Or Ellen, holding the blue flower....
If it had a center. And if I could reach
it and return without a string. What would Jim Sloan make of my story
that apparently was also his own?
God and the Devil, Love and Death.
In Montana, on the same evening, in a cabin
by a river, I'd met lovely Beulah, and my father's hated killer from
35 years ago.
I looked up at her clear face and the brown
eyes flecked with gold. Through the windows, the last light touched
her hair so it shone copper and red, the way Ellen's used to look
as she painted or gardened in the evening sun, before she'd gone away
forever to New York--
you like to take a walk?" I asked her. "Down by the river?"
"Yes," she answered quietly. "I'd like to
take a walk by the river."
I sat a second longer, watching the sheen
of Beulah's cheek framed by glowing hair, then slipped the photograph
into its envelope and set it on the coffee table. I got up and took
a step toward the kitchen.
"Thanks for dinner, Bob," I called to Glad.
"We're going for a walk."
Glad came to the kitchen door, drying his
"Okay, Phil. I'll hold the coffee."
"Thank you, Bob," Beulah said. "Everything
I moved to the open red door, then touched
my chest and stopped.