Love from the Other Side

by Claire Plaisted

  I wandered into the crowd that was being pushed aside by a swarm of detectives and forensic workers. Yellow police tape sectioned off the bloody crime scene. I lingered in the midst of the crowd waiting for someone to acknowledge my presence. I was the invisible kid no one talked too. The elephant in the room. The forgotten box of old records collecting dust in the attic.

  A few people started to leave, while others continued to pray. I looked around for my father, Grace, or both; I found neither of them. The group of churchgoers chanted loudly in the streets, “Justice! We want justice!”

  Though my mother had become an odd duck, she was still loved, and the town wanted justice for her.

  “Has anyone heard from Ronald?” a woman from town said.

  Joseph grimaced at the mention of my father’s name.

  “What?” she said again.

  “No.” He tried to fake a smile, but it came off wrong. He walked away and gazed toward my mother’s corpse.

  “Why did you have to go out tonight, my love,” he whispered.

  I gulped. Somehow, I heard through the mass of panicked voices around me and made out the two barely spoken words—my love. I tried to juggle my thoughts and make sense of what he’d just said. My love? My mom was only crazy about one man—my father. Her last words to me had been to tell my father she loved him.

  I stared at Joseph, who until this moment had been nothing more to me than the fire chief. He wore big yellow outfits and a yellow fire hat. He drove the big, red fire trucks through town, all proud and mighty. He’d saved many burning buildings and helped retrieve animals from trees, especially Mr. Jenkin’s cat. He was a stereotypical fire chief. My image of him suddenly became clouded. He was no longer just a member of society. If he’d had a thing for my mother, what did he feel about my father?

  “It’s a crying shame, Joey,” the priest said, walking up behind him. “But at least she’s reunited with her baby.”

  I was an only child. Something didn’t add up. Growing up, it was the three of us: my dad, mom, and I. My mom would stay home and tend to the house. She’d be your typical homemaker, baker, cooker, and churchgoer.

  My dad was the provider. Your typical head-of-the-household man from the ‘50s. He, like my grandfather and great grandfather, was a hardworking but hard-bitten man. On the surface, my father showed little emotion and was raw and callous. After working a hard day at work, he’d come home to one of my mother’s home-cooked meals. He’d shove the food into his mouth even while talking, gravy drizzling from the sides of his mouth while he chatted about the day’s events.

  One time, after one of his more grueling workweeks, he came home, kicked off his toe-steeled boots, and threw his coat over the banister. He walked up the steps to the living room, where he sprawled out on the sofa. My mother was in the kitchen quietly humming to herself and making her third loaf of bread that day. My father turned up the television to full blast. His mouth was twisted into a grimace and his hands were fidgeting. The lines in his forehead had deepened.

  He suddenly flew up into sitting position, his face beet red and gritting his teeth. “Is that all you ever do? Bake bread, cook, and clean? I swear you are the most boring, pathetic woman I know.”

  My mom said nothing as she kept her focus on mixing the many dry ingredients in the glass bowl.

  He growled, “Did you hear me?”

  I stood in the corner of the hallway, shaking. My father had never talked to my mom like this before—not that I’d ever heard.

  The following day, however, everything was back to normal. At breakfast, he kissed my mother and complimented her on her dress. He smiled and seemed to enjoy the breakfast she had prepared for him.

  But that was all just a distant memory. Here I was, standing in front of Joseph and the priest. Did my mother and father have another child I didn’t know about? Did my mom and Joseph have a child? My mind twirled round and round like a spinning top. My father and Grace I could picture. But my mother and Joseph? It couldn’t be. My mother wouldn’t have done that to my father.

  “Don’t lie,” I yelled at Joseph. “It’s not true!”

  He didn’t make eye contact with me. A burning sensation filled my chest. Why was he ignoring me? Why were they all ignoring me? I circled around the priest and fire chief. The branches of the nearby oak trees trembled in a sudden burst of wind.

  “Why, mom, why?” I whispered to myself. I fell to a ground in a puddle of my own self-misery.

  As the night swept by, the crowd slowly dwindled. The burnt orange and raspberry red of the coming sunrise were gathering on the horizon. My mother’s body was long gone and still, no one took notice of me.

  Joseph sat on the ground, staring. Tears trickled down his cheeks.

  “I had no choice,” he whispered. “Ever since Briley passed, you’ve never been the same.”

  I stood still, stricken by disbelief. What did he mean I had ‘passed?’

  “You kept telling me how you lost everything. Ronald left to find Grace, then you watched Briley die in that accident. You blamed yourself. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I took a step back, staring down at myself. I wore a blue nightgown with no shoes. My hair was halfway down my back. I was back in my twelve-year-old body. A gasped escaped my lips. It couldn’t be. I was a ghost!

  I sprinted toward Joseph. I couldn’t accept I wasn’t here. But he passed right through me. That was why no one could hear me! I wasn’t real.

  The sun was peeking through, lighting up the once lively field.

  “You can finally be free to be with your child,” he whispered, “and I’ll dedicate myself to making sure that Ronald pays for taking your life away.”

  He sighed and walked away.

  My vision became clouded as my surroundings were sucked away. The church, the graded road, and all traces of Earth vanished. I found myself alone in a white room. Was this eternity?

  “Briley?” my mother called. I turned and saw in the distance the vibrant mother I remembered. I ran toward her with open arms and embraced her.

  “You’re safe now,” she whispered, “You don’t need to look over me anymore, my sweet, sweet child.”

  Then the lights went out. My mission was complete.

  The Ghosts of Guernica

  By Dan McAteer

  Thomas Clarke was in his new haunt, the Bodleian Library in Oxford. He was predictable to a fault; current events in the Times of London, sports, then onto his legal studies. Thomas’ ultimate goal was to become a barrister. His secret goal was to run for Parliament. He shared that goal with no one. He saw his beloved England refusing to recognise the threat posed by the re-armament of Germany under the leadership of Herr Hitler. So, it was in the spring of 1936.

  Journalists such as George Orwell, Nat Cohen and Sam Masters were arguing in their columns for Britain to recognise the civil outrages occurring in Germany under the Nazis. Of course, they were Communists, and saw the threat to Communism in general as the Communists in Germany were either slaughtered, fled, or were imprisoned in camps. Thomas Clarke voted for the Conservative ticket, yet he agreed Germany was in open defiance of the restrictions on military armament imposed by the Treaty of Versailles. Thomas looked at the European landscape with concern. The Treaty was apparently toothless due to the unwillingness of France and Great Britain to face reality. Italy had turned Fascist, and the French relied upon their Maginot Line to deter any advance by Germany. Thomas was especially concerned with the situation unfolding in Spain, where the Spanish Second Republic was being opposed by the Nationalist Forces under General Francisco Franco.

  Spring passed to summer, and Thomas was on break until September 1936. Thomas was taking his holiday in London. In June, his days consisted of walks along the Thames; on rainy days, he could be found holed up in the British Museum. Then the astounding month of July arrived, a month Thomas was to make a momentous decision. On July 17, the Spanish Army rebelled against the Second Republi
c, whose ministers were Communist and Socialist. When the Spanish Civil War began, the ranks of the Republican forces were predominantly Communist. International volunteers arrived from several countries. Prominent journalists such as Orwell, Cohen and Masters joined the effort. Thomas Clarke had a decision to make. He was in no position to convince Parliament to take the rising threat of Nazi Germany seriously—hell, Winston Churchill had been making that clarion call since 1933. If Churchill’s entreaties fell on deaf ears, Thomas’ only means of making a difference lay with joining the International Brigades supporting the Spanish Second Republic. Thomas went to Church, where he consigned his Soul to God and his body to the defense of Spain.

  Thomas travelled from London to Dover, and embarked on a ferry bound for Calais. The white cliffs of Dover receded from view as a fog set in. From Calais he journeyed to Paris. His resolve to fight was sorely tempted by the festive atmosphere of summertime Paris. He crossed the Pyrenees into Spain, arriving at the city of Bilbao in the Basque region of northeast Spain. Thomas had selected the Basque region for his pro-Republic contribution due to their fierce independence. If ever there was a population that would meet the Nationalist forces with cohesion and unit loyalty, it was the Basques.

  Thomas was introduced to his unit leader at an open-air market. He shook hands with Pablo Garcia. Pablo commanded 100 men. There were no uniforms. Pablo asked Thomas whether he had fired a weapon before.

  Thomas said, “I am a crack shot. I have fired many long rifles while at Oxford, competing with other students and also against other colleges.”

  Pablo remarked, “It is one thing to fire a weapon at targets, in a non-lethal competition. It is quite another to maim or kill another person. I need soldiers with sharp shooting abilities. I have no use for soldiers who might freeze up.”

  Thomas Clarke regarded Pablo thoughtfully before responding, “I’ve given my decision to volunteer careful consideration. My Soul will ever be with God, but my eyes and steady aim are yours until death takes me from your service.”

  Pablo nodded, blessing himself before offering, “I’ve made a similar vow. Ours will not be an easy task. There’s an extensive arms industry in this region, but the Nationalists seized those plants very quickly.”

  “What arms are we equipped with then?”

  “I’ve noticed your strong physique. My unit has acquired some Polish Browning wz .28 light machine guns, firing 7.92 mm Mauser rounds. They’re a Polish modified form of the Browning Automatic Rifle, or B.A.R. as the Americans are fond of abbreviations. They’ve a 20-round magazine. Have you fired an automatic weapon before?” Pablo smiled.

  Thomas shook his head. “I know they require a light touch for short bursts of fire.”

  Pablo smiled, “Let’s have a beer then, Thomas, ‘light touch’ Clarke!”

  Pablo and Thomas put aside the talk of arms and death. They talked of soccer and English football, of family and their lives in Spain and England. A chill wind suddenly swept through the Plaza and Pablo blessed himself.

  Thomas inquired of Pablo why he’d blessed himself so.

  “Did you not feel the chilling of the air?”

  Thomas responded, shrugging his shoulders in confusion. “It is certainly odd that the breeze was so chill, but what of it?”

  Pablo leaned forward and said earnestly, “You Sir, are in Basque country. You must observe local tradition while with us. That wind represents the passing of people loyal to our cause. It’s no doubt from a skirmish with the Nationalists.”

  Thomas quickly blessed himself, anxious to acclimate with local culture.

  “I’m sorry for our mutual loss of good companions.”

  Pablo shook his head gravely. “You’ll do well with that approach. Tomorrow we’ll practice with the Browning wz .28. Let’s finish our beers and I’ll get you settled for the night.”

  Thomas bedded down for the night, and slept deeply. A chill breeze blew into his room through the open window—It did not disturb him. He arose with the dawn, stretched like a cat, dressed and made his way to the centre of the Plaza. Pablo was already there, eating fresh fruit and sipping a coffee. Thomas greeted him with a smile. Pablo pointed out the local paper laying on the table. “We lost some good people yesterday to the east of Guernica. Did you feel the breeze late last night?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I slept like the dead. I could only sleep fitfully once I left London. Now I feel this is my home, until God takes me.”

  Pablo looked at him thoughtfully. “We’ve need of men such as you. Loyal to the cause of Freedom. I look forward to fighting by your side.”

  Thomas acknowledged the compliment.

  “Better immediate action against a known enemy than planning for a career in the Law while my country drifts aimlessly towards a disastrous reckoning with Germany.”

  Pablo mustered his squad into a nearby field. Targets were set up and his squad practiced with the lever action Winchester M1895 at various distances. Thomas hefted the rifle and sighted in, demonstrating keen aim.

  “Impressive.’ Said Pablo. But while you’re acting as if this is a bolt action, making precise shots, you’d best get used to the notion that we’re a paramilitary unit. We’re going to be supplied various weapons and rounds. You need to fight using whatever weapon is supplied you. This is a lever action rifle intended for slinging lead downfield for cover fire, if nothing else.”

  Thomas looked thoughtful, clearly considering the merits of Pablo’s remarks. “Well, you’re right. Now give me the fully auto Browning!”

  Pablo handed him the B.A.R. Thomas pointed downfield to the middle of the three targets. “Do you have more spare targets? Because that one’s gone!”

  He carefully sighted in, took a breath and fully exhaled. A quick pull, and the middle target was cut in half by a twenty-round burst. A series of claps were heard up and down the line. Pablo addressed the squad, “Senor Thomas has just qualified on the B.A.R.!” Cheers erupted. “Now let’s get more of you qualified.”

  They slept in the field that night, posting sentries. No campfire was permitted. In the command tent, Pablo, Thomas and other unit leaders surrounded the laid-out map. They would proceed in trucks they’d commandeered from the army, cross the river and proceed northeast to Mungia. Pablo didn’t volunteer any information regarding their objective. When Thomas pressed him for more details, Pablo issued a sharp retort.

  “They less we all know, the better, until our final orders. You work for me now Thomas.”

  Thomas nodded in an agreeable way, seeing the wisdom of this. Truck assignments were issued, and the first refueling stop was identified. They bundled themselves into the back of the truck. Pablo gestured to Thomas, and he took the shotgun seat, appropriate since he carried a light machine gun in the cab. Pablo engaged gear and the convoy drove off. Their transit was uneventful, except for the smiles they were greeted with. Clearly, pro-Nationalist supporters of General Franco were not to be found. At Mungia, things changed.

  For one thing, the local Republican forces informed them that they must continue travelling only at night.

  “The German light and medium bombers would destroy your convoy,” Gabriela Sanchez said. Thomas heard her words, but he was entranced by her beauty and the honey-laden delivery of her words. Pablo and Thomas sat in front of the assemblage. Gabriela glanced briefly at Thomas, and the beginnings of a smile were quickly controlled as Gabriela continued, “I’ll show you to your bivouac area. No open flames tonight! Tomorrow we’ll have accommodations prepared, and you shall eat better fare in this Republican town.”

  Sleeping out under the stars, Thomas pondered on what God had planned for him; a rebel leader? Was he to fail at the last, and return to England in shame? Or would he be resolute in his convictions, and die supporting a noble cause? Would a wooden cross be placed at his grave, marking his passing? He focused on the stars, and fell deeply asleep. Once again, a chill breeze blew through the field. Pablo felt it as he smoked a cigarette. He blessed himself
in honor of the passing of his brethren. He too found sleep in the arms of Morpheus.

  Pablo’s squad were housed the next morning in a hotel. That afternoon Gabriela briefed both squads on their different objectives. Pablo’s squad was to attack a Nationalist re-enforcement convoy. Kill when necessary, but capture the weapons intact.

  The tableau was an automobile blocking a coastal road. The driver was thoroughly engaged in troubleshooting the obvious villain. The sedan was normally aspirated, and the car hadn’t been adjusted to the higher atmospheric pressures of the low-lying coastline. The trucks naturally stopped. Exiting the trucks were the drivers, mechanics all. They became engaged in their profession, naturally curious. The machine pistols that were carried by very serious people who suddenly appeared from both sides of the woodland persuaded the Nationalist irregulars to surrender peacefully. They were dutifully tied up and left on the side of the road. Their trucks joined the Republican convoy, and made their way back to Mungia.

  Gabriela complimented them on their success, and said, “We must leave Mungia. Several airplanes from the Condor Legion have since overflown the city today. We are now a liability to these good people. Both squads will travel east. There are Franco-friendly paramilitary units operating south of the Pyrenees. They are cutting off our arms supplies via France. They don’t know it, but they are already dead. We will operate with two other squads. We will be outnumbered, yet I have no doubt of the outcome.”

  Thomas observed her upright spine as she talked of death. He casually offered, “I’ve been remorseless in death-dealing myself.”

  Intrigued, Gabriela inquired, “who did you return to God?

  Thomas replied with a deadpan expression, “Why, my chickens, of course! I didn’t even ask them if they wished to be baked or boiled! I’m a pretty ruthless character!”

  Gabriela appreciated the calculated planning that went into the joke. He’d earned a winsome smile. “Basking in the glory for what purpose, Thomas?”