‘Rusty will never know – not in his condition.’ he thought. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to fluff them up a bit and deliver them toasty warm – he loved a cozy towel. He stuffed them into the dryer and turned the dial. Five minutes should do the trick.

Five delicious minutes to snoop around and find out where Hans had moved things, or if there was anything new. No signs of a new occupant anyway, that was something. Hans was beginning to look good to him again. Pleasantly engaged, he was startled by the dryer buzzer. The towels were hot and smelled of Hans. He lingered over them, then folded them into a large kitchen bag and headed once more for the stairs.

“Here we are Rusty, all lovely and warm.” he was trilling as he waltzed through the pool door. Peter shrieked. Rusty was floating face down in the pool, apparently drowned, now far past the help of any towel to warm him. Why on earth hadn’t Rusty waited for him to come back?  How stupid could he be to get in the water alone when he couldn’t swim? It was all Rusty’s  fault, nothing at all to do with him. He hadn’t even been there when it happened. This whole hopeless affair was now just that – beyond even hope. Vexed, Peter petulantly reached for the remote and switched to his favorite cooking channel. They were making soup. As an afterthought, he wiped the TV cart handles and the remote.

He knew he had to think now. It was going to be hard. He kicked the now empty beer cans into the pool, turned on his heels and bounded back upstairs. He ran into the bedroom, dumping out the towels. He tried to imagine what Rusty might have touched when he was in this room changing. He ran a towel over the dresser and the door knobs. The towel was still warm. He hung both towels back exactly as he’d found them. Whipping off his swim trunks, he folded those back into the drawer. Retrieving his clothes from the couch where he’d tossed them, he quickly got dressed, stuffed the empty plastic bag into his pocket and pulled out another bag from under the sink. Back in the bedroom, he picked up Rusty’s shoes and socks and dropped them into the new bag. He emptied the trouser pockets out onto the bed. Removing the stash of bills from the money clip he briefly considered, ‘He won’t be wanting it’ before slipping the sizable wad and the few coins into his own pocket. He threw in the rest of Rusty’s clothes, stooping to look under the bed,  just in case he’d missed anything.

Turning again to the living area, he plumped up the cushions where they had been sitting, and methodically, using the kitchen towel, picked up the empties and stuffed those into the bag with the clothing.  He washed and dried out his snifter and returned it to the cupboard. Sighing, he paused over the stemware. ‘Maybe not this time’ he reckoned. He figured that if his fingerprints were all over the place inside the unit or the building, that would be OK. He had lived here after all. No-one, especially Hans, would ever know that he had been in the unit tonight, much less have brought Rusty along as well. As he rarely ever drank it, Hans would likely never even notice the missing beer. Peter was pretty sure it really was still left over from their last party. He could take Hans up on his invitation to come over on Monday night and hear about his boring conference and, while he was visiting, be sure to touch as much as he could. Maybe even Hans. Reconciliation was good; sometimes it led to harder stuff.

Peter reasoned that he could still come back one more time before Hans returned, if he had to, if he remembered something else. But best not; he wasn’t even out of the building yet. Taking a last and thorough look around, he adroitly inserted his wrist under the plastic bag handles and pulled the unit door behind him. He tiptoed along the corridor with the empty bag still in his pocket to the garbage chute, tipped open the bin and let go the full bag. From there it was only a few steps along the hallway and back to the stairs and the garage. He thought he heard something, froze momentarily, then realized it was not somebody coming but just the bag going through the chute, probably the shoes clunking on their way down. Dead man’s shoes. ‘Who would gain by this death,’  Peter allowed himself to wonder, ‘other than me with his money in my pocket?’

Pulling himself to attention, and suddenly fearful that he would be blamed, stealthily, silently, he  reached his car and squeezed in, throwing the empty bag on the floor. The garage door opened and a sporty car drove in. It was that awful woman from their floor, the one who used to always stare at him. He wouldn’t have wanted to meet her again at the best of times. Slinking down in the seat and out of sight as far as he could, he waited as she parked. Her spot was only a few spaces away. In the rear view, he watched her get out and remove some luggage from the trunk then, mercifully, wheel it away towards the elevator. The elevator was agonizingly long in coming. She was pounding on the door with her fist and screaming obscenities but at least not looking back his way. His leg was in a painful cramp.

When she had finally gone, he stretched his leg out as best he could and started the engine. Slouching down, he slowly negotiated the ramp. Turning north and into the street, he began to crow “Olly-olly, in free”.

She often went down for a swim at night when she stayed at the penthouse. The pool was usually empty after suppertime, she’d discovered. To make the workout better, she took the stairs down, and after her swim, then up, as far and as fast as her legs could stand it, where she hopped the elevator the rest of the way. She was trying to add another floor of steps each time and doing fairly well with it, last time making it up to the 11th.

She had a routine of rinsing out her stuff when she got back and packing the swim bag up again the following morning. It would be there ready for her each night – so no excuses. She changed into her sweats and let herself quietly out of the unit, guessing he would still be in the recliner when she returned, though often he pretended he’d never been asleep. It was easy enough going down. She heard a bam, the sound of a closing door echoing through the stairwell, a bit disconcerting. Not at all like her dorm, with kids everywhere. Here she had never actually met anyone else on the stairs. There must be someone else using them besides me, she reasoned. This building was too new for ghosts.

As she drifted slowly down the stairs, she looked forward to the slow repetition of laps and gliding push-offs lulling her into her own quiet space. Time to think; not even think, really, just be. She wondered if this was what meditation was like. Her room-mate Jody meditated. They must compare notes sometimes: soon, before they graduated. One of the things she reflected on a lot these days was what she wanted to do next. So far, life had been pretty much laid out for her. Knowing that she didn’t have to plan a career, or even get a job for that matter, didn’t stop her from dwelling on it, likely because everyone around her at school was fixating on it right now. Perhaps she was just going along with the tide.

She had never experienced real ambition, not like some of her friends. Her family was pushing for her to join the family firm, take on a cause and run with it.  The family had recently been featured in one of the local glossy magazines. Easily the most photogenic member of her clan, she’d been pictured both looking out at the lake from the penthouse, as well as on horseback and walking her dogs at Asphodel Meadows. It made her feel like pictures she’d seen of the Queen of England, trailing corgis. She’d grown up around animals, dogs especially, but had only thought of animals as familiar pets, up til now. Lately she’d been reading quite a bit about breed groups, dog rescue organizations, and animal rights.

At last descending to the pool level floor, she pushed open the door to the pool and was on the deck before she stopped, startled by what she was seeing. Not only was there a TV on and blaring next to the pool but she was not alone this time. A man she had never seen before was standing on the edge of the deck, whizzing into the water. “Just warming up the water for you.” he slurred. She stood frozen to the spot, revulsion rising as she fought back fear, her swim bag dangling at her feet.

Then, as though he suddenly recognized her, he blurted, “You’re the rich bitch in the magazine.” Stumbling around to face her, he leered, pointing at the ceiling. “Let’s go up. I’ll show you something to do besides look out the windows.” He fumbled closer, advancing with his arm still pointing upward, now raised and reaching for her, and lost his balance. She threw her shoulder hard against his, and pushed as hard as she could in the direction he was tripping. Snatching up her bag, she fled out the stairwell door, unsure of her escape, not looking back, fearful that he could possibly catch up with her. He staggered back toward the edge of the pool, briefly regained his footing and stood up again, arms windmilling, then teetered and tipped backwards into the water.

The welling anger drowned Gertie’s tears and rose to fury. She took the steps as she had never done before, rage driving her, nearly breathless, all the way to the top. Only inside, panting against the inside of the door, did she pause. ‘Fight, or flights? crossed her mind.  She had just managed them both.

“Gertie…you back so soon?” her father called. “Everything alright?”

One look at her told him it was not alright. Wide awake now, he steered her into his quickly abandoned chair, and handed her a glass of water.  As she took a few sips, he smoothed her hair, waiting for her to speak. Pocano rested his head on her knee.

“Oh Daddy, it was disgusting. He was disgusting.” she began. “I am disgusted.” Fighting off tears, she began again. “There was a man, a stranger, standing and, and, well – having a pee into the pool, holding his “thing.” Then he started hitting on me. So I pushed him…and I ran out.” She gulped down more water. “That’s it, really.”

“What do you mean “hitting on me?”. Did he hurt you?”

“No, no – it means, like he approached me for sex. He tried to touch me but I stopped him.”

“Go back and tell me exactly what happened, while it’s fresh in your mind.” he asked, this time pouring her out a glass of brandy. “Try not to leave anything out, except I think I get the leaking part already.”

“OK, I’ll try and remember, though I don’t want to. He said he was warming up the pool for me. Yecchhh. Then, wasn’t I the rich bitch from the magazine article. Then he pointed up and said I should bring him upstairs so he could show me something better than looking out the windows. When he tried to grab me, he started to fall, so I shouldered him and pushed hard so he’d keep falling, away from me.  I left right away, in case he came after me again.”

“Thank goodness you got away safe. And to think I ever teased you about taking Judo.”

“His breath smelled awful.”

“Was he drunk?”

“Drunk or a cretin, or both, I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re safe now. How about a soak in the whirlpool? You look completely done in. And we have an early start in the morning, remember?”

“Oh, and one more thing Daddy. There was a TV on – next to the pool. Weird.”

“So, here we are.” Peter began, almost giggling with delight at the ease with which this was unfolding. “What do you think of it so far?”

Rusty was positively scowling now, and walked over to the windows. “Is this only as far up as you lived?” he said, a little derisively, Peter thought. He hoped Rusty wouldn’t turn out to be the sarcastic type. They were so hard to understand.

“Mmm, it is a small unit but it’s got a really nice place to work out.”

“I didn’t come here to work out, did I?” Rusty hissed at him. Peter was scrambling to fathom what Rusty was here for.

“How about drinks?” Peter offered, retreating into the kitchen, hoping to loosen up his guest a bit. “There’s usually wine, brandy, or beer around. Let me check.” Rusty followed him, and as Peter swung open the  refrigerator door, Rusty grabbed a couple of cans of beer from the shelf.

“This’ll do.” he muttered. Peter was pretty sure it was still left over from their last party. As he rarely ever drank it, Hans would probably never even notice the missing beer.

“I’ll have some brandy. There are some gorgeous snifters around here someplace. Please, go put your feet up. Relax.” The snifters were there and right beside them, the empty space where the flutes used to be. It was just too tempting Peter thought, wondering if he could get away with more light-fingered fun this trip. ‘First things first.’ he recalled. ‘Rusty is first, this trip.’

“So, tell me Rusty, what do you want to do here…first?” Peter said suggestively, as he sank into the couch opposite Rusty.

“How far can you get upstairs and see out over the lake?” ‘Oooh, how romantic!’ Peter thought.

“Well, there’s the terrace out back overlooking the lake. There’s a lovely view from there.”

“Nah, I mean way upstairs.”

“Well, there are penthouses, but that’s all private,” he began, “so we can’t go up there. But there is a solarium room with super big windows – it’s just one floor down from that.”

“No rooftop?” pursued Rusty, peevishly adding, “How about more beer then?”  Peter was still puzzled about all this interest in the roof but decided to play along as he fetched more beer from the kitchen. Maybe Rusty had a thing about a roof and Peter was willing to learn.

“Why are you handing me beer cans in a towel?” demanded Rusty. “Something wrong with them?”

“Oh, I always do that – they are sooo cold straight from the frig.” Peter gave a little mock shudder, flinging the towel over his shoulder. “You must be really thirsty.”

“OK, so let’s go up there now. I want to look.” Rusty stood up, beer cans firmly in his hands. “Or will it be too cold up there for you?” he sneered.

“Oh, silly, not too cold, but it will be too dark, and foggy now, see? Look outside. It’s always darker on the lake side at night anyway. Good for stargazing on a clear night. You won’t see anything much now.” Rapidly warming to his theme, Peter ran on. “I have an idea. There’s lots of beer left. Let’s stay overnight. Then you could go upstairs early in the morning and see whatever you want.”

Rusty was staring at him as he gushed on. “We could go for a lovely swim. Come back here, have a cozy supper – omelets. I’m good at those”. He had already checked the egg supply when fetching out the beer. Good old Hans.

“Can’t swim” burped Rusty.

“Oh, that’s nothing – I’ll show you how.” bubbled Peter, making pawing motions in the air and pretending to swim into the bedroom. “Doggy paddle.”

I’m sure I can find the swim trunks, Peter thought, going to the drawer where they used to be. Sure enough, there were the two pair from the Caribbean trip. Dear old Hans, he’s sooo much nicer than Rusty is so far. He fondled them gently before lifting them out. Maybe they would be good luck charms. Recalling his own charms, he tugged off his shirt and returned bare-chested to the living room where Rusty was cracking open another can.

“Let’s get changed right now.” Peter was in high gear. “Which ones, Rusty? These would suit you…” he giggled, holding up each pair in turn.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” leered Rusty, as Peter slipped off his belt, shoes and socks.

Rusty had eventually gotten into the trunks. In the bedroom. By himself. Peter guided Rusty, clutching a unopened can in each hand, once again by stair down to the pool level door. He propelled Rusty into the pool room, where he stood, or swayed a bit, Peter observed. If Rusty had hollow legs, maybe that would help him to float.

“Can’t swim.” repeated Rusty.

“Tell you what. Let’s watch TV while we’re in the water.”  Peter knew there was a TV with a long extension cord just outside, across from the meeting room. “Wait just a sec while I fetch it.” he said, whisking out the hallway door.  A minute later he returned, TV cart wheels rumbling, and pulled the cart up to the edge of the pool.

Fussing with the remote he turned to Rusty, cocked his head to one side, asking “What’s your fancy?  Music, a little bromance, perhaps?” He was hoping for something nice to set the mood.

“Business news.” burped Rusty, dropping an empty by the cart.

“Right.” clenched Peter. “Right. Well, let’s get in. Best thing to do is take the plunge. It’s easier than going in inch by inch. That just gives you goosebumps.” instructed Peter. “Just like getting out fast is so nice, wrapping up in a big towel.”

“What towel?” Rusty burped again. “Don’t see no towel.” Peter looked around, suddenly remembering. At work, towels were supplied to members. A perk. He’d completely forgotten that you had to bring your own here. Things were not going as planned. Fantasy was dying by the minute.

“Tell you what,” he urged, “just sit down in the deck chair, watch your show, and finish your beer, OK? I’ll be back in a jiff with some nice warm towels for you.” And he hurried out the pool stairs door.

Rusty sank into a deck chair and guzzled down the remainder. Bored by the show, his eyes fell on the untroubled water before him. ‘Always wanted to do that. Like in the bathtub, only better.’ He tossed down the last empty and watched it roll to the edge of the pool. Then grunting with the effort, he lurched up and out from the chair toward the water, where, fully exposed, he relieved himself, grinning at the glimmering arc he was proudly producing.

The radio jingle was sung to the unlikely tune of  “My Country ‘Tis of Thee.” Perhaps, thought Guy, the sponsor was attempting to add some gravitas to the firm’s image. If so, the words of the jingle belied that hope.

“We’re Horton, Hearst & Hough
Here to take care of you
Whenever you sue.
We’re big guys in gray suits
Who’ll take on your lawsuits
We’re Horton Hearst and Hough
Horton Hearst and Hough.”

As the ad patter continued, the show host Aimee Elise switched off her mike and said to Guy, “OK, in this next segment I’m going to ask some tougher questions. Without asking you to risk saying too much for your own good, I expect some serious answers – provocative answers. That’s why I asked you on. On this show we want to stimulate our listeners, not put them to sleep. Right?”

Privately hoping that the upcoming segment would not thereby lead directly into the offices of Horton Hearst and Hough to seek the refuge of their expertise, Guy nodded. He sat waiting and wondering how many guests of the program had gone down that slippery slope already.

“And in keeping with the apparent theme of the day – lots and lots of water, rain or otherwise – we’re back with our guest Guy Karon, ferryman extraordinaire, and owner of The Shorter Way Home, Lake Michigan’s premiere back and forth Wisconsin to Michigan service. Tell us Guy, what took you into the business?”

“Our family has always been in the ferrying business. Back in Greece where I was born, there are plenty of islands to go back and forth between, though not so many lakes and rivers with ferries, as there are on the Wisconsin mainland. It seemed natural to stick to it when our family immigrated to the States. Sounds from the weather today as though some of your listeners will be needing a ferry, or at least a raft.”

“The flooding is quite serious in some areas. Once again listeners, stay tuned for updates.  And so Guy, the big lake was no challenge for your family?”

“Great Big Sea to Great Big Lake?” he laughed, “Of course the challenges are different. Let me put it this way, our navigation system is a lot different than a rowboat type you might use to cross a stream. We handle a lot of passengers, their vehicles and cargo on each trip.”

“And will there be enough density in a city of our size to support your business:  dare I say it – over the long haul?”

“We draw from a larger area than just the city, of course, but yes, it takes a large population and one that’s willing to travel to support it in the long run.”

“I understand that you are not in favor of new development that will bring an influx of people to live downtown. Isn’t that counter-productive from a business point of view?”

“It might be, but there are other considerations too.” Aimee was making circular gestures in front of her face, demanding that Guy say more. “Not all development is appropriate, even if it adds a customer base.”

“And how’s that? This is a lighthouse, isn’t it? I’d have thought you’d be the first to applaud a nautical theme – maybe even work out a partnership of some kind? Free passes to new owners, that kind of promotion. Isn’t this in the city’s best interests?”

“This particular proposal may mimic a lighthouse but of course wouldn’t perform the function of one, so I’ve never taken that into account in my objections. I disagree strongly that this proposal is in the best interests of the city.” Aimee finally smiled in approval.

“Let’s talk about this some more. Especially in the current economy, why isn’t all development positive?”

“I believe that this proposed building is inauthentic, and I’m very familiar with authentic lighthouses, as you can well imagine. It pretends to be a blueprint into the past but that’s just a cover for an omnivorous, self-justifying monstrosity. We… that’s why I call it “The Parody on Prospect.”

“So who are the other objectors, Guy?”

“More and more people, I believe, as details emerge. For instance, the developer wants to install a time-capsule with memorabilia from the original lighthouse and to envelop the old one in the new, effectively sealing its structure away forever. That’s not what I would term historic preservation. More like destruction of history to me. It’s certainly not the way the majority of lighthouses are restored around the country. What next? Actors on the tiny planned public plaza portraying the lighthouse family, buckets of whitewash and brushes in hand?”

Aimee, positively beaming, continued. “And is it just this particular proposal that you detest? What if a more conventional development were proposed for that site? I mean you live next door, isn’t that right?”

“That’s right. So you might expect I especially want something wonderful next door, wouldn’t you? A restored lighthouse would be an interesting choice, don’t you think? Perhaps we could engage the preservationist community in that project.”

“Well, is that realistic? It’s zoned residential, isn’t it? And I don’t suppose that means your lighthouse keeper’s family, does it?”

“Every proposal should be evaluated on its merits, surely? As should the credentials of any developer.”

“Are you suggesting then that there are no merits to this proposal? Or of this developer?”

Guy paused, and grateful that this was a radio interview, not a taped or TV one, drew his hand across his throat, indicating to Aimee his wish for a break. Surprisingly, she responded. “And Guy will be back with answers to my questions right after this important commercial break.”

With their mikes dead, she said, “That was good, good. Liked the Parody bit.”

Guy said, “I’m going to waffle on those last questions. Don’t want to end up with your lawyer sponsors, no matter how much I like your show. You can’t expect me to put myself in jeopardy.”

“Oh, but I can hope, can’t I?” she smiled and straightened back to her mike. “And we’re back. I was just asking Guy what he thought of the merits of this proposal and its developer.”

“This developer has been recognized by many in the city for his leadership in downtown development. Equally, he has experienced some setbacks and lawsuits, resolved and unresolved, as have other developers. My point is that each proposal should be evaluated, not taken carte blanche based on earlier success or failure by a developer. At the same time, if residents of developments previously constructed  by a developer have run into difficulties with any aspect of it, that must also be taken into account and be subject to public scrutiny.”

“Thank you Guy Karon, for your candid and thought provoking remarks. We’re going to take a brief intermission before we meet our next guest, here to talk about the deep tunnel improvements.”

I’d never get over this feeling, thought Sebastian. He decided to talk to Matthew about it again, first chance he had.  Maybe Matthew would feel the same way too when he got here. They were in daily contact since the plane crash that had wiped out their parents lives, their family life. Now they had to decide so many personal and business matters.

What was that old quote? He searched his memory and came up with part of it. It went something like, ‘All happy families are the same but unhappy ones are different.’ That wasn’t quite right; he would have to look it up. In the meantime, he would just grit his teeth and hope for no ghosts while he was staying here. He believed in ghosts even though he had never seen one.

The next day, as he passed through the lobby on his way to Cathay Imports, a woman rose from her chair, extending her hand, and spoke to him, “Hello, you must be one of the Cabot boys. My name is Ivy James. I knew your parents—my unit is on the same floor and we often visited back and forth—and I want to extend my sincerest condolences. Such a terrible thing to have happened.”

“Thank you, Mrs. James. I’m Sebastian. I’m here to settle up some of their affairs, staying in their unit. My brother Matthew is still in the Orient.”

“Perhaps then, if it’s convenient for you, you could come over to supper with me one evening and we could talk.”

“That’s very kind of you. It might be some comfort to talk with someone here who knew them well. They said they had made some friends here but the names didn’t really register, as I’d never met any of them myself. My brother and I are great travelers, you see.”

“A family trait?”

“Too true.”

And a few nights later, Sebastian came for supper, bearing a set of four wine glasses and a bottle of Merlot. “Please accept the glasses as a memento of my folks,” he offered.

“Many thanks, Sebastian. These are lovely.” she smiled appreciatively. “We’ll use two of them with supper, shall we? And if you would open the wine?”

“And now, how are you and your brother doing?” she asked as they sat down over salad. “When my husband died, at first it was all so… well, busy, and then, it was so empty. When you are accustomed to a routine with someone, all these extremes are very wearing.”

“Well I can tell you that I’m not really enjoying staying in the place, in the empty, alone sort of way you mean. And I’m used to living alone.  And even though it’s very nice, it can certainly not in any way be described as empty. They were collectors, an occupational hazard for sure. There are all those personal effects that will have to be gone through and sorted out. I’m waiting for Matthew before starting on that.” he told her.

“I do remember some of their things from my visits there, old maps on the walls and several globes. I used to tell them that my place was decorated only with my yarn stash, a collection of hooks and needles, and a cat.” and she waved a hand around her, indicating their surroundings. “To each his own, I guess.”

As she brought a steaming dish of lasagna to the table, Sebastian said, “I see that you also have a lot of books. Maybe you can help me to remember a quote that’s slipped my mind. Something about happy and unhappy families?”

“Let’s look it up, though funny you should mention happy families. It’s the name of a card game we’re currently learning to play.” She thumbed through the pages of her book of quotations. “Here we are,” she read aloud,” ‘All happy families resemble one another, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way’. It’s from Tolstoy.” she concluded.

“Ours seems to have gone from one to the other.” Sebastian sighed.

“So you think that you will sell the unit?” she gently asked.

“That’s certainly my preference at this point. I may have to talk Matthew into it. Don’t suppose you could recommend anybody to help us get it ready for sale?”

“Gervase would certainly be able to suggest several people. He’s always willing to help. I think I remember your mother saying that you were working somewhere close by? Would you be the one most likely to be involved in the sale?”

“It would probably be me, yes. Matthew worked directly with my parents. I did for some time but decided it wasn’t for me, not full-time anyway. I was more interested in the traveling than in the business end of it. Right now I have a position at a nearby college, teaching cartography. I’m trying it to find out if I can settle down” he said, “or if I am destined to be a wanderer.”

“Is there such a thing as a freelance cartographer?” she wondered. “Don’t you have to be in a lab with all kinds of special equipment these days?”

“Mapping software, information systems…certainly for teaching tools, yes. Of course, the day of the hardy explorer singlehandedly charting coastlines is long gone but there are other paths to entrepreneurship. I may be on one of those.”

“And in very good company. This runs in my family too, in my sons. One of our residents is a freelance journalist, and accountant on the side, who made the jump to self-employment recently. He’s our association treasurer also. He and I are good chums. I’ll introduce you; I would guess he is about your age, might be some company for you while you’re here. ”

“Well, thanks for your company and the home cooking too,  Mrs. James. And I will ask Gervase for his advice. Who knows? I may end up back at the store in spite of myself.”

“Remember if you need another sorter when that time comes that I’m right down the hall and happy to help.”

That time did come. Once Matthew and Sebastian had decided what to do with things, there remained the work of packing it all up. Mrs. James started to give them a hand with some of the more personal items while a service, touted by Gervase as very competent, was scheduled to come in to handle the rest of the removal. Gervase also suggested that they set up appointments to interview several realtors to determine what kind of listing services they wanted. Mrs. James told them that she had worked with one when she bought her unit and recommended that they be sure to speak with him, as he knew the building very well.

The brothers decided to get started on these interviews while Matthew was still in town. They scheduled back-to back appointments with three realtors to meet in the unit the following Monday morning.

“Very nice, thank you, Ivy.” he declared. “It seems so quiet here without the girls.”

“Yes, that’s certainly true.” she agreed. “But all the same, it’s good to be able to converse quietly too. Not always possible these days.”

“I keep many social engagements, as you know, but this is one at which I can completely relax.” She beamed her pleasure at this remark. “In fact, some of them are damnably awkward. Yesterday, the developer of the project next door was at the same luncheon table as I was. And instead of doing the graceful thing, he went on and on about the project to our table mates. And in a grandiose manner as well; he was positively speechifying.”

“Morris Mangold?” she inquired. “Perhaps that was a blessing, Earnest, and you emerged more poised than he. He appeared ill-mannered and you were not required to reply.”

“You’re quite right. I refrained from any remarks. It was clearly embarrassing to some others at the table. Thank goodness he didn’t address me directly about it.”

“You would have done splendidly had he done so, I’m sure.”

“It does make me treasure less my social rise here, I may say, when I observe the behavior of others who share in my ascent.”

“Oh, Earnest” she chided, “I hope you’d never admit that to any but your closest friends!” He had the decency to look abashed. She continued, “It does remind me that I was going to share a snatch of verse with you. It’s from “Mending Wall’, a poem by Robert Frost. May I?”

At his nod, she opened a book and read out the same lines she had shared earlier with Hans.

“Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out
And to whom I was like to give offense.”

Earnest said, “You’ll be pleased to know that Hans did share that with the committee. It seems that for all his public pronouncements, Mr. Mangold has very little interest in either asking or in not offending.”

“I’ve been thinking about this lighthouse, the old one, that is. I have a theory about this “preservation” proposal. It’s this, that in incorporating it into the new design, the old structure, and all the history it retains, is in effect destroyed.”

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“The only way it can actually be of the past is as it is now. We all thought, I suppose, that it would always be there, a crumbling relic it’s true, but there, going on being what it was. To move it, or restore it, or to build around it and replicate it – all of those options remove it from the past and place it in the future. That may be all well and good, but I don’t see how it really addresses the concerns of the preservationists. Not strictly.”

“There are similar cases in the English countryside, Ivy. I don’t mean the incursions of say a theme park in a rural area. When the old village tea shop becomes Ye Olde Tea Shoppe, it ceases to exist in the way it was. It’s been tricked out to serve a new interest. Is that what you mean?”

“I think so. It’s not just a case of the old lighthouse being swallowed up by a larger version like Jonah inside a whale. The old lighthouse simply ceases to exist. Whereas if it was still standing on the same spot in whatever condition, it would still mean the same thing. It will never be spit out intact again, as was Jonah.”

“Forgive me, but I’m suddenly seeing a series of lighthouse type shapes, all fitting inside one another, like Russian dolls. First a cute little tabletop glass pepper pot that gets inside a Dalek. A Dalek is an alien species, an enemy of planet Earth in the long-running sci-fi series ‘Dr. Who’. A remorseless, tone-deaf, six foot pepper pot bent on universal conquest and domination. Does this sound like our developer, I ask myself? And the cruel Dalek fits inside our old, normal size historic lighthouse. And this is absorbed, devoured, by the gargantuan lighthouse-like edifice called progress, or in our own case, by The Alchemy.”

“Bravo, Earnest!  she clapped, applauding his fanciful rendition. “Though if the Dalek were to have too much pepper, would he huff and puff and sneeze down the lighthouses? Death by pepper?”

“Very good question. All I know on the sci-fi front is that the aliens often land on the tallest structure. Better on an Alchemy than on a POP’s, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Wherever do you suppose they got that name, anyway?”

“Speculation abounds. You know of course that it derives from Greek words meaning to separate and to join together. Rather apt, wouldn’t you agree?  It refers to the ancient attempt to transform base materials into gold. Or into the elixir of life, hence immortality.”

“So, the name is referring to the developer’s wish to transform something into money, or perhaps fame?”

“Possibly. Though I can’t quite credit him with that degree of accuracy.”

“How is the committee getting on? Any developments?” she inquired.

“Since the fiasco at the opening night you mean? You heard about that I’m sure. Guy Karon found a reporter willing to listen to our issues that evening. That’s why we are starting to get some local coverage. Privately, Hans has been very good about supplying us with some recent city history, filling us in on what has happened in other similar situations. So we are taking some other steps now too.”

“Such as?”

“Well, instead of challenging  the proposal per se, we’re beginning  to investigate past performance on other developments. Will the work be up to snuff, in other words? Have there been any legitimate grumbles about other buildings where his firm has been involved? Are there any lawsuits?  Anything that would suggest that the construction itself might be questioned? Anything to suggest an inability to handle a project of this size?” he summed up.

“You mean, if there are problems occurring in other developments Mangold has done or been a party to, that might suggest that any new building might have similar flaws?

“Or at least might be subject to more scrutiny, certainly. Of course, it may turn out that he is completely in the clear in that regard. It’s a risk you take when you undertake to discover the truth. As I say, it’s just another avenue of approach at this point. And it could turn into an expensive one if attorneys get involved.”

“Imagine that…if that proves true, the newer lighthouse might fall down faster than the older one.” she mused.

Shel turned towards him and said, “Guess I really want something facing the other way.”

R.M. nodded and waited. Shel continued. “Given our work schedules, we are more likely to have a little time at home in the morning than in the evening. If it’s mostly late when we get home, we don’t care about the light outside, or the view. But it would be nice to have some morning sunshine.”

“Let’s go back up to the solarium and take a look then.” suggested R.M. The solarium offered views in several directions, including on the lake side of the building. “Of course, these lake views will cost you relatively more, you understand, on any floor. We’ll go back out on the terrace as well, before we leave.” He joked, “You know, if you lived on the Michigan side of the lake, your morning sun would be facing away from the lake.”

Walking into the solarium and looking east, Shel enthused, “Yes, this is definitely more like it! Can you show us any units on this side?”

“None listed right now but that will likely change. Now that you’ve seen a few units and developments, let me ask you something. It’s an old saw in the sales business called a ‘trial close’. It’s supposed to be a way of testing to see if someone will buy something, and of course I can see that you are not ready as yet. But I’ve found that it is useful and I’ll tell you why. But first let me ask the question, OK? It goes like this, ‘If you had to buy a unit today, which one would you choose?’  Now when I ask this, it’s not to make you feel pressured to make up your mind but because, especially in the case of couples, it’s good to find out where they agree and disagree. As they each think and decide what matters and what doesn’t, I ask them to keep me in the loop so I can show them what they really want. If they don’t do that… “

Michelle finished the sentence. “then you can’t show them what they want. Well, we really do like this building. But I guess it never really became clear ’til just now that I want a home with morning light or that that would even be important. And we do agree on that, right Shel, even if it costs more?”

Shel gulped, and nodded.

“Then while we are here,” R.M. requested, “let’s go back into the unit on the “wrong” side and look at some of the other similar features, the floor plan, the space, and see if anything else comes to mind. Honestly, I’ve seen pairs get into squabbles about the color of the grout in the bathroom.”

Later, as R.M. was showing them out of the building, he saw that Mrs. James was still there in the lobby. “Any luck?” she asked him. “Or am I not supposed to ask that?”

“Well, I’m certainly not supposed to answer, Mrs. James.” he teased. “Progress – we are making headway. They said that they liked the building very much. They will likely keep looking for awhile longer.”

“That’s nice to hear, anyway. Our confidence is a little shattered at present.” She added, “Speaking of confidence, it must be very hard to be a realtor. I mean, you show people places that you think they might like, always assuming they turn up. Remember that you said they don’t always do that either? Anyway, if they don’t like the places, how do you handle that, personally and professionally?”

“We have just been discussing that very thing upstairs.” he said. “You have to find out over time what they do like. Sometimes they aren’t sure themselves. Once in a great while some-one will say, ‘This is fine – I just need a place to live.’  You and your husband were towards that end of the spectrum. More often than not, it takes longer. It’s a bit like detective work, circling, getting closer to the truth, eliminating from consideration what doesn’t belong. And there is a lot to see, at least to begin with, most of the time.”

“You must be a patient man then.” she observed, looking up from her crocheting. ” I assume that you must be doing this same thing with several customers at the same time. How do you keep up with the market the way you do, for different buyers?”

“You flatter me, Mrs. James. It’s what I’m supposed do. But if you are asking me personally, there are a few things that help me do just that. As you know, I’ve seen  many years now in the wonderful world of real estate. So one, experience.” he said, counting out points on his fingers. “Plus I enjoy working with people, find them fascinating. So two, I get along with my co-workers, so to speak. I especially enjoy the challenges of working out deals between buyers and sellers. So three, the interest. There is always something new to learn, whether it comes from the work itself or through the continuing education classes we have to take. So four, the knowledge, and applying that knowledge to the wide range of situations that occur. So the variety too, and that makes five!” He repeated, “Experience, fascination, challenge, knowledge, and variety.”

“I see that you must have thought about your occupation long before my asking about it. How about the other hand? What cards are you holding there?” she teased him back.

“A different suit there, Mrs. James, specific to the condo market. First, every month I track the pending and sold listings. I have a record of these statistics going back many years, so I have an accurate way to measure changes. Second, every day I watch the new listings or changes to listings so I know what is available. Third, I have all the developments mapped so I know where everything is. This has been more and more important as the number of developments grew. Fourth, I keep an updated inventory of developments within neighborhoods on the map that includes basic information about each one. I can tell you, for an example, the location of all of the developments in the Gold Coast, or on Prospect, and which ones have pools. Fifth, since the beginning of the condo market, I have kept an archive of articles describing the growth of condos in each neighborhood. The shelf is groaning.”

Mrs. James confessed, “We have included you in a card game we’ve been making – one specific to our association, mind you.” As he looked puzzled, she went on to say, “It’s a game Earnest Arbuthnot is teaching the girls to play, called Happy Families. We are using the names of residents and their occupations to create families on the playing cards, and you are included – Mr. R.M. The Realtor®Man!”

“Afternoon, Mrs. James,” R.M. smiled, “and thank you. Are you the new Gervase?”

“He’s just gone upstairs. Would you come and sit with me while you are waiting?” she invited, indicating her chair. “I’m just here working on a hat for The Society.”

“I’m actually here waiting to meet a buyer, so yes I will join you.” he replied, taking a seat next to hers. “I have an appointment for a second showing on a unit upstairs – my single party.”

“Unfortunately, we may have another listing in here very soon but not one we want. Have you heard the dreadful news about the Cabots?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” he replied.

“Well, of course, we’ve only just heard ourselves. Our residents, John and Cathy Cabot, who own the Cathay Imports shop, went on a routine buying trip to the Orient and apparently they were on the plane that crashed there yesterday. All passengers are reported dead.”

“I did hear about the crash. And they were both passengers, you say?”

“So I understand. Gervase tells me that their son Sebastian will be here soon to handle their affairs. Their other son Matthew is also traveling in the east. He’s in the business too.” She paused. “It’s so awful. Such nice people. And such good neighbors to me.  That’s where Gervase is at the moment, up taking care of their two cats.” Just then Gervase emerged from the elevator.

“Bon jour Gervase.” R.M. began, then stopped and said, “Well perhaps not so good. Mrs. James has just been telling me the news.”

“Very sobering news, yes. You don’t realize what a community we have here until something like this happens. Like losing family…why is it always the good ones, eh?” Then changing the subject he said, “I’ve been wanting to tell you that a man claiming to be a realtor tried to get in the building to pre-view a listing. I said there were no listings for him to see.”

“Odd.” replied R.M. “Any name?’

“I didn’t ask – and he didn’t say. Reddish hair though.”

“Hmnn. Well, I’m here to meet my buyers. They want another look at that unit. Usually a good sign.”

“Do people often keep you waiting like this?” asked Mrs. James, pulling out lengths of yarn from the depths of her workbag.

“Oh, this is nothing. Often I have to wait outside in the car and watch for them, especially where the parking is tricky.  This is a more comfortable wait than I usually have. If they don’t show up, at least I’m warm, dry, and in good company.”

“What? People don’t come to an appointment they made with you?”

“It happens. I call it ‘getting stiffed’. So I always confirm by phone or e-mail the day before. Occasionally they still don’t show up, or call either.”

“But that’s so rude!” she exclaimed.

“But I always turn up, living in hope. Ah, here they are now, anyway. I’m off and running then.” he said, waving at his buyers through the glass. “Nice to chat, and sorry about your news.”

R.M opened the outside door to his buyers, and to Hans at the same time. Hans stopped to visit with Mrs. James and he too was informed about events. He had not personally known the Cabots, who had lived on her floor, as well as Mrs. James had, but it was shocking news. It seemed as though their association was in for some rocky times, what with this loss and the proposed building next door. He was glad he was only the treasurer and not totally responsible for shoring up morale amongst the residents.

So, when he was offered a trip out of town by one of the glossy magazines to which he regularly contributed articles, to cover a convention, ‘Accounting Then and Now’, he readily agreed, even though he suspected he was a last minute substitute or alternate. A change of pace was way overdue, even if it was only with a bunch of accountants, and in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan.

Maybe, he considered, he would just call Peter before he went out of town and mention that he was still in circulation and going to a ‘high-powered’ convention. After he got back, would Peter like to come over and hear about the trip, perhaps make them one of his delicious suppers?  Maybe he could contrive to open a cupboard and ask Peter about the missing stuff. Anyway, he would have more time, while he was away, to think of a good way to handle this problem.

When he rang Peter’s number, he got the answering machine. Surprise, surprise.

“Listen Peter; remember I told you I was hoping to get out of town for a few days? I’ll be going to a convention next weekend and be home Monday afternoon. Wondering if you’d come over to see me – how about Monday night? Got something I’d like to talk with you about. Let me know. Bye…” he trailed off, reluctant to say any more, worried that he’d said too much already.

*

“I’ve got some news for you Rusty”. Peter bent his head close to the perspiring Rusty, who was laboring above his chosen instrument of exercise torture.

“Whaa,” panted Rusty, not even looking up.

“We can go over to that building next weekend,” he crooned, sing-song-like, “anytime you want.”

“Yeah?” Rusty’s head came up this time and his pace slowed.

“I can pick you up… drive us over there.” he drawled.

“Sunday, then – late.” Rusty gasped out.

“It’s a date then.” Peter declared, noticing that Rusty looked a bit peculiar as he’d said that. Perhaps,  Peter decided,  he was just pushing Rusty too hard, too fast.

“Take it easy, Rusty.” Peter advised. “Don’t overdo it all at once. Save some of your energy for other things. A nice swim and a soak, maybe.” he suggested as he turned away, wagging his finger. “Call me on Sunday. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Knowing that Hans was going to be away inspired Peter’s overactive imagination to play out some desirable scenarios. At first he’d been planning to offer Rusty a whole weekend together but that, he concluded, would be taking too much of a risk of being seen in the building. He didn’t want to be seen; some resident snoop who remembered him would likely squeal back to Hans. And besides, he wouldn’t have much time to clean up after an entire weekend there anyway, not with Hans back so soon afterward on Monday afternoon. So when Rusty chose Sunday night, that would be cutting it fine anyway. His hopes dimmed but he’d make the most of it, yes he would, with a chance like this.

“Do you think we might be able to make our own tote bags soon Mrs. James?” Pansy asked her. “These ones keep ripping.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed. As you have already made a bag, a bean bag, I suppose you could make a larger one and add some handles. We can look at some pattern books while we are here – see if there are any you’d like to try.” Pleased that they still enjoyed the wonderful art work in so many of the books in the childrens’ room, she was hoping to interest them in browsing in other sections of the library as well.

She’d borrowed many books that she hadn’t looked at in years herself, just for the sake of introducing them to the girls. Occasionally, she read aloud from one of them. One of these was an anthology of poetry including Robert Frost’s poem, “Mending Wall.” Uncanny how apropos of their collective situation vis-a-vis the proposed building some of those lines were, she mused, reciting them to herself. She must remember to share them with the committee.

“Before I built a wall I’d like to know

What I was walling in or walling out

And to whom I was like to give offense.”

Along the avenue from the POP’s, Morrie Mangold surveyed the just completed sales center for The Alchemy. The caterers were setting up dishes and beverages for tonight’s Grand Opening and the food would be arriving any minute now. The sales material was piled on a table in the corner, away from the refreshment tables. There were more chairs than he expected would be occupied, so he directed that some be removed. He preferred that the room appear full. Invitations had been sent to a lot of people, including realtors and civic leaders, and he was hoping that some of these pro-development invitees would turn up too, not just the mob from next door. If the city council meetings and war of letters in the press so far were any indication, this mob was likely going to materialize.

Helping himself to a sample of the wine, he wandered around the room adjusting displays as he went. Rusty came in, added a large rendering of the project to the empty easel near the front of the chairs and joined his uncle in a glass of wine.

“So Uncle Morrie,” he asked, “are you ready for the inquisition?”

“Not as ready as I could be, if you had an eye-witness report for me from the Prospect.”

Rusty looked away, and said, “Well, I tried to, but there are no listings. I even went over just to fake my way in but that concierge told me I couldn’t come in. Something about there being only a single party listing right now. Only one realtor could get in, and it wasn’t me.”

“That’s very unfortunate.” remarked Morrie, looking displeased. “You might have tried saying you had one of those yourself. Bad move.”

“Anyway,” Rusty interjected, hoping to overcome this setback, “there’s this guy I met who says we might be able to get in, only he’s not sure when. Maybe in time to still help you, us,” he hastily corrected, “to come up with a sop to throw at them all.”

“So, one way or another, you’ll get there. And after tonight, I bet there will be some new listings in there.” Morrie laughed and, relishing the thought of the flight of panicked residents from the building, helped himself to another glass of wine. “We’re starting some site preparation work soon – clearing the scrub all down the bluff – so you’ll get an even better idea when you do see. I have a pretty good idea what they will say.  I’m ready with some answers of my own. Just remember to be polite to them.” Morrie instructed. “Go up, introduce yourself. “Hello, I’m Mr. Nice Guy.” Say you’re interested in “a helpful dialogue” before they start in on you. Make like a Wrested Development professional.”

The caterer’s truck had pulled up and they were now laying out the spread. Standing up and stretching, Morrie moved to the front of the room, picked up a pointer and turned, waving his empty glass. “So, kid, how do I look? Ready to face the lions?” Rusty grinned, then asked, “What’s the order of march here tonight? Is it just you doing the talking?”

“First we meet and greet. Be hospitable, happy they’ve come. I give my presentation, take a few questions. Then I’ll say now we adjourn and talk to people one on one. You mingle, listen to what gets said. Any press, you send them to me, right? Now, one more glass for courage.”

Morrie liked being in charge. He preferred his own eloquence to any other. A short while later, once he was up and on his feet, this event was no different. “Here beckons before us a new beacon for our times and along our shores, not a crumbling one of stones, but one of glass and steel; dominant, a signal of the growing importance of our city and it’s place in our new world. But we will never forget our beginnings as we spread our wings out to embrace the future. We will hold forever in our soaring skyward those beloved foundations – we will build anew,  but yes, we will restore our past! Our lighthouse, sacred city landmark that once adorned our bluffs and proudly looked out over our deep waters, I say again, our deep, deep waters, will rise again and contain within it’s beating heart, the very stones that have always stood in this place and are never forgotten. True alchemy – The Alchemy begins.”

At least this is what he thought he spoke, what he meant to say. His fervent delivery was a trifle spoiled by his incoherence, no doubt on account of his having previously imbibed a number of glasses of wine without benefit of food. His audience was polite, though mystified. A sermon was certainly not what they had expected. The committee from the Prospect was in full attendance. They were waiting for a promised opportunity to ask questions publicly after the developer’s presentation. It never came.

Morrie, instead of inviting questions or comments from the floor, suddenly stopped his speech, possibly aware that he was not at his best, and mumbled something about them soon all having a chance to talk to him, one-on-one. As he made his way stiffly down the aisle between the rows of chairs and outside for some fresh air, Rusty rushed to replace him and quickly invited everyone to enjoy more refreshments, then followed his uncle out the door.

“That was different,” thought R.M., as he rose from his chair and went to greet some other realtors in attendance.

“What the devil?” said Guy Karon, as he turned to talk to a willing reporter.

“Goodness me, I daren’t eat that! Think of the gallstones” concluded Lori Hazell, as she surveyed the refreshments.

“Hmm?” was the absent-minded replied. They were all sitting at the dining table, knitting. The girls were making simple squares for bean-bags, which they would stuff with dried beans, then use for playing catch. A game for two.

“Next, can we make something to play with Mullins?”

“I could teach you how to crochet a simple chain. That would give you a string for him to chase. He likes that, as we well know.”

“Especially underneath doors.” agreed Pansy. “If you hide on one side of the door and push the string under to the other side of the door, then he really chases it!”

“Do you know how many cats there are in our building?” wondered Poppy.

“We don’t keep track of them, the same as we do the residents, so I’m not sure.  Mullins, Oblio, and Sticks, you already know. The Cabots have two – Bona and Vista. Gervase might know a few more. I’m guessing there may be others.”

“Maybe we should put a string under every front door and wait and see if there’s a cat there…” suggested Pansy.

And what about dogs?” continued Poppy.

“Once again, no list. There’s Rosie, and Pocano…”

“Wait, did you just say Pinocchio?” queried Poppy.

“No, not Pinocchio.” Mrs. James had been reading that story to the girls. “Pocano is a bloodhound type dog, I believe….” She was interrupted by a knock at the door, then a voice quietly stating, “It’s Earnest, Mrs James.”

“Ah, Mr. Arbuthnot. Go open the door, would you please Lee?”

“Hello, everyone”  he addressed the group. “All busy, I see.”

“Oh, Mr. Arbuthnot, Mrs. James said you know a lot of games. For kids I mean, not cats.” ventured Poppy. “We’re going to make some strings for cat toys but we want you to tell us some others we can play ourselves. Please.” she remembered to add.

“Yes, well let me see. One of my favorites is a card game but it takes a special deck and I haven’t had one since I moved here. But…it seems to me that you might be able to make your own deck.”

“We like to draw…our mother used to help us with drawing.” supplied Pansy. “What’s the game?”

“It’s called Happy Families. It’s somewhat like a Go Fish card game, but it’s a lot trickier. It combines tongue twisters with remembering the rules of speaking the words, and with etiquette, which I see you already practice.” He nodded approvingly at Poppy.

Mrs. James asked, “What would we need to make a deck?”

“You need the regular number of cards, that is 52, or thirteen sets of four cards each. Each set of four cards is a family; a father – called a Mr., a wife – called a Mrs., a son – called a Master, and a daughter – called a Miss. Each father is named by his occupation. You could have Mr. Brick, the Builder, for example. His wife becomes Mrs. Brick, the Builder’s wife, the son Master Brick, the Builder’s son. And what would the daughter be then?”

Pansy blurted out, “Miss Brick, the Builder’s daughter.”

“Well done. You’ve got it in one.” beamed Mr. Arbuthnot. “The object of the game is to collect all four members of each family by asking the other players for the cards you are missing in your hand. But, and this is important, you must follow exactly the correct way of asking for a card, or you forfeit your turn. The fun comes in trying to say the names quickly while remembering the rules of asking and replying. So, what you must draw”, he said, turning to Mrs. James, “is the side of the card that shows the family members, however you wish to do that. Up in the top left corner of the card, so it’s visible as you hold the cards in your hands to play.”

“I suppose some light cardboard would do” considered Mrs. James, “and we could wax paper the cards, like one does autumn leaves, to make them easier to handle.”

“Mrs. James said she has a list of the people here.” Poppy said. “But not the dogs and cats.” Pansy added in a disappointed tone.

“Could we use the POP’s families?” asked Lee.

“Well, I don’t see why not. It would be a good way for you to learn their names. It is a bit old-fashioned, because you must start with the father who is working, not the wife, but it is just a game. What do you say, Mrs. James?”

“If you play with us and show us how it’s done, I’m sure we’d be delighted.”

Lee said, “Let’s make a list of who we know and what they do.”  A list emerged, complete with occupations, with a little help from the grown-ups.

1 – Mr. Arbuthnot, the Curator

2 – Mr. Richard, the Concierge

3 – Mr. Mendel, the Coach

4 – Mr. James, the Radio Repairman

5 – Mr. Pardoe, the Past President

6 – Mr. Knopupik, the Journalist

7 – Mr. Steinhardt, the Philanthropist

8 – Mr. Hazell, the Wholesaler

9 – Mr. Cabot, the Importer

10 – Mr. Karon, the Ferryman

11 – Mr. Benjamin, the Deli Owner

“We’re two short, Mrs. James. Did Mr. James really fix radios?” asked Lee.

“It wasn’t his main job, no. He did have a workshop in the basement though, with an area stairs entrance for his customers. I just thought it would be a lovely tongue-twister. How about including Miss Doyle and making her a man instead? After all, she does tease other people about their names. We could call her Mr. Doyle, the Motivational Speaker.”

“That’s way too hard to say.” came the complaint.

“How about just Cheerleader?” suggested Mr. Arbuthnot. “Good.  12 – Mr. Doyle, the Cheerleader. Now one more name. Quite a collection of people so far. Interesting, just like this building.”

“How about Mr. R.M., the RealtorMan? He sold me this unit and I see him around here sometimes.”

“That is an easy one…let’s do it!” said Lee, and wrote it on the list before anyone could object. 13 – Mr. R.M., the RealtorMan

“OK, so what’s next?” Lee inquired.

“Think of a drawing for each occupation. An example might be a yard sign for Mr. R.M.  Maybe each of you take a few families. Draw the picture four times, once on each card for that family. The add on the names. That’s about it.”

“Tell us those rules before you go, please, so we can practice.”

“It will make more sense when we actually play, and we will play very slowly at first. It goes something like this, after the cards are dealt out. We’ll assume there are two players to begin. Player 1 must already have one member of the family he asks about in his hand. Let’s say he has the Mr. R.M. the RealtorMan card and will try to collect the rest of that family. Player 1 asks Player 2: “Have you  Miss R. M., the RealtorMan’s daughter?””

They were all still listening, so he continued,”If Player 2 has the card he must give it to Player 1 and Player 1 must say,” Thank you.” As long as he is collecting a card, then he can ask again, for example, “And have you Mrs. R.M. the Realtorman’s wife?“ And so on, Player 1 keeps asking until Player 2 doesn’t hold the requested card. If  Player 2 does not have the card, he replies: “Not at home.” In this case, Player 1 picks up a new card. The turn passes to Player 2.”

“Player 2 asks Player 1, “Have you Mrs. Karon, the Ferryman’s Wife?” and so on, until all the cards are picked up. On your turn, if you have collected a complete family of four, you lay those cards down and say “That’s the so and so family.””

“Oh, we don’t have the So-and-So’s on our list, do we?” joked Lee.