She watched Peter Ashley, her newest tenor, step down from the risers. His nervous gaze shifted from her to the congregation below and then back to the steps leading to the choir loft. When he reached her, he bent down and whispered into her ear, “Iggy’s coming.”

Faith cringed in anticipation of yet another confrontation with Iggy, the parish council president, her implicit boss and her personal tormentor. Because her choir had sung so well, her embarrassing gaffe during Mass had been increased beyond measure. They’d spent so much time in the search of perfection, and she had ruined it. It was the worst thing that could possibly happen today.

She squeezed her eyes shut. In her mind, she heard Father Tom say during announcements, “Father Patrick Sean Goodman arrives Monday.” The unexpected news had jolted her. She hadn’t seen Sean since his graduation from high school eleven years ago. The intensity of her feelings for him had surprised her and caused her hand to slip onto the organ keys. A cacophony of notes erupted from the organ. She heard the rustle of the congregation and imagined their stares focused on the back of her head. The anonymity she craved in doing her job well had faded, along with the blasphemous noise.

Faith opened her eyes and watched Peter leave. She clicked off the organ and the collapsing bellows moaned softly. She had no explanation she cared to share with Iggy about the disruptive notes. The fault lay with her and her unfulfilled, youthful yearnings.

The rest of her choir vacated the loft, descending quickly, as if someone had discretely ordered, “Abandon ship.” Faith turned off the lamp and stuffed sheet music into her satchel. Seated on the edge of the organ bench, she removed her tap shoes and slipped on a pair of thick-soled black pumps. As the last choir member clacked her way down the stairs, Faith heard the labored breathing of Ignatius Yablonski rapidly approaching.

His silver hair bobbed into view. The dark-framed glasses with thick lenses hid his accusatory dull blue-gray eyes. Blotchy redness dotted his droopy face and his mouth gaped like a fish gulping for breath on dry land. He stepped onto the landing and her focus dropped to the small feet of such a large, rotund man. For him to climb to the loft, his anger must be in full measure. She stood to greet him respectfully, raising her gaze to meet his.

Propriety ruled. Iggy straightened his tie and cleared his throat. He gathered a deep breath for his lecture. “Of all the audacity, why was the communion song sung in Spanish?”

R.B., A Matter of Faith – Novel Submission

Reader: I feel an immediate empathy for the narrator of this story, and I hope things get better for her soon, but somehow I doubt it, and wish her strength.

DAVID BECKETT, the author of the novel The Cana Mystery a mystery adventure, studied English, German, and philosophy at the University of Texas in Austin and at the Julius-Maximilians-Universität in Würzburg before attaining his doctorate in jurisprudence. He received the Willie Morris Award for Editorial Excellence in 1997. A committed husband and proud father, David resides in Terrell Hills, Texas, with his beautiful wife, their adorable son, three rambunctious guard dogs, and one brave cat.

KAREN BRITTEN, the author of “Eyes That Pour Forth,” is the first-place winner of the 2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction—Short Story category. She is a fiction candidate at the University of Florida’s MFA program in creative writing. She has a degree in philosophy and religious studies from Auburn University and taught high school theology in Florida for five years. She is a native Californian, but currently lives in the very humid town of Gainesville, Florida.

MOLLIE FICEK, who earned second place in the 2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction—Short Story category for her story “The Reasons Why,” hails from the Midwest, the land of hotdish and high winds. She lives in Boise, Idaho, after recently completing her MFA at Boise State University. She has published in the New Ohio Review and the Hawai’i Review. She is currently at work on her first novel.

CHRISTIAN MICHNER is the author of the forthcoming young adult novel Book of Battles. His previous books include the short story collection Numerology and a critical study of the Irish-American novelist William Kennedy. His short stories have been published widely in literary journals, including the Kenyon Review, Image, Crazyhorse, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and Bellingham Review, and he also publishes and presents essays and reviews on contemporary Irish literature. He lives in Winona, Minnesota, where he serves as professor of literature and creative writing and director of the honors program at Saint Mary’s University.

RON O’GORMAN, a cardiac surgeon, is the author of the forthcoming novel Fatal Rhythm, a medical suspense/mystery. He grew up in Texas, where he developed a devotion to Our Lady of Guadalupe. He obtained a Ph.D in biochemistry from Rice University and studied cardiovascular surgery with Dr. Michael E. DeBakey. Winner of writing awards from Gerritsen and Palmer’s SEAK Medical Fiction Conference, Pirate Alley’s Faulkner Competition, and the American College of Surgeons, he is honored that his novel has been selected to be one of the first Catholic fiction works to be published by Tuscany Press. He and his wife, Susan, have six children and two grandchildren, so far.

IHEANYI PITA OKUTE IWUOFOR is the author of Wild Spirits, winner of the 2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction—Novel category. He attended Holy Ghost College Owerri, and Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, all in Nigeria. Since 1982, he has been a reporter, book critic, magazine editor, copywriter, newspaper columnist and scriptwriter in his native country. His poems and short stories have appeared in various journals, e-zines and anthologies of Nigerian creative writingincluding Poe-War, Sentinel Poetry, Vulgata magazine, Cahoots, Storyhouse, Poetry Soup, Nigeria magazine, ANA Review, Society magazine . . . Poets from the Fringe, Und Ein Das Straat Ein Peste, and Camouflage. He lives in his home town, Alaenyi Ogwa, Owerri, with his family.

KAYE PARK HINCKLEY, the author of the novel A Hunger in the Heart, is the third-place winner for “Moon Dance” and honorable mention for “Intensive Care,” in the 2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction—Short Story category. She has a bachelor’s degree in fine arts from Spring Hill College, Mobile, Alabama. A former advertising agency owner, her fiction has appeared in several literary journals, most recently Dappled Things. She is inspired by her Catholic faith, her family, and a deep connection to the Bible Belt South, where the conversation centers on God and sinners; family and football; and maybe a favorite, old hound dog. She lives with her husband in Dothan, Alabama. They have five grown children and nine grandchildren, so far. Ms. Hinckley’s author page can be found at www.kayeparkhinckley.com. Please visit her blog, A World on the Edge, at www.worldontheedge.com, and her weekly blog at CatholicMom.com

MICHAEL PIAFSKY, who received fifth place for “Water” in the 2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction—Short Story category, is an associate professor and director of the writing program at Spring Hill College, in Mobile, Alabama. He received his master’s degree from the writing seminars at Johns Hopkins University and his doctorate from the University of Missouri. His recent fiction and nonfiction has appeared in, among other publications, the Missouri Review, jabberwocky review, Ocho, Meridian, and Bar Stories. Earlier this year he was a finalist in the Glimmer Train Short Story Award for New Writers. His debut novel, All the Happiness You Deserve will be released in February 2014. More information can be found at his Web site, www.michaelpiafsky.com.

ARTHUR POWERS is the author of The Book of Jotham the 2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction—Novella category. Arthur is a convert to Catholicism. After spending much time in Brazil in the Peace Corps, working with those for whom the Catholic faith is woven into life, and after meeting a woman who eventually became his wife, he came to question his very rational agnosticism. Powers was baptized into the Roman Catholic faith in 1976 as a thoughtful, aware adult of 29 years.

L. C. RICARDO, an honorable mention winner for “The Debt” in the 2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction—Short Story category, has a master’s degree in Arthurian literature and an insatiable wanderlust. She is a mom and aspiring writer living in Florida, and is loyal to the Holy Father and the Magisterium. Her favorite writers, from whom she draws armfuls of inspiration, are G. K. Chesterton, Emily Dickinson, C. S. Lewis, David Jones, J. R. R. Tolkien, and Flannery O’Connor. She blogs regularly about fairy tales and storytelling on Spinning Straw into Gold (http://spinstrawintogold.blogspot.com) and hopes some day to own a spinning wheel and to visit Norway.

BERNARD SCOTT, who earned fourth place for “True or False,” in the 2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction—Short Story category, was a Protestant missionary to the artistic community of Greenwich Village prior to his conversion to the Catholic faith. His writing includes published poetry (First Things, Logos Review, The Wanderer); feature writing (the Village Voice; Exodus Quarterly); an honorary mention in Macmillan’s annual Best Short Stories; and most recently a Catholic adventure/mystery novel entitled Secret of Lost Mountain. He is also a linguist who served in the Air Force as a Russian, French, and Vietnamese translator. He is the architect of OpenLogos, an Internet-based, computerized translation system. Other writing and publications of his are available on the Web site www.logosinstitute.org. He lives with his wife on the west coast of central Florida.

S. L. SCOTT, who received an honorable mention for “The Morning Star” in the 2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction—Short Story category, is a native of St. Louis, Missouri. She is currently a graduate assistant at Southeast Missouri State University and is pursuing her master’s degree in professional writing and publishing. She has been published in Bewildering Stories and Journey magazines and was a coeditor of Big Muddy literary magazine.

CAROLINE VALENCIA-DALISAY, the author of “Excess Baggage,” which earned an honorable mention in the 2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction—Short Story category, is from the Philippines and moved to the United States as a teenager. She is deeply interested in the cultural wealth of immigrants and in the challenges immigrants face. She is a cradle Catholic, and her writing is generously flavored with the Catholic faith. Her work has appeared in a number of small journals and an anthology of her poetry is available at http://ofliliesandsparrows.blogspot.com. She lives in northern California with her husband and children.

MATHEW ZIMMERER received an honorable mention for “Near Miss” in the 2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction—Short Story category. He grew up in a trailer house behind his parents’ bar, restaurant, and dinner theater on the edge of a wheat field near Billings, Montana. He graduated with a B.S. in theater from Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, where he and his future wife met as singing waiters. He acts professionally on occasion, has a master’s degree in education, and teaches high school English in Chandler, Arizona, where he lives with his wife and four sons.

He had arrived three months before and at first he had pretended that their teasing didn’t bother him. He even added to the jokes about his nose (“Sometimes the light keeps me awake all night!”) but that didn’t help. They still didn’t let him join in the reindeer games. Rudolph told himself they were stupid games anyway. Only Vixen had seemed like she even wanted to be friendly. She had sort of smiled at him once, as if she felt bad about the others teasing him; she even talked to him one day until she got teased herself for hanging around with the guy with the weird nose.

Subsequently, Rudolph thought of starting a fight with Blitzen, the biggest jerk of them all. The older deer was heavier and stronger but Rudolph was faster and might get in some good pokes with his shorter horns. If he could make Blitzen cry uncle, then Donner and Dancer and Prancer and the others would fall into line. They’d have to at least respect him as the new champion of the pasture and there wouldn’t be any more teasing, not if he could show them who was boss. The biggest problem with this plan was that Rudolph knew with a dead certainty that Blitzen was only a bit slower than himself, while much stronger. He would lose any fight he started and provide them with another theme for their teasing. And even if he did beat Blitzen and the others invited him into the reindeer games, they still wouldn’t be his friends. They’d just joke about his nose behind his back. So he did nothing but brood. Sometimes the anger seemed to come up from his stomach like bile and he imagined insults or kicking Donner or anything that would make the others feel what he felt.

And what about Santa Claus? It seemed wrong even to think about insulting St. Nick but Rudolph couldn’t help it. If the jolly old fat man hadn’t himself quite teased Rudolph, neither had he stopped the others. In fact he had encouraged them, whether he meant to or not. So why didn’t Santa do something about it now? The man who knew which children were naughty and nice had to know about his own sleigh team.

Several times each day Rudolph wondered why he even had to be in this herd of “elite” deer. It sure wasn’t his idea. His father had come to him one day blubbering about this great opportunity which would bring honor to the family. Rudolph had been dumb enough to believe it but now he was pretty sure his father just wanted to get him away from their own herd because he was embarrassed by the nose that drew strange looks from uncles and cousins and all, though no one exactly said anything about it. Only the youngest deer pointed and giggled. The others mostly looked away, pretending not to notice. It was a colossal embarrassment and Rudolph’s sense of guilt made it worse. Had he obeyed his mother, he’d still have a regular nose like everyone else.

“Stay with the herd!” Mother had said with increasing exasperation every time Rudolph started, a year before, to wander off on his own to see what was among that stand of pines over there, or to go to the top of a hill to see what lay in the distance. He didn’t want to disobey but curiosity would come on him like a hunger and he just had to know. Or, it was as if some other authority, even more important than his mother, was beckoning him. He’d be in the middle of the herd, scratching through the winter snow to find the grass beneath, or gorging on the tall sweet summer grass, when a strange uneasiness started in his chest somehow and then worked its way to his head and he’d look up and around and see some woods or notice how the river disappeared around a hill and just had to see what was there. Usually he wouldn’t get far. For all her concentration on finding grass Mother seemed always to have an eye on him, as if he were still a fawn rather than a nearly full-grown buck.  He began to plan.

On the summer afternoon it happened, the herd was grazing near a stretch of forest that ran beside a stream. Rudolph slowly worked his way to the edge of the group which had, in turn, slowly spread down to the bank of the stream. Chatting with Edelweiss and Pine and other friends when not chewing, he passed from one group to another until he was beside the swift-running water. He watched until his mother was turned the other way, her nose pushing aside the few inches of snow that had fallen the night before to reach the grass. Then he bounded over the stream and into the woods, not stopping until trees hid him. He turned to explore.

The place seemed strange but he couldn’t say why. It was like any other forest where the herd had bedded down for the night. Yet it was different, as if it existed in a different time or held other possibilities than shelter or, when the snow was too deep on the grass, food in the form of tree bark or straggly bushes. He sensed there was something here, something rare and wonderful, and set out to find it.

In some places the thick trees provided a canopy that threw all into deep shadow. Where they were thinner the sun threw everything into bright relief. He kept heading east despite his sense that time was passing quickly and despite the clouds that suddenly rolled in from the west darkening the world. He didn’t know why, but it seemed he just had to keep going this way. Then he came upon a fallen tree that might have blown down in a late spring storm, or had died of very old age. Yet it couldn’t have happened very long ago for its needles were still soft and green. Above it soared another tree, the only one for fifty yards in any direction. Rudolph felt a pang of sorrow and sympathy and imagined these two trees standing alone for years and now one was fallen and the other kept a mourning watch. Of course he knew trees were not reindeer and didn’t have reindeer feelings. Nonetheless he glanced up softly as if to say, “I’m sorry for your trouble.”

J.O., ”Rudolph’s Gift” – Short Story Submission

Reader: It’s always difficult to create a new take on an old classic. It will be interesting to see how Rudolph handles this most famous case of bullying.

We each deceived the other, as young love does, not intentionally, rather through the limitations of youth. He was twenty five, to my eighteen. Who was to know that his experience of Ireland was limited to two trips to the Emerald Isle, an interest in Irish history, and an awful lot of paddywhackery. I on the other hand had first-hand knowledge of the saints and scholars of this green and troubled land. I had picked up more than a few Irish expressions, having been sent “to the West” with a maiden Aunt and a sister each summer holiday until outgrowing the need to be chaperoned.

There wasn’t much I disliked about Ireland but what I did dislike was serious: the way the men took the best seats; the way they snapped at the womenfolk expecting them to jump to attention; the way they congregated noisily at the back of Church, just sufficiently inside the door to be able to hear Mass; the way they assumed it was the women’s role to dance attendance on them; the way they drank and drank and drank.

And here I was, being chatted up by a man taller than me, with rosy cheeks, intense blue eyes, wearing a green Aran knit sweater, and putting his hand on mine. “Did you get yours over there?” he asked. His voice so deep, and gentle, held me in awe. Did such a thing exist..? A man with Irish roots who spoke so softly, who quietly supped his ale, nothing to prove but himself. It was a yes from me! I liked the slight smell on his jumper; I liked how I could feel the Aran wool of his as he felt mine; I liked the look of his fresh mouth with its small shiny teeth in perfect coordination; I liked the touch of his large open hands which he used in order to explain or emphasise; I liked the life, the humour, the love in his deep blue eyes. From that day I was spoken for.

M.B., “The Wedding” – Short Story Submission

Reader: There is something so compelling about young love and love at first sight; the excitement, the newness, the promise of things to come.

After some time of walking among the animals, Man began to look intently into their faces and it was then that he knew what to call them.  He began to name them, but upon receiving a name, the animals would scurry away and henceforth avoid him.

The naming had changed Man as well. He began to see them as different from himself. Soon, Man was alone. In his solitude he wondered about what made him different from the creatures he had seen, from the faces from which he drew their names. He longed to know his own face, and perhaps more of his kind, whatever they may look like.

Somberly, he sauntered through the fields and forests, through the meadows and marshes. He cupped his hands and pleaded for an animal that would speak with him. Finally, a creature peeked from his hole.

“You want me to describe what you look like? I can say how you sound, how you smell, and if you pick me up, how you taste and feel. But I don’t know how you look.”

The man asked, “Then what should I do?”

“Do you feel you need this, to know your appearance?”

“Yes,” the man answered. “I need to see my face so that I can give myself a good name.”

The creature answered, “If it is a need, I’m sure you will find it. I suggest looking for it among your other needs.”

The man thanked him and was about to leave when the creature asked, “What do you see in my face?”

“Mole,” the man answered, and the mole disappeared into his home.

The man then became thirsty and set out for water. He trailed a rabbit, being sure to keep a safe distance so as not to scare her, and he was led to a spring. The man knelt and drank from his hand. Satisfied, he continued kneeling and looked at the surface of the spring. Once the water had stilled, the man saw the image of an animal he was unfamiliar with. The sky’s blue and clouds of white also bounced gently on the spring’s surface, and he came to understand the reflection: the face was his own. He was enthralled by his own image, but he could not think of his own name.

R.J., “His Own Image” – Short Story Submission

Reader: As an animal lover, I’ve always wanted to know what they think about, how they feel, what they would say to us if they could speak. How ironic that the man in this story asks a mole to tell him what he looks like.

That was the question Jake Bloom asked himself.  It’s true he had not been kidnapped.  He had come of his own free will.  I must be crazy, I must be crazy, he muttered.  Why had he allowed himself to be talked into this retreat?  He was not a retreat kind of a guy.  In a moment of weakness he had assented to his golf buddy Dan Johnston’s sales job. And Dan had called last night saying he couldn’t make the weekend because he was flat on his back with the flu.

Bloom drove up the hill to Fatima Retreat House off East 56^th St on the northeast side of Indy. Only two cars were parked in the lot.

Suppose they gave a retreat and no one came.

He could still turn around and drive home, put his cell on “All Sounds Off” and take the landline off the hook.  Tell Joy he’d changed his mind.  Don’t answer the door either in case one of the St. Lawrence guys came looking for him.  He pulled his car into a spot and sat, the engine still running.  The fall morning pressed down upon him, and the red and yellow leaves eyed him carefully along with their curious still green brethren.  Fatima, a Catholic facility open to all faiths, sat placidly midst the hills thick with Indiana hardwoods and pines.  The main building is a modest brick ranch structure with a cozy, attached chapel with small white arches.  It is a beautiful and restful place where one can get away and experience God. It’s a place of refuge for those who feel – like Wordsworth – that “…the world is too much with us.”

Right now Bloom felt Fatima was too much with him.  He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself.  He needed coffee.  He knew his spiritual life had been ebbing.  Yes, he admitted, the demands of government work and family had been a White River of industrial waste and raw sewage polluting the clean-water wells, ponds and marshes of his spiritual life.  Like the Samaritan woman at the well, he needed the “living water” from Jesus.

He admitted all this but still wanted to leave.

Traded from the Lutherans, unfamiliar with the Catholic concept of “retreat,” Jake felt uneasy opening his heart to God and other strangers.  Despite being a long-term member of St. Lawrence, he knew only a couple of the other men on retreat.  Why had he let Dan talk him into this?

Getting up that fall morning and driving to Fatima Bloom wondered if he were up for this.  Reasons not to go assailed him.  Yard work beckoned (he knew that was a weak excuse – he hated yard work); Notre Dame was playing; he had been in New Jersey all week and had seen little of his wife Joy. He needed spiritual refreshment; he was afraid of spiritual refreshment. Touchy-feely sharing frightened him. He needed coffee and food.  Did he really want to miss the Notre Dame game? He probably would miss the Colts’ game on Sunday afternoon too.

He decided to try it for the morning.  If he weren’t comfortable by lunch, he would leave.

Discovering Starbucks coffee and donuts near the registration table strengthened Bloom’s faith in Divine Providence.  Truly God was an awesome God.  Maybe he was meant to be here.  Bloom saw a young man with long hair wearing a Jesus T-shirt with an image of Jesus with outstretched arms standing within rays of light with the words “Jesus, I trust in you” below the picture.  (Bloom later learned this was associated with the Chaplet of Divine Mercy.) Most Catholics weren’t partial to Jesus shirts; they were more popular with evangelicals and Bible church people.  Jesus was the divine founder and leader of Roman Catholics but still they felt uncomfortable with the shirts.

J.T., St. Lawrence – Novel Submission

Reader: I think we can all relate to the feeling of hesitation related to stepping outside our comfort zones. We are often well rewarded for taking that chance.

While other motorists struggled to shed the lethargy induced by a four-day weekend, the occupant of one ruby red VW bug found herself drawn to the holiday’s significance. Thanksgiving lingered in Jonquil Bloom’s thoughts that year because it loosely pertained to her main preoccupation which was her doctoral thesis: the psychodynamics of gift giving.

Palming the steering wheel, she turned onto Ocean Boulevard and used her other hand to scrunch her auburn curls still damp from a morning shower. She had inherited her father’s Irish coloring and her mother’s Swedish brow. Nearly thirty-four years old, Jonquil (pronounced jonk-wil) had a pert expression with large green eyes, dimples, and a crisp smile. She was a slender five feet seven inches tall, freckled from head to toe—her skin’s chief attribute was that it didn’t sunburn.

The morning sun dazzled her; already the coastal fog had burned away. She rolled down her car window and inhaled the ocean air, welcoming the bracing scent that made many of her Venice neighbors head for the beach rather than to work. But over the past decade, Jonquil had learned to love hard, intelligent work, since it often proved to be effective in keeping her mind off the absence of romance in her life. Though Freud’s succinct term for the transformation of one passion into another was sublimation, nothing about Jonquil, particularly her missing love life, could be explained so simply. She had learned that those she loved would forsake her or leave and never return, thus making trust a pivotal issue in future intimate relationships, but work was always there to both occupy and distract her, and work would see her through another lonely set of holidays. And Billy.

Stuck in heavy traffic, her mind hummed with ideas. Wasn’t it curious that Thanksgiving preceded the gift-giving season of Christmas? The very word placed thanks before giving. Why? Why did it fall on a Thursday? It couldn’t be for alliteration’s sake. And why, long after the custom faded away, had Lincoln, engrossed in Civil War, brought it back by executive order for annual celebration? This fact she’d gleaned from a PBS special late Thanksgiving night. After their guests had gone home and her son Billy to bed, Jonquil had curled up in front of the television, uncomfortable with the advancing shadows that always seemed to fall more heavily on holidays. She frowned, and shook her head to dismiss her negative train of thought. Holiday hobgoblins she chided herself. Abruptly, she shifted gears and continued her short commute to work.

S.C., The Gift Counselor – Novel Submission

Reader: I look forward to reading more about the “hard, intelligent work” of the narrator.

My father, Hubert Michael, was a tall man, kind and strong. He taught at the University, and he would often be writing in his notebooks, or reading his volumes of Plato, or St. Thomas, while smoking his pipe. He loved both my mother and me very much, and I remember him fondly, and think of him every day. I remember how he looked and the smell of tobacco as he walked me to the train station on that fateful morning. We had kissed mother good-by, and she seemed happy but perhaps a little pensive, as she fixed the collar on my tweed jacket. She looked at me with her large brown eyes and smiled, “Go with God, and give my love to your grandfather. And whatever happens, know that he loves you.” It was a strange way to send off a child to meet his grandfather for the first time, but I was excited and ready for the adventure of traveling with my father, so I promised her, and set off down the lane, my small hand held tightly by my father’s. I glanced back over my shoulder toward our house, and saw my mother standing on the porch, her hands hanging down by her sides, smiling at us; but I imagined that I saw tears shining in her eyes.

A.E., The Strange and Perilous Journey of Thaddeus Michael: A Faerie Tale – Novel Submission

Reader: A strong beginning to what promises to indeed be a thoughtful journey.

Paula thought a moment before she answered her daughter’s question. Why indeed? she thought.

“Well,” she began, “I guess some of them don’t want the sun on their heads.”

“But how can they swim with hats on?” Davi continued.

“Most of them don’t actually swim, you see. They just sort of bounce up and down.”

“Can I swim?” Davi asked.

“Of course, dear, but you must be careful not to splash them,” Paula said, knowing how her daughter’s newly acquired water skill caused waves the size of a tsunami.

“Don’t they know how to swim?” she whispered as they approached the pool.

Paula was pleased that Davi was thoughtful enough to consider the feelings of the “pool bouncers” but wished the questions would cease. No such luck.

“If they don’t want to get wet, why are they in the pool?” she continued.

“Well, they are old, you see, and feel that it’s good for them to be in the pool, but not to exert themselves too much,” Paula whispered back as she inserted the key that opened the gate to the pool area of the condominium complex.

“Grandma is old and she swims,” the child persisted.

“Yes, Grandma does swim, but she’s always been pretty athletic,” Paula said, remembering her mother playing tennis and golf late into her sixties and early

seventies. Most of her time now she spent caring for her Alzheimer-stricken husband. One of the reasons for this Florida trip was to try to persuade her mother and father to come and live with them in Maine. Paula had not broached the subject yet, as they had just arrived in Placid Beach last night. David, her husband, didn’t come along because he was busy at the firm.

“I’m going in,” Davi stated and she ran to the edge of the pool.

“No, no,” Paula shouted. “You have to shower first.”

The child turned and, with a quizzical look, stated, “I took a shower this morning.”

“I know, dear, but those are the rules here.”

“But I’m not dirty,” she protested.

“I understand, but you just have to rinse off a little. It will only take a minute.”

Reluctantly, Davi began to run toward the bathhouse.

“No running, little girl,” scolded a bathrobe-clad, stern-looking man who shook his cane at Davi.

She stopped short, shocked that someone strange would reprimand her. As he walked away with a shuffling motion of his slippered feet, Davi looked at her mother in bewilderment, her usually bright blue eyes brimming.

“Just another rule, honey. Don’t be upset. They are not used to little children here,” she explained quietly, as they entered the bathhouse. Davi wiped at her eyes but said nothing. She rinsed off quickly and then posed in front of the mirror, one hand on her hip, turning this way and that to admire from all sides, her brand-new red, two-piece bathing suit.

Paula took a quick look at her own reflection and mentally noted that she didn’t look too bad for a forty-four year old. A first time mother at thirty-seven had not taken its toll yet. Even if it did, it would have been worth every pound or wrinkle after all the years of waiting for this unique child. Her tall, five-foot-eight frame successfully managed to handle the extra fifteen pounds she had gained, and never lost again, when she was pregnant with Davi. Except for the thickened waistline, the rest of her figure remained curvy and muscular. Without make-up, as she was now, early in the morning, she could see the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth, laugh lines, David called them, and the pale freckles across her nose and upper cheeks, the natural result of fair skin and reddish hair, she supposed. Her short, curly hair was flecked with lots of gray which she conscientiously covered with auburn dye once a month. When she smiled, her full lips revealed slightly crooked and off-white teeth. Fortunately, Davi seemed to inherit her husband’s fine, straight, snow white teeth as well as his brilliant blue eyes which went so well with her dark red hair. All in all, Davi seemed a good combination of both sides of the family.

When they emerged from the bathhouse, Davi cautiously entered the clear, sparkling blue, water, eying the bathers as if they were alligators ready to pounce on her. She began to swim and as her kicking splashes got near the “hat” women they quickly made a path for her. Paula decided to go in and introduce herself to the resident bathers.

“Hi,” she greeted them. “I’m Paula Lenox, Susanne and Paul Russell’s daughter, and that little water rat over there is my daughter, Davina. I hope you don’t mind her enthusiasm. Swimming is her newest accomplishment and she doesn’t get to do it much in Maine.”

H.L., God’s Waiting Room – Novel Submission

Reader: Ah, the endless questions of the young!