Excitement over the corpse lasted three days. Mr. Maltravers discovered it on a warm July evening in the ravine below our house; it lay, he reported, curled at the base of a basswood tree just off the woodland trail. The first surprise was the revelation that Mr. Maltravers would stroll there at eight o'clock in the evening. But then, he is a bachelor, so you never know. The ravine has different clientele at each time of the day and, they say, night. My wife Millie is always right. "We must give Mr. Maltravers the benefit of the doubt," she said, implying that she wasn't. Given subsequent events, I am not likely to remind her that she said this though, like much of the Bible, she covered herself both ways. What mattered to her and other women was talking about it. I, like my male friends, shook my head taciturnly and went to inspect. Not for two days though. Yellow police ribbon cordoned off the ravine entrance at the top of the staircase; high gray blinds blocked the view beyond its bottom. Only when the last police van had pulled away did my nearby neighbor Bill Scott and I descend the fifty-seven steps casually and stand a comfortable distance away from the site. The stream, remnant of a mighty prehistoric river, dribbled at the ravine bottom. A canopy of false bamboo sprayed over the base of the basswood tree like the shade of a crèche. Bill sucked noisily on his pipe. "An untidy way to go," he said. He tamped fresh tobacco down, re-lit the pipe and puffed little cumuli up at the sky. I stepped upwind. "They'll break this one before the week is out," he said. The police had done a good job of strewing twigs and leaves as though no horror had ever visited. It didn't seem right to rummage in the debris, though there was the temptation. "I can't imagine what business you had going to such an awful place," Millie said later. "What did it look like?" She quickly lost interest in my account, realizing that it lacked for minutiae, especially since she was fresh from an hour and a half on the phone with Mrs. Simons, reviewing late-breaking rumors.

The café owner was intrigued by Nick because in 1955 few foreigners drove alone through Sicily's mountainous interior. The man drew the coffee and chatted in the familiar dialect of Nick's grandmother. Her village was nearby, sitting atop Mount Iato like a war helmet. Nick had gone there the day before and found civilizations lying on the mountain like geological strata. A temple to the Greek Goddess of Love consorted in promiscuity with a ménage of petrified shades and the past loitered even in the approach sign to the town: Italian Iato, Arab Jato and Greek Iatas. The new road bypassed the café and Nick was the only customer. He drew unhurried sips, appreciative of the resuscitative caffeine jolt, and returned to the road. The man had said yes, it would eventually take him to Iato. The back way was more scenic.

The book had a tape-bound spine and a cover of pale blue, with pink and lavender flowerlets interlaced from corner to corner. Stuart found it precisely where he expected, next to the rotary phone on his mother's kitchen counter, although he hadn't stood in that kitchen for - well, a number of years. In truth, were it not for the call he'd received just two weeks earlier from another phone-touch-tone, certainly, a phone he envisioned perched on an emergency room desk only a few blocks away from this kitchen - and all the calls that followed until yesterday's funeral, he might have avoided this place, and this book, some years more.

The Voice first spoke to Father Daniel Serris at the beginning of Lent - on Ash Wednesday - as he was burning the palm branches in the rectory fireplace in preparation for the morning Mass. The Voice came to him in a faint whisper, like a song stirring his soul. Nevertheless, he continued to place the glowing ashes into a ceramic bowl, crushing them into a fine powder while he added drops of olive oil to create the desired consistency. The Voice whispered again.

"Yes," Father Serris answered.

Father, The Voice repeated.

"I'm here," the priest said, glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen where Father Perez, the young curate, was busily fixing breakfast.

Father!

"For the love a Pete, I'm mixing the ashes," Father Serris yelled.

"What, Father?" the curate said, poking his head around the corner. "What is it?"

"You called me?" the priest asked. "No," the curate answered. Father Serris was getting on in years and his hearing was not the best. The curate went back to his duties, shaking his head. A month in the rectory with the old priest had nearly driven him mad.

Father Serris added another drop of oil to the ashes. Consistency, after all, was most important: just a touch of stickiness, so the ashes would adhere to the foreheads of the penitent. It would not do to begin a holy season with dry ashes and the absence of the sign of the cross.

A few minutes later, the good Father completed the task and stood on trembling legs to begin his morning prayers. He sank slowly into a recliner and closed his eyes, the scent of waffles cascading over his senses, piquing his interest in the breakfast the young priest was now setting upon the table.

Father Serris recited a Psalm, opened his eyes, then struggled to pull himself up against the arms of the chair.

Father! There was The Voice again.

"Yes?"

Father!

The priest relaxed and looked about the room. Was he hearing things? Or was this the voice of God? But how does God speak to people? Surely God does not speak in audible tones. What nonsense.

He would be patient, wait for clarity. He relaxed and closed his eyes again.

The girl stands two feet in front of him‹less than an arm's length. Her skin is smooth, pale. Her hair is short, softly brown, shining in the last of the summer evening light. He waits just behind her, in line for the movies. He has come alone. She is here with friends.

His thoughts pass like a caress over the skin of her neck where tiny hairs dance in a circle over the gentle rise of a vertebra, a vortex, a whirlpool, and he is falling. Of its own volition his hand moves toward her.

The theater door hasn't opened yet, but somehow she saves him, taking a step forward, laughing with her friends, out of reach.

He has been holding his breath‹not a good sign. He relegates his hand to a back pocket where it will be safe. The leather of his wallet is worn smooth‹it isnąt skin but it will have to do. He must ignore her: her skin, the whirlpool of hairs, the smooth perfection.

The girl and her friends look off across the street.

Shouldn't inertia help hold him in place? Instead it seems to pull him toward that skin. He exhales slowly. Her eyelashes are palely back-lit, her skin light and supple. She laughs again, makes an expansive gesture toward the end of the long line, and turns back to her friends. The tall one calls her Melody.

It would only be a touch.

Dad met Mom at Torgau in 1945. Few people recognize the date or location now, but it was the site of one of the most famous meetings in history. In April 1945, U.S. and Soviet troops, victorious at last in routing the German juggernaut, came upon each other outside the village of Torgau on the Elbe, a river running red that afternoon with the blood of Germans killed earlier when the bridge was bombed. The body of a small girl, her plaid skirt billowing in the breeze, blocked the crossing and the first soldiers stepped over the body thoughtlessly, their eyes fixed on their allies on the opposite shore. The two armies spent a week together, making a spontaneous oath at one point to fight no more wars, and front pages of newspapers across the world carried pictures of the beleaguered troops toasting each other with German beer. In the midst of this, Irina Roshchenko met Bill Jephry. It was love at first sight according to Dad who had heard for months there were female soldiers in the Soviet Army but hadn't thought to meet one.

From the footpath next to the tinkling creek, Jim gazed upon the big white pine and smiled. He was planning to climb it, though he told no one, for they would say geezers had no business up in trees. He closed one eye and traced possible routes to the top with his finger. To gain a different perspective, he needed to cross the creek. His foot slipped off the rock, and he went down hard. Slopping to the far side, he flopped on the cushion of orange needles. On his hairless shin a lump oozed red. His wife, Alice, used to accuse him of liking pain, but that wasn't it exactly. When you lived a physical life, a certain amount of pain came with the territory. When he looked up, there was the route to the top, as obvious as if surveyors had tied pink plastic strips to the boughs. On the next nice day he would climb. That evening during the ten o'clock news, he allowed himself a bowl of butter pecan. They talked about the war on terrorism, how it might take a while. He had been on an LST in the Pacific during World War II, and that had taken a great while. The bottle blonde they'd hired to replace the old weatherman came on. She predicted a high of forty-six, light winds, and sunny. Perfect, if she was right. He didn't trust her yet.

Again, I dreamt I was on leave in Saigon, fresh from the jungle, prowling through streets lined with roving packs of hungry soldiers, stump limbed civilians, the usual jam up of rickshaws and bicycles, an assortment of hookers and junkies slouching around. The war was over and people had adapted to their limbless habits and conditions. This seemed a little bit odd since I was fresh out of a war zone. I'm telling myself to relax, that I have a long stretch of leave out in front of me. I can't remember when I'm expected back at the base, but since I don't know how long I have determined to enjoy myself. Then, like always, I come upon the Buddhist. His eyes arekind and certain. He's dressed in orange robes, but this time he has a purple tie around his waist and his hair is cut short with an open patch in the middle. I think, he's "a Benedictine Buddhist," and I feel relieved because Catholics believe suicide is a sin. But again he dowses himself in gasoline. I'm calling out ‹ "YOU CAN'T DO THAT!" but he doesn't answer. His eyes are smooth as brown agates. He bows, waiting for me to return his salutation. I know that's his signal to light the match, yet not to bow would be a terrible insult. Finally, I bow and he bursts into flames.

"Enough," I thought upon waking, "I'm going."

I flipped a coin - heads go east, tails go west. It was heads. I was out of the house an hour before sun up.

Based on what finally came out, there shouldn't have been even an unofficial investigation of Gladis Hilts, and night shift work would have gone on as usual in the Los Angeles passenger coach cleaning yard. For one thing, I really liked her, not as a buxom and vivacious woman, but as a person; for another I always felt Rudolph 'Rood' Brackett was an obnoxious ass. When it was finished, the outcome might have been a whole lot worse for her, but some people still got messed up bad. Especially the girls - Ardie and Mishele. I rather liked them, too, but mostly because they were damned good looking and, to my nineteen-year-old sensibility, 'sexy'.

He awakens that evening and runs his fingers down his jaw, the haze of a caustic sleep lifting from his mind. He touches his cheek, the bridge of his nose, and is instantly set upon by a shocking white pain. A pain that rekindles the memory of clanking bedpans and cloying nurses who spoke the nauseating language of the collective pronoun.

A thick bandage of sterile gauze is taped to the middle of his face to ward off infection. But when he touches it, it feels troublesome to his heart, as if it's been placed there not to protect him but to conceal some dark mystery, or hide some awful truth.

It blots out everything.

Even his personality.

He lifts the hand mirror from the nightstand, turning it upon himself, straining to see what secrets this new face might give up. What tales it might tell. But when the reflection comes back at him with its blackened eyes and curious raccoon-like countenance, a short breath escapes his lungs.