Paid in Full part 2, a folktale for Christmas

Merry Christmas to all today. May the Lord bless and keep you as you celebrate this day with your friends and family.

Here's part two of our little tale. As I mentioned yesterday, it is based on a short story I read... and by short, I mean it was three lines long. I obviously used creative license.

The house looked asleep when he trudged up the front walkway. Save for the flicker of candle light he could see through the window, all else was dark. He wondered why the fire hadn’t been stoked—surely it was cold in the house. When he opened the door he saw why. There before him were his three girls, sitting silently around the table, staring at two spilled sacks. The sight of the contents of the sacks made his very insides still and silent. He was astonished. Gold. Gold enough to pay debts, buy food… enough for a dowry for his daughters—more than enough! He was without words. What is this? his eyes demanded as he looked at each of his daughters in turn, searching their face for an answer to the question he was too dumbfounded to utter aloud. They gave no answer in response to his silent, questioning gaze. They had none to give; his own astonishment was mirrored in their shiny eyes.

He turned out the door and looked down the street, both ways. It was empty. There was no one in sight, nor had there been for hours—there were no marks in the snow, other than his and those of the….  The old man turned back into the house, years younger with hope, and sat down with his daughters at the table. The family sat and looked at the treasure that spilled out of the sacks on the table before them. Mostly they looked at each other. They were at ease, at ease with themselves and their future for the first time in many years. 

The next morning, the youngest daughter awoke early. Her feet were cold, despite the several quilted blankets she and her sisters shared. She slipped out of bed, wrapped herself in the top blanket, and hurried over to the hearth to stoke the fire and retrieve the stockings she had hung there to dry the night before. She poked around in the ashes and clumsily tossed on a couple of logs, trying not to let the blanket slip from her shoulders as she shifted back and forth on the stone floor in an effort to stay warm. She grabbed her stockings without looking and turned to race back to the warmth of her bed. The stockings tugged in her hand and then lightened suddenly. At the same moment she heard a small thud and then the sound of metal sliding over metal and the stone floor. She halted and looked down and there was a small bag spilling gold coins from its open mouth. She looked over to the table. The two sacks of gold they had marveled at in silence still lay there, tied neatly shut. Whoever threw the coins in through the window must have thrown a third in through the chimney. In their astonishment, they hadn’t noticed the bulging stocking when they stoked the fire to make supper the night before.

To this day it is unknown for certain who tossed the money bags through the window and chimney of that decrepit cottage. The whip of the wind had rattled the glass open for but a few moments, but it had been time enough and distraction enough for two sacks of money to find mark on the workbench that doubled as the family table and a third to get tangled in wet stockings by the fire. The widower thought it was the young priest, Pere Nichols, who had given the gold, as did everyone in the town. When asked of the matter, the priest would faintly smile and say nothing more, as he had done that night when he passed Lord Grimdon in the wind and cold of a late season snow. In truth, it could be that knowing who gave is not as important as the gesture, for it saved an early aging man from his misery and his three daughters from a life of poverty and shame and lonely old age. Perhaps, for those of us who take time to remember, it will, in some small way, save still.

Paid in Full, a folktale for Christmas

Today and tomorrow, I'm posting a two part story which I based on some Christmas lore. Maybe somewhere in narrative, we can find remembrance and greater understanding of God made flesh.

Part 1:

In a little town, perhaps in Turkey, an aging widower didn’t look back as he shut the door and stood facing out into the darkness. If only he could order his thoughts, just for a moment. His chest heaved with halting breaths. He sludged his way to the street, his sprung boots already growing wet with each step in the falling snow. The winter air pricked his skin through his thread-bare coat and his deteriorating shirt underneath. It was unusually damp this night. The heavy cold of the air, coupled with the relentless hunger in his belly, added weight and reminders to the many thoughts, the many worries, the many signs of the inevitable.  

He wanted to get to the cliffs that overlooked the sea, for he thought that maybe he could find order in the spray and swirl of ocean. The view was story-book: miles of jagged shoreline stretched in both directions.  Mini-peninsulas drew random boundaries for the waters that slapped ceaselessly on the craggy rocks or clawed their way up the snatches of sand spaced between the crumbling granite. Since the time his young wife had died those many years before, he had come to find resolve and rest from his troubles in the disarray and mystery of the sea’s uneasy boundaries.  

On this night, with toes hanging over the edge, the aging man looked down and tried to see the water that thundered along the coast below him. His weight dislodged a rock the size of his fist and presently it was floating toward the waters below. He thought he could see the waves engulf the shrinking stone before any splash or ripple could be formed in the billows. For the briefest moment, he felt like he was being swallowed. Or, perhaps he wished he could be swallowed, escape from circumstance. But that was cowardly and he was a nobleman and the son of an honorable man. He pushed the thought from his mind, and tried to replace it with some solution to his plight.

You see, he was a nobleman, rich in bloodline and heritage, but not in bullion. Or cash. Or land. Times were changing and bloodline didn’t necessarily mean wealth or riches anymore. So here he stood, straining at the sea, a nobleman with three daughters of marrying age. No money and three girls of marrying age didn’t mix. No money meant no dowry, no dowry meant no weddings, no weddings meant no future for the girls. They were beautiful, though thin, but they might as well have been dead to the young noblemen of the town. No nobleman would take on the responsibility of a wife without the customary gifts of land or money. 

The man longed for his daughters’ future happiness and well-being. Up until recently, he had been able to hide the shame of his inability to provide adequately for them, to hide the worry for their future that kept him up nights. Unfortunately, his own worry and woe over the matter had started to weigh down the girls as well. In fact, if you had passed by their small home—purchased with the meager profits from selling the family estate—the view through the street-side window would have shown you a man old before his time, haggard and slumped over the table trying to reconcile bills. More and more, his demeanor bore witness against him when he told his daughters all was fine. He knew that his concern was now their concern. The family losses could not always remain a secret. Nevertheless, the girls didn’t need the troublesome thought of an old-aged maidenhood, or worse, the shame of trying to live the life of a single woman in a time when a single woman had few honorable options for employment. The widower shuddered at the possibility that his daughters might be forced to resort to lewd behavior just to live after he passed on.   

The rock that had pulled loose below his feet was gone, lost in the sea. The old man resolved that maybe his dignity was too. He would have to sell what was left of the family’s land in order to have any sort of dowry for his daughters. A pittance would have to do. He turned to leave the cliffs.  This night he hadn’t found calm from a glance at the untamable ocean. He found an eddy and the closer he got to home, the deeper he felt.

He brooded as he walked slowly home in the steady snow. He was so consumed in his worry that he almost failed to acknowledge the young priest that offered warm greeting as they passed on the street. 

“Hello, Lord Grimdon,” the priest had said. It was the fact that the clergy man called him “lord” that pulled the man’s eyes from his darkly soaked boots and the dirtying snow that slid off them as he walked on.

"Ah… uh, hello… Pere.” With just the hint of a smile and a nod, the young priest walked on but the aging man stood and watched him go.

A brief word on stories

Recently someone told me something personal from her life. For some reason, the few lines she wrote reminded me of a brief account of her life I had been given by a mutual friend. And, just like that, the two stories from this woman's life, one of her personal life and one of her intellectual life, joined. I don't even know if the two pieces of information were connected in her experience, but they somehow connected in my head.

So what, right? So I heard two stories from someone's life. Big deal.

But, I think it's important somehow. True, I do know this friend and colleague better now, but somehow I also now know that the ideas and theories we learn and the stories we live are all intertwined in some way. Whether we can explain how or why is not necessarily important or the point. These things are ingredients that have gone into our makeup and they have formed who we are today and in this moment in time. And, without doubt, the new ideas we gather and the stories we live now will add to, correct, cut, shape how we understand where we have been and how we perceive where we are going.

Furthermore, I see that our stories are shaped by our actions and our being acted upon, but they are also shaped by the ideas, theories, propositions we have been taught and/or have embraced, rejected, adjusted, etc. Actions AND ideas go into our stories. Both shape us and where we are going.

Yes, I know. True to Travis form, this is spectacularly obvious. To the head, to the mind, to the reason. However, I guess it's taken a while for this concept that my head gets to reach my heart and understanding. Perhaps now I can move further into the wisdom of the intermixture of story's actions and ideas.

Here we are

Well, one of my friends was not pleased with the way Simeon left his story dangling with "Tim" getting out of the car to speak to the woman (we assume). (This same friend holds me guilty by default, since I posted Jacobs's story snippet... can't win for losing.) Well, I looked through Jacobs' collected writings further and found this journal entry. I'm not sure if it's "Tim's" voice writing the journal or if it's Jacobs himself... or if Jacobs is Tim. I guess you can decide for yourself.

~~*~~

February 29, 19--

Here we are. Again. It's Tuesday night. It's dark (obviously... but I mean it's REALLY dark). The rain won't stop. The music playing in my background isn't loud or rowdy enough to get my soul blood pumping again. I mean, I'm tired beyond physically. It's like I can't breathe or eat. I do both, but they don't do what they're supposed to do. I'm so tired. 

I can't get that look off her face. All I did was introduce myself, but that look of incredulity and... what? shock? surprise? Could it have been recognition? Do I dare hope for that? I don't think it was that, but I can't shake the feeling that she knew me. I don't recall ever actually meeting her, and I can't remember where it is I've seen her before. 

"I never forget a face." Ha! That's what Raphe said. Yeah, well, I didn't think I did either. I don't think I'd forget her face, but maybe I did and seeing her again reminded me of a person I'd seen before. How odd is that? It's as if I had knowledge of her from--

--some time in the past, as if I was being reacquainted when I saw her at that party. Reacquainted with what? Someone I never knew? Someone I did know? 

Babble. Okay. So maybe she knew me. She did at least speak and allow me to make my introduction. But I didn't know what else to say. (Typical... but not of me.) Truly dumbfounded. No words and then she drove away. 

I admit that I've been back to the hotel where the party was held. I've walked around, spoken to the concierge and the manager--even the valets. I didn't think anyone would remember her, but I did have to try. And maybe that's all there is to this "relationship." Me trying and nothing more. Maybe there IS nothing more except rain and darkness and the stilling of my soul as I mourn loss and try to recover some semblance of living. 

Man, you sound depressing. Stop. Right now. 

Okay. No more tonight. It's probably the rain and the dark that's causing me to be morbid and cliche. Seriously? Did I say "recover some semblance of living"? I did. Okay. Done now. 

Guest Post Friday

Here's a brief story from old Simeon Jacobs, II. Enjoy.

~~~*~~~

The swirl of her dress caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.

"Whuh--"

There she was, dancing as if nothing in the world mattered except this very moment. Her eyes were closed, but not tight, her arms were slightly raised, hands poised as if almost ready to snap to the music. Her hair undulated to the same rhythm as her dress.

"Stunning." The word was audible in his ears; the realization that he had uttered it startled him as much as her appearance here at this party had.

"What's that?"

He turned back toward Cindy, his friend and date tonight.

"What did you say?"

"Did I say something aloud?"

"I think so."

"Oh. Umm. Nothing. I thought I--"

"Are you alright? You seem--out of sorts now."

"What? No. I mean, yes, I'm fine. I thought I saw someone I recognized."

"Well, that's not surprising. There must be five hundred people here. I've never seen this place so crowded. The music is good tonight though."

It was crowded, but the woman in the watery dress had seemed to be alone when he saw her--not a person in sight. He scanned the crowd around where she was, trying to see around all the people that seemed to have suddenly appeared or remembered themselves and where they are. Through the bobbing heads and awkward ten and two hand gestures of their dates, he could make out a couple of other women with brown hair and midnight blue dresses, but she was nowhere to be seen."Where did she g--"

"What's that?" He turned. Cindy was looking at him, with the face of a concerned mother for a child.

"I was looking for that person I recognized... I can't find her now."

"What did she look like? I'll help you look."

"No. That's alright. It's nothing. I haven't seen her in years--it probably wasn't even her?"

"Who?"

"I can't--I don't remember her name."

And he didn't, because he had never known her name. She was a face from college--or high school even--a face from one of those prior crowds that had surrounded him when he was younger.

~~~*~~~

A couple of hours later, as the crowd thinned, he decided it was time to go. "Cindy, let's get you home."

"Yes! My feet are aching. I've not danced this much since before Lily pass--"

He looked at her, pained at the word.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"Don't worry about it. I haven't danced since then either. C'mon. Let's get going."

She put her hand into the crook of his arm and he led her through the few remaining Saturday night revelers. He gave the valet the ticket for his car. He tipped the man--even extended his hand, which the valet gladly shook. "Thank you, sir. You and your wife have a good evening."

He looked over at Cindy and smiled to reassure her of the valet's mistaken assumption.

"Same to you."

The two of them got into his car. Cindy was trying to find an apology or explanation.

"Don't worry about it. It's fine." He squeezed her hand and put the car in drive, checking his rear view mirror. A swirl of black flicked across the glass. He turned around to see the woman getting into the car behind them.

"I'll be right back."

"Tim?What are--"

But he was out of the car, heading for new introduction.

Guest Post Friday

Here's a flash of a story I found in the back of Simeon Jacobs's small book of very short fiction. Enjoy!

Running down the hall is dangerous in this house. Who knows what lies in wait for a big toe or a shoulder? But really, I had no choice.

There was that noise again, coming from the back bedroom. It sounded like crinkling metal, as impossible as that sounds. It was as if some giant were smashing the water heater or the air conditioner return as if it were an empty Coke can. But it wasn't the water heater or air conditioner being squished in the hands of the Incredible Hulk. Each time I investigated it in the past, all was fine. The hot water kept coming, the cool air kept blowing, the kids kept playing. Nothing. Just the sound and then... silence.

But this time--today, on a Friday afternoon--I was determined to figure out where the noise was coming from. Having just arrived home from work, I was lazing around in our recliner when the noise began. It lasted longer than before this time, so I figured I better hurry to the back and start hunting for the source of the sound while it still crinkled in my ears.

Out of the chair in a flash, and through the door, into and down the hallway, and then...
Nothing. A sharp light and then still silence. And darkness.

~~~*~~~
When my eyes opened again, I was on my back, staring at the ceiling (I think). My head felt compressed and my shoulder throbbed as if trying to rattle off my body as substandard speeds.

"Whuh?"

No answer. More pain. More confusion. And then...

         the crinkle of metal. I tried to look pivot my head around so I could look down the remaining stretch of the hallway, but I couldn't see anything.

"Hello?" (Who am I asking questions to, I thought. Who's going to answer?)

And then, I heard the sound again, but it was more violent, more abrasive, than ever. I couldn't move. Well, I couldn't until the water reached me. I was in the path of a minor deluge, a Niagra coming from the back room, the walls, the floors--coming from everywhere. The mindless water swept me up like driftwood and ran me back the way I had come. My shoulder hit the doorframe--apparently for the second time today--and my head hit the floor. I felt myself popping in and out of the rush like a struggling fishing bobber. Down the hall, through the door, past the chair and the out the window.

As I lay in a soggy heap on the front lawn, back on my back again, but this time seeing bright, blue skies smeared lightly over with wisps of cloud, two thoughts struck me. 

Who left the window open?
Running down the hall is dangerous in this house.

Guest Post Friday

Today we have a story from Simeon Jacobs, whom I've mentioned here a few times before. He wrote a book of poems I found a while back.

The story is short, probably a pre-cursor to what we call flash fiction. Enjoy.

~~~*~~~

Janson wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve. He squinted up at the sun that still beat down, but was quickly covering with clouds. He pulled his straw hat down over his eyes and went back to fixing the fence. A wind brushed past him, cooling his back where his shirt was a shade darker than the front.

Shoof, flick. Shoof, flick. The dirt made a little mountain to the side of his hole, threatening to avalanche at any moment. He kicked it back with his foot as the tool dropped back down.

Digging holes, filling them in. All he did around the old place seemed the equivalent of digging dirt, just to put it back again. Moving things around, but not moving forward.

This particular spot in the fense line was tricky to repair because of all the trees. Some of the trees had grown so large that they were a part of the fence line and no longer merely along it. Such trees appeared to have been slowly swallowing the wire and then allowing it to digest over a long period of time, like a snake waiting for his field mouse meal to be broken down into a viable source of energy. The living fence posts weren't that big a problem, as long as the wire held, but branches were always snapping free in the western winds that throttled through, apparently knowing better than to stick around for long.

Janson put the new post into its hole and did his filling bit again. At least this hole had a purpose and the new post looked like new growth, or so he told himself. He threw the post hole diggers into the back of his truck, brushed of his hands, and got into the old truck.

"Is there any other kind of farm truck?" he actually asked aloud as he turned the key and put the truck in drive. He let his foot off the break and let it idle its way back across the field toward the animal-less barn. "No hurry, right?"

Lightning flashed in his rear view mirror. He waited for the thunder clap to follow, as the first drops of rain made miniature splashes on his hood and windshield. The clap came, along with a snap! and a wiry twang. Then came the faint scent of charred wood.

He didn't turn to see where the snap--and no doubt the smell--came from. He knew. He just kept along back toward the no-color barn that used to look like a stereotype.

"No hurry at all."

Guest Post Friday

Today, my daughter stands in for me. She's been writing seven minute journal entries for class and this is one of her pieces of "flash fiction." Enjoy!

He waited in a dark, cold alley near the docks. He didn't exactly know what it was he was waiting for, but his short, round bowler-hatted boss had told him to wait until one o'clock. He wasn't frightened, just a little nervous. His boss sent him on lots of jobs like this, only... this was the first time he didn't know what he was waiting for. Usually, his pick-ups were some kind of drug or something small, like a music box. Sure, his boss was a bit strange, but he paid well so the man didn't ask questions.

The man grew impatient, but then, in the distance he could see a figure walking towards him. The figure was shorter than he'd expected, shorter and slighter. When the mysterious figure came closer, he could see that it was a woman wearing a beautiful red dress under a khaki trench coat.

She stopped in front of him and said, "You're smaller than I expected, but oh well."

He was completely confused by this woman. The people he was sent to were generally ragged, older men.

The woman slipped out of the trench coat and began taking off her dress.

The man quickly covered his eyes and said, "Madame, please put your clothes back on"

"Why? Didn't your boss tell you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Oh, well. No matter."

She handed him her clothes, darted toward the nearest dock and jumped. The man ran after her and looked over the edge. All he could make out in the shimmering moon light were ripples on the water. He waited several minutes before he could see her naked body float up to the surface

He stared in wonder because he couldn't make sense of it all. He saw that she was dead and he still had her clothes in his hands. He turned away and began walking back to his boss's office.

Eating Your Words

Today I want to announce the official release of my latest book, Eating Your Words: An Introduction to Reading Biblical Narrative. (Available on Amazon.com--click the cover for a link.)

"What's it about?" you might be asking. "Food? 'Cause I think of food when I look at the title."

It is about food, namely the word of God, which is food of the highest culinary transport. The Bible mentions in several places that God's word is food, a delight to the heart. For example, in Jeremiah 15:16, the prophet says  

Your words were found, and I ate them, 
and your words became to me a joy 
and the delight of my heart, 
for I am called by your name.

One can almost picture Jeremiah's exhuberance as he finds the word of God, the savor of the flavor in his mouth (pardon the rhyme), and the swelling delight of his heart.

King David mentions something similar in Psalm 119:103:

How sweet are your words to my taste, Sweeter than honey to my mouth!

In his lengthy celebratory discourse on the law of God in Psalm 119, he stops multiple times to proclaim his delight in God's word. Here he says the words are actually sweet to his taste, sweeter than honey.

And so it is.

And this is the starting point of Eating Your Words. The Bible is a feast, waiting to be tasted and savored, waiting to nourish and brighten our souls. But if we do not come to the table aware of what we're eating, we’ll surely miss some of the experience.  
 
Eating Your Words invites readers to remember the rich color and texture of the Bible, and to read it with eyes that see and understand the narrative art and craft of its stories. Why? Because grasping the biblical narrators’ literary form and technique allows us greater understanding of the Bible's meaning.  
So come. Come to the feast. Eat of God's words—as Jeremiah did. See that they are, indeed, sweeter than honey to the mouth. Hear and see and believe. Be saved and sanctified by the very active Word of God, as it pierces the innermost being. And yes, see that the true story—as story—is good.

Dapi meets Gail, part 2

I started a story here a couple weeks ago. We met Dapi, who was running from some other guests at a party he was attending with a girl named Gail. Then Dapi had a flashback to earlier that same day when he first met Gail. Here is the part 1 of that encounter (which I posted before). Part 2 follows.

~~~~~

Gail. Dapi wondered if that was a nickname of some sort or if it was short for something else, something more fitting for such a wonder of a woman.

The street had been nearly deserted as he walked in and out of the little shops around the city square that struggled to survived. Few people passed and even fewer cars. It was early afternoon, so most people were understandably at work--at least that's what Dapi assumed. Each successive shop was starting to seem like a repeat of the one before, when he came to a new cafe, complete with umbrellas and tables and small trees complementing natural shade with artificial. The ground and tables were a mosaic of shadow and springtime sun.

Dapi went in to have a look around. The small place would have been nothing of much note somewhere else, but here in this almost village of a town in rural America, it was a pleasant surprise.

He walked over to the counter and began to peruse the colorful chalkboard hanging on the wall that served as a menu. He was again surprised when he saw the selection of sandwiches and soups. He let out a whistle, which startled the other customer who stood waiting for his order. He turned and looked at Dapi, who nodded at the man.

"Lot of options here," Dapi said as he flushed a little.

The man almost scowled at him, clearly wanting to be left alone.

The girl working the counter didn't seem to notice the whistle or the short-lived conversation. She just stood, back turned to him, leaning slightly over a long butcher block that served as the cafe's preparation counter. Dapi was glad she kept at her work and didn't turn. He wasn't usually a whistler and he certainly didn't want people thinking he whistled at girls.

Dapi decided to leave the man to his waiting and the girl behind the counter to her preparing. He walked over to the far wall to have a look at the various jellies and candles and import coffees for sale. Most of the items were local. He didn't recognize the names on the labels--why would he? he'd been away for nearly a decade--but he did recognize the street names on the addresses printed on the back of the labels.

Behind him, he heard the girl ask the man if he wanted anything else with his sandwich. There was no response--none that Dapi heard, anyway--and then the girl said, "Okay. Have a good afternoon, Jack."

Dapi turned around just in time to see Jack smile at the girl behind the counter, mumble something, and scramble out the door like he'd been twelve and not in his twenties.

Dapi walked back over to the counter and then he saw why.

~~~

The bells above the door chimed as Jack darted out into the dappled light. Dapi hadn't noticed the bells before, so he thought they somehow came with the girl behind the counter. He stood staring at the girl, noticed her hair pulling lose from her ponytail, her large eyes looking intently at him. That sound DIDN'T just come from her, did it? He shook his head and turned around and looked at the door. Jack was nowhere in sight, but the bells above the doors still shimmered a bit from their recent movement. Oh. That's it. Whew. Sentimental much, Danby? And now I'm asking myself questions, what's--

"Can I help you with anything?" 

Dapi swung back around. "Wha--?"

"Would you like to place an order?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Yes. You startled me. Sorry. I'd like--" Dapi surveyed the board again, made a selection and ordered it.

While the girl prepared his sandwhich, Dapi watched. He wondered if she would sweep back that strand of hair that had found it's way out of the elastic band holding her hair out of her face. As she turned a little and spoke. "You're not from around here, are you?" It wasn't a question, though she worded it as such.

"Yes--well, not lately. I've been away for a while."

"Yeah, I didn't recognize you." She finished the sandwich and turned to hand it to him. "But I'd say you look like a Grayson." 

Dapi stood up taller, his face registering clear suprise. He eyed her. Up till now, he'd seen a moderately attractive girl, with great hair and a pleasant attitude. With that last comment, she seemed somehow knowing as well.

"You'd be right. I look like my father." Dapi took a step toward the counter and extended his hand. "Danby Grayson, son of Theodore Grayson."

The girl took his hand and shook it. But she did not offer her name. "I know Ted. He and your mother come in here sometimes. They mentioned their son a time or two, but I don't recall them calling him 'Danby.'" She fixed her large eyes on him--again--a quizzical expression on her face. Before Dapi could respond, she said, "Dapi! That's what they called their son. Is that you?"

"Uh, yup. That's me. Danby 'Dapi' Grayson. Son of Ted, gone since college." He held up his hands as if to say "Here I am."

"Well, that makes sense. I mean, it explains why I haven't seen you around. Where you been, Danby? Where you been hiding yourself and why don't you evey come and visit your mama?"

Dapi began an answer, while the girl busied herself bussing the three tables in the cafe. He started right in to explaining himself in full, but half way through his discourse (which is what it was becoming) of his time at college and his move to New York and that he did see his mama--several times a year, in fact--he stopped. "Wait. What's with all the questions, 'girl at the cafe in small town America'?"

The girl stopped wiping the third table and looked at him out the corner of her eye. "'Girl at the cafe in small town America'? What's that mean?"

Dapi didn't answer. He just took the rag from her and finished wiping the third table. He walked around the table and stood right beside her and pulled a chair from the table. She took the moment to sweep the loose strand of lightly auburn hair back behind her ear. He looked down at the chair.

"Have you eaten yet? Care to join for lunch? Since we're clearly having a conversation here, and all."

She looked at her watch and then out the window--perhaps for in-coming customers. She shrugged and took the seat he was offering her.

Dapi took a napkin and placed it in front of her. Then he set half of his sandwhich on it. He walked over to the counter, took two bottles of water from the ice bucket and a bag of chips from the rack and sat down across from the girl. "So, you know my name--my full name and my nick name (which probably doesn't make sense to you). You also know a portion of my life story, which I somehow felt obliged to share due to your powers of supernatural quizzicalness. What's your name?" He sat waiting for her reply, his gray eyes intent on her large blue ones.

Her eyes popped wider for a second and then she was laughing. "Your right. I just jumped right in, like I had a right to it just because I know your parents. My apologies for working my powers of quizzical quizzicalness."

Dapi nodded his acceptance, a close-mouthed smile on his face.

She extended her hand to him. "I'm Gail. Abigail 'Gail' Landstrom. Pleasure to meet you, Danby."