. "Apartheid." The McGuires arrived in Minneapolis around 3:00 A.M. The sleaziest motel in the city drew their truck like a magnet. Jim walked into the office, woke up and then harangued the proprietor until he got a room. Jason wanted to "look around" and advised his grandson to get what sleep he could. Jason assured Jim that he wasn't tired and would catch up on his rest on the plane. At 8:30 A.M. Jason entered the motel room and woke Jim. "Is it tomorrow already?" asked Jim in a daze. "Get up! Our flight leaves in an hour and a half!" "What? You mean it wasn't a nightmare? We're really going to..." "Vietnam, that's right." Jim righted himself and began staggering towards the bathroom. "Hurry up, Jim. No time for a shower." "What? Twenty-three hours on the road, a night in this shit- pit and *no shower*? I smell like the basement of an outhouse!" "Come on, Jim. Vietnam awaits." "Well, we'd better be approaching her from downwind!" The service on the airplane was at full arm's length. The stewardess blinked as she first approached the McGuires. Her eyes teared over as she reached across them to serve the old lady occupying the window seat. The old woman seemed to be suffering much worse than the stewardess. "I'm sorry," apologized the lady. "I wasn't paying attention during the orientation speech. Where did they say the oxygen mask was?" Kai Tak airport in Hong Kong served as the Asian stopover point. During the two hour wait between flights Jason explained the purpose of their trip. As with most serious conversations between the two men, this one was in LOOP. "." "?" asked Jim. "," said the old man. "Kiyata" doesn't translate into English. It is an intentionally ambiguous root word, like saying "stew" when one does not want to distinguish between "steward" and "stewardess". Grandpa had once defined "kiyata" as "the occupation of one's soul". He had gone on to give an example: if a plumber can smile and say "I am a plumber" then he or she is a plumber. If the plumber cannot smile at this description then he or she is something else. Perhaps a frustrated artist. Maybe a doctor who couldn't afford med school. Maybe just a restless spirit who fixes toilets for a living. But not a plumber. LOOP nouns have voice: passive (or "polite") and active (or "aggressive"). "Kiyataga", the passive form of kiyata, translates to "destiny". "Kiyatakoi", the active voice, means "duty". Kiyata, then, placed one's identity halfway between one's duty and one's fate. But what disturbed Jim more was his grandfather's choice of verb tense. LOOP verbs have duration, like "ser" and "estar" in Spanish. Grandpa McGuire had used the permanent rather than the temporary form of "is". He implied that this was, had always been and always would be their kiyata. All of this was too extreme for Jim. "?" he asked. The old one thought for a second. "." "", started Jim. "" suggested the old man. "" There were no direct flights to Saigon. The itinerary called for flying to Bangkok and then back to Vietnam. Jim settled in for a four hour flight. Halfway through, however, the captain came over the P.A. system. "In order to check our fuel lines and run some engine tests we will be making an unscheduled stop in Saigon." Some of the passengers were unsettled by this announcement. This unease grew after the plane landed and a Vietnamese police officer, accompanied by a rifle-toting guard, boarded the plane. The officer carried a passenger manifest and seating plan. He began speaking with the crew. One of the stewardesses understood Vietnamese and was able to help. Officer, guard and stewardess strode down the aisle and stopped by the McGuires' seats. "Mistah McGuire?" asked the stewardess. "Yes." "These men like you follow." The two McGuire men followed the policemen up the aisle and off the plane. The rest of the passengers stayed aboard and soon continued on to Bangkok. As Jim followed his grandfather down the ramp, across the landing strip and into the airport. Grandpa turned around, saw Jim with his hands in the air and gestured at him to lower them. This made some sense to Jim. After 12 hours as passengers on an airline that thought "air conditioning" was what Cockneys use after shampooing Jim knew that flashing his armpits like this was no way to make friends. "" Grandpa explained in LOOP. The foursome passed Customs without glancing at the officials behind the desk. The long hallway lead them outside and into a four wheel drive truck. The driver gave the two men a perfunctory glance as they climbed into his vehicle. The policemen sat behind the McGuires, whispering to each other in Vietnamese. Jim felt the moment of his death at hand. If the Vietnamese knew that the McGuires were coming they must also know their purpose. What would these communists do to two interlopers? Would they deport them? This seemed unlikely; it would have been much simpler to tell the McGuires to stay on the plane and not take the flight back to Vietnam. "," whispered Jim. "," countered Jason. Jim turned to see the expression on his grandfather's face. How could the old man be smiling at a time like this? "" "," responded Jason flatly. "" "," said the old man as the truck pulled up in front of a bombed-out office building. Two policemen got out of the vehicle and stood aside as the McGuires climbed out and strode toward the doorway of the edifice. Jim was heartened by the fact that the police officers were not pushing them toward their destination. Perhaps this was a good sign... "," added Jason, "" "," was Jim's objection. This response startled the senior McGuire. "" he wondered aloud. It had been seven years since Saigon had been captured and officially renamed Ho Chi Minh City. Westerners still indulgently called it "Saigon". The place was unworthy of any such controversy or nostalgia: it looked like a movie set of a bombed out slum. It was now a ghost town populated by more than a million souls. Poverty and fear had finished what war and decay had started. Windows were apertures devoid of glass. Doors fell from hinges. There were no dogs or cats. The excrement on the street was of human origin. The inhabitants stared at the newcomers until the McGuires peered back. Then the denizens would avert their gaze, ashamed of curiosity in a land of such cold certainty. "Sure doesn't look like Kansas, does it, Toto?" joked Grandpa. Jim's sense of humour had deserted him. The policemen led Jim and Jason to an office, motioned them in and then stood outside the door. Jim entered first. A studious Vietnamese man sat in an old padded chair, staring blankly out the window. When Jason entered this official swung around in his chair and stood up, motioning Jim to close the door. Grandpa strode up to the wooden desk and offered his hand. The bureaucrat smiled and shook Jason's hand. "Hello. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Pho Li Thuc. You must be Jason McGuire. I am *honoured*." This sounded like a promising start, thought Jim. He liked the way the man had stressed the word "honoured". From experience Jim had learned that bureaucrats, unlike diplomats and politicians, used such emphasis to underline the truth. "It is I who am honoured," corrected Jason. "We did not expect such a gracious welcome." "The father of Cory McGuire should expect nothing less!" What the hell? Cory McGuire? What did Jim's *mother* have to do with this? "And who is this?" asked Pho, turning to Jim. "This," announced Jason, "is my grandson. Jim." "Ms. McGuire's son?" asked Pho. Jason nodded. Pho leaned across his desk again, this time to shake Jim's hand. "You must be very proud," guessed Pho. "Uh...yes, I suppose I must be," stammered Jim. "My grandson did not know his mother very well," explained Jason. "She died when he was very young." Their host nodded sadly. He then removed the round wire frame glasses that were cutting into the bridge of his nose and wiped his eyebrows. "The gods gave us only a taste of her...to whet our appetites," said Pho. Jason exhaled a short, melancholy laugh. Grandpa often laughed at the strangest times! Pho was smiling, too. The two men seemed to be sharing an inside joke. "I take it you knew my mother?" Pho stared blankly at Jim, as if the statement had been a total *non sequitur*. It fell on the elder McGuire to explain. "My grandson has expressed no interest in such things." Pho recoiled. He eyed Jim from head to foot. Jim could not tell whether the glance spoke of pity or contempt. Too close to call. But suddenly Pho had a change of heart. The grin returned to his face as an idea struck. "Oh," he said, ringing his hands gleefully, "this promises to be *fun*!" Pho's devilish smile disturbed Jim. Did Pho mean fun as in `ha-ha' or fun as in thumbscrews and cattle prods? "And now," announced Pho more seriously, "we come to the purpose of your visit to Vietnam." "We have come in search of a downed American pilot, Captain William Solem," blurted Jason. Jim had never seen his grandfather tell a lie or avoid a question. This might have been a good place to start, though. Pho's reaction to this candour was, predictably, unpredictable. "Guard us all from the criminal And from the wild uncouth--" Grandpa finished the quotation for him: "But no one is more dangerous Than the one who speaks the truth!" Jim rolled his eyes. Had he travelled three thousand miles just to find someone crazier than Grandpa? "Oh, my God," he muttered quietly, "there's *two* of them!" "We are well aware of the purpose of your trip," preempted Pho with a wave of his hand. "You know our government's position on the subject of Prisoners of War in our country. But our government wishes to establish better relations with western governments. For this reason our Minister of the Interior will afford you complete freedom of movement along with my humble services as your guide." "And if we'd like to strike out on our own?" Jim was surprised at his own boldness, asking such a question. "Our Minister of the Interior will afford you complete freedom of movement along with my humble services as your guide," repeated Pho. "," divined Jim in LOOP. Grandpa ignored him. "Am I correct in assuming," asked Grandpa McGuire, "that you may have influenced the official decision on this matter?" "I was allowed to give my opinion," allowed Pho, "but my job is to implement policy, not to decide policy." "Be not at odds With any gods--" Now it was Pho's turn to pick up his guest's cue: "Or any men Who act like them." Jim moaned audibly. When would this shtick end? "Would I be bold in asking where Mr. Solem might be?" inquired Grandpa. "I am sorry," apologized Pho, "but I am under strict orders from the Ministry not to comment on the whereabouts or existence of U.S. citizens in our country." All three men recognized that this was a carefully scripted official response. Jason appreciated his host's position. "I understand," the elder McGuire sympathized. "You cannot tell us whether Mr. Solem is in Vietnam or not. In fact, your hospitality and co-operation exceeds our wildest expectations. For this we are very grateful. In return we would like to give you some assurances. First, while I *have* been contacted by U.S. government officials--" Jim raised his eyebrows at this revelation. Pho noticed this surprised reaction. "--We are acting on behalf of Mrs. Solem and Mrs. Solem *alone*. We will be reporting our findings to her and to no one else." Pho looked at his guests before announcing a final decision. "Let me speak frankly. If I thought that for a moment you had been sent here to embarrass our government--as many others have--I would take steps to ensure that your efforts were thwarted." Jim knew how that drill worked. He had seen "seek not" in operation back home. "But I will take no such steps. I trust you. Perhaps I am being naive. If so, I can only admire the judgement of the U.S. government. They will have chosen the only individual that could gain this trust." "Mr. Thuc, in the language of my family's ancestors there is no word for `naive'", Grandpa explicated. "The word blames victims of deceit and discourages the very trust that we require to get along." Jim wondered if this was a good time to give Pho lessons on LOOP grammar and syntax. Again Pho thought for a while. His eyes stared blankly upwards and to his left. And, again, he smiled. Without uttering another word he took a map of the country from a small stack on his desk. He placed it on the work mat in front of him. Leaning forward, Pho grabbed a blue-coloured pencil in his left hand. He drew a circle around a small village near the city of Vinh, just north of the Perfume River. Then he coloured in the remainder of his country. "I am under strict orders not to disclose where Mr. Solem might be," Pho explained in a whisper. "But that does not prohibit me from telling you where he is not." With this, he thrust the map in front of Jason, assuring him that Mr. Solem would *not* be found in any of the shaded areas. "Thank you for the help you couldn't render," quipped Grandpa McGuire. After his guests had time to study the map Pho reclaimed it, tore it into pieces, placed it into his ash try and reached for a package of matches. He tried and failed three times to light one. "Damned Vietnamese matches!" cursed Pho. "Here," Jim offered some matches he'd picked up in the Minneapolis airport, "try these." "Yes, thank you," accepted Pho. "These have always worked in my country." Pho lit the match and set fire to the map. As it burst into flame he tossed it into the empty garbage can beside his desk. When the flame subsided Pho strode past Jim and opened the door. "Captain Duong will accompany us on our search," he explained. The police captain stepped into the doorway, nodded a greeting to the McGuires and then sniffed the air in the room. He peered into the waste basket, saw the burnt paper and glared suspiciously at Pho. No words were exchanged. Jim grabbed a map of the country from Pho's desktop. Jason, Pho and Jim then filed past Duong out into the hallway, down the stairs and out of the building. Duong followed and motioned the guard away from the truck. Duong would do the driving. "We'd like to start our search in a small town near Vinh," announced Jason. "The sightings seem to center around there." Duong looked at Pho, who translated this direction into Vietnamese. Duong glared suspiciously at his passengers and then headed north. The suburbs of Saigon stretched on for miles. Reconstruction efforts were much more successful here where the scale was smaller and the task more immediate. Fixing one's home seemed easier than rebuilding office complexes and markets. Outside the city were the farms: black soil and crude irrigation mixed into mud for miles and miles. Each plot was defined by borders of shrubs. On each plot was a farm family whose world undoubtedly ended at these shrubs. After passing hundreds of these Jim began to notice a recurring theme. There were old men, children and women. Where were the younger men? A whole generation of them were missing. Also missing were arms and legs on many of these survivors. Old men and women hobbled on crutches in irrigation ditches, coaxing water bison across the quagmire. The "road" north was a glorified cowpath--"glorified" in the sense that no self-respecting cow would be caught dead on it. Starting as mudbath, the road deteriorated rapidly. The first half of the trip was spent pushing the truck out of one mud-hole after another. Pho remained in good spirits, telling the McGuires that they were fortunate not to be making this trip during the rainy season. The instant he finished these words the vehicle got bogged down for the umpteenth time in a slew. "Why don't we just carry this damned truck there?" whined Jim. After Qui Nhon the truck began ascending the mountains leading to the central highlands. The path narrowed. Steep cliffs edged the road, leading down to a strip of forest and then the shore of the Pacific Ocean. "This is Hon Vong Phu," announced Pho, pointing at a mountain. Where? There was no city, no town. Was he referring to the mountain? Jim looked quizzical. "You see that rock formation there?" explained Pho. "The one that looks like a woman, holding a baby, staring out to sea?" Yeah, if one used a little imagination. After all, some people see hunters and bears in the sky... "There is a local legend," continued Pho, "of a family split by war and poverty. One of the daughters marries and gives birth to a child. When her husband finds out that she is his sister he goes off to war, never to return. The woman stands waiting with her child for so long that they are turned into stone. Hon Vong Phu, the rock that searches for the husband." Just before reaching Da-Nang Jim looked to his left and saw some of the vestiges of recent history. Sandbags, rusted cannon shells and "Yankee Go Home" graffitti on the rocks. A tank turret poked out of the ground, taking careful aim at the sun as it spread heat and light across the mountainside. On his right Jim looked out over a shimmering aquamarine ocean. Picturesque wooden fishing boats dotted the horizon. It was one of those scenes you saw at amateur art exhibits on sidewalks and in shopping malls. For one fleeting moment Jim was glad he had made this trip. And for this one instant--a blink of an eye in a forty year lifetime--he was happy to be a McGuire. Da-Nang was a huge port city. Still the tour guide, Pho explained that this was the site of the first U.S. marine landing. The shore was spoiled by huge old rusted landing craft abandoned there. Soon the men reached the central highlands. Terrain here was much dryer. But the trail was cratered from war, overuse and undermaintenance. Duong apparently saw this section as an opportunity to make up for lost time. At fifty miles per hour the truck shuddered and bounced with each pot-hole. "I think I just caught epilepsy," complained Jim. "Perhaps we could slow down?" Pho didn't bother to translate. It didn't seem likely that Duong would have been sympathetic. "Too late we'll learn how early we are," said Pho cryptically. Grandpa chuckled. Clearly the two of them were enjoying this ongoing inside joke. "I'm glad to see that at least you two are enjoying yourselves," said Jim. For a moment, at least, he felt some sympathy for Duong. From all appearance, the officer was as miserable as he was. "Humour is the language of the gods, Jim," replied Pho--to Jason's heightened amusement. These gods left Pho an hour later. "Is something wrong?" asked Grandpa. The group had just turned a corner and was now driving along the crest of a high sierra. Pho pointed to a small collection of huts in a valley about a mile off the road. "This was where I grew up," he explained. Jim thought it odd that Pho did not call it "home". "Does your family still live there?" asked Jim. Pho looked at him blankly. "Perhaps we could stop?" asked the elder McGuire. "We could all use a rest..." Pho managed to convince Duong to detour and stop in the village. Duong seemed more than a little disgusted by this sentimentality and frailty. Upon disembarking Duong began barking orders to a woman as she stood outside her hut. The woman scurried into the structure and started cooking some rice. While the McGuires stretched their legs Pho studied his surroundings. "Much has changed here," he said. "Do you know any of these people? Relatives, maybe?" asked Jim. Pho shook his head. "Much has changed here," he repeated. Pho trudged off toward one of the fields but stopped halfway. Jim peered over his shoulder at Duong haranguing the locals. Jim decided that Pho would make better company. He caught up to the bureaucrat, finding him staring blankly at the ground. Jim scanned the area for something that might catch one's eye. There didn't seem to be anything of interest here: a few rocks, some excrement, long grass and dirt. "Almost fifteen years ago now. My brother was a medical student. When the elections were cancelled he organized a protest. The police followed him here. I was over there, working." Pho pointed to the far end of a rice paddy. He stood pensive for a minute, then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small yellow book. Flip, flip. There, this was the right page. Pho read a passage aloud. "Let us all gather the finest among us The ones who still think that their dreams will come true Build a great bonfire and cast them upon it For only the finest of kindling will do." Jim couldn't understand how such a poem might be considered appropriate under these circumstances. "Jesus," he thought to himself, "I hope this guy ain't around to deliver *my* eulogy!" Grandpa called the others to dinner. Upon entering the hut Duong sat on a bedding mattress while the others squatted on the mud floor. There was no table. Indeed, there was no furniture. A few pots, bowls and utensils ranging around a stone fireplace were the woman's only visible possessions. Duong devoured his rice with much more enthusiasm than the others. He poured on liberal quantities of fish sauce--"nuoc mam", Pho called it. Their hostess served her guests a crude wine in small cups. Everything in the room smelled of fish. Jim sipped this concoction only once. He wondered how Duong could gulp down this rotgut with such alacrity. He concluded that Duong must have been born without taste or taste buds. What Jim wouldn't have given for a pizza and cold beer! Supper finished, Duong strode outside and into the truck. Grandpa asked Pho if there were some way that they could repay the lady's kindness. "Of course," complied Pho, offering their hostess some money. The woman stared at the men before declining. It seemed that their leaving would be repayment enough. Pho was insistent, pressing two bills into the old woman's hands while thanking her humbly and profusely. But the woman was equally insistent, returning the money with a polite