The house resonated with the still and quiet of early morning, so even though it was a soft subtle sound, the gentle thud at the top of the stairs startled Sarah. She turned and watched in shock as Rocky thumped and rolled, thumped and rolled, thumped and rolled down each carpeted step until landed beside her.
The thought of her daughter sleeping up- stairs flared in her mind. Maternal instinct trumped terror, so without real thought she grabbed Rocky tightly with both hands, extended her arms away from the rest of her body like one might hold a snake, and ran to the kitchen.
She plunked Rocky on the table. Her mind raced. Where was his box? She had no idea. She needed to calm down. Any box would do. She just needed to get a box and tape. Breathe. Think.
Somewhere in her scattered thoughts she re- membered they kept boxes in the basement with the Christmas wrapping. And there was packing tape down there too. All she had to do was go down and get a box and the tape. She ordered her legs to move. She descended the stairs and rummaged around in a panic. In her desperation to grab the tape dispenser she bumped a mason jar filled with tacks and sent it crashing to the floor showering the ground with shards and pins. She’d deal with it later. Tape and box in hand she spun and attempted to pick her way through the piercing hazards. By the time she made it to the stairs both feet were bleeding and crying out for the removal of stinging slivers. She tried to ignore the pain and climb the steps.
Despite the agony in her feet, panic in her heart, and confusion in her brain, she almost made it to the top, but on the second step Rocky wait- ed. He had considered this thoroughly during his many years in the box and calculated that this was the exact best spot for a misstep. He was correct.
As Sarah pressed all her weight down on her right foot some part of her realized it wasn’t touching a painted wooden slat, but something much smoother and rounded. The rock shot out from un- der her taking her foot with it. Sarah fought for balance as her lower half flew behind her and she fell hard on her stomach knocking the air from her body. At the same time, her chin cracked hard on the wood and her teeth bit straight through her tongue sending blood oozing out the corners of her mouth. The momentum of the fall slid Sarah backward down the stairs, ribs cracking, shattered chin thudding on every single bloodstained step until she skidded to a slow stop at the bottom of the staircase, a gory breathless heap still clutching the box and tape roll.
It pained Rocky to see her like this, but she had lost her way. She forgot he was the perfect pet who did not need to be fed, bathed, or groomed, could not die, become sick, or be disobedient. The perfect pet deserved the devotion of the perfect owner, not to be alone in a box.
Under the Folds of a Homemade Flag
“Hi, Katydid.”
Katherine wasn’t surprised to see her dead grandfather. After all it’s why she came. But after forty years it was a shock. Nobody had called her Katydid in ages, but of course, back when Grandpa died everyone did.
“Hi, Gramps.”
She wasn’t sure if she could hug him. He didn’t seem substantial enough. He had never been much of a hugger anyway. Her second-grade self remembered him as gruff and their hugs as one-sided. He never shrugged her off; she cuddled like an eight-year-old and he more or less let her.
He appeared as she remembered him; broad shoulders, long arms, barrel chest, paunchy pear- shaped belly, drawn-out face with deep set eyes and high cheek bones, and scruffy silver hair with a little curl that swooped to the left. The only difference was that he seemed greyed out and pixelated, shadowy, but even so, his presence remained huge.
He didn’t force conversation. Unlike most people he sat comfortable with silence.
Katherine wondered how much he knew. She thought a lot about what the dead knew, what they paid attention to, how checked in they were with the living.
“Sorry it’s taken me so long to get here.” Everyone in the family made the pilgrimage to Islay, Scotland sooner or later. Most sooner. Their family identity rested heavily on this cold, isolated place. It embarrassed Katherine that she had waited so long to come.
Her dad set the wheels in motion. Two weeks earlier a large manila envelope showed up in the mail. It contained a thick stack of papers and a handwritten note:
Dear Katherine –
This is part of the story of how you came to be. I hope you find it interesting.
Love, Dad
She had. Katherine had always been fuzzy on the legend of her grandfather’s heroic near- death experience in World War I, and this packet contained an account he himself penned of those events. She found it inconceivable that it had never been published, especially when so many of his lesser works had. It read like fiction, like a screen- play, not like something her grandfather, no matter how tough, could have actually endured.
It told the story of the 100th Aero Squadron, part of a contingent of twenty-three hundred troops, fledgling soldiers, twenty-year-old boys, some younger, embarking on their first assignment. Green as could be, they reported to the S.S. Tucania and shipped out for Europe, straight into an active battle zone.
The Tucania was torpedoed and sunk in the Irish Sea, between Ireland and Scotland. When Katherine told people it always struck her that it just didn’t sound horrific, because Gramps’ account described trauma wrapped in a nightmare.
The way he told it, at 6 p.m. they heard a crash on the starboard side. For the next three hours panicked men tried to make sane decisions. Untested soldiers struggled for some scrap of control in the chaos, but logic and order were going down with the ship. Scared and crazed, some just jumped in the water and died. At some point, the young GIs accepted it was every man for himself and yelled it at one another. Gramps miraculously made it on to the last lifeboat to leave the Tucania before she went under.
But fate plays cruel tricks. She spared him one sinking ship only to deliver him another, a smaller, overloaded lifeboat, in a freezing stormy sea, and it was filling with water. The darkness robbed him of all sight, adding to his misery, but perhaps it was also a benevolent shroud, sparing him the vision of shipmate’s bodies bobbing in the sea. The waves were relentless. Their roar drowned out a hundred whispered prayers, but not the screams of the dying. The numbing wind made him dull and clumsy, but a man struck dumb has some small measure of fortune; he cannot smell, taste, or feel carnage no matter how closely it surrounds him.
Gramps himself wrote that it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened, a conspiracy of wind and waves capsized the boat dumping sixty men into the sea. Then another cursed blessing as the waves slammed him onto deliverance, a small outcropping of jagged rocks that had so far withstood the unyielding aggression of the feral sea, but not without consequence. The age-old battle between earth and surf left razor-sharp edges in its wake, bloody handholds for an already bleeding man.
As Gramps fought to steady himself, the waves hurled a dark object next to him, another survivor. Gramps was spent and wounded, but this boy was worse. Gramps managed to find a small cave and drag them both slowly, painfully inside. They huddled together, soaked, freezing, and dazed.
A kind Scotch farmer found them this way in the morning and led them to his home. They trekked across the beach where friends lay broken and lifeless. The farmer and his wife fed them and made them tea.
Gramps and his comrade then joined a gruesome parade to the nearest village. Those who were merely wounded like Gramps took responsibility for the truly incapacitated, ministering to their needs and pushing them on wooden carts seven miles to Port Ellen. During the long slog, a count determined that fifty-four of the sixty men from Gramp’s lifeboat had perished. The six still breathing were changed men, having experienced an entire lifetime’s worth of anxiety, struggle, and reflection during the long night before. Valiant and fearful, heroic and mad, they had taken stock of everything, what mattered and what didn’t. Character comes from being torpedoed, shipwrecked, and saved on the island of Islay.
Tears streamed down Katherine’s face and Gra
mps seemed to know she was reflecting on his account.
“How did you survive it Gramps? It must have been so horrible.”
“It was, Katydid, but not all of it. Some it of it was actually beautiful.”
Katherine couldn’t respond. She looked into his eyes trying to understand.
“Do you remember this title of my story? “Under the Folds of a Homemade Flag.”
“That’s right. We suffered through real tragedy, surviving the very worst, but the story is really about that homemade flag and countless acts of kindness, compassion, and service.”
“Those of us ill enough to be in intensive care under normal circumstances nursed those in critical condition. Believe me, one hundred and thirty-two injured and shell-shocked men taxed the resources of that island, but the villagers pro- vided food, clothing, shelter, whatever comforts they could without question. Eighty-seven unexpected corpses were another terrible burden for the islanders to bear. As those kind locals prepared a mass funeral, they realized there was no American flag on the entire island. They knew our men de- served their colors, so the generous hearted women of Port Ellen raided their closets and sewing supplies to find the necessary red, white, and blue and they quickly and lovingly stitched the pieces together.”
This was the part of the story Gramps dwelled on in his written account too; that the people of Islay handled this horrific unforeseen event with benevolence, grace, and dignity.
“It was a proud and beautiful ceremony, Katydid, under the folds of that homemade flag, made by the kindly hands of Scotch mothers to honor the sons of mothers they never even knew.”
Tears streamed down Katherine’s face. She had so much to ask him, so much on her mind, but she was afraid.
“Did you appear to the others?”
“No. Well, once, yes. But you’re the first one who’s come here to talk.”
Katherine tried to wipe some of the wet off her face, but only succeeded in getting the backs of her hands slick with tears.
“Your dad, I didn’t appear to him because I knew he had already started thinking about his own mortality and it would scare him. Your Uncle Bill, well, he and I said everything we needed to say while I was still alive. Your brother and cous- ins, they came here to honor me and for their own reasons, but not to talk, so I was here but didn’t try to make myself known. I did appear to your grand- mother though. I was being selfish. When she came here, she had five healthy, successful children, and nineteen loving grandkids. She had a lot to live for, so I materialized for just a minute to remind her she had something to die for too.”
Gramps’ vulnerability made Katherine feel a little braver. Her trip here was a mid-life crisis of sorts, nothing as flashy as a sports car, or as titillating as an affair. Dropping everything and flying off to Scotland was her own little freak-out, the embodiment of her big questions – What is it all about? Am I doing it right? Am I worthy?
She thought she had a pretty good life and was going about it in the right sort of way, but some part of her needed to know if Gramps thought so too, if he approved. She was proud of her career in education. While she had saved no lives, she tried to work toward the benefit of others. She adored her husband and cherished her daughter, but secretly worried, she might not deserve either of them.
After reading his account, Katherine saw Gramps as a man who had lived an entire lifetime of pain and growth in a single night and then had a regular life besides. Everything about the first life must have shaped him and made everything about the second life easier and more meaningful. He spent an entire night right on the line between living and dying, he saved at least one life while barely maintaining his own, and in the mist of all this, he saw not horror, but kindness around him. No doubt, raising a family, being a pillar of the com- munity, even being Chief of Police, after his first life, well, it must have all been cake.
Dad’s note said, “This is part of the story of how you came to be,” but Katherine questioned it. Was she really somehow a part of all this?
Gramps answered her unasked question. “Yes, Katydid, you are a part of this. It is
your legacy. And your daughter’s, she’s beautiful and a spitfire. She’s part of this too. Your husband, your cousins, their families, your brother, sisters, dad and mom and aunts and uncles, I did this for all of you and I’d do it again, you all made it worth it.”
Katherine felt overwhelmed and relieved and sobbed harder than ever.
“I’m going to try and get your account published. Dad did too. I don’t know why editors haven’t been fighting for it ever since you wrote it. It’s so amazing and important.”
“Oh, Katydid, that’s sweet, but it doesn’t matter whether or not it gets published. I may not have known it at the time, but the story I wrote was for your dad, and uncles, and aunts, and you, and your cousins, and your kids. What matters is…that you know, everything I learned and experienced, it flows through all of you.”
And there it was, the thing she’d been looking for without really knowing it – the point of it all – the honor, the wisdom and the growth. Like Gramps, Katherine would carry the story and meaning of the homemade flag into the rest of her life and try to live up to it. The ghost of Gramps had given her what she needed. Everything she needed. And more.
A Tempting Transaction
Sky Rothschild, the most exclusive real estate agent in New York City and arguably the world, wondered what this woman was doing in his office.
Working strictly by word of mouth, Sky didn’t even have a web site for his business. He considered all marketing beneath him and accepted clients by referral only. She did not look anything like the kind of people he represented.
As the frumpy woman stood, leaned across the desk, and offered a hand, he smelled chocolate. In a German accent she said, “Mr. Rothschild, I’m Rosina Leckermaul. You will sell my house.”
Seeing her standing made his impression of her worse. Sky found her remarkably unattractive. He estimated her to be on the backside of middle age. Her grey hair hung in a loose bob. She wore absolutely no makeup to conceal her unpleasant ashy face and had a growth on her nose any of his respectable clients would have removed in infancy.
She was clad in varying shades of black and grey. Her shapeless grey skirt hung over thick black tights and tattered boots with floppy laces. The large black buttons of the boxy cardigan she wore over a worn black turtleneck, were misaligned, causing the right side of the sweater to hang about three inches lower than the left. In stunning contrast to her drab attire, she wore an absurd hat. It looked something like a limp dinner plate, piled with fuzzy red pompoms, held on with a large bow tied under her chin.
Sky worked with his share of eccentric clients but had never seen anyone like her.
He liked the beautiful people, like himself, and she repulsed him. Being a practiced showman, he hid his revulsion with little effort and shook her hand. “Did you speak with my assistant Cheryl? She showed you in, yes?”
“You mean that Fräulein at your front desk? No. I shut that right down. I have no tolerance for being screened, especially not by kinder.”
“Excuse me?” Rosina did not reply.
“Please allow me to explain. I am a busy man, Ms. Leckermaul. It is not meant to be an imposition, but there are a few questions anyone needs to answer before arranging any actual face time with me. It is intended to save time, to make sure we are the right match, which I am afraid we may not be.” Sky stood to indicate their meeting was over. “Thank you for your interest. Cheryl will provide you with a list of top-notch agents I personally recommend.”
Rosina did not move. “You will sell my house Mr. Rothschild.”
Sky started to say something else, but Rosina did not listen. She reached into her deep sweater pocket, took out a zip lock baggie, poured the powdery contents into her hand, sucked a big breath in and as she exhaled blew a grey puff toward Sky. “Sit down. We will talk.”
Sky sat.
“May I ask how you fou
nd me Ms. Leckermaul? Who recommended my services?”
“My familiar, Blue Puter recommended you to me. And I found you the regular way, scrying.”
“I’m sorry, scrying? Is it a business or family name?”
Rosina shot him a suspicious look. “Neither. It’s using a crystal pendant to find what you’re looking for…you know, divination?”
Clearly, he did not know, but Rosina changed the subject, anxious to get down to business. “My house is in Germany. I assume this is no problem for you?”
“Of course not, my clients are worldwide.” As the words left his mouth, he wondered why he was allowing this interview to continue, but for some reason he kept talking. “Where in Germany, may I ask?”
“The Black Forest.”
“That’s interesting. Please tell me more.”
“It is a special house, but modest. Around two thousand square feet. Four bedrooms. Two baths. The kitchen is an additional eight hundred square feet, but it is a separate building, connected to the rest by a hallway. It contains two industrial ovens. The lot is about five acres, with a half dozen pens behind the house.”
“Once again, Ms. Leckermaul, I must apologize, but I only deal in properties in the hundred-million-dollar range. Exceptions are exceedingly rare…”
“My house will fetch your price.” “Really?”
“Ja.”
“Do tell.”
“For starters, although I’ve remodeled over the years and modernized inside, the house was built in 1315.”
“Your house is seven hundred years old?” “Ja, and it is made of confection and pastry,”
Rosina added with pride, smiling for the first time revealing crooked yellow teeth.
“What do you mean, confection and pastry?”
Rosina stretched her words a bit, as people sometimes do when they are thinking, “gingerbread, shortbread, stollen, streusel, marzipan, chocolate – and many gummies, kinder today love the gummies.”
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