A Hobo's Nap

He showed up to town dirt-covered and his hair whispy in the wind. Keeping it under wraps with an old bandana, beat up and earth-smelling, he came into town disheveled and looking for a shady place to lie his head. Ahead, not more than a mile away, there grew a dogwood tree, plenty shady with a nice lawn below it, perfect for sleeping. The stranger drew up to the tree, measuring it with his eyes, taking in height, girth and all-around build of the lumber. This will do, he thought. I'm no Hawthorne, but this will do nicely.

He lay down his head, pulling off the old neckerchief from his head and putting it over his eyes. Squirming into a comfortable position, he clasped his hands behind his head, crossed his ankles and sighed with relief. Within minutes, he lay there, sleeping contentedly and snoring softly for all to hear.

Passersby stopped to watch the new town hobo, gawking quietly to one another just at his feet, taken aback that such a sight as he would dare nap under their beloved dogwood. A crowd began to gather, not impolitely or loudly, to bear witness to this new feat. For, in the town, no one had ever seen a hobo, a bum, or a homeless man before. Begging, pan-handling and soliciting just weren't done, weren't mentioned, weren't thought of.

Mrs. Flannery, bless her heart, felt poorly for the old fellow and left a jar of her homemade preserves just at his feet. Following suit, Mickey left his old cap next to them and, by evening, the cap was filled with small trinkets, coins and even a few dollar bills.

When the hobo woke a few hours later, he found he rested well and, even more surprisingly, at his feet lay such gifts as to take him aback unawares. "This is the best nap I've ever taken," he reasoned. With that, he picked up his belongings old and new, gave a nod to the dogwood, and continued on his way into the west.

His First Game

The stadium loomed before them. Coming down the back entrance in the station wagon, Mikey sat in the front seat, his dad's arm over the seat, left hand tapping out a beat on the steering wheel. Over the radio, Credence played "Put Me in Coach." Mikey was singing along, had just gotten through "I'm ready to play," when they came around the bend and he caught his first up-close-and-personal glimpse of Angel Stadium. His voice caught and he stopped cold.

"Cat got your tongue, kiddo?," his father asked. His dad looked over at him, smiling the way he did when funny, memorable things happened to his only son. Mikey blushed, turned his head and kept staring intently at the shrubs as they moved slowly past. The music continued playing, but Mikey's dad turned it way down, slowly idling forward toward the parking booth. "This is her." Mikey turned back to look at the monolith, the embarrassment apparently forgotten. "You know, I first came to a game here when I was about your age? Yep, the stadium opened in '66 and I was maybe 7 or 8. I've come to more games here than I can count, champ, but this is going to be the best one yet."

"Yeah, you know it!" The boy fidgeted in his seat, hunted out his glove and clutched it in his lap.

Pulling up to the the parking booth, Mikey's dad paid the 8 dollars and turned to the right, parking in the same area he had always parked in. As it was a day game, the two put on sunscreen, sunglasses and ballcaps. Mikey shoved his hand in his glove and drove his opposite fist into the web repeatedly, whistling the Darth Vader tune all the while. They locked up and began making their way to the stadium entrance, Mikey taking 2 steps to his dad's one. The boy got a new feeling up his neck, tingly and happy, making him bounce a little more and talk a little less. He didn't know what to expect of his first ballgame. Outside of baseball and hot dogs, everything was so new.

They came to the ticket-takers and Mikey's dad handed him his own ticket. Feeling it in his hands for the first time, the boy grew more and more excited. People were everywhere, the scents were new and, as they walked into the shade of the stadium a breeze met him in the face, pushing his bangs into his eyes. They got hot dogs, huge sodas and nachos. Mikey carried the gloves and his dad managed to handle everything else. They sat at the very top of the stadium, down the right field line. The boy couldn't believe how large everything was, how the stadium shook with the roar of the crowd, how it seemed like it was its own animal.

In the fourth, they got cotton candy; in the fifth, it was peanuts. In the seventh, they moved down two levels, the boy very quiet and scared of being caught, his father dragging him forward, telling him to be confident and "be cool. Just ... just be cool." They sat down much lower than their original seats and, this time, Mikey could make out the faces of the players, read the numbers on the backs of their jerseys and could see them spit through their teeth. The two sang all of the fight songs, stomped their feet and participated in the wave.

The Angels won that day, beating the Red Sox 12-0. On the way out of the stadium, the boy reasoned he was now a "real fan" since he had now been to a baseball game. His dad, naturally, agreed. "It's true, Mikey. There's no turning back now."

That night, Mikey dreamed he lived in the stadium, his uncles were the starting line-up and his dad managed the whole thing.

The Sweet and Pungent Odor of Gasoline

The lights were too bright for his eyes, making him squint into the otherwise perfect darkness. Two headlights, blinding him, shot against the elm and past it, into the high-grassed valley below. But the way the hill dropped off, all he could picture was the elm, a few feet of grass in relief, each blade casting its own shadow, and then nothing. Just the blackness past the blades' individual shadows. But he was facing the lights of the Jeep, hands tied behind his back, standing without his shoes. Where the lights went after him was only his imagination.

An hour and a half previous, he was sleeping alongside his wife in their dowry bed. She, seven years younger than he, awoke first at the pounding on the door and, in turn, awoke him. He was groggy for only a moment, until he heard the balled, angry fists against the oaken entrance. Wiping his eyes and pulling up his khakis, he shouted, "I'm coming, you Charlatans. I'm coming." He shoved his nightshirt haphazardly into his pants, tied his belt, and pushed back the lock of hair as it hung in his face. He kissed his wife once, on the bridge of her nose and motioned for her to remain where she was, tucked neatly under the covers and shivering from her fear.

Plodding to the door in his bare feet, he heard his own clipped footsteps reverberating on the masonry, resounding each time his heel his the tile. I will miss these squares, he thought, and the people that helped lay this floor. Oh, the work that went into this home! But do not think of that, he thought. Those thoughts will only end in your death, anyway. But that is where I am going, is it not? Am I not tramping to my death at this late hour? Again, do not think of it. Ok, I will put it away then.

His guests, only three men, waited for him to open the door and, when he did, they pulled him outside by the collar of his nightshirt. "Kiss your wife, Old Man. You will not be returning."

"That I have done and more this night," he said.

"Then turn, arms behind you." Peter did as he was told, taking a final look at the oak door he carved by hand, it's smooth edges and fine grain. Tying telephone cord around his wrists, they led him back to the jeep in the blackness of the night. It was a new moon and hiding behind the clouds. Even it, he reasoned, did not wish to see this unfold.

They drove for more than an hour over the bumpy road. The air was stifling, the engine loud and he smelled the sweet and pungent odor of gasoline in his nostrils. His arms chafing, he turned to one of the men, Smith - a miner, he remembered, and asked for a scratch. The man chuckled, squinting at the old lord. "Even as you go to your death, you still find the need to have someone scratch your itch? Oh, you dog. You will pay for this." With a rush, Smith gave Peter the back of his hand, swooping downward and scraping his knuckles across the old man's cheekbone, then mouth, then clear. Pursing his lips, Peter tasted the sweet-iron of blood. It had been too long since last he bled, he reasoned. Another reason for this game.

"Why didn't you kill me back there, in my home?"

"It would have been too easy. We wanted you out in the farmland, in the air where you beat those who worked for you. We wanted you to die in the land that made you wealthy, not in the comfort of your home where you enjoyed your riches. There must be justice."

"You speak of justice as though you are intimate with her."

"Soon," spoke the driver, "you will be familiar with her, too."

They pulled up to the elm, leaving the Jeep running. By the sound of it, there was an exhaust leak. Each getting out in turn, they pulled him out, dropping him on the hard soil. It was mid-spring and he felt the wind whistle under the truck and move the hairs on his toes. Now he stood facing the Jeep, looking into its lights, breathing lightly. This is easier than I thought, he reasoned. This is but a small thing. Just do not dwell on it, and things will be fine. Just do not dwell on it.

The three men walked to the back of the truck, opened it, and each pulled out a carbine. The bolts went into their places with the familiar pop-slide of his youth. Each would take responsibility for the death, he thought. Not one man would be free of this sin. Walking back around, the man who was in the passenger seat - Frank, he believed - a farmhand, took him behind the wrists, led him until he faced the elm and kicked him behind the knees, leveling him. I was right, he thought. The lights go off into the darkness. It seems a great cliff, this tiny knoll in the darkness. But I remember it well; it is a place I used to tumble as a boy. His head was placed against the jigsaw-puzzle bark of the tree, eyes looking down. Not much longer now, he thought.

The cold iron of the carbines found the back of his neck, at the base of the skull. One. Two. Three. Yes, he could feel each one pleasantly against his neck, contrasting the warmth of the night. He breathed in long, slow sobs now, ready for it to be over. The men looked at one another, each giving a curt nod, and squeezed the triggers nearly simultaneously. The echo resounded off the trees into the still, quiet night.

The man's body slumped forward, head backward, leading with the neck. The bullets found homes in the tree at different angles and his blood, dark as the night now, washed over the fresh wounds of the elm. The three assassins got back in the Jeep and, calmly putting the truck into gear, drove back the way they came. Peter remained on his knees, in the darkness, until he was found the next dawn by a neighbor who heard the shots and woke in the night.

The Earthling

I stood at the height of the sand, looking down at the waves as they came in. Behind me, the lifeguard's tower held up a yellow sign, with a black circle in the center. No surfing, the symbol signed. Undertow. The surfers called it being black balled, hating the guards for keeping them at bay. I stood there in the afternoon sun, children and families swirling about me. And yet in that moment, I counted myself alone.

There was an onshore wind flattening the waves and blowing in my face, but the currents continued to swell and batter the shore just the same. A girl no more than eight had pulled a rope of bull kelp from the shore, probably dislodged from some underwater forest far away, and swung it about her like a whip, keeping her boyish mate in tow, they playing tug-o-war, or she slapping the waves in her glee. The two of them danced and hopped over the shallows, running into the water and retreating just as quickly. In my mind, I thought up little poems and lines about the girl with the bull whip of bull kelp, slaughtering the sea with its currency.

The sun was hot on my bare shoulders and, as I had come ill-prepared, they began to redden and burn. I pulled off my tank top and walked down the little hill toward the Pacific. Her foam kissed my toes and sent a shiver up my spine. It made me pause half a second, just a touch fearful of the cold. It's a wonder the things we become afraid of as we tramp off into the all-powerful ocean. I kept walking, ankle-deep, now calves immersed, now up to my knees. Every few moments, another wave would come tumbling toward me and I, like a deer in the headlights, had to give pause until it roiled past me.

Once knee-height, I bent forward and grabbed great scoops of sea water, splashing my chest and shivering in the sun. O sea, how I missed thee! Now came a taller wave, not yet broken, not yet succumbing to that on-shore wind. I peered at her, put my right foot back and dove into her foam, feeling engulfed in her weight and letting her roll over my back. All the time, my eyes were shut tight, my legs dolphin-kicking like a true swimmer until I emerged, unscathed.

I looked back and noted the shore's distance. Who needed the old earth, I said to myself, when we have the sea to comfort us. I turned and saw the next wave coming. Planting my feet, I gave her my back and she spread her arms around me, pushing me half a step forward. O sea, how I love thee! Now swimming for my worth, I dove through wave after wave, resting just before her depths were too much for my height to reach sandy bottom. Gasping for air, my lips tasting of salt, I heaved great gasps, calming myself into the rhythm of the waves. I gave the earth one last glance, breathed deeply again, and kept swimming toward the sun.

And that, my neighbors, is how I came to Atlantis.

The Unwed Bride

Black suit exposed, trench coat slicking in the rain, he stood leaning on his umbrella, it closed and spike firmly planted in the quickening mud. Hair bolted to his scalp, the water ran between his glasses and face, making it hard to see. But it didn't matter. His eyes were closed anyway. Thinking. He stood surrounded by people he had rarely seen, let alone met. But she had. These were the ghosts of her relationships, and she was the shatter-point; the reason they were all gathered in the rain, shoes going the hell in this downpour.

She died the week before, making a left turn in an intersection. A van, right signal on, blew through the light as she was turning, t-boning the sub-compact and ramming the girl right to Jesus. In that instant the hammer came down on her life, creating fissures and cracks between all of her relationships. Even in her death she created relationships where, before, only strangers stood.

Her mother hadn’t spoken with her dad in nearly ten years. Now, they cried on one another's shoulder, his arm wrapped round her waist, holding the umbrella over her head. In due time, they would become good friends again – never lovers – and would have lunch once a week at the all-night diner.

The rain-sodden young man continued on, his eyes closed beyond the glasses. He listened to the monk, chanting in Mandarin. He knew the girl was a Buddhist, but somehow pictured a Western funeral. The scene was correct – rain, black on black attire, tears – but the monk was unexpected. There would be a prayer ceremony to make her journey easier every seven days for the next 49 days. Her name would be written in calligraphy on the headstone and, when he died, he imagined his name would join hers, they laying together like children at naptime for eternity.

They met when he was in college. She was three years his junior and he was a fifth year senior. They talked much too late and worked at being deep and stable, with wild outbursts in the night. His favored, most untamed memories coming in waves now: he pictured the late-night runs to the top of the bell-tower, the wine-scented kisses, the unwound feeling in the pit of his stomach. His dad didn’t know what he saw in her. Her mom thought he was immature. But they worked well together, not quite opposites, but bringing a balance to the relationship. The following year, they moved in together.

Things went pleasantly, but he never gave her his name. His one regret, for the rest of his life, was that she died without his name. And he had worked so hard at making it a good one.

The Warming House

His favorite part of the day was the early morning. He'd awaken just before the sun would light the sky, cold in his longjohns, pulling his socks from the foot of the bed, having kept them warm under the covers. Next, he hauled the jeans into shape from the cold, hard floor and, standing, tugged them up, buttoning, zipping and leaving the suspenders to dangle. He'd pull on another shirt, right the suspenders, throw on the heavy flannel jacket, goose-down hat and black scarf. The doorknob would be deathly cold, but he'd grit his teeth, touch the knob once, then twice, then wrestle it until the old oaken door pried ajar, just far enough for him to get his body out, without awakening his sleeping wife who lay quietly bundled up in blankets and nightclothes. The lantern guttered in the wind, then resumed its strength as the passed through the doorway and closed the guardian behind him.

The air ripped through his bones, even with all the layers attempting protection. He'd walk over to the shed, blowing warm air into his cold hands. Gloves were a bother, he imagined. They inhibited his work. Each day, he went to the wood pile as the sky began to gray and pulled 4 or 5 decent chunks of pine for hewing. He'd turn each piece over in his hands, expecting it for moisture, bugs and something else. He couldn't place it, but some pieces got saved for later carving. They were too good to be burned.

Once upon the chopping block, his arms and axe handled the lumber squarely. Whistle, chop, pry, grunt. Whistle, chop, pry, grunt. He'd repeat the process, exhaling a torrent of stream as he did so. He never cut enough wood for the next day. That was tomorrow's work and he wanted to be able to do something with his hands in the morning. The wood would be corded and slung over his large shoulders with a bit of twine, the ax returned to the shed after he tested the edge with his thumb. He'd trudge back to the log cabin of his youth, open the door and slide in. Close the door. Walk to the stove, kneel.

By this time, the sky was turning orange and red. His beard had snowflakes in it and his cheeks were rosey red. Take off the hat. Rest, palms on the floor. Untie the wood. Stretching his neck, he'd look into the fireplace and see the same old grate he'd stacked wood in since he was 9. Again, the wood went in and the fire lit. Hanging a pot of water, he'd warm it enough for tea, then continue warming the remainder for the wash basin.

The house warmed enough, he woke his wife.

For the 50

I have not the memory of your sunbeam smile as it caressed
and enveloped
the western horizon, casting fires of red and orange over
the humpbacked
arc of the waves. I have only heard the stories of your
current-changing love
or how the winds of your voice blow cool refreshment to
the weary soldiers,
reviving them, relieving their suffering and stanching
their mortal wounds.

But I have traced the curvature of your ribs in starlight,
and followed the line
of your abdomen to the little cave of your belly. I have seen
your firefly eyes in
the wild darkness and at the first paint-strokes of the dawn;
I have been to the
warm and radiant center of your self, liquid in all its perfect
alchemy, and I have
taken refuge in the raven-dark tangle of your mane. Consuming
fire, you have

crested the impossibility of myth and set down at the foot of
my ever-malleable
reality. O dearest love, you are both human and inhuman in these
frail eyes. My
goddess of the flesh, my tamer of titans, it is your naked truth
that comes shining
as a sword, it is the sweet scent of your mouth that leads me
into war.

Broke

There isn't much time, he thought, before the rest of my life looks like my wallet: empty. Nothing there but laundry lint and, as he folded up the battered leather and returned it, ass-shaped and thin, to its shelter inside his left-rear pocket, even the lint came tumbling down to the carpeted floor.

Well, there goes that.

Maiden

I have awakened with clarity.
She's gone again - a ship in the fog; quietly enveloped
in the night mists, she carries low her cargo on the surf
while the waves sunder against her hull, crying out for their maiden.
She is a pirate's bounty in waiting,

a schooner setting out to lose herself at sea.
She will be shipwrecked, she will go down fighting; and I will find her,
moored on the beach of my mothers, and I will stitch those tattered sails,
putting nails to wood and sweat to brow. I will bring a sea-worthy smile
to her lips with the strength of my arm.

Yet for now, her noiseless swish of hips takes the tide
and leaves the strong scent of lovers to
linger in the bedsheets.

The Siren

She's a complicated soul housed in a complicated frame;
her eyes do a complicated dance in this complicated game -
her hips call to me a chorus in this complicated way
like a siren on the rocks, enticing her simple-minded prey.
With my simple sea-faring skiff newly anchored in the bay,

I’m the dinner for this monster, a simple traveler doomed to pay.
and I see her on the rocks, just as naked as my song –
My heart simply seizes in my throat, but I continue to go along
Her eyes now a simple flame, only passionate and strong
and I tread toward my destruction, my will is dead and gone.

She speaks a complicated word in my simple-minded ear
and grips me with complicated emotion, more than simple-minded fear
My simple clothes come off like skin, I’m shedding complicated years –
This old sailor is devoured, now it’s all become so clear.
She’s my simple love and I’m her complicated tears.

Hawaii

If anyone checks this and was wondering, I heard back from the University of Hawaii. I didn't get in.

The Cobbler

His work had been walked on since he turned 12 when he took the apprentice job. Mr. Darvish, the local cobbler, had instructed him on how to repair the soles of shoes and after a time he felt capable and confident. He would attend to a client now and again - Widow McIntyre, for instance, came in once every six months or so and she had a tendency to smile with her eyes and make the young men on the street look twice. She was always passing by the shop window but, luckily for Seamus, he was always working and had little time for women of her character. It was a sad shame about Mr. McIntyre, though. Old man Johnson, on the other hand, came in once a week - not just for sole repair, but for conversation and carrying a slow sigh. When the boy was young, he remembered Old man Johnson by the sigh.

The bell hanging from the doorway to the shop in East Mickmack rang while the hinges lent their accompanying squeak. Seamus, looking up from his bent over position, noticed the haberdasher as he came in, walked to the counter and sighed with his whole body. Old man Johnson, he thought. The boy was 13 at the time.

"Afternoon, Mr. Johnson."

"Aye. Afternoon. You got any old leathers lying 'round the store I can take home? For the pup, you see."

"Oh, I think I can find something, sir. Let me ask Mr. Darvish to be certain, though."

"No, no. No need. Nevermind it then."

The two of them sat and talked for half an hour about the trout and how they were biting, about the time it took for the sun to set in the evenings now, and the way Mr. Johnson's horses were reacting to the new feed. At the end of that time, the old man shook his feeble frame once more and was on his way.

As Seamus sat back down to his work, he sighed too. Thanks be to Mr. Johnson for breaking up the work.

Can't Make Rent

I think I am going to perform this piece on the 18th at a spoken word venue. It's best to be read aloud.

I woke up white-knuckling the white sheets with white fear chattering my white teeth. I breathed, I calmed, I hit the alarm. I showered, I pressed, teeth brushed, I dressed. But that poor automaton in me had died, overnight suicide, so that white fire in my black mind kept me spinning ...

Winning the lottery - that's the only way I could pay all my bills and the lot of me doesn't have the extra buck to spend on cheap thrills; hopes of luck run dry when all my cash goes to gasoline and rent; I have visions of my father working long hours with back bent - without sense, we slave, we burn, we toil, we churn, we spend, we spree, we save, we bleed - DAMN this recession and this economy! What's to show for what is owed? We're told pay your taxes, pay the piper, well I've caught a debt sentence and it's a lifer.

Imagine no welfare, imagine no programs, imagine a place where top jobs go to the best man; Imagine no WIC, imagine no food stamps, imagine a hand up where we hand out with both hands. We're told things will get better, things take time, full collapse of the dollar, full collapse of our minds. We hear world-wide recession, an uprising in crime. I say take back your life, stop waiting in line. Stop the overspending, fire the CEOs, kick out the pimps and rehab the hoes; bailout the citizens, forget the bureaucracy, work for the people and end this Plutocracy!

Foot Slapper

The boy was found dead under a tree, his body covered with the whisps and grasses lying about. Carried into the home by his father, his body was placed on the ceremonial mats and the kahuna was fetched.

Kūpina'i* had been out meandering by himself the night before. After waking up to the full moon's light in his eyes, he heard the voice of a maiden a far way off, calling to him as though in a dream. He followed her voice without reservation and came upon her as she stood under the cover of some kukui trees, the moonlight shining upon her face and breasts.

"You've come," she said, a smile crossing her mouth.

"'Ae," Kūpina'i replied. "You called me." She brought the boy toward her and meant a mischief to his person. She, the sorceress, called up a wind and pushed him close to her. Within a moment, she had removed his spirit from his body, leaving it to walk the earth, while she turned herself into an old hag and wandered off the trail, cackling and snapping her jaws as she went.

The next morning, Kūpina'i's spirit paced back and forth over his body. When his father picked him up with tears and carried him home, he thought for certain that he was doomed. The most he could wish for, he thought, would be to become an aumakua* like his grandfather, to take the form of a pueo* and protect the rest of his family. But when the kupuna came in and saw the spirit-less boy, he knew immediately what had happened.

"You hear there's a sorceress around lately?," the old man asked.

"We heard," Kūpina'i's father said. "Is this her work?"

"'Ae, it is. But I have just the thing." The priest rifled through his bags, kicked everyone out of the little hale* and set to work. He had the family pray to their guardian gods while he made a poultice for the spirit. He talked to Kūpina'i in the spirit realm, listened to what happened and brought the spirit close to the feet of the body. He put the poultice in the mouth of the boy's body, preparing it to receive it's ghost.

"You must enter at the feet," the kupuna said.

"A'ole!," said the boy. "The feet are most disgusting!"

"Yes, but they are the gateway for your spirit. Come close now." The boy reluctantly edged forward and the priest pulled him by his spirit neck, forcing his head into his body's feet. Kūpina'i began to mumble about the pain, but the old man, stronger than he let on to be, began to slap the feet of the body, forcing the spirit back into it's shell. With each slap, the spirit moved a little farther in, becoming more comfortable in his own home. After an hour, the ordeal was over.

"Mahalo, kupuna!," the resurrected boy called!

"Of course," replied the priest. And then under his breath, "Now to see about that sorceress..."

--------------
*Kūpina'i - echo.
*aumakua - guardian gods of Hawaiian families, typically seen in the form of an animal. Ancestors are sometimes deified and become aumakua, taking the shape of the animal that guards the family.
*pueo - Hawaiian owl.
*hale - house

Birthday Wishes, Part Two

The chores still needed doing, the animals cared for, the food to be cooked. The men worked hard, just as they did every other day, to make sure the provisions were provided, sinks fixed, tractors running. Inside, Lizzie did the work in the house, made meals and softened the hearts of the weather-worn men. She mended clothes, swept the floor and kept the flies at bay. Each person played a role in the family as they bent hand to the plow to keep their little home up and running. But while the family kept hard to work, Seamus began to wonder at the highlight of his year. It was his birthday, true enough, but noon had come and gone and still, there were no gifts.

“Really, I just want that one gift. That’s all,” he thought. Around one o’ clock, Mac pulled him aside.

“I got something for you, little brother.” Seamus’ eyes went a little wide and he quickly composed himself. He smiled and approached Mac as the teen baled hay over the loft and into the stalls below. Pausing, Mac wiped his brow, set the pitchfork against the wall and pulled off his gloves to expose the white knuckles and overly-trimmed nails beneath – all more than a little sweaty and clammy from the work. “It ain’t much, but I wanted you to have these.” Reaching behind his back, Mac brought forth two screwdrivers – a standard and a Phillips – and a pair of leather gloves.

“The drivers aren’t new, but they were my first set and I thought it was time you had a pair for yourself. The gloves, I got down at Old McCreedy’s hardware. I hope they fit ya.” Seamus pulled the gloves on tight and noted they were a little big, but he was happy to grow into them. He took the screwdrivers in his hand and felt the weight of each one, smiling at their promise. With a quick word of thanks, the boy hugged his brother, wiped his leaky eyes and sprinted back down the ladder in the barn. He let out a woop as the door swung wide, gave a skip or two passing the hogs and was away in the field.

The rest of the day continued in the same fashion, with each family member taking a turn throughout the day to pull Seamus aside and hand the boy a tool or gift with a word of encouragement. From Lizzie, he received an apple pie, all to himself, and hugs so tight they felt like vice grips on his little frame. William got him a new hammer, some ten-penny nails and a tool belt. These tools, too, Seamus realized, were all used, but it was nice to know they were his. Upon receiving them, he ran them into the barn and placed them in his toolbox, happy that we was coming closer to manhood – and even his gifts showed his merit.

As for Tristan, he waited until the boys were playing round the oak tree before he pulled his gift from his pocket. The two boys huddled close together and Seamus looked at his brother with a sideways glance, knowing his brother hadn’t stolen or cheated someone out of this particular gift.

“You know what this is?,” the elder boy asked.

“Yep. You made this?”

Tristan went quiet and merely looked down, a little shake to his head affirming Seamus’ question.

“It’s great, Tris. Really. There’s no way I’m losing with these.” In Tristan’s hand, there were three polished balled bearings of different size and weight, all buffed to a luminous shine. The boy had taken care to pry each one out of a different set of bearings – the smallest came from an old Volkswagen CV joint, the middle sized proved more difficult from the rusted truck axle on the side of the house and, most difficult to acquire and clean, the largest was from an old John Deere tractor a mile away. To get the last one, Tristan went to the stranger’s door and asked for the axle. After much haggling and Tristan promising to take nothing but a balled bearing, the man obliged. Getting home, the boy set to cleaning each one with degreaser, a buffing compound and then finally some polish he had found in the barn. When he was done with them, he had spent over five hours on them and nearly kept them for himself. As competitive marble players, the O’Leary boys would always play in the school yard “for keeps.” With these, Seamus surmised, he would acquire a vast number of new marbles.

“I’m glad you like ‘em,” Tristan managed to say, still looking down. Seamus grabbed him then and gave a holler, punching Tristan in the arm and shoving the marbles in his pockets.

The boys got back to the house right around dusk and, to Seamus’ surprise, there was still no gift from his parents. Instead, they had cake (thanks to Lizzie) and set down to a normal supper. Even after the plates were cleared, there was no rifle to be found. Aggy walked over to the boy and, as Seamus dried a dish, said to him:

“I know what we talked about, Seamus. And it isn’t that you don’t deserve your first weapon, but your mother and I just couldn’t afford it. I’m sorry. We’re all sorry. Maybe next year.” Seamus nodded quietly and kept his eyes away, hoping the tears he knew were there would not roll down his cheeks. He remembered the conversation he had with his father and he knew a rifle had not been promised. But still, he thought, “He thinks I deserve it. I don’t have it, but he thinks I deserve it.”

After the dishes were finished, everyone gave one more hearty “Happy Birthday!” and retired to their own quarters. Seamus sat on the front stoop until it got too cold and only then did he go upstairs to his bedroom. Awaiting him, however, were all the siblings, each one sitting on his bed and talking about when they thought their littlest brother would get upstairs. Shooshing them all, Mac noticed Seamus and said, “Seamus. We have one more thing for you.”

“Oh,” the boy said. You’ve all given me gifts. They’re all great.”

“Thanks, but we have one more. From all of us. It’s under the bed, Shame.”

Seamus raised his eyebrows and dropped his body to the floor, only to find his rifle waiting for him under the bed. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Trying to speak, only a little squeak came out until he caught his breath, pulled the weapon out from the bed, held it muzzle down and asked, “How?”

“We pulled our resources,” William said. Everyone did. Mom and Dad knew they couldn’t afford it, but they pitched in and got you some ammo anyway. At any rate, you deserve this, Shame. We’re proud of you.”