Listen ...Circles in the Water

CIRCLES IN THE WATER
by Robert Hays
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Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain

Clings cruelly to us.

--John Keats

Chapter One

The line where the wall and ceiling met was indistinct, the two planes appearing to brush together haphazardly and merge into a geometric illusion that tilted first one way and then another, so that the room seemed to rock and sway like the deck of a ship on the open sea. Broder tried hard to get his bearings. He strained to focus his eyes on a point up and out, through the medical paraphernalia that hung over his bed like a tangle of gleaming metal and plastic vines, searching for some familiar sight.

Powerful effigies hammered at his brain and demanded recognition. He struggled to block them, to push them aside and throw up a protective barrier against further intrusion, but they were too strong. In his mind's eye he saw Donnie Shand and Ray-Gene and Colletta, and he felt a confusing mix of euphoria and remorse. Donnie Shand and Ray-Gene were the only close friends he'd ever had. He wanted to hate them for what they did to Colletta, but how could he, when he was the one most at fault? Ray-Gene was gone now and he never expected to see Donnie Shand again, but Colletta had come back into his life, as if by magic, and things could never be the same.

She had materialized from nowhere: "Hey, Jimmie. I heard you had a hard landing. How ya' doin'?"

The pure and sweet Carolina accent, the soft, almost timid whisper. Even in his languid, drug-induced stupor he'd known it was her. Suddenly he was fifteen again and in love, stretched serenely in the grass under the delicate canopy of a chinaberry tree in Colletta's back yard on a balmy spring night in Conway. Overhead, a pale-shining moon seemed adrift in an endless starlit sky. Donnie Shand and Ray-Gene surely must be somewhere nearby.

But this was all wrong. He was supposed to be on his way to Iraq. That was the mission he'd trained hard for, readying himself to jump from an airplane in the black of night and join in a swift strike against the enemy. Any enemy. Broder was a good soldier who didn't ask questions, he just followed orders. Orders were what made the Army a safe haven—no decisions to make, always somebody to tell you what to do and when to do it, just don't screw up too big or too often and you've got it made. Life as a paratrooper suited him well. Life as a paratrooper was the only life he wanted.

And then the once-in-a-thousand-jumps training accident spoiled everything. A sudden wind shift that turned his chute upside down a hundred feet above the ground, the oppressive weight of full combat gear, the thudding impact that left him battered and broken. It was a minor incident by Airborne standards, they said. Sure it was. His right leg was splintered almost beyond repair.

How long had he been here? Two days …two weeks? He'd had too many surgeries and too much morphine, living in a shadow world, in and out of consciousness, barely aware of his surroundings.

What he slowly came to recognize as a human voice intruded on the silence, emanating from an invisible-faced image at the foot of his bed, a silhouette backlit by the dim glow of a fixture on the wall: "Are you Broder?"

"Yes. I'm Broder."

"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Hewlett," the image said. "How are we tonight, Sergeant Broder?"

"I'm doing okay, sir." He would take the image at its word; if the image said it was a colonel, he would speak to it as a colonel.

"Do you know what day it is?" the image was asking.

"Maybe Wednesday, sir?"

"It's Sunday. Do you know what year it is?"

"Yes, sir. It's 2003."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Sir, I think I'm in the hospital."

"Do you know which hospital?"

"I guess I'm still at Fort Bragg, sir. I don't remember being moved."

"Yes, you're still at Fort Bragg. You've not been moved. Do you recall what got you here?"

"Sir, I had a bad jump."

"That's what I'm here to talk to you about, sergeant. That bad jump. How much of it do you remember?"

"I think it just went wrong all at once, at the last second. There was nothing I could do. Am I in trouble, sir?"

The silhouette had taken more complete form. Broder could make out the likeness of a face, but it was unfamiliar, a face he didn't recall having seen before. The face spoke with authority, the way a colonel would speak. "Of course not," the face said. "Accidents happen. Nobody's blaming you. We always investigate training injuries."

"I understand," Broder told the face, "but I don't know how much I can help. I don't think I handled it very well, sir."

"There will be time enough to sort all that out, sergeant. I'll come back in a couple of days, after you've had time to get your head cleared up a little. And you'll be talking to Captain Oates, the safety officer. Meanwhile, get some sleep. You got a nasty break in that leg and that's all you need to worry about for now."

"Sir . . ."

"Yes, sergeant?"

"When will I be able to jump again?"

"All in good time, sergeant. For now let's just worry about getting you back on your feet. Okay?"

"Okay, sir."

The image disappeared and Broder sank back into his hazy dream world. His mind conjured the exquisite pleasures of the jump. He imagined the familiar sensations spawned by the torturous velocity of a fall through empty space and the buoyancy of floating above the earth, and granted his senses free reign to revel uninhibited in the breathtaking rush of cold air and the paradoxical noise of the wind and silence of nothingness. This was the world in which he found peace. It was a calming world, solitary, inhabited by no strange-faced images who talked like colonels and free of disturbing effigies from his past.

When he woke the next day, Broder would not remember speaking with Colonel Hewlett, but he would remember that Colletta had been there and that memory would bring pain.

Listen ...The Life and Death of Lizzie Morris

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF LIZZIE MORRIS
by Robert Hays
Available in Print and All Ebook Formats

Bradley had always placed a return to Sicily at the top of the list of things he never wanted to do. But just a few weeks ago, after a series of particularly bad nights, he’d gone through a wrenching epiphany. There was a key somewhere that would open the door to inner harmony, destroying his demons and erasing the graphic images of carnage that vibrated through his subconscious mind. It was up to him to find it. Like a knight of the Dark Ages, he would face his fire-breathing dragons head-on.

Perhaps it was a desperate last resort, and it might not work, but he hoped that retracing his grisly wartime path would help bring an end to his nightmares. He expected no miracles; even a modest level of healing would make the trip worthwhile. Give him the slightest crack in that elusive door and he’d kick it open wide.

Bradley was confident that he had the power within himself to accomplish this mission, especially with Lizzie at his side. It was a duty he was determined to see through to the end.

Lizzie, as always, had been a rock of support. She’d taken the initiative to find out about passports and immunizations and the other things they would have to take care of, then put her foot down. They weren’t getting any younger, she said. And then, perhaps worrying that he needed a final inducement, she had proposed that they return home by way of Chicago and visit Matthew and Sarah and the grandsons.

When Bradley agreed, Lizzie’s smile was all the reward he would have asked for.

Lizzie couldn’t read his mind, but after all their years together she knew him as well as he knew himself. It often seemed as if his thoughts were her thoughts, her words his, like two musicians reading notes from the same page.

He needn’t try to explain why he wanted to stand on the beach somewhere east of Gela where his invasion force had landed and walk in sunshine where once he’d suffered unimaginable terror in the black of night. Lizzie understood. And she would hurt as he hurt, crouching silently on a forbidding hillside where the din of war had dulled his senses—the battlefield, if he could find it, where German and Italian artillery and rifle fire had snatched the lives of Carson Streator and who knew how many others and left Bradley with wounds that by any measure should have been lethal.

They had put themselves wholly into the hands of a pretty, infinitely patient young woman in a shopping-mall travel agency. She’d made their reservations, bought airline tickets, and outlined their schedule to Rome and then to Sicily and then back to Chicago and finally home again. They would spend five days on the island. There was no detailed itinerary beyond a single night’s reservation at an unpretentious Gela hotel, but a modest travel guide Lizzie had bought at a Memphis bookstore would serve their needs well enough. They would make the most of the time they had.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached their hotel. The check-in process went awkwardly, and their room’s “first floor” designation led to some confusion until they understood the Sicilian innkeeper’s explanation that this meant one flight up. A man who had been sweeping the sidewalk in front of the building lugged their small bags up the steep, narrow stairs. The room was poorly lit and sparsely furnished, the only touch of elegance a worn but exquisitely brocaded bedspread.

The man dropped their bags in the middle of the room, rebuffed Bradley’s efforts to give him money, and left them alone.

Bradley turned to Lizzie with an expression of surprise. “Why wouldn’t he take a tip?” he said. “Did I do something wrong?”

“I don’t think so. I think he’s a janitor or something. Janitors don’t expect tips.”

Lizzie hurried into the bathroom while Bradley sat on the bed, rocking and bouncing to test the firmness of the mattress. “Couldn’t we maybe walk around the block before dinner?” she called. “We’ve spent a lot of time sitting.”

Bradley agreed. After the flight to the island and the drive from Catania, his bad leg was stiff and sore. He also wanted to get his bearings and get a better feel for this place before dark.

They left the hotel by the front door and turned at the first street corner. An old woman was hunched behind a small, bright-green wooden table that nearly blocked the sidewalk. She watched intently as they approached and motioned for them to come.

“Buongiorno,” she said as they drew close, smiling. “Desidero parlare con lei.”

“Buongiorno,” Lizzie said. “And I’m afraid that’s all the Italian I know.”

“Ah, tourists,” the old woman responded. She said the word benevolently. “It’s good. I speak English. Come. Let me tell you things.”

Bradley looked at Lizzie warily, but she laughed. “Please,” she said to the old woman. “What do you want to tell us?”

“I know your future. Show me your hands. The gentleman first, please.”

Lizzie nudged Bradley with her elbow. He reached out stiffly to the woman behind the table, palms down. She grasped his hands gently and turned them over. “You have had big things in your life,” she said, after studying his palms a few seconds. “But I believe your best story is yet to be told. Your palms read well. You are strong. You will face troubles, but you will overcome.” Then, turning to Lizzie, “The lady has beautiful hands. May I see?”

Lizzie held out her hands, palms up. The old woman looked closely at one, then the other, then back to the first, slightly squinting while her eyes moved over Lizzie’s palms as if she were reading a page of fine print in a book. When she spoke, her voice was low, barely above a whisper. “There is happiness,” she said, “and also shadows. Forgive me. I think I am not reading you well.”

“Let’s just go with the happiness,” Lizzie said. “Brad is going to overcome his troubles, and I will be happy.”

Listen ...The Baby River Angel

THE BABY RIVER ANGEL by Robert Hays
Available in Print and All Ebook Formats

Chapter One

The makeshift raft, little more than a clump of brush, bobbed along in the ripples of the swift current close to the near bank of the river. When it was almost alongside the boat Birdie raked it in with his fishing pole, and the shallow reed basket lashed to two of the larger branches with a length of wild grape vine suddenly came alive. The two boys stared in fascination as he lifted a baby, its arms flailing, and gingerly pulled back a corner of the cocoon-like blanket to reveal the tiny face.

“Lordy, child,” Birdie said softly, “where’d you come from?”

“What is it, Daddy?” Birdie’s oldest boy asked.

“Why it’s a baby. Cain’t you see that?”

The boy looked momentarily chastened. Then he pushed closer. “Let me see it,” he said.

“Get the basket first. Set it down right there, in the bottom of the boat.”

The boy did his father’s bidding and Birdie very carefully lowered the delicate bundle back into the basket. The boy stooped over the squirming baby with an expression of awe and his brother, who had stayed back, crowded up beside him. Once within reach, the younger boy timidly lifted the edge of the blanket so that he could get a better look.

“Whose baby you think this is, Daddy?” the younger boy whispered.

“Now how would I know that? You seen it floating down the river same as I did.”

“I just wondered, is all.”

“Yeah, well . . . I just wouldn’t have any way of knowing. Sure seems like somebody was awful careless to let the little thing go floating off on such a flimsy little raft as that.”

The boys agreed. Yessir, it sure did look like somebody wasn’t taking very good care of the baby. How far upriver did he figure it had come from? Did he think maybe there was a nametag on it, like people looked for when they found a stray dog? What kind of baby did he guess it to be, a boy baby or a girl baby? It sure looked tiny, did he know how old it was? Did he suppose whoever lost it was on a picnic and forgot and left the baby in their picnic basket . . .?

“Now jest hold off with all your questions,” Birdie insisted. “I already told you, I don’t know any more about this baby than you do. All I know is it’s a good thing we seen it when we did.”

“How come you say that?” The older boy, again.

“Because it wouldn’t have lasted long on the river, that’s how come.”

Now the younger: “You mean it would have drownded?”

“Most likely, yes. If that little bit of a raft got tore apart on a stob or something. This basket might have floated for a bit, but sure not for long.”

Both boys were wide-eyed. Their daddy had just saved a baby from drowning and they had helped. Sobered by the weight of this reality, they sat quietly as their father turned the boat around and headed back down the river in the direction of the Cambria dock.

Back at the landing, Birdie gripped the basket firmly and climbed out of the boat while the boys held fast to the pilings. He rushed to Sam Gowdy’s bait shop.

“Sam,” he called, breathless and red-faced from exertion, “you gotta see this!”

Sam Gowdy was not a man to hurry. He took his time coming from the back of the shop. When he saw the child Birdie Wilson held in the basket his jaw dropped in disbelief. “Where ’n hell did you get a baby?” he demanded.

“She was floatin’ on the river,” Birdie said. “I swear she was, Sam, on a flimsy little raft of a thing that would’ve sunk and drowned her the first rock or stob it hit in the water.”