Tales of Corwin

“You look great, Samantha,” said Mark.  “Joni, too—and she’s so excited!  You know, you forget, when you don’t have kids, how big a deal Halloween is to them.  It’s one of the biggest days of the year.”

“You’ll be a good father, some day,” Samatha predicted.

“Well, if that day ever comes, I’m coming to you for advice.  Joni’s a great kid.”

“Thanks.”  She paused.  “Is Sandra back?”

“Yes,” Mark replied, “only about an hour ago.  She had a shower, and she was just going to change into something when I left.” Joni came back up the walk, carrying a big bowl of candy in both arms.  “Do you need some help with that, Joni?”

“No thanks, Mark.  I can hold it all by myself.” Then she looked up at her mom.  “It’s okay, Mom.  He said I should call him Mark.  All his friends do.”

“Tell you what, Joni,” said Mark.  “I’m going to get a little table to put that bowl on.  That way, when the trick-or-treaters stop at the cauldron, they can get some candy too.  I’ll be right back.” He went back up to the front porch, grabbed a wicker table, and brought it back  down.

“There.  Let’s put your bowl on that. Perfect.  Are you going to give out candy, or are you going to go trick-or-treating yourself?”

“Both,” said Joni.

“Good plan.  This is a great street for trick-or-treating. Lots of houses have spooky stuff.  Last year, we even had a headless horseman, on a real horse, riding up and down the street.  Nobody knows who it was, though.”

“Cool,” said Joni.

“Way cool,” said Mark—but he was looking back toward the house, where Sandra had emerged onto the porch.  On her shoulders, she now wore a furry hooded cape that framed her face and draped down her back and sides; the hood had pointy fox ears.  On her feet were boots with matching fur.  And in between, a golden body suit that shimmered in the fading autumn light.  Mark stood amazed as she walked down the steps.  Terri had done her proud.

“Yay!”  Joni scampered up the path to meet her.  “You’re back!”

“Yes, sweet girl, I’m back.  And just in time,too.  And hey—great costume!”  Sandra took the girl’s hand, and Joni tugged her back toward the cauldron.  “You’re not going to go to sleep yet, are you, Sleeping Beauty?”

“Not tonight!  That comes later in the story. Tonight, I’m walking through the woods, and making friends with the animals.  I’m going to make friends with a fox right now.”

Sandra was pulled inexorably into playing with Joni, and Mark decided it was time for his own Halloween costume.  He went back into the house.  The light was starting to fade, and the trick-or-treaters would be coming soon.

On the way, Mark went past the kitchen and found Terri there, sampling the cider.  She was now dressed as Cat Woman, with a shiny black bare-backed outfit that revealed some of her extensive tattooing.  “Wow,Terri,” said Mark, “you look fabulous.  Halle Berry, eat your heart out.”

“Thanks, Pastor.”  She smiled—a little sadly, Mark thought. 

But she went on: “Shouldn’t you be getting into your cassock?”

“Very funny.  Actually, could you give me a hand?” He rummaged in a drawer and retrieved some liquid white shoe polish.  “Could you put some of this in my hair?  Just at the temples.  I’m dressing as Doctor Strange.”

“Ah, Doctor Strange—Master of the Mystic Arts!”  Terri took the applicator and looked up at Mark speculatively.

“Yes.  Actually, I’m a Master of Divinity, but it’s kind of the same thing.”

“If you say so.  Here,

Halloween afternoon was unusually warm and fine, and Mark had prepared by laying a fire in the fire ring in the old orchard.  Now he got out a rake, and cleared a wide space around the fire—just in case of barefoot dancing.  But it would probably get too cold for that, when the sun went down.

He had a lot on his mind.  He’d invited everyone from the circle to a Halloween party, and everyone from the church as well—the latter with invitations that specified that the party would end at 11:00.  He hoped they would all go home of their own accord, so that the circle could do its Samhain thing afterward.  He worried about that, and about all kinds of other things as well.  About whether the circle would be indoors or outdoors.  About whether there would be food enough, and drink enough, for the whole group.  About whether he had enough candy for the trick-or-treaters—there had been over two hundred last year, and that was a cold and rainy Halloween.  About the costume he’d planned to wear.  And about Sandra.

Especially about Sandra.  He’d worried about her every day and every night since she left.  She’d been so depressed since the fire.  Understandably, of course—and he knew that it was too soon to expect her to bounce back.  But to go off like that, with scarcely any preparation!  She didn’t even have backpacking gear.  Hers had been destroyed in the fire, and she’d said that she would buy new gear on the way.  She’d headed off to Vermont in a great hurry, it seemed to him.  And sure, every person grieves differently.  But could this really be a healthy response to Sandra’s situation?

And most of all, where was she?  She’d promised to be back for Samhain at the latest, and here it was.  Where was she?  Mark put the rake away and walked slowly back to the house.  His steps led him, as they had frequently all week, down the basement stairs, and back to that basement chamber where Sandra might be expected to appear.

The sunlight of the October afternoon filtered through the dusty casement windows.  It was a weak light, but it was enough to show that Sandra was not there.  Mark turned away, discouraged, and walked back to the basement door.

“Mark.”

He turned quickly back—and there she was, just setting down her pack.  He ran back, caught her in his arms, closed his eyes, and just held her tight.

“Sandra, my dear, oh my dear.  I missed you so much.”

“Mark … hey, Mark …”  Her voice was gently laughing, and the sound of it soothed him like a healing balm.  “No, really … Mark!”

He opened his eyes.  Oops.  They were a foot off the floor.  Interesting … he didn’t feel the weight of her in his arms, not as if he were holding her up against the force of gravity.  They were just sort of floating together.

“Sorry,” he said, and he made the world come up gently to meet them.  “I don’t know how I did that.  It doesn’t usually work that way.  I’m just so glad you’re here.”

“Well, you must really have missed me, if you want to hold me when I’m like this.  I haven’t had a shower in a week!  Now let me go—and can I use your shower?”

“Sure.  But I think you’re beautiful, clean or dirty.”  He kissed her firmly, then let her go and picked up her pack from the basement floor where she had dropped it.  Then he looked at her critically.  “But your hair is, like, six inches longer than it was a week ago!”

“Therein lies a tale,” she said.  “But just let me have a shower first.”  She led the way out of the basement and up into the house.

“It’s been a fine, warm day here,” said Mark, “and I think we’ll be able to have your Samhain circle outdoors tonight.  First, though, we’re having a Halloween party, with people from the circle and from the church.  Everyone’s bringing chairs, and food, and drink, and pumpkins.

Sandra was hiking a stretch of the Long Trail in northern Vermont, and she was alone.  It was late in the season, and she hadn’t seen another soul all day.  It had been a sunny day, and reasonably warm in the brief afternoon, but now the sun was going down, and the crisp air was already getting chilly.  It was going to be a cold night, and she wanted to make camp.

She had come this way once, long ago, and she was trying to remember the way.  You crossed a creek; then there was the cellar hole of an old settler’s cabin, abandoned long ago; then you left the trail and climbed a wooded hillside, with no blazes to follow.  At the top of the hill was a rocky outcropping.  And if you knew where to look, there was just the trace of another trail you could pick up there.  Sandra walked it, partly discovering it and partly remembering it.  There was a shelter down this trail somewhere—on private property, and not indicated on any hiker’s map—where she and her teacher, the Lady Corinne, had once camped.

She remembered Corinne’s words.  “You’ll be wanting to come here again, Seven-Song, so pay attention to the way.  I won’t be here then—I’ll be having my next great adventure, and you’ll be on your own for a while.”  Sandra smiled.  Corinne had always spoken of her death as if she could barely wait for what came next.  Even when she’d gotten her diagnosis.  “So, there it is.  At last!” she’d said, just as if she’d received a long-awaited package in the mail.

Then Sandra remembered the picture she used to have of herself and Corinne, and tears came to her eyes.  She was still thinking every day of things she had lost in the fire, three weeks ago.  Her computer, thank the gods, had been in her tiny office at the tavern, so she still had digital copies of most of her photographs.  But she had lost so much.  Some of it was replaceable, with enough tedious effort, like her passport, her clothing, and her furniture.  But the picture of herself and Corinne was a print Corinne had given her.  It was irreplaceable, and it was gone.  Like so much else.  Her notebooks.  Her library.  Her favorite robe.  Her altar table, and the candle stands, and the chairs for her circle.  She sat on a rock, eased the weight of her backpack off her shoulders, and wept.  Again.

This was part of the reason she had come on this trip.  She needed to grieve, and she just couldn’t do it back in Corwin.  There, she had to be strong, and practical.  In some ways, recovering materially from the fire—and the loss of her car, and the damage to the Rose and Feather—was turning out to be the easy part.  She’d had more help, and more sympathy, than she’d ever expected.  Her own people had pitched in, and so had Mark’s people, right away.  Lois and Eunice and Timi had taken her in and given her a place to sleep.  The Rose and Feather had been closed for repairs for just two days—and now it had a new carpet, replacing the gas-soaked one.  Pythagoras had even set up a recovery fund for her online, and contributions to it had been overwhelmingly generous.

But … she was just so tired of having to be grateful to everybody!  Tired of having people be nice to her.  Tired of having people comfort her tears.  She needed to be able to cry, where no one would try to stop her.

She had been especially cautious around Mark during the weeks after the fire.  He’d been great, of course.  That night, when they’d arrived at her house, Mark had stood by her, as together they watched it burn.  She’d known it would be burning, of course.  In that critical moment in the tavern, she’d made the easiest portal she could—one to her own home.  She’d expected a fire, but she was still shocked to see her house so fully engulfed in flames.  The fire department had arrived quickly, but no one had been able to go into the building.  All they could do was to “surround and drown,” as they put it.

“John!” said Mark, softly.  He stood up slowly, and spoke with barely a catch in his voice.  “You know, I don’t think Jesus would be pleased with the thoughts that are in your heart tonight.  Thou shalt not kill.  Just put that gun down, why don’t you, and come over here and talk to me?”

“I’ve got a better idea,” said Johnny.  “Why don’t you just shut the fuck up?   I can quote scripture better than you.  ‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness?’  Yeah, that’s just what your so-called church is doing, isn’t it?  Now get behind the counter with that.   He waved with the gun toward Sandra.

Sandra had put down the money and raised her hands in front of her.  She wasn’t sure that she could open a portal fast enough if Johnny decided to shoot—but she’d have to try.  She was watching for an opening.  At the same time, however, she was also fighting a rising wave of panic; she had the feeling that Mark was about to try something heroic.  He was too calm, she thought.  He looked like a man who had already made a fatal choice.  She couldn’t, she just couldn’t, allow it.

“Mark,” she said, with all the urgency she could communicate.  “Come back here with me.  Please.”

He turned to look at her, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off Johnny, who seemed to be angered by the sound of her voice.

“Hey!” he shouted. “You can just keep your demonized mouth shut!  One more word from either of you, and I’ll shoot you both right now.”

Mark walked slowly to the bar gate, raised it, and joined her behind the bar by the register.  Awkwardly, still covering them with the gun in his left hand, Johnny began to splash gasoline all around the bar: on the floor, on the barstools, on the walls, and, when the jug was lighter, on the bar itself.  It splashed behind the bar too, even to where Mark and Sandra stood.  Mark had his arm around Sandra, but she kept her hands free, still raised toward Johnny.  The gas fumes were overwhelming in the confined space.  She coughed, and couldn’t seem to catch her breath.  Her eyes began to water.

Finally, Johnny dropped the empty jug and reached into his jacket.  He drew out an object like a can—Mark thought of the night he had seen Johnny and Carl in the car, doing something furtive with cans that he had thought must be beer.  But now he could see clearly that it was something else: it was a can with a lever on top, and a pin.  Johnny grabbed the pin with his teeth and pulled it out.

“Please, Johnny,” said Mark.  “For your father’s sake, please don’t do this.”

But Johnny only said, “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

From the passage behind Johnny came another voice.  “Put the gun down, son.”

Johnny turned, and there was Lieutenant Stedman, weapon drawn.  “I’m a police officer,” he said, not shouting, but loud and clear.  “Put the gun down, now.”

Johnny only laughed.  He held up the can in his right hand.  “This is an incendiary grenade.”

“I know what it is, son.”

“Then maybe you’ll notice that I’ve already pulled the pin.  And maybe you’ll notice that the place is soaked in gasoline.  And maybe you’ll know that if I was to drop it, you’d have just 1.2 seconds before this whole place goes up like the fourth of July.”

Lieutenant Stedman’s eyes narrowed.  Apparently, he hadn’t noticed at first that the pin was pulled.  Sandra didn’t know how these things worked, but she thought Johnny sounded convincing.  Now what?

“So, here’s what’s going to happen,” Johnny continued.  “You’re going to put down your gun.  Just drop it, now.  Now, or we all burn together.”   He sounded excited about the prospect.  The lieutenant apparently thought so too, because he crouched down and laid his gun on the floor.

That evening, at around seven, Sandra saw Mark walk in.  She went to meet him near the entrance.  He looked relaxed and refreshed, and she guessed that he’d had a run and a shower.  On closer inspection, she noticed that he still hadn’t managed to get all the paint out of his hair.

She led him to a booth she’d saved.  “Let me get you something to drink?”

“Thanks,” he said.  “I’ll try that Sexual Chocolate again.”

“Be right back.”  She got him the beer, and one for herself, and a basket of popcorn, and brought them back to the booth.  She leaned over to kiss him, then sat down across from him in the booth.  He was smiling so brightly that she had to ask, “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said.  “Everything.  You just make me happy, is all.  Are you working, or can you sit and eat with me?”

She suddenly wished, not for the first time, that they could be alone.  But, oh well: that would have to wait.  “For now, I’m all yours,” she said.  “But I’m going to send Terri home at ten, and take over for her until we’ve closed up.”

“Good!  Then we have a couple of hours.”

“For starters,” she said, “tell me about your day.  What did you do after the painting party broke up?”

He looked a little uncomfortable at that.  “Well, to tell the truth, I did a graveside service this afternoon.  I’m sorry.  It’s not really a good subject for a date-night conversation.”

“Don’t say that,” said Sandra.  “It’s your work, and you’re good at it.  Unless it’s something confidential, I want to hear about it.”  He looked dubious.  “Really.  How did it go?”

“It was very beautiful, in fact.  Perfect day for it.  We buried the body of Orma Dekoonig, who was ninety-five when she died.  She’d been on hospice care for a long time, so no one was shocked by her death; and she’d been very uncomfortable for the last couple of weeks, so her death came as a relief to her family—and, I’m sure, to her as well.”

He thought for a moment.  “Orma had an impressive number of descendants: five children, many grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and even a couple of great-greats.  I think most of them were there at the graveside.  In church, Orma used to joke that we were all invited to her hundredth birthday party, and that she was going to serve champagne for the occasion.  So, even though she didn’t quite make it to a hundred, the family brought champagne to the graveside, and after I said a few words and read some scripture, we all drank a toast to Orma.  She’d have liked that.”

“The family gave me”—here he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and opened it—”a hundred dollars.  In cash, which is nice.  So, dinner’s on me and Orma tonight.  You still sure you don’t mind my talking shop like this?”

Sandra raised her glass.  “Not at all.  Let’s drink to Orma.”

“To Orma!”  Mark raised his glass, and drank the toast, then set it back down.  “When her service was over, I went for a run and took a shower.  I had the devil of a time trying to get the paint out of my hair.”

Sandra grinned.  “I noticed.  It made you look very dashing—kind of like Dr. Strange.  You missed some, you know.”

“Did I?”  Mark tried to run his fingers through his hair, but they got stuck where the paint was gluing some of it together.  “Damn!  Sticky stuff, isn’t it?  Oh, well—I suppose it will wash out in time.  Now, tell me about your day.”

Sandra sighed.  “The painting party was the high point of my day, I’m afraid.  I spent more time with the police today.  They seem to be convinced that the damage to my car was caused by an incendiary grenade.”

“Incendiary grenade?  Huh.  Never heard of that.  Wouldn’t it have woken up somebody on your street?”

“Apparently,” she said, “it’s not the kind of grenade that makes much of a bang.

The celebration at Sandra’s house went on until after midnight.  But much later that night, when everyone had gone home, Sandra’s car was torched.

Somehow, Sandra, along with everyone else on the street, managed to sleep through it.  But early in the morning, before she was awake, someone knocked loudly and imperatively on the door.  She put on her robe and hurried downstairs.  Peeking through the front-door window, she could see no one on her front stairs.  Then the knock came again, and she realized that it was someone knocking on the back door.  Odd—no one ever came to that door.  Sandra went through the kitchen to the back door and saw a police officer there.  He looked vaguely familiar.  She opened the door.

“Good morning, ma’am.  I’m Officer Price of the Corwin Police Department.  Are you all right?”

She blinked.  “I’m fine, officer—except that you just woke me up.  What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry to wake you, ma’am.  You weren’t aware, then, that your car and your house have been vandalized?”

“What?!  No, I wasn’t aware.  What’s happened?”

“Someone has spray-painted grafitti on the front wall of your house, and your car has been, um, burned, pretty badly.  I’ve radioed it in, and Lieutenant Stedman will be here soon to take charge.  In the meantime, I’m just checking to make sure you’re all right, and I’m going to set up a perimeter around your front yard, and out to the street where your car is parked.  We’d appreciate your help in not going out your front door or disturbing the yard and car, until we’ve had a chance to examine everything.”

“All right, officer.  Um … I saw you being introduced to the city council two weeks ago, didn’t I?”

“Yes, ma’am.”  He looked a little embarrassed.  “I’m the newest member of the force.  But don’t worry—Lieutenant Stedman really knows what he’s doing, and you’ll be in good hands when he gets here.”

Sandra wondered what the front of her house looked like now.  “Did somebody report the vandalism?”

“No, ma’am.  I was patrolling this morning when I saw the damage.  Actually, I didn’t notice your car until I got out to have a look around.  I’m sorry to wake you up with this kind of news.”  He looked uncomfortable.  “Please excuse me, ma’am.  I’d better get that perimeter started before the lieutenant gets here.  He won’t be happy if I let anyone contaminate the crime scene.”

“Certainly.  Thank you, Officer.”  That was way more than enough ma’ams, first thing in the morning.  She went back upstairs to dress.  The lieutenant would be there soon, she thought; maybe there’d at least be time to make a cup of coffee.

In fact, there was just time: she had just poured a cup when the lieutenant knocked on the back door.  “Come on in, Lieutenant.  Cup of coffee?”

“Good morning, Miss Shelby.”  He came in and closed the door.  “Yes, thanks, I could use a cup.  May I sit down?”  He sat at the kitchen table and opened up an aluminum case full of papers.  Sandra gave him the cup she had just poured, poured another for herself, and sat down across from him.  “I gather that Officer Price has told you what’s going on?”

Sandra sipped the hot coffee.  “Just the bare facts: that my house was graffitied, and my car was damaged.  Burned, he said; but I haven’t been out to look at the damage yet.  Nice, efficient young man, by the way.”

“Good to know.”  He sorted through papers as he spoke.  “We’ve already taken pictures, and we’ll be canvassing the neighborhood to see whether anyone saw anything last night.  But we’ve also set up a perimeter around your front yard, out to and around where your car is parked on the street.  I’d like your assistance in keeping that area undisturbed for now.”

Sandra had the sinking feeling that she wasn’t going to make it in to work today.

Back at Sandra’s house, most of the Circle had gathered to celebrate the victory at the city council meeting.  Bottles of champagne had been opened—but Sandra wasn’t having any yet.  Where was Mark?  Stuck again on top of some building somewhere?  Shot out of the sky?

The doorbell rang, and Mark let himself in after it.  Sandra took his face in both hands.  “You okay?”

Mark smiled—but there was clearly something wrong.  “I’m all right,” he said.  “I’m sorry—I should have called you.”

“Well, obviously!”  Now that she was less worried, she was more mad.  “Damn it, Mark!  What were you thinking?”

“I’ll tell you about it.  But is Terri here?”

Terri came in from the kitchen.  “I’m here.  Mark, she’s been fuming about you ever since the meeting.  Please tell her I didn’t ask you to follow that guy.”  She looked at Sandra.  “I just wanted him to get a good look at the shooter.  I didn’t think he’d follow him.”

“Yeah, that was my idea,” Mark confessed.

“Well, it was a dumb idea.”

“Yeah, I’m sort of regretting it now.”  He sighed.  “No, I’m not.  Let me tell you what happened.  But first, let’s get everyone together, so I won’t have to repeat this.”

Sandra got everyone’s attention and marshaled them into the little living room.  Then it was Mark’s turn.

“So, everybody: I know who Terri’s shooter is.  Terri pointed him out to me at the meeting, and I followed him and his sidekick when they left City Hall.”  Mark paused, and Sandra realized that not everyone in the room knew about his magical talent.  He’d be thinking now about how much to tell them.  She saw his eyes get that look of resolve that he sometimes got while preaching.  Ah—it was coming out now.  “For those of you who don’t know, I have recently discovered a little magical talent: I can fly.  Not always so well: ask Sandra some time about how she had to rescue me from the roof of the high school.”  He smiled at the memory and looked around.  Some were nodding—including Terri.  They’d known since the healing circle that there was more of magic to Mark than met the eye.  “But anyway, that’s how I was able to follow our shooter.

“He got into a pickup truck and drove around town sort of aimlessly for a while.  In the end, he went to the Bible Church —”

“I knew it!” Sandra interjected.

“—and parked in the parking lot there.  I got quite close on the ground, under a hedge; not close enough to hear what they were saying inside the car, but close enough to get a good look.  After a while, another car came and parked nearby.  It was David Caputo.”

“Of course!” said Sandra, triumphantly.

“Well, he went over to speak to the two guys in the pickup.  He didn’t say anything incriminating.  He sounded a little put out with the shooter for leaving the meeting early.  That’s when I heard him say that Sandra won the night with the City Council.  He seemed to take it philosophically—offered some platitude about having fought the good fight.  I was so angry with him, I wanted to wring his neck.”

Sandra thought Mark sounded oddly remorseful there.  “I’m still angry with him,” she insisted.  “Even though we won.”

“Well, I’m not.  I’m feeling sorry for him.  It’s because of this last thing I heard him say.  He said, ‘Be home by eleven, Johnny.  Good night, Carl.’  Then I realized why the shooter looked familiar to me all along.  It’s a family resemblance.  It’s David Caputo’s son.”

Everyone was silent for a moment.  Then Terri cocked her head at him.  “But you still don’t think David is in on it?”

“No.  David is a hateful jerk, but he’s not a criminal.  And he’s going to be heartbroken—shocked—destroyed, when he discovers that his son is going to jail for hate crimes and attempted murder.”

Mark put his head in his hands.  Oh, Lord—now I’ve done it, he thought.  What had come over him?  What had become of the careful, good-humored, reasoned speech he had prepared?

Suddenly, there was an urgent whisper in his ear: “Mark!  Mark, I need you.  Right now.”  He looked up, and saw that Terri was beside him, one knee on the floor.

“Terri?  What is it?  What’s wrong?”

“Come with me.”  He stood and helped her up, and they made their way to the back of the room, while another speaker was called to the podium.  At the back of the room, they took two empty seats, and Mark leaned in close, so Terri could speak in his ear.

“He’s here,” she said in a low voice.  “The shooter.  I’m not going to look at him anymore.  I don’t want to make him suspicious.  But he’s sitting near the wall, on the side with the door, maybe third row from the back.  He’s got thick, dark hair, long on the top.  He’s sitting with another guy, a smaller guy.  Look over there, casually, and tell me if you can see who I mean.”

He did what Terri said.  There was a guy, near the back by the door, who clearly met the description.  He was looking away, and Mark had a chance to study his face for a moment, and that of his companion.  “Yes, I think I see who you’re talking about,” he said, softly.  “Why do you think he’s the shooter?”

“Because I recognize him!  Not his face, of course—it was too dark for that, and too far away.  But that aura—I’d recognize it anywhere.  It’s creepy.  It looks like the sound of poultry shears cutting into a rotting piece of chicken.  It’s making me feel kinda sick just thinking about it.  You’ve got to believe me.  I’m sure.”  She seemed to turn two shades paler as she spoke.

“I believe you.  You won’t convince the police, though.”

“I know.  But if you get a good look at him, maybe you’ll recognize him around town or something.  Do it soon, cuz I’m afraid he’s gonna leave.  He seemed to be getting up right after the Caputo did his thing, but then he changed his mind.”

“Okay.”  Mark thought for a moment.  “You’d better sit back down near Sandra, Terri.  Leave it to me.  I’ll do what I can.”

Terri moved back toward the front of the gallery, while Mark thought.  He didn’t know how reliable Terri’s identification might be, but she had seemed very certain.  The shooter, if that’s who he was, was a young man, somewhere near Terri’s age.  He was sitting with a still-younger friend, perhaps of high school age.  They were engrossed in something that the shooter was writing or drawing in a notebook on the desk.  That gave Mark a chance to risk taking a longer and closer look at them.  The shooter’s face looked familiar somehow, and Mark struggled to remember where they might have met.

How was this going to play out?  If the shooter left early, as Terri thought he might, Mark would want to follow him.  But what if he stood up right after the shooter stood up, and left right behind him?  That would be pretty obvious.  On the other hand, if the shooter stayed to the end, Mark would still want to follow him.  But then people would try to talk to him—Sandra, for one, would want to kick his ass for losing his temper at the podium, and who could blame her?  In any case, the shooter was much closer to the door, and Mark probably wouldn’t be able to catch up to him in the crowd.

Making up his mind, Mark rose, without looking again at the shooter, and quietly left the room.  He paused just outside the door for a moment.  He could hear John Smith’s voice—he must be at the podium now—but Mark had a more pressing problem to think about.  As far as he knew, there was only one regular exit from the City Hall; the others were fire exits with alarmed doors.  He walked quickly down to the regular exit and let himself out into the night.

When the party was over, there were plenty of volunteers for dishes and clean-up, and the house was returned to normal quite quickly.  Mark was pleasantly surprised.  He had intended to stay and help Sandra with the dishes, but instead he found himself leaving an already-tidy house behind and taking a walk with her.  The September weather had turned cool, and they wore sweatshirts and walked along briskly.

“I’m glad you were there tonight, Mark,” said Sandra.  “I’d have invited you myself, of course, only it was Lois’ special celebration, and it was hers to do.  But I’m glad she did.  It seems like you’ve won her approval—which, as you can tell, counts for a lot in this community.”

“Well, I’m not sure about approval,” said Mark.  At least she didn’t feed me to the worms.  But, yes: I’m glad I could be there tonight.  It was fun to get to know Lois a little better—and all your friends too.  I thought you and I were going to get stuck with a million dirty dishes, but everybody really pitched in at the end there.  You know you have a great circle of friends when you don’t get stuck doing all the dishes.”

They walked along for a while in silence.  Mark made a few lighthearted comments about the evening, but Sandra seemed be in a pensive mood.  Finally she said, “You know, it was a great occasion and everything … but now that the croning is over, I’m feeling sort of sad.  Or … nostalgic, I guess.  I think it’s because the ceremony made me think of my old teacher, the Lady Corinne, who is on the other side now.  She’d have loved to be a part of tonight, to welcome Lois into the circle of crones.  And it made me feel … well, more aware of the passage of time.  Things change, people age, the wheel turns… “

They walked along in silence for a while.  Finally, Mark said, “I think that’s a normal way to be feeling, Sandra.  Not just funerals, but happy events too, can make people feel like that.  For my part, I always feel sort of solemn at graduations—they make me think of my own college days, and a couple of professors who are now gone.

“You know the book I gave to Lois tonight?  It’s quite full of that kind of thing.  It’s partly about dealing with the inevitability of change and death.  And it’s quite insistent that there’s a still better adventure on the other side.  At one point, for instance, there’s this cloud who says:

 

Look’st thou on my youth,

And fearest thou because I vanish and am seen no more,

Nothing remains? O maid, I tell thee, when I pass away,

It is to tenfold life, to love, to peace, and raptures holy.”

 

“Huh,” said Sandra.  “Lois seemed mighty pleased with your gift.  I’ll have to read it.”

“Anyway,” Mark continued,  “I bet your teacher Corinne, wherever she is, is very proud of you tonight.  Of the way you’re helping your circle to thrive.   I’m sorry she’s gone—from what you’ve told me about her, I wish I could’ve met her.”

“Yes, you’d have enjoyed each other.  Like you, she was always spouting odd bits of poetry.”  She took his hand.  “Thanks.”

Mark stopped walking and put his arms around her.  The young moon was up, and by its light he could see that she was smiling, though a tear glinted on her cheek.  “Time and change aren’t all bad, anyway,” he said.  “For instance, take these last two months, now.  My life has changed a lot—and I’m glad.  What I’m saying is, I’m glad you’re in it—you, and all your strange friends—but especially you.”

She pressed her face against his chest, and he stroked her head; and so they stood in the sidewalk, in the dark, in the moonlight, for a long time, and no one disturbed them.

 

Two weeks later, Sandra drove over to City Hall with Mark, trying not to be nervous about the second reading.

The council room was brightly lit for the meeting of the City Council.  A long table occupied the place of honor near the far wall, and the council members sat behind it, with the mayor in the middle.  In front of the council table was a short table for members of the press, where two reporters sat.  Beyond that was a podium with a microphone, also facing the council table.  The rest of the room was arranged as a gallery for the public, but most of the public had chosen to skip this particular civic exercise, and the room was largely empty.  The chairs in the gallery area were of the high-school variety: plastic seats with fold-down writing surfaces attached.  Sandra, Mark, and John Smith occupied three of them, and two more were filled by the chief of police and a younger uniformed officer.

Adding to the feeling of being in a school was the fact that the meeting opened with the Pledge of Allegiance.  Everyone stood and faced the flag in the corner, with hands over their hearts.  After the pledge came a flurry of routine business.  The minutes of the previous meeting were approved.  The public was invited to step up to the podium to offer remarks, but no one did.  The expenses and payrolls of a half-dozen town departments were reviewed and approved without comment.  The chief of police introduced the other uniformed officer—a new recruit, as it turned out—to the city council.  The young officer said a few words at the podium, and then sat down again, looking relieved.

Finally, John Smith’s ally on the council introduced the new ordinance.  In fact, it was Sandra’s dentist, Dr. Gutierrez—also a star of the local community theater—and he winked at her as he spoke.  Another council member asked why the matter was being brought up now, and the mayor replied, briefly, about the situation with the Rose and Feather.  Dr. Gutierrez observed that the owner, Sandra Shelby, was present and would no doubt be willing to answer any questions.  The mayor pointed out that the new ordinance was in line with a similar exception in state law, and went on to say that he would regret having to deny the renewal for an exemplary business like the Rose and Feather.  Sandra was surprised—she’d met the mayor at Chamber of Commerce luncheons, but she hadn’t imagined that he was particularly aware of her business.  The ordinance was passed to a second reading without further discussion, and that, apparently, was that.  The next meeting was set, two weeks out.  So far, John Smith’s predictions had come true.

“Interesting experience,” said Mark, when the meeting had adjourned.  “I’ve never been to a city council meeting before.  They moved things along pretty fast, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” said John Smith, “it was routine tonight.  Ninety percent of them are like that.  The other ten percent—well, you might be seeing one of those next time.  Let me suggest again that you plan to bring a range of supporters.  Mark, as local clergy, you’re ideal.”

“Thanks,” said Mark.  “I’ve never thought of myself as ideal before.”

John Smith ignored that.  “Sandra, if you have friends in the Chamber of Commerce—particularly from neighboring businesses—bring them along.  Good customers—particularly any who would be known to the council.  Employees—but they shouldn’t be the only ones to speak.  Nobody who isn’t a Corwin resident.”

Sandra mentally reviewed the list of people she’d been planning to invite.  “Will they all have to say something during that, um, public comment time?”

“Not necessarily.  But let’s be ready to respond if the Bible Church lines up a slate of speakers.”

“The council seemed, you know, strongly supportive, and the mayor too,” said Mark.  “The first vote was unanimous, wasn’t it?  Maybe David Caputo will just recognize that it’s a lost cause, and not bother coming.”

“Maybe,” said John Smith.