Sam glanced at the rear-view mirror. No one. This road had little traffic anyway, but they were going to make it. He squeezed his fiancée’s hand. “We’re going to make it, sweetheart.”
Gloria’s eyes shone. “I know we are Sol, I mean Sam. It’s wonderful we could use the car. You haven’t told me yet how you managed that, but I don’t care. Just being with you and getting to marry you before the army ships you out, is all I wish for.”
 
They were within ten minutes of Listowel. The last rays of sun streaked across the late afternoon January sky as they entered the small town, crowded with vehicles and pedestrians. The tension in Gloria’s grip had to be excitement. He tried downplaying his own quivering nervousness, thankful her brother agreed to meet them and be a witness.
 
They pulled into a parking spot and hopped out. Gloria didn’t even wait for him to come around and open her door, but met him at the front of his father’s 1939 Studebaker and took his hand. The brisk wind whisked them up the steps and into the building. They patted down their hair, hurrying along the hall to the door marked Registrar.
*
Sol worked in his father’s suit and shoe shop for five years after completing high school with first class honours. He’d have liked to go on and train as an engineer or architect, but his father wouldn’t hear of it.
 
Sol’s wages were turned back into the shop “for the future” his father said. “I have a business. You are my son, and a good Jewish son at that. I know you will do well, and we’ll soon find you a suitable Jewish wife. With the war, many refugees are coming to this country.”
 
Sol rolled his eyes. His father knew he was in love with Gloria Nobleton and had been for some time. What future did he have if he couldn’t marry her? He pressed hard on the pedal of the sewing machine, raising the pitch and increasing the thumping as the needle stabbed through layers of fabric.
 
“We are fortunate that our family arrived here well before that hateful man in Russia sold out to that lunatic in Germany. Praise be to the Lord. Count your blessings, my son. We are of the race that is blessed to be a blessing, through our Father Abraham. Go and open the big box in the back room and get those suits steamed before you begin the shoe repairs.”
 
Sol, reluctant to go against his father’s wishes at first, hoped against hope his father would change his mind about Gloria. But his father had dug his heels in. He even purchased a new car so the family could travel to the synagogue in Owen Sound, the only one in the county, perhaps in three counties. The car’s Balsam Green exterior glistened in the sunlight. The odour of newness sprang from the cream-coloured upholstery as the family piled in every Sabbath.
 
When arriving in their new homeland as a young lad of six, Sol had embraced the life in Canada. As a youth, hockey, racing, and swimming helped him make friends easily. The woodsy scents and fresh air of the outdoors invigorated the boy and stimulated him as a youth to strive for success.
 
At seventeen, the dark-haired, bright-eyed Gloria Nobleton, Gentile, had met his eyes with an innocent glance, capturing his heart. They hung around with the same group of friends, neither wanting parents’ discouraging words to fall upon them. They skated the ponds in winter, watched each other’s teams play baseball, hockey, or basketball. They attended the town theatre productions and musical nights.
 
They made plans. One summer’s evening behind the store when the crickets sang, and the river bubbled along, and the warmth of the day’s sun emanated from the red bricks of the buildings, Sol’s father discovered them embracing. His father’s treatment of Gloria at that moment had Sol cringing, but it only strengthened his determination to make her his wife.
*
Things carried on much as they had been until a story of unrequited love circulating at the time, set Sol Salinger on the path to become Sam Dawson, take his sergeant’s exams, and propose to Gloria. All would have gone against his father’s wishes.
 
Sol first heard the story of Elmer McDougall during an illicit drinking party after drill exercises at the armoury. In Owen Sound, or Dry Gulch as it was known, the hall offered practice in a few things strictly outside of military maneuvers. The principal of Sol’s former high school was not opposed to the boys practicing to control the effects of alcoholic beverages, and once a month he loaded the young men aboard an army truck and drove them to the city for militia exercises.
 
Then the principal would wait around while a doctor gave advice in keeping disease-free when in the company of young women overseas. All the while, they practiced the agreed duty of learning to hold their liquor, with the sanction of those men who had served in the Great War. These men knew the desire to drink horrible visions of death into obscurity would be the lads’ strongest temptation.
 
During one of these raucous sessions, Sol heard the sad story of McDougall.
“He didn’t have much of a life on that farm. It were poor land, hilly and stony an’ probably ne’re should ‘ave been cleared. Elmer’s father had an accident, leaving him unable to do much of the farm work. Elmer had been seein’ the daughter of a neighbouring farmer. He’d even asked for her hand and they planned on getting married.
 
Story is, when Elmer’s mother found out, she put a stop to it. ‘You get back there and break it off, right now,’ she had demanded. Apparently, Elmer trudged back and broke it off.”
 
“That’s a lot of control. Why didn’t he refuse? He was an adult, wasn’t he?” One of Sol’s friends turned and looked directly at Sol.
 
“Not a day under thirty. The mother used guilt and some corrupted sense of family obligation.”
The prickly heat crept up Sol’s back and neck. He had a younger brother. His father didn’t need him in the store. He drained the glass, slamming to on the table.
Sol’s friend elbowed him. “Good lesson for the rest of us, don’t you think, Sol? A lost opportunity at love, and now McDougall is a lonely old man.”
 
Sol caught the wink another friend flashed at the storyteller.  He loosened his collar. “I’ll not be another Elmer, don’t worry.”
*
Men were being called up to enlist from everywhere. A farm boy he knew was whisked off to some unknown secret location. Several joined the Grey and Simcoe Forrester’s Regiment. When Sol received his naturalization papers with his new “Gentile” name, he stroked the document smooth­­––his new identity. They assigned him to the Perth Regiment. The army had agreed it would be safer not to have a Jewish name.
 
Immediately, he appeared at the Listowel registrar’s office to pay for a marriage licence. It shouldn’t have surprised him he had to stand in line to do so. Others had had the same idea: marry and take her picture with you to get you through the war. When he appeared in uniform, his father shooed him out the door of the shop. “You work for the army now.”
 
Sam arranged the day with Gloria and her brother. She had a friend who worked in Listowel to act as a witness. On the day, Sam opened his father’s garage doors disregarding the squealing and grinding. It was not unusual for him to borrow the car stored blocks away from his father’s business, yet he glanced from side to side, up and down the street.
 
He pulled as close to the snowbank as possible. Gloria came hurrying down the steps of her parents’ house, dragging a large suitcase. He slipped it into the back seat, they climbed into the front, and snuggly embraced.
*
At the Listowel train station, Sam scanned the crowd until locking eyes with Gloria. Weaving between tearful and joyful reunions, Sam’s eyes never left Gloria’s. They gripped each other’s shoulders, their four-year old son wide-eyed beside them. Sam drew Gloria into an ardent kiss on the lips, released her, and squatted to meet the dark-haired Ben.
 
“You’re my dad?”
 
Sam threw his head back and laughed. “I’m your dad,” he said, then scooped him up. Gloria talked and talked. Sam squeezed her close. Linking elbows, they walked to the apartment. A smiling Sam patted his belly after devouring Gloria’s home-cooked meal.
 
He slipped out to the garage where the ’39 Studebaker sat gathering dust. He wiped off a fender down to the still new shine. He grinned. They’d made it.

The fumes might kill me if the pain doesn’t. Why did I come back here after all these years? The walls have new layers of graffiti art, modern, meaningless except to the few. Bleck the Rat supposedly painted some early works here. They’re gone now. Every decade the police municipale come along and paint over the art. Graffiti they call it. Dangerous. Vulgar. Then, a new layer blossoms all over again.

The empty warehouse has history. When Jacques and I used to come here to get away from the beatings at home, we’d put one jacket on the floor, and share the other huddled side by side. The dampness still had a way of creeping into our bones, even with each other’s body warmth. The gasoline fumes from the nearby motorway would give us a headache, but no one bothered us here. We kept away from the dopers and drunks, and they left us to ourselves after a few tentative forays into our ‘camp’.
My eyes blink at the spots of brilliant sunlight the broken windows let in. It’s odd to see it in daylight. The scum on the floor reflects like water, but none of the blood pooling between us on the last night Jacques and I spent here, is visible. He died in my arms. I cried then and I’m crying now.
 
Jacques and I were friends, never lovers. His brown skin shone a little more darkly than his father’s, darker than mine. His purple bruising often didn’t show, but I could feel the swellings against my arm. Sometimes spots were hot, the cuts infected, with the pus running out. My mother trouncing me simply ended in cuts. The steel edge of the ruler slashed my skin, letting ribbons of red bubble up to the surface. That seemed to satisfy her.

“You’re lazy. Get off your bottom an’ help me with these dishes.” Or “You’re stupid. You can’t do better than this at school? Why am I sending ya?”  Waving the report card in front of me, she’d grab the ruler from the silverware drawer, slam it shut, and raise her arm. Smack. Smack. Smack. Around my arms, neck, and shoulders.

How could I learn when my stomach growled, the digestive juices searching for something to digest? Day after day I went hungry, getting the smallest portion while my younger brother got the largest. After washing the dishes and sweeping the floor I’d go to my room, an overgrown closet really. Later, I’d hear a ‘ping’ under my window on the side of the stone building, and I’d open my door a crack, controlling my breathing, tingling in fear of getting caught. Closing the door and waiting, listening for my mother’s snores. Jacque would be waiting for me at the corner.

It was sporadic at first. Just a couple of nights a week. Then a few more. Three years while we were young teens. It became regular. Every night we would meet and stay until we couldn’t keep our bodies upright. Then we’d go home the same way we arrived—slinking, sneaking, listening for danger.

Until the night there was no ping. It had been raining all day and didn’t let up all evening, so I wondered if Jacque had decided to give it a miss.

He wasn’t at school the next day. Jacque never skipped classes, and I was scared. He made top grades in most of his subjects by attending. He drew beautiful pictures, and had a radical talent for ping pong. I don’t know how he did it with the thrashings waiting for him at home every night when his father came in drunk.

That night my mother nearly caught me.

“Where do you think you’re goin’ young lady?”

“I’m hungry. I was looking for something to eat.” It wasn’t a lie.
​
“Dinner’s come and gone. I’ve cleaned up. This isn’t a restaurant, ya know. Get back to your room.”

How easily she forgot that I had cleaned up. I bowed my head in feigned meekness and returned to my room. She’d be listening for the kitchen cupboard doors to creak, not the front door. I left as soon as her snoring came steadily.
 
Jacques lay prone on the cold cement. I knelt beside him and scrunched my face, willing the tears to stay away. “Jacques. It’s Madeline. Are you going to be all right? Should I get help?”

“No. No. Just stay with me. It’s bad this time, Maddie.”
His breath came in little wheezes. His eyes were two slits in a face puffy from brow to chin.

“Oh, Jacques. How can you stand this? I can’t let you go back there. We’ll run away together—go someplace safe.”
“Do me a favour Maddie. You get out of this slum. Get out and make good. For both of us.” He tried lifting his hand to grip mine, but it took both of my shaking hands to lift his to my cheek. My tears disappeared into his sleeve.

Jacques rested his head in my lap. Then the blood came from his mouth. More and more until it gushed. He gasped a few times, and his head slumped onto his chest. My pants and jacket were blood-soaked.

“Somebody help me,” I called. “Somebody help us,” I screamed. Bending over Jacques’ body, my shoulders heaved in sobs. The others around us stood silent. Someone tried pulling me up and away, but I resisted. I held him tighter than I had when he lived.
 
I’d gone, and I’d ‘made good’, though I don’t think Jacques would have recognized it. The African relief organization I work for doesn’t pay much, but every day I work with parents, teaching them to respect the fragile, budding humans their children are. And every day I see Jacques in the eyes of a teen, who, smiling gently, tries to encourage my hope.

For twins, they couldn’t be more different. Sam and Hugh waded through the tall grass; Sam with the ease of an athlete, Hugh with the difficulty of an arthritic old man. Their wavy auburn hair, bold freckles, and blue eyes were the limit of their resemblance.

Sam halted a few metres from the derelict 1970’s two-tone van parked beside the deserted back shed of their grandfather’s former farmhouse. “What made you think this wreck was going to be driveable?”

Hugh leaned into the breeze. “Mom said I should take it. I just drove it a few years ago.”

Sam surveyed the panoramic view of the unremarkable fields of green hay and browning barley, interrupted with an occasional sturdy tree or shrub. From this point they could just barely make out a sliver of Lake Huron over the brow of the next hill. 

Sam observed his only sibling, noting the scruffy two-day growth around his double chin, his rheumy squint against the light of a dull day. Hugh doesn’t smell like booze. I wonder if he really has stopped drinking like Mom thinks. “Drove it a few years ago, like maybe twenty?” He tried to sound disgusted, but there was always that shimmering of affection for his twin he couldn’t shake. “Well, I suppose we’re this far we might as well investigate it–and the shed.”

Hugh smiled. “I’m sure it’s worth trying to get it to go.” He started forward, encouraged.

Sam shook his head. At the very least the front windshield would have to be replaced. He followed the beaten path his brother made through the grass, past the old shed, a ghost space of many strappings by grandpa. Boy, were we trouble makers. No wonder Gramps got so angry with us. He went over to the backdoor of the shed to try the latch, but rust had jammed it shut. 

“Remember how mad Gramps used to get in the summers we came to help? The strappings we had in here.” He almost chuckled recalling his grandfather thwacking them across the backside, not always ineffectively. Even when they were sixteen. He turned to find Hugh staring at him.

“I don’t recall any strappings from Gramps. I ‘member he had trouble eating his soup ‘cause of his shaking. Mom’s the one who got cross. Remember the time I swore and she smacked me across the mouth with a wet dishcloth?”

Sam frowned. “No, she didn’t.”

“You were right there, laughing at me.”

“No, I wasn’t. I’d remember something like that.” Hugh’s memory is slipping. “You do remember leaving me to bleed to death when I cut my foot on some glass at the lake.”

Hugh tapped the hood of the van. “Solid.” He ran his hand under the edge, feeling for the release latch. “Mom found you on the beach, crying like a baby. I wasn’t with you. You were with that Timmy Dodds. He must have left ya.”

Sam thought back to his childhood friend. He had been with Timmy? “No, we three were together. You both left.” He pictured it through his eight-year-old eyes.

“Naw, didn’t happen that way.” He popped the hood open a crack as it grated on corroded hinges. “Here we go. Help me lift this Sam. I want to check the motor.”

Hugh moved to the side and Sam stepped over to help. Even their combined strength was tested as it groaned to half open. The black hole yawned empty.

Sam laughed in relief. “There’s no motor.”

Hugh stood motionless, in shock. His mouth gaped. “I swear, I drove this thing not that long ago.” He swung his head in all directions, as if searching for the culprit who had removed the motor.

Sam walked around to the far side and peered into the side window. “Remember the time we camped, all four of us in here. Dad was alive then, and you and I thought it would great to sleep in the reclining bucket seats.”

“That I remember. It was really awkward trying to sleep without my rear beeping the horn.” 
Hugh shook his head. “Who could have taken the motor?”

“It was me who had to sleep in the driver’s seat.”

Hugh poked his head around the hood. “It was me, I’m sure.”

Sam stared and shrugged. What did it matter anyway? It had been darned uncomfortable and he hadn’t slept a wink. “Do you have a cigarette with you?” Sam couldn’t read the look on Hugh’s face. “What? Are you out?”

Hugh frowned. “You haven’t smoked since you were in hospital–decades ago.”

Sam studied his right hand fingers. No nicotine stains. What prompted the urge to smoke? He glanced over at the shed. One of the reasons he had been strapped. Grandpa never allowed smoking anywhere on the farm and he’d been caught more than once. Grandma died in a barn fire before we were born. “Right. The barn fire.”

The hood screeched as Hugh fought to close it. “What barn fire?”

Sam stepped closer to his brother. All the family knew about Grandma trying to save the horse and getting caught inside the blazing barn. “Are you telling me you don’t remember hearing about the fire that killed Grandma?” He planted fists on his denim-clad hips.

Hugh faced his brother and squinted. “Let’s go over and look at the barn. The motor might be in there.” He hobbled up the gentle slope toward the building. Sam followed, his right hand digits twitching fiercely. 

Hugh stopped outside the barn and flung his hand at the decaying structure. “More than a hundred and twenty years old.” He looked at Sam. “There was no barn fire here. You’re losing it, man.”

They cracked open the ancient doors and Hugh hooted to see the mound under a dusty tarp. “It’s here. I can drag the body inside and use those beams to hoist the motor up. Up and in. Slick.”

Sam sniffed. Why could he smell smoke? “I swear there was a barn fire.”
​

The minute Aaron went to find Zelazna, the eyes appeared, staring in at us between tangled branches of the surrounding hedgerow. I could see them, and Assaf and Bünder could sense their presence as well. Being the eldest, we eyed each other over the heads of the young ones. We knew what the starving eyes outside staring in meant. Someone would probably disappear before long.

“Hey, Ewe. What do you think happened to Zelazna?”

“I don’t know, Merino Longwool. She’s one of the youngest. Maybe she got lost, or found some good grass, I don’t know. I hurried in with the middle of the flock.”

“Why Aaron went to find one and leave all the rest of us, I just don’t understand.” Hampshire retorted.

“Romanov. Leave Quadrella alone, for goodness sake.” I shook my head. Some were just real animals.

“Do you think we’ll have frost tonight, Ewe?”

“Maybe. Clear sky, and there’s a sliver of moon. Should we stand shoulder to shoulder around Najdi? I can see she’s getting ready to drop one.”
“Good idea, Ewe. Gotland, Gaddi, Jacob, Churra. Waddle on over here and help us protect Najdi. She’s going to deliver,” Merino Longwool said.
Assaf and Bünder still eyed the thin spot in the hedge, knowing there were more eyes ready to join the pack outside. Wolves gave off a particular scent, but unfortunately the breeze was headed their way, and I watched as the naive young ones carelessly meandered by the danger zone.

“Xalda, Yoroo, Uda. Get away from that thin area in the fence. There’s a menacing threat out there,” I said, trying my best to warn them.
“Oh Ewe. You’re just an old dried up critter. Nothing’s going to happen. Go back to sleep.” After rudely dismissing me, Xalda crept closer. The other young males followed.

“You don’t know what happens when you get too close to those eyes, do you?” I asked.

“Nothing. Leave us alone. We can go where we want,” Uda piped up.

“Don’t you remember Wiltshire Horn? Don’t you remember the screeching, the snapping and biting?” I asked.

Xalda and Yoroo bumped into the white back end of Uda who had stopped. “Who’s Wiltshire horn?” Uda asked.

Xalda and Yoroo exchanged looks. “Oh, just some mutton head who got too close to the fence. You’re too small to remember,” Yoroo said.

“You’re both younger than I am. How do you know?” Uda insisted. He had turned his brown head to face them.

Xalda looked to the sky. “It’s a lovely night. Maybe we’ll see a comet.”

“Don’t try to distract me. What do you know about Wiltshire Horn?” Uda planted his brown front legs into the ground. His back half gleamed brilliantly white in the moonlight.

Xalda stepped closer to Uda. “Come on you sissy. Move over if you’re not going to lead. I’ll do it.”

Uda moved to the side and looked at me. “Ewe, is it safe or not?”

I smiled. “Not.”

He glanced over to Yoroo and Xalda and back to me. Then he was distracted by Romanov and Quadrella’s activity.

“Never mind that either. You’re too young. Let’s go and see how Najdi is doing. Could be there’s a newborn.” I nudged Uda over to the circle surrounding Najdi, and sure enough, the weak meh, meh, calls of a lamb mingled with bahs of relief.

“Yuck. That’s gross, Ewe. It’s sticky.”

I smiled. “It’s beautiful, really. She’ll look very cute to you one day.” I turned to the thin part of the fence where Yoroo and Xalda walked boldly within breathing distance of the eyes. Snap! Growls and yelping intermingled with loud bahing. Tuffs of white wool flew into the air. The smell of blood permeated the surrounding area and the bulk of two sheep disappeared through the thorny hedge. Only small scraps of bloodied fleece were stuck between spikes of thorny branches.

A body pressed against me. It was Uda. He leaned in further. “Is that where Wiltshire Horn went?”

I nodded.

“Why didn’t you warn them?” Uda cried.

“I did. You were about to go with them, remember?”

Uda shrank into himself, his hooves clicking together.

Assaf and Bünder caught my eye and shook their heads. Why couldn’t the young listen? “Why must they experience evil themselves? They aren’t prepared to deal with it.”

​“Where’s Aaron when we need him?” Hampshire complained.

“He left the ninety-nine of us in charge of each other, Hamp.” A great sadness pressed against my chest. “We were to do his work while he saved Zelazna,” I said, “and we failed.”

​

“Mama, come in for dinner.” Nina wiped her hands on the stained apron tied around her waist. Then she twisted her dark hair into a knot and re-pinned it up off her neck.  “He’s not coming, Mama,” Nina called down the pathway. She shook her head and stepped back into the dark country kitchen.

Maria’s work-worn hands remained folded in the lap of her most respectable dress. She had spent extra time scrubbing her nails, and rubbing a little olive oil into the fragile skin. She wanted to look her best when Afonso arrived. He would come. He never failed to do as he promised.

Breezes gently pressed the fragrance of ripe oranges along the winding valley. Tall pines, and thick undergrowth crowded blackened cork trees. Portals of blue skies widened, pushing banks of clouds away into the dark hills.

Maria flattened each fold of the green gingham dress between her thumbs and middle fingers. She had loved this dress for many years, but no amount of ironing would make the pleats crisp now. Then, her fingers found the edge of her faded cotton cardigan. A gift from someone, someone who cared. The short sleeves offered just enough warmth on a sunny day while seated at the edge of the road beside the fruit stand.

She must ask Gregorio to fix the wobble in this chair. No, she couldn’t ask Gregorio, her husband. He was no longer young. She wouldn’t ask him anyway because he might find it an excuse to get rid of the chair, rather than have his wife sitting in it comfortably, enjoying the late afternoon Portuguese sun, while she waited for the love of her life, Afonso.

Afonso had thick wavy hair, eternally neat. His smile always reached his eyes, and each time he stopped by, he directed it towards her. Gregorio would be jealous if he saw. But he never noticed the looks she and Afonso exchanged. For a fleeting moment, she wondered about that. Had her husband been resentful of her quick intake of breath each time she heard Afonso’s motorbike approaching?

 A car pulled up to the stand. A stout woman in a floppy black hat stepped out and began squeezing the oranges piled in crates under the awning.

“Ripe? Are they ripe?” the woman demanded, her voice sharp in Maria’s ears.

Maria frowned suspiciously, wondering why the woman would squeeze the oranges. She might bruise the sun-ripened fruit. She didn’t understand the language the woman spoke, so she pointed to the sign Nina had made. The sign didn’t mean anything to her either, but it must have satisfied the woman who nodded and began picking up more oranges than one hand could hold.

Maria remembered the bags under the table the crates sat on, and pulled one out. She didn’t recognize the material of its slippery surface but opened it up wide, allowing the woman to drop a dozen oranges into the bag. The woman held out some coins and Maria accepted them in the palm of her hand. Was this correct? They were not centavos. She glanced at the sign Nina had written. The funny E had an extra line through it. She shrugged, placing the coins in the box Gregorio had made for such a purpose. It must be correct. People didn’t cheat the poor farmers—often.

The chair wobbled as Maria sat down again. She tried not to inhale the fine earth flung into the air by the wheels of the departing car. Better were the donkey carts that made a slow, but steady plodding step, rarely raising the dust.

Maria started to hum a song. It would be the one they would dance to when Afonso came to take her away. She stared at the intersection of dirt road in front of her. The sign for Salir had rotted near the bottom of the square post, tipping it downwards. Twenty-five km it said. Not too far to where there was dancing in the hotel. The arrow pointing to Alto Fica had faded so much, nothing could be seen of the black lettering. It pointed to heaven.

Afonso said he would come. He would stop his motorbike, and flick out the kickstand, then come dashing over. He always dashed.

“My beloved Maria,” he would say. “How are you this fine day?” Then he would reach for her right hand and kiss the back of it, tickling it with his bristling moustache. She would raise her left hand to the base of her throat, overcome with the thrill of his touch. But she would lower her head, eye lashes aflutter, and smile demurely. It was not becoming for a woman to be bold.

Maria startled, then relaxed as she realized it was her daughter who had placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

“Mama, come in for some supper. It’s cod, your favourite.” Nina took her mother’s arm and helped her off the chair. They walked side by side down the path of broken stones.

“Did someone come to buy oranges?” Nina asked to fill in the silence.

Maria nodded. “I’m not sure she gave me enough money.” They walked arm in arm to the door. “Is Gregorio in from the fields yet?”

Nina tilted her head as she turned to her mother. “No Mama. Papa has been gone a long time. He died seven years ago, remember?”

Maria frowned, hesitating to sniff as she brushed the jasmine blossoms thick on the shrub beside them. Nina led the way inside to the kitchen and Maria headed to the table where two youthful boys, a young man, and an old man sat. The boys flicked each other’s hats off, and the old man smoothed his moustache. Maria stopped short at the wooden bench where a place had been set for her. “Afonso?” she asked under her breathe.

“Sit down Mama. I’ll bring the soup.” Nina stepped over to the black woodstove where an iron pot steamed. She shook her head.

Maria slid into the space at the bench, and narrowed her eyes still in contact with the older gentleman. He looked away. “You’re not Afonso, are you?” She turned to watch the two boys poke each other. Their fingers flew in search of each other’s ribs, stifled giggles breaking out between them.

“Boys, stop,” came the firm reprimand from their father. They stilled, now eagerly holding their spoons ready for the soup their mother brought to the table.

Maria bowed her head and crossed herself, waiting for the head of the house to bless the food. She breathed in the strong garlic aroma and smiled.

After the blessing, spoons pinged against pottery bowls, bread was passed, and the family chatted between bites.

Maria emptied her bowl and rose to leave the table.

“Mama, sit. It’s okay. I can clear the table and get the fish. You stay here.”

“I don’t want to miss him. He’ll be coming soon, and I don’t want your father to know.”

“Mama, who are you expecting?” Nina could guess, but let her mother speak.

“Don’t tell your father, Nina. He’s jealous,” and she started to rise again.

“No, Mama. I wouldn’t dare tell him,” she smiled, stroking her mother’s arm. “I’ll get the fish.”

“He may be coming soon. I think I can hear his motorbike, now.” Maria rose, the backs of her legs forcing the bench to scrape on the stone floor.

“No, Mama. Afonso died before you married Papa. Thirty-five years now.”

Maria faced her daughter, distraught, frowning. Rivulets of tears wound their way along wrinkles to her chin. “No. It can’t be. He said he would come.”

Nina grasped her mother’s hand, drawing her closer to the bench. Every night recently they went through the same ritual. She drew in a deep breath. “He overturned the motorbike and died from his injuries, Mama.” She tightened her lips and sighed. “He’s not coming tonight.”
​
Maria sat down, her entire body sagging. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Pain shot through the woman’s teeth with the touch of an ice cube in her mouth. She grimaced, then held the glass of a watery daiquiri out to the black and white dog. She aligned the straw inches from its mouth.
 
“It’s safe, Sonny. I promise.”
 
The dog growled.
 
“Oh, Sonny, stop it. You’d like it if you could drink from a straw.”
 
Looking straight ahead, the dog maintained his place on the bar stool. The woman’s black 1960’s retro hat and veil suited her pale complexion, but her smile didn’t suit her funeral outfit.
 
“Are we going to be friends now, or what? You gonna let me take you home, or you gonna let that miserable bartender throw you out into the alley way. He won’t feed you like I would, ya know.”
 
The dog wasn’t sure about the name she called him. Sonny. It sounded like Buster, or Mister, or something stupid like that, when they couldn’t find an original name suitable to the breed. The dog turned his head away from the drink, and would have rolled his eyes if they had moved that way.
 
“Stan.” The woman leaned most of her body across the bar and called towards the opening between the rows of shining glasses and lines of bottles. “Stan. Come here and give me another one of these. Sonny wants his own glass. Forget the straw.”
 
Stan came back to the bar, wiping his hands on his grimy apron. “You paying?”
 
“Course I’m paying.” The woman dumped out the pretzels from the small ceramic bowl in front of her. “Here. Put it in this.”
 
Stan bent his head forward and squinted. “You’ve had enough.”
 
“This isn’t for me. It’s for the dog. Ahh. Come on, just give Sonny a drink.”
 
“He’d probably prefer water.”
 
The dog looked at Stan as if to say, Really? and turned his head towards the woman.
 
“See. He wants it. Come on. Pour him a drink.”
 
Stan made a face and turned to pour the shot and juices into the metal container adding several ice cubes.
 
“Hey, not so much ice. The dog’s not a young pup. He’s probably got sensitive teeth.”
 
Stan was about to reach into the mixer with his hand to remove some of the cubes, when the dog growled. Stan turned his head toward the dog, slowly removing his hand. He reached down into the container and the dog growled again. Up and out, silent. Down and in, growl. Up, quiet; down, growl. “I don’t believe it.” Stan shook his head, put the lid on the shaker, and gave it a furious shake. He looked at the dog, then at the bowl the woman held out. He poured the foaming liquid into the bowl holding back the chunky remains of ice.
 
“Here you go, Sonny. Now drink up. You’ll love it.” She hiccupped, proving how much he would love it.
 
The dog gave a sniff, and a quick slurp. Then he licked the froth off his lips and slurped up half of the beverage.
 
The woman turned to Stan and flashed him a big smile. “See, I knew he’d like it. Come on little fella, drink up.”
 
The dog cleaned the bowl, licking the sides. Stan set it over to one side and pointed out the spilled ring of daiquiri to the dog. The dog tipped his head sideways.
 
“See. He’s got good training. He’s not gonna lick up the counter.” She gave a stern glare in Stan’s direction. “We don’t know when you cleaned it last. What’s the bill?”
 
“Sixteen-ninety with tax.”
 
The dog turned on his seat and jumped to the floor, timing it just so he walked out the door as a man entered. The man tipped his hat to the dog and glanced up to see a woman in a smart black outfit sitting by herself.