John Cooper sat at his kitchen table slowly drinking his day away. His eyes had not given up their stickiness from the rude awakening of his hangover. A small Mason jar was quickly filled with cheap bourbon and the hangover began to lose its edge.

His white whiskers had free reign on his old face. John liked to run his fingers through them. He wasn’t sure why, but it was soothing to feel the stubble soften over the days. Only on Saturday morning, did he ever shave. Today was Thursday. It was a good crop.

Some people fall into a daily routine. Some people fall into a rut. John was in a blind alley of life. He felt like the towering walls of darkness were actually protecting him from his past. It was those memories that spurned him to drink. A few more years and he would be dead, if only he could make that long.

John lowered his head and strained his neck to rid himself of the cramps that resided in those ancient tendons. If you were a fly, you would notice that there were no pictures of family on the walls. Nothing of sentimental value was to be seen in his dreary existence. Just dirty dishes and accumulations of dust that had acquired a layered look.

John never ventured forth from his little house. His groceries were delivered. There was always a list for the next week that was given to the pimply faced delivery boy.

There was no phone in the dank and dark abode. He had no reason to call anyone and no one had a reason to call him. More important though, was the fact that a phone number meant that his name might be listed somewhere.

TV was a way of life for John. He liked to watch people without being seen himself. He took cruel satisfaction in reality shows and the humility that they revealed. He was disgusted by them but found them to be a deep and hidden joy in his life.

Alone. Always alone and hidden from anyone’s view.

The door bell had a distant thud of a ring. John ignored it as usual. He hated peddlers and gypsies. The doorbell kept thudding away. He finally pushed away from his green Formica table and stumbled to the front door.

He opened it a crack, “What do you want?”

Another old man looked at him and smiled.

“Johann Kueper?”

John looked at him, “I do not know you and I do not know this person that you speak of. You must leave.”

“You are Johann Kueper. I have been looking for you for a long time.”

“Are you police? Let me see some identification.”

The old man at the door tilted his head, “I am not police, but you may see my identification.” With that he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt that revealed a tattoo of faded numbers from a long time ago.

“We have much to discuss.”

Every time, it's the same thing. My plane lands at the gate farthest from the terminal. I take a moment to shake the compression out of my ears and hoist my bag over my shoulder. Ennui-ridden passengers fill the seats like so many packages waiting to be shipped. I feel packed, feel like a thousand snaps of bubble wrap are going off inside my legs as each step takes me farther from the plane, closer to home.

Its late evening, and my fellow travelers and I snake through the wide walk way. We amble and stroll. We trot and meander. But we move, move as if we haven’t moved in years, or in my case, hours. The long hall bends like an arm, an overpriced Starbucks nestled in the elbow and I get my first glimpse of the security area; the point of no return for those departing and the scene of reunion for those returning. It’s still too far off, and I can’t tell if he’s there.

We’d talked often while I was away, almost daily. But I never asked. Not once did I say, “Meet me at the airport.” He should know, he should want to be there on his own. If he’d been away, I’d be standing up there, right near the folding tables and trash cans. I’d be stretching my neck, glancing from one face to another, hoping to catch a glimpse of him and toss out a smile as wide as a 747. Four weeks in Tokyo, four weeks out of his sight, out of his bed, out of his head as well? I face forward, moving steadily, not wanting to show anticipation, wanting to be surprised. My eyes search for a familiar silhouette, yet the dim corridor yields none of its secrets.

The bells of the metal detectors ring like awards and with each chime one of my fellow passengers falls into the arms of loved ones. I keep searching but each face, full of promise and hope, is foreign to me. I keep walking, purposefully, confidently as if to say to the world, “No one needs to meet me, here. I am fine, just FINE on my own.”

I stop. Hugs and kisses flow around me like an ocean of welcome and here I am, alone on an island, listening to the waves crash yet not feeling the spray. ‘Move,’ I shout at myself. ‘There’s no one here for you, MOVE!’

And it’s then that I’m struck by a reflection in the window. A young woman stares back at me, mildly cute yet exhausted, wearing a silly hat and carrying a computer case laden with Japanese candy. She looks like a woman who’s spent the last month in search of herself, only to lose track in the long walk from the plane.

We smile at each other. “There you are,” I whisper to my reflection. “Welcome home.”

I leave the gateway, strangely content, and head downstairs to claim my baggage and my life.

The first time I saw him he was clinging to the side of a moving rail car. The train moved slowly as it approached the station, two kilometres north of where I stood. His left arm was hooked through a rung of the rail car's ladderway. He was young, surely not more than seventeen, and even though there were many others, perhaps thirty or forty riding the freight train north that day, he is the one whose image stays in my memory. He wore a bright yellow shirt, too bright for someone who was doing something so dangerous. He was situated very low on the train car, much lower than the rest, almost at my eye level. We could have touched. I had never before been so close to one of these courageous young men.

There were many of us from my village who were waiting for the train that day, as we are on every day that the train comes. We bring food and water to the train, and as it passes by we give what we can to the young men who have crept aboard in the dark of night at the Guatemalan border, three days south. It takes four more days past our village for these desperate boys from Guatemala and Honduras to reach the United States border. They want what all of us want, but it is either bravery or desperation that makes them do what we are too afraid to do. They face detection by police, and by the heartless thieves who board the trains to steal from the poor. They brave the elements, and injury, and loneliness. They brave death under the wheels of the train. Perhaps they are even poorer than we are. I cannot imagine how poor these places must be for them to allow their young men to take such a dangerous journey.

I do not know his name, but I think of him as José Luis, the name of my brother whom I loved so dearly. As the train brought him alongside me, it moved at walking speed. I walked a few steps with the train, so that we looked at each other for what seemed like a long time. I handed him a small plastic bag that contained a potato, an apple and a small bottle of water, and he said, “Gracias, gracias, gracias…” It was all I needed him to say. The train moved past me, but he continued to look towards me. He was grateful, and perhaps a little less desperate than he had been just minutes earlier. I was touched more deeply than I can say.

Only Our Savior can say why I have chosen this very day to come to the market in Veracruz. Today, six days later, I see José Luis for the second time. The police have him. They are walking towards me, very slowly. As they pass, José Luis says, “Gracias, gracias, gracias…”

“Jason Wheeler? I’m Dr. Smith. Have a seat here, Jason. Dr. Larson is ill today, and he asked me to take care of your wisdom tooth so you wouldn’t have to reschedule. Is that okay with you?”
“Yeah, this really hurts. Let’s do it.”
“That’s what I thought you would say. I’ll just put a little bit of freezing in here while Nancy gets things set up, and then we can get started. Open wide …”
“Uhhh …”
“Just a bit more … There. Let’s give that a few minutes before we begin. Meantime, I'll just take a look around in here to see what we're dealing with. Feeling all right so far, Jason?”
“Uh-huh”
“Taking a little time off school to get this done?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I guess you’re in about eleventh grade at Perkins, is that right, Jason?”
“Uh-huh”
“You must know my daughter then. Sarah Smith? She’s in tenth grade.”
“Saah?”
“Yes, Sarah. You know her?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I thought so. I think I met you at Christmas time when Sarah had some friends over to our house one day. Do you remember that, Jason?”
“Uh…. uh-huh.”
“You remember being at Sarah’s house?”
Uh-huh.”
“Yes, it was you that I met then, I’m sure of that. Third molar lower left, Nancy. We’ll do a straight extraction. I’ll need the Meade 14 forceps. It doesn’t appear to be impacted, but I would like the scalpel and suture anyway. More gauze too, please, Nancy. Still feeling all right, Jason?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You didn’t recognize me with this mask on, did you, Jason? I guess Sarah didn’t mention that I was a dentist.”
“Nguuh.”
“Let’s give this a try now, and see if that freezing is ready. Can you feel this?”
“Nguuh.”
“What about this?”
“Nguuh.”
“Sarah told me that you offered her some marijuana the day that you were at our house. Do you remember that, Jason?”
“Huh?”
“Marijuana, Jason. You wanted Sarah to smoke marijuana with you. You remember, don’t you?”
“Uhhh …”
“Sarah is just fifteen, Jason. I don’t think she needs any of your marijuana. I don’t think any of her friends should offer her anything that might be bad for her. I think anybody who would do something like that isn’t really her friend. Do you agree, Jason?”
“ … ”
“She’s my little girl, and she tells me about all her friends. She told me about you, Jason.”
“ … ”
“Can you feel this?”
“Ow.”
“What about this?”
“OW!!”
“What about this, Jason, can you feel this?”
“AAAHH! OW! OW!!”
“That seems to be fine. Let’s get started, Nancy.”

"Brenda..."

A slurred, chilly voice from the darkness sends tingles down her spine. Her shoulders give an involuntary shudder of disgust. She freezes, caught in a wave of revulsion and panic, dragging her sight to the mouth of the dark alley.

Before her eyes can fix upon the form it reaches her, sliding its arms around her throat, cutting off her scream and dragging her into the gloom. She is thrust against the wall, his forearm across her windpipe, she stares into the face of her abductor, a gleam of recognition sparking in her brain.

"Whoooo..." she chokes through her clenched teeth and burning lungs.

"Quiet tramp!" the form sneers.

He leans closer to her, a wicked grin spreads across his gaunt features. More alarms go off in her head, who is he? As if reading her thoughts he speaks.

"What's the matter? Don't remember me? Three years ago, the Kelly's New Years party?" he hisses venomously, watching recognition dawn on her face.

His words bring back a few hints at memories.

A party at Sherri's house.

She is almost asleep. "I love you" he whispers into her ear.

Back in the alley.

"Blake!" she manages to cry aloud.

"Yes! I loved you! We shared each other that evening, we gave each other a piece of our souls, our hearts, didn't that mean anything to you!?" stammering, on the verge of tears. "You didn't even give me a way to contact you!"

"Blake, it was just a fling! A one nigh-" He cut off her pleading with his forearm, pushing harder on her throat, black tendrils creep into the edges of her vision, she's going to faint.

"Don't say that! Don't you dare!" He rages. His hand slips into the pocket of his jacket. He produces a small handgun and holds it up before her, rubbing the barrel against her tear stained cheek.

"You're the only one I ever wanted! I gave myself to you! We belong together... always!" He sobs.

Her eyes widen at that, fear and panic grip her. She wants to leave, he holds onto her tighter.

She is almost unconscious from oxygen loss. "I love you" he whispers into her ear.

A gunshot pierces the quiet night, another follows right on it's heels. Echoing off the condemned buildings and hidden alleys are the last declarations of a twisted love. Then silence at last.

She was beautiful. She was radiant. When I met her, she introduced herself as ‘Nanna’. Her first granddaughter called her that and the name stuck.

Even now, I can see her smile. Her smile invaded the intimate places in your soul. Yet, you welcomed her presence like a fresh morning. She had had a hard life and had seen too much tragedy in her lifetime for one person. She was dying of cancer.

Somehow, in her life that was filled with heartbreak, she bloomed in love. Her parents had died while she was in her thirties. She had lost her husband and one child to death.

I think that people who experience deep pain are in a sense, almost blessed. Not in the sense that they hurt, but in the sense that they have had such a deep love in their life.

In hospice, we knew when someone was going to die. There were physical signs of death. But, there were other signs that were more predictable. Although they are not scientific, they were more accurate than any doctor’s prediction. We knew within hours when someone would die. They told us with their hearts.

Nanna’s daughter called on a Thursday afternoon. Nanna had asked to speak to me as soon as possible. She had something important to tell me.

By this time, Nanna was unable to sit up in bed. The cancer had taken its toll. When I got there, I sat down next to her and she held my hand. She had the most beautiful smile.

Nanna looked at me and smiled a smile that can only come from someone who has understanding and experience. Her words had a sense of joy.

She looked at me and said, “Mama and Papa visited me last night. They were smiling. They said everything would be fine and that I would see them again soon.”

I had heard statements like this before, but what she said next turned faith into fact. She added, “And Papa wasn’t crippled anymore.”

She told me about her father and how he had been crippled in a farming accident. He hobbled around in pain and required a cane to walk. That’s the picture that she grew up with. All of her life, that was the Papa that she knew. The Papa she saw in heaven was healed and didn’t have any more pain.

Nanna taught me a lesson that I can never forget. She taught me about the beauty of Heaven.

During the next few hours, Nanna was quiet and peaceful. Her family and I were there with her. She only said a few words after that. She told her daughter and grandchildren how much she loved them and how much she looked forward to seeing them again in heaven.

I will always remember this. She had been quiet and still and then she open her eyes and looked beyond us. Then she said her last words before she died.

“It’s so beautiful… It’s so beautiful.”

I am not going to cry, she promised herself.

It’s not easy being an Army wife. But that was something she knew even before she married Arthur. At that time Arthur had been enlisted for over five years and had definitely made up his mind about “going career”, as he called it. There had been times when it was tough, knowing that he was going to be away for months at a time. Never knowing what might happen, whom he might meet, where he would end up.

Whenever she felt the tears pricking, she turned to their kids. Her hands rested on their shoulders now, as they waited for the military transport plane to taxi down the dusty runway. Samantha had her arm wrapped tightly around her knee. She was sucking on her thumb, glancing nervously from face to face in the militaristic atmosphere of the airbase. From time to time she looked up at her with hazel eyes, questioning.
Sam, the older, was standing proudly next to her, squinting into the sun. Giving mock salutes to the other soldiers they saw. “When I grow up, Mom,” he keeps on saying, “I wanna be a soldier, just like Daddy!” She strokes his hair.
“I know, honey”, she says.
Arthur had been away for too long. The times between his assignments always seemed so short. But now he was coming home.

I am not going to cry.
And so it was with a rigidly set face that she stoically accepted the meticulously folded flag they placed in her arms.

"Flight Attendants, prepare for landing.”

He had heard it a hundred times before. Flying was no longer a thrill. It was just a part of his life. Although, not as much as it used to be. Lately, he had cut back on his traveling.

He put up his tray. The magazines were placed neatly in the pockets in front of him. The laptop was stowed away under his seat. He looked around for any loose thoughts or objects…

”I wonder if she’ll be there…” His thought trailed off to October, 1984.

He was young and people were looking at him and smiling. He looked handsome in his uniform. Even though he only had one lowly stripe on his arm, he was in command of the moment. He was going home!

Bootcamp had been rough but he made it through. He kept a picture of her next to his heart. He lived for her warmth and kisses. He continued to look in her deep brown eyes, even though she was 1,200 miles away. He was doing that now. She said that she would be there at the gate when he came back.

"Flight Attendants, prepare for landing.”

When the plane landed, he bounded out of his seat and almost ran down the exit. He burst through the door in his glory and they were there. Mom, Dad, Grandma, and even his older brother. She was not there.

His heart was broken that day.

Over the years, every time he heard, "Flight Attendants, prepare for landing,” he thought to himself, ”I wonder if she’ll be there…”

Chicago. Dallas. Houston. Boston. LA. San Francisco. Heathrow. Toronto. The list went on.

She was never there. Always a reminder of a broken heart.

The pilot greased the landing. Perfectly smooth. An older version of that young man gathered his belongings and politely let the busy people hurry in front of him. He stopped for a moment and gathered his thoughts and began the long walk down the bridge to the terminal.

He entered the open room where others were waiting to depart…

“Daddy!!!!”
“Daddy!!!”

He was hit like a ton of bricks and he fell to his knees. No one else in this world could make him fall to his knees. He embraced the purest form of love. Honest, open, unhindered, beautiful love was all over him.

His daughter poured kisses and hugs on him. Little Jeremy, busted up against him like a tank. His open arms gathered their love into the deepest recesses of his heart and he was glad to be alive.

He looked up and there she was. Not Her. It was the true love of his life. He looked into her perfect blue eyes and she smiled. She had given him everything he could ever dream of. He stood up bearing the weight of his children and she warmly hugged him. Later, they would embrace in passion.

Sometimes,
a broken heart can lead you home to your true love.

It had been three months since he last saw them, and Scott’s excitement was evident on his clean-shaven face. The drive through windy back roads and interstates seemed to take unusually long, though only in part due to the rain. He talked aloud through his thoughts, wondering if they would remember him and convincing himself it didn’t matter. The rain meant they could not go outside, so the playroom down the hall would have to suffice.

Both Keeli and Ivy were equally adorable, but Scott has his reasons for missing Ivy the most. The two came to the research lab a year ago, and were still kept separate from the adult chimpanzees. Keeli was the older of the two, a male, and very excitable. He was always eager to play, though his attention shifted easily. He never spent too much time with any one person, and much preferred his mischievous adventures to grooming. Ivy, on the other hand, had her favorites. She made the hours spent cleaning cages and chopping fruit worth it.

Scott would always stand by the door, blankets, treats, and toys in hand and a digital camera tucked deep in his pocket. One of the graduate students would collect the two from their playroom and carry them outside. As soon as they were on the ground, Ivy would run towards Scott, wobblingly forward, her arms swaying to the side. Ivy would reach out, take him by the wrist, and gently guide him away from the rest of the group. She was content to be groomed, tickled, or held above him with her arms out like Superman. Nothing about that summer was more fun than sitting outside the lab and playing with the baby chimpanzees.

The thought they might not recognize him was a little sad, only because Scott spent so much time thinking about them. Still, they’ve surely seen lots of people over the months. If not, hopefully they’ll be impressed with the toys in the trunk that were carefully selected for them. He passed through the automatic gate and parked by the front door. Val, one of the graduate students, let him in and went to get her keys. Scott trailed behind her as she lifted the two from their room and carried them down the hall. Keeli and Ivy both stared back at him, silent but intrigued. Once inside the room, Scott closed and locked the door behind him and Val lowered them to the old carpet.

Both hit the ground running and pulled themselves upon the wooden box in front of Scott. They paused for a second, and together held out their arms. Together they squeezed themselves against his chest, their hairy little arms wrapped behind his neck. Keeli went to play with the toy car Scott brought him, occasionally coming over to solicit a game of tag. Ivy looked up at Scott, her small hand gently grasping his wrist, and led him across the room to catch up on old times.

The eight remaining hours of the day were spent with a body in the trunk driving south down the coastal highway. Gently writhing tarmac brushed against the pacific inviting cruise control to sit at four thousand revs for one-hundred-mile segments. The radio hummed politely and Mr. Porter listened contentedly to strangers addressing him concerning bypass schemes and messy break-ups. Towards eleven he was beckoned off the highway and along a crumbling logging route by an amber light atop a hill. A few thousand feet later he had arrived and knocked on a red cabin door without a stain on his suit.
The wife answered Porter’s knock with a slice of carrot cake. The cabin was open plan and yet cramped, it’s only distinct room was a kitchen out of which drifted the odors of a careless day’s work. Porter sat sucking the sugar out of his slice as she put on some clothes. A pink summer dress fluttered over her commanding hips and an immaculately pink-varnished finger was pointed to the coffee table beside him covered in last year’s issues of Vanity Fair. Porter lifted a pile of cash that sat beside last January’s Sex Issue and rolled the notes noisily before slipping them casually into his chest pocket. The victim’s wife paid no attention, busily arranging her brown and blonde streaked coiffure into an organized plume before beckoning Porter outside once more with a stainless steel pistol and a smile.
This intriguing lady, beautiful as an inbred rose had not asked to see her former husband by the time Porter slowed his 5-series to a rest at the end of the garish metal pier in the San Lorenzo industrial district. Spray flew through the openings between the giant metal shipping crates that littered the area. These droplets of water seemed to turn stale on contact with the air and gave the entire place a musty atmosphere. Porter’s female companion sat in the car until he wandered around the hood and opened her door. She was applying a pale lipstick that reminded him of sexual organs and looked up at Porter with a frown that seemed to scold him, finally following him round to the back of the BMW a few casual minutes later. His fingers were moist with rain as he hurriedly opened the trunk. A seagull shrieked from a rusted yellow crane above them and Porter threw his body into an about turn. From the end of the pier factories blossomed like mushrooms round one half of the horizon, the sea was all the beckoned on the other. The entire coast was deserted as civilization lurked behind the powerful mountains of the pacific rim who protected their urban sprawl from discomforting rain. Porter turned around to see the former wife reunite her lips with a late and abusive husband and then together they rolled his corpse into the dark churning water below.