“Oh, I’m getting dry heaves thinking about it,” Emma said. A school bell rings.

     “Don’t vomit in class,” Kim said with a laugh. “TTYL,” she added as she turns and headed down the hallway. Emma turned the other way, pushed through a door, and started walking up a staircase. Two girls were walking up ahead of her.

     “It’s so sad,” said Girl One. “I heard the guy didn’t even move when the train blew its whistle.”

     “Yeah,” said Girl Two, “my dad’s train was stuck for an hour coming out of the city.”

     “What happened?” Emma asked.

     Both girls turned. “A guy got hit by a train yesterday afternoon,” Girl One said.

     “Where?” Emma asks.

     “Over on Prescott,” Girl Two said.

     “Oh,” Emma said, stopping. The two girls shared a shrug and kept walking up the stairs. Emma grasped the railing and closed her eyes.

​

     In first period class, as the teacher droned, Emma snuck her cell phone from her pocket and ran a search on “train suicide” in local news. Several story headlines were displayed. She tapped on one and started reading:

​

     A man was struck and killed by a westbound transit train at approximately 4:45 PM. The incident occurred at the Prescott Street train crossing. The man was identified as Howard Franklin. Transit authorities are investigating the cause of...

​

     Emma opened another browser window, typed the name, “Howard Franklin, New Jersey” and hit Enter. After a few moments of sifting through the search results, she was looking at a picture of a man who appeared to be middle age, wearing a tweed jacket and sitting at a conference table. A shelf of legal books was behind him, and he was staring straight at the camera.

The caption under the photograph read: Howard Franklin, Attorney – Estate Planning.

     “That’s him,” she whispered as she stared into the man’s eyes. Slowly, she slipped the cell phone into her pocket.

​

     She found Olivia, Kim and Lauren on the steps outside a back entrance to the school, passing around an electronic cigarette. Olivia looked up. “Hey, Emma, nicotine bump before 4th period?”

     Emma hesitated. She didn’t like cigarettes and only vaped occasionally for the energy boost, but she did not want to do anything that might disrupt their four-way bond. She took the stem and drew a hit. “Hey,” she said, passing the device to Kim, “did you guys hear about the man who was hit by a train last night?”

     “Yeah,” Lauren said casually, “turns out that’s what all the commotion was about over on Prescott. All the po-po activity.”

     “The rumor is it was a suicide,” Kim said after releasing a cloud of blue smoke.

     “I don’t even want to think about it,” Olivia said.

     “But wait,” Emma said. “That was the guy I saw.”

     “What guy?” Lauren asked.

     “The guy I saw walking down the sidewalk when we were driving to Planet Pizz. The guy with no coat or hat.” She expected her friends to be shocked, but instead they looked slightly annoyed.

     “Hold on,” Kim said. “How do you know that guy was the same guy?”

     “Because I looked up the guy who was killed.” She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and quickly retrieved the photograph of Howard Franklin. “This guy,” she said, holding her cell phone out to her friends.

     Kim shook her head. “Emm, we were more than a mile away from Prescott when you freaked out over some guy walking down the sidewalk.”

     “And let’s not forget we were friggin’ stoned,” Olivia added.

     “Ain’t that the truth,” Lauren said. “Another hit and I think I would have seen God.”

     “Or at least Jesus,” Kim said.

     The three girls laughed. “Fine,” Emma said, losing her patience. “Laugh, but I’m telling you I saw this man…” she pointed to the photograph on her cell phone, “…minutes before he killed himself.”

     “Hey, Emma,” Kim said gently, “the fact is, you don’t know what you saw. Don’t get obsessed by it.”

     “Yeah, can we change the subject, please?” Olivia said.

     “Yes, let’s,” Kim said. “Let’s talk about this party tonight. All in?”

     “In,” Lauren said. “I heard there’s gonna be college kids there, which equals cases of beer.”

     “Oh, I’m very in,” Olivia said. They turn to Emma.

     “I’m in,” Emma said.

     “Cool,” Lauren said. “Anyone know the address?”

     “I think it’s over by the library,” Kim said.

     “Ugh, that’s a hike for me,” Olivia said.

     “I might be able to use my dad’s car,” Kim said.

     “Lauren smiled mischievously. “This could be a big night for the two of you,” she said, eyeing Kim and Emma.

     “Zip it!” Kim said.

     “KK, just saying,” Lauren replied.

     “Sisters in arms,” Kim said, putting her arm around Emma’s shoulder. “Yesterday is forgiven,” she added, glaring at Lauren and Olivia. “And whatever happens tonight is meant to be.”

     “And just what -” Lauren said, but she is cut off by a school bell ringing inside the building.

     “Oh great, time for fucking Algebra,” Olivia said.

     “Fucking Latin,” Kim said.

     “Screw both of you,” Lauren said. “I’ve got Chemistry.”

     “Let’s do it,” Olivia said.

     The three girls started walking up the stairs. Kim turned. “You coming, Emma?”

     “I’ve got study hall,” Emma said “I’ll see you guys later.”

     Kim shrugged. Together, the three girls disappeared through the door.

     After the last bell, Emma walked outside and paused among the swarm of students. She checked her messages – nothing from her friends. Just as well, she wanted to be alone. She started walking toward home, but when she arrived at the corner where she usually turned right, she turned left and walked up a street up to a much busier thoroughfare. She turned right and continued walking. Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Olivia: Hey Emm, Jackie gave me a pinch of her stash. We’re gonna meet impromptu at Kim’s house for an encore of yesterday's performance. You in?

     Emma slowly shook her head. “Guys,” she whispered. She typed a quick reply: I can’t today, stuff to do at home, but looking forward to tonight. Does anyone know the address of this party? She put the phone back in her pocket and continued walking. The street was busy and passing cars stirred the cast-off food wrappers and other debris strewn along the curb. She grew anxious as she drew closer. And then she was standing on the block of sidewalk that Howard Franklin had stepped on when he looked up the day before. She knew because the pothole that Jackie hit was in the street directly to her left. As though to confirm her conviction, a passing car hit the pothole with a loud thump. She nodded. Prescott Street, she knew, was about a twenty-minute walk away. She zipped her coat up and continued down the sidewalk.  

     When she arrived at the top of Prescott Street, she stopped under the street sign and checked her messages. There was a reply from Olivia: 19 Grove Street. Emma frowned. She typed Cool, when do you want to head over? and was about to tap Send but hesitated. She pictured the three of them smoking pot in Kim’s room. Without her. She deleted the text without sending it. Just so they’re not talking about me, she thought as she stuffed the cell phone into her pocket. She looked down the sidewalk to the railroad crossing about a hundred yards distant. It was a gradual descent that levels out at the railroad crossing. She was not unfamiliar with Prescott Street, but until now it was just another stretch of pavement that she occasionally traversed to get to wherever she was going. She started walking down to the crossing with newfound awareness. The sidewalk was composed mostly of slate slabs, but some had been replaced by blocks of concrete with pebbles embedded in them. Trees grew on the strip of grass between sidewalk and street, and the houses on both sides were older – prewar as her father would say. The overall effect was one of peacefulness, especially when compared to the commotion of the street she had just turned off. There were no cars driving up or down, every house sits mute behind a manicured lawn, and it struck her that the man was drawn to this street precisely because it is so lacking in human activity, even on a weekday afternoon.

     She arrived at the railroad crossing and stopped next to one of the imposing gates. She tilted her head back and her eyes followed the gate up to its tip. She looked diagonally across at the other gate, and she was reminded of the guards outside Buckingham Palace, standing for hours, never flinching. There were two tracks, one eastbound the other westbound. A flash of color drew her attention: about thirty yards down the opposite westbound tracks was a short length of yellow caution tape hanging from a small shrub. She crossed over and walked between the rails to where the shrub grew in the sparse soil on the outer fringe of the jagged rocks that lined the tracks. There were boot prints in the mud by the shrub and cigarette butts were scattered around.

     She sensed she was being watched. She looked up and saw a curtain drift to a close in an upstairs window of a house. She stared, expecting a face to reappear. Suddenly, the crossing gate lights started flashing and the gate bells started ringing. She twitched involuntarily. The gates began their descending arcs. A train horn sounded from beyond a bend on the other side of the crossing. She started walking alongside the tracks back to the crossing when a locomotive appeared from around the bend. There was a flicker of motion in the locomotive’s window and the horn sounded again. She broke into a sprint, desperate to reach the crossing first. She slipped on the rocks but made it to the pedestrian gate just in time and she jumped back as the locomotive roared by with a whoosh of air that whipped her hair across her face. Silver commuter cars zipped past in a blur, one by one, and then the crossing was empty, the train fading down the tracks as quickly as it came, the gates retracing their synchronized arcs to vertical. The flashing lights and the ringing bells stopped abruptly “Oh, my God,” she said, panting for air, exhilarated and ashamed of feeling so.

​

     Back in her bedroom, she sat cross-legged on her bed and scrolled through texts and social media on her cell phone. A tabby cat sat sphynx-like at the foot of the bed, eyes gleaming. Emma texted Olivia: Hey girl, what’s up? How was Act II?

     She saw that Olivia was replying to her text. She waited, her anxiety building. Finally, Olivia’s reply popped up: Act II was a no-go, Kim’s mother was home and Kimmie chickened out.

     Emma quickly replied: When are you guys going to this party? She tossed her cell phone onto the bed, picked up her laptop, opened a browser, and ran a search on Howard Franklin, address, NJ. A few moments later, a list of addresses was returned. She scrolled through the list and stopped at a local address: 138 Mountain Avenue. She knew the street – it was in a wealthy neighborhood on the west side of town where the terrain rises, allowing those who can afford those houses imperious views of the more modest neighborhoods to the east. She opened a map app, typed the address into the Search box and hit Enter. When an aerial view of the house was returned, she switched to satellite view and zoomed in. “Wow,” she said, “that’s a mansion.” In 

addition to the primary residence, there was a large garage with a second-floor guest house and a backyard that could host a football game.

     She checked her phone – no reply from Olivia. She typed a text to Kim: Hey Kimmie, what’s the game plan for tonight? She turned back to her laptop. 138 Mountain Avenue was a minor detour from the party on Grove Street, but both were across town. She would like to drive by on the way to the party, but she knew Olivia, Lauren and Kim would not approve. They would resent the mere suggestion of it. But they were her best friends. Yesterday, they would have done anything for each other. Wouldn’t they?  

     She checked her messages again, knowing there were no new ones; she would have heard them coming in. She turned and peered out the window. It was already dark outside: daylight savings time started the week before and the sun set before 5 PM. Her phone chimed and a flood of relief coursed through her body, but then she saw the message was from her mother: Dinner’s ready. She slammed the phone against the pillow, causing the cat at the end of the bed to jump down and run to the door. “Sorry, Hazel,” Emma said, picking up her phone. “Fine,” she said as she walked to the door. “I will walk. Alone.” She opened the door and Hazel dashed out and down the stairs.  

 

     It was a spooky night. Random breezes sent leaves skittering across the pavement and a Cheshire Cat moon grinned at Emma from its perch above the western horizon. She walked quickly, stopping once to check the time on her cell phone: 8:58 PM. The party would be in full swing, and she was only about twenty minutes away. But first – 138 Mountain Avenue. There were more trees and fewer streetlamps in this part of town and substantial front yards separated the houses from the curb. It was difficult to read the house numbers. Frustrated, she walked up a cobblestone driveway until she could read the number on a lamppost - 116. She was close. She counted houses as she walks: 128, 130, 132, and then she was standing in front of 138 Mountain Avenue.

     There was a semi-circular driveway with a black SUV parked by the front door and there were lights on in several windows of the house. Someone passed by a first-floor window, silhouetted against the backlight. A few moments later, a light flicked on in an upstairs room and another figure appeared briefly in the window. The figure stepped away and the light went out. Emma turned and continued walking down the sidewalk.   

     As she turned onto Grove Street, she saw cars lining both sides of the street up ahead. As she approached, she heard the party growing progressively louder. She stopped at the end of the driveway. The party was in the basement: pop music was playing, and some girls were singing along over the din. She tentatively walked up the driveway. Through a basement window, she saw a throng of teenagers but didn’t recognize anyone. She couldn’t possibly go in alone. Just then, a car pulled into the driveway. She darted into the shadows. Three older boys got out, laughing and chatting in deep voices, each of them carrying a case of beer.

     She retrieved her cell phone from her pocket, lifted it to her ear, and mimicked a call: “Okay, hurry up, I’m going in,” she said, stepping out of the shadows. She stuffed the phone back in her pocket.

     The three boys were walking up the driveway. “Hey,” one of them said, “want a beer before they’re gone?”

     “Sure,” Emma said.

     The boy peeled a can from a case and handed it to her. “Thanks,” she said. “Here, I’ll get the door.” She walked ahead of them, down the cement steps, and pushed the door open. The boys walked past her into the brightly lit and cacophonous unfinished basement packed with young people. One of the boys shouted, “Who wants a beer?” and in the ensuing commotion Emma slipped in behind them and retreated to a far corner. She opened her beer and drank greedily. She surveyed the scene, spotted Oliva and Lauren leaning back against a wall across the room. She waved to them. They saw her and looked at each other, giggling. Emma could tell from their glazed eyes that they were high. Lauren whispered something to Olivia, but they did not look over at Emma again. Instead, they started weaving through the crowd toward the cases of beer. Desperate to be back in her room where she can cry into her pillow without being heard, Emma turned to sneak back outside when a voice whispered “Hey,” into her ear.

     She turned. It was Kyle. “Oh, hey,” she said.

     “Cheers,” Kyle said, lifting a can of beer.

     “Yes, cheers,” Emma said. They tapped the cans together and drank. “Who are you here with?” she asked.

     “Those hoodlums over there,” Kyle said, gesturing across the room. Emma looked over and saw a few vaguely familiar boys standing together. Two of them looked over and grinned.

     “Is David Walsh here?” she asked. Kyle frowned. “I was just wondering,” she added quickly. “You two seem joined at the hip.”

     “Yeah, Dave will be here. He’s running a little late.”

     Emma looked across the room. Olivia and Lauren had returned to their spot against the wall, beers in hand. They looked over again, giggling like children. Emma turned her back to them, leaned in, and asked Kyle, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

     “Flying to Florida to spend the weekend with my grandparents.”

     “Oh wow, that’s quite a haul,” she said.

     “Yeah, it’s kinda strange – turkey dinner under the palm trees. I’d prefer to stay local.” He took a deep drink from his beer. “But they’re getting old, and it means a lot to them.”

     “Then you should go,” she said.

     He nodded. “What about you?”

     “Similar deal – my aunt and uncle outside Albany.”  

     “Here’s to cheering up the old folks,” Kyle said, lifting his beer.

     Emma found the comment genuinely amusing. They shared a laugh and drank. “Hey,” he said, “wanna step outside, take a break from this noise for a few minutes?”

     She nodded and they retreated through the door and back up the steps into the night. Emma was relieved to be out of the suffocating basement. They walked a little way into the backyard. She looked up at the sky and identified the Big Dipper.

     He was watching her. “Nice night,” he said.

     “Yeah,” she said as she searched for Orion’s Belt. He chuckled. She looked at him. “What?”

     “Nothing.”

     “What do you mean, nothing? Say it.”

     “You’re different, that’s all.” Emma frowned. He quickly added, “I don’t mean weird-different. It was a compliment.”

     Their eyes met and Emma felt something she could not explain. Kyle leaned toward her, almost imperceptibly. The basement door opened, and two boys came up the steps and walked toward the street. Emma looked at her watch and was surprised to see that the time was 10:30 PM. “Oh shoot, I gotta go.”

     “You just got here.”

     “I know, I had to make a stop on the way over, I lost track of time. But we’re hitting the road at seven tomorrow. My dad’s a psycho about beating the traffic.”

     “Why don’t you Uber home?”

     “I prefer to walk.”

     Again, that chuckle. “I get it,” he said.

     “Did you hear about the guy who was hit by a train yesterday?” she blurted out.

     “Uh, yeah, I heard something about it. But I don’t know what happened.”

     “Yeah, me neither,” she said. She reflexively looked again up at the sky.

     He suppressed another laugh. “Hey, I should go back inside. Don’t want people gossiping.”

     “Sure,” she said.

     “See you next week?” he asked.

     “I’d like that,” she said. Again, their eyes met, and Emma feels that strangely familiar tug. He leans in and his lips met hers. She felt a jolt of exhilaration and then he pulled slightly away. They shared a smile, and she stammered, “Enjoy your Thanksgiving, Kyle.”

She quickly turned and started walking down the driveway. “You, too,” Kyle called from behind her. A few moments later, she heard the party noise louden as Kyle opened the basement door. Just as quickly, the door thumped shut and the noise dropped back to a low drone. As she walked down the street toward home, she looked up, slightly dizzy, and spotted Orion’s Belt. She wondered if Kyle was aware of Orion’s Belt.  

​

     She slept for most of the drive up the New York Thruway to her aunt and uncle’s house outside Albany, and when the crunch of car wheels on gravel awakened her, she lifted her head, disoriented, and was surprised to see they had arrived, her father parking the car at the apex of the semi-circle driveway. Her aunt and uncle lived in a split-level house, and she was glad that she would have the basement bedroom for herself. The front door opened and Aunt June and Uncle Charlie stepped outside and waved. Aunt June had a cane and stayed on the top step as Uncle Charlie walked down to greet the new arrivals. Emma swept a lock of hair from her face and got out of the car. She shivered in the cold air.

     “Alright, you made it,” Uncle Charlie said. Greetings were exchanged and Emma hugged her uncle and walked up the steps and hugged her aunt. “Hit any traffic?” Uncle Charlie asked.

     “Are you kidding?” Emma’s mother said, pointing a thumb at Emma’s father. “We left at the crack of dawn.”

​

     That evening at the dining room table, as the adults chatted over roast turkey, Emma’s thoughts drifted to Kyle, and she pictured him on some beach in Florida, getting tan. And thinking about her? She felt her uncle’s eyes on her. At a pause in the conversation, he asked, “Emma, what grade are you in now?”

     “I’m a junior, Uncle Charlie.”

     “Are you already a junior? Do you have a boyfriend?”

     “Oh, Charlie,” her Aunt June said. “Stop torturing the girl.”

     “It’s an innocent question,” Uncle Charlie said.

     “If Emma has a boyfriend, it’s news to us,” her father said.

     “I don’t have a boyfriend, Uncle Charlie,” Emma said.

     “Well, what the hell is the matter with the boys in your school?” Uncle Charlie asked.

     “Who are you kidding?” Emma’s father said. Turning to the wives, he added, “Charlie didn’t have a girlfriend until college.”

     “That’s ‘cause all the high school girls were interested in the sports jocks, like this guy here,” Uncle Charlie said, pointing a fork at Emma’s father.

     “I’m not sure I want to hear about my husband’s high school exploits,” Emma’s mother said.

     “Why don’t we change the subject to something else, like football,” Aunt June said.

     The adults laughed. “Well, I don’t know about football,” Emma’s mother said, “but June, this stuffing is to die for.”

     “The turkey ain’t bad, either,” Emma’s father said as he helped himself to another slice. Emma glanced out the window into the darkness. The Cheshire Cat was there again, grinning. When she turned, she locked eyes with Uncle Charlie. She had the unsettled feeling that she was being analyzed.

                                                           

     The next morning, she was awakened early by the rattling of her bedroom windows. She got out of bed and lifted a shade; sunlight filled the room, and she was surprised to see a thin layer of snow covering the grass. Dressing quickly, she went upstairs, her footsteps soundless on the carpet. When she entered the kitchen, she saw that there was a fresh pot of coffee in the coffee maker. She paused. The house was quiet. Perhaps someone prepared a pot and went back to bed. Emma was no stranger to the tantalizing smell of coffee; she discovered the brew’s allure the previous year during final exams. She opened cabinet doors until she found the coffee cups, filled one, and added a splash of half-and-half from the refrigerator. She took a sip and closed her eyes. From the dining room came the whispery rustle of someone turning a page of a newspaper. She crossed the kitchen and stepped into the doorway. Her Uncle Charlie was sitting there, facing her from across the dining room table, a newspaper spread out in front of him.

     “Good morning, Emma,” he said.

     “Hi, Uncle Charlie.” She walked into the dining room and sat opposite. She looked out the window into the backyard: a rough rectangle of snow-dusted grass ended abruptly against a wall of trees.  

     “First snow of the season last night,” said Uncle Charlie, following her gaze. “Early this year.” He took a sip of coffee. “There were some deer out there before. Fascinating how they can stay warm all night, no shelter.”

     “Yeah, you’d think they’d freeze,” Emma said. She stared at the trees forming the backyard boundary. She knew from past visits that beyond the backyard were a couple dozen acres of undeveloped forest, with enough swamp to qualify the entire parcel as a protected wetland.

     “What’s on your mind?” her uncle asked.

     Emma was taken aback. “Oh, nothing really,” she said. “I think I might go for a walk in a bit.”

     Uncle Charlie nodded. “Bundle up, it was below freezing at sunrise.”

     “Uncle Charlie, how well did you know my Uncle Fred?” Emma asked. She was as surprised by the question as Uncle Charlie was, and for a few moments they stared at each other.    

     Uncle Charlie’s face softened. “Oh, I suppose I knew him as well as anyone. Frankly, he wasn’t easy to get close to, your Uncle Fred.”

     “I barely remember him,” Emma said.

     “And for good reason. Most of the socializing has always been on your father’s side of the family. For various reasons, we didn’t see much of your mother’s side. But I always enjoyed Fred’s company when we did. He was quiet by nature, but he was a breath of fresh air at cocktail parties. He liked to cut through the typical chit chat – how’s work and what are the kids studying in school? All that crap. He liked to bring up edgier topics, like ‘why is racism growing in America?’ and ‘is college worth the cost of tuition anymore?’”  

     As her Uncle Charlie talked Emma tried to remember what her Uncle Fred looked like. She recalled a slim, tall man with a long face and closely cropped gray hair, and it struck her that among all the framed family photos in their house in New Jersey, there was not one with him in it.

     Uncle Charlie looks out the window. “The wind is dying down,” he said.

     “How did he do it, Uncle Charlie?” she asked. Uncle Charlie stared at her. “I’m sorry,” she said.

     He gave her a sympathetic look. “Don’t be sorry. There are too many secrets in this family, and you have a right to know. He was in his car in the garage, the engine running and the door closed.”

     Emma nodded. “No one ever told me. I forget how I even knew any of it.”

     “It is a difficult thing to talk about. You understand that, right?”

     “Yes.”

     Uncle Charlie leaned forward. “It was very hard on your mother at the time. She came to accept it, but there’s a scar.”

     “I understand,” Emma said. For a few moments, the only sound in the house was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the front hall. “I think I will go for that walk now,” Emma said.

​

     She saw clusters of deer droppings on the lawn as she walked across and into the woods. The wind had abruptly dissipated, and the trees were forlorn in the morning chill. After a few minutes of walking, she came to an expanse of ice in the forest. She stepped tentatively onto the ice. No sound. She playfully slide-stepped through the trees, stopping to kneel and peer through the ice at fallen leaves encased within. She was being watched. She looked up and met the eyes of a deer, a mature doe, standing at the edge of the ice about fifty feet away. The animal’s tail flicked, and Emma was close enough to see its nostrils quiver as it scented the air. Slowly, Emma stood and took her cell phone from her pocket, raised it to her eye, and stepped closer. Underfoot, a crack. She stepped again, a louder crack. She took another quick step and snapped the picture just before the deer bolted. Emma lost her balance, slipped and fell back on her rump, her phone sliding across the ice. She slowly rolled over and crawled to the phone and picked it up. She sat back on folded knees, swept the hair from her eyes, and looked at the picture she took. To her surprise, she captured the doe as it fled, the image a brown blur, save one eye that gleamed bright as a gem. She zoomed in on the eye and saw a flash of terror.

​

     “How was your walk?” Uncle Charlie asked as she stepped into the dining room. The four adults were sitting at the table, drinking coffee and eating bagels.

     “It was good,” she said. “I saw a deer.”

     “I thought you would,” Uncle Charlie said.

     “Want a bagel, Emma?” her mother asked.

     “Maybe later,” she said. She excused herself and headed to the bathroom, stopping in the hallway to massage the sore spot on her left buttock. A framed photograph on the wall drew her attention. She looked closer: it was a group photo of Emma’s parents and other relatives from that generation, everyone smiling at the camera except for one, a man in the back, taller than the rest, solemn, with blank eyes.

     “Uncle Fred,” Emma whispered.

​

     On the drive home, she ran a Google search of “Howard Franklin obituary” on her cell phone. A link to the obituary was returned:

​

     Howard Franklin, Columbia Law graduate, magna cum laude, died November 20th. He was a partner at Dodd, Franklin & Associates, where he specialized in Estate Planning and was recognized for his passion and commitment in helping his clients navigate the estate planning maze to ensure their assets are protected for themselves and their loved ones. A private gathering will be held on Sunday, November 25th…

​

     She stared out the window at the monochromatic landscape. A few moments passed and her cell phone buzzed. A text from Olivia: Hey girl, we’re meeting at the bench at 3ish today if you want to join us.

     She sat up and quickly typed a reply: I’m in - driving down from Albany, home around noon. She sent the message and again looked out the window, but with an enthusiasm that was lacking before. Her phone buzzed, Olivia again: Oh, and Kyle asked me for your phone number...I gave it to him, hope that’s ok. Emma put the phone down, felt her face flush, and looked out the window, beaming.

 

     The bench was an impressive crescent of granite blocks with a seat of slate slabs built almost a century earlier in tribute to some local icon of civil service. It sat halfway up the mountainside on the west end of town, nestled under a cluster of hemlocks alongside a wooded trail. Its builders probably envisioned a place where respectable citizens would sit and reflect on nature. Little did they know that over the decades, it would be known as a place where teenagers gathered to do whatever they wanted, even deface the stones with spray paint, which is what someone had done recently. Emma walked slowly up the trail leading to the bench. She was wearing the felt hat she had spontaneously taken at Olivia’s house, the hat that had belonged to Jackie. She heard them first, and a few moments she saw them: Olivia and Lauren were sitting on the bench and Kim was standing, her back to Emma, talking excitedly and gesturing with both hands. Lauren saw Emma first and nudged Olivia, who was crouched over something on the bench.

     Olivia looked up and Kim turned around. “Well, look whose back,” Kim said.

     “What’s up, girlfriends?” Emma said, stepping up to the bench and breathing heavily.

     “How was Albany?” Lauren asked.

     “Eh, it was okay. My aunt and uncle, you know.”

     “I can imagine,” Kim said.

     Olivia straightened and displayed a small pipe, a different one from the glass pipe they had used up in her bedroom. This pipe appeared to be made of brass and looked new. “Just in time, Em,” she said as she flicked a lighter and produced an oval flame. It was clear she was imitating her older sister as she lit the bowl and passed it to Lauren. Emma was uneasy. She was still gauging where she stood with her three friends and introducing the effects of marijuana to the situation was not helpful. When the pipe was passed to her, she took a small hit and felt the familiar burning in her lungs. Quickly, she exhaled and passed the bowl to Kim.

     “You and Kyle seemed to be getting along the other night,” Lauren said.  

     “We had a nice talk,” Emma said.

     “A nice talk, isn’t that sweet?” Olivia said as she took the bowl from Lauren.

     Emma stared at her best friend. Never had she heard Olivia speak in a snarky tone about anyone – that was the domain of Lauren and Kim – and as Olivia refilled the pipe for a second round, Emma sensed that the square of friendship that had existed between the four of them was turning into a triangle.

     “I didn’t see you at the party,” Emma blurted, looking at Kim. “Or David, for that matter.”

     “They found each other,” Lauren said, suppressing a squeal of laughter.

     “Oh, they found each other, alright,” Olivia said, exhaling a funnel of blue smoke.

     Emma tried to reestablish the square: “Well, good for both of us,” she said, turning to Kim. “Sisters in arms.” She raised her hand. Kim shrugged and gave her a high-five.

     “But you have some catching up to do, Emma,” Olivia said with a grin.

     “Okay,” Kim said, pointing at Olivia and Lauren. “You two shut up.” She turned to Emma. “We’ll talk later, when the children are not in the room.”

     Olivia and Lauren both giggled, and Emma was not sure she wanted to know what Kim and David did on Wednesday night, but Kim’s willingness to confide in her in private may be an opportunity to restore the four-way friendship. The bowl came back around.           “I’m good,” Emma said.

     “Why the change of heart?” Olivia asked.

     “She’s afraid she’ll see another vision,” Lauren said. The three girls laughed, and Emma saw the triangle lock in place. Just then, male voices were heard from further up the trail, young and boisterous and growing louder. A few moments later, three older boys emerged from the woods. Two of them were wearing baseball caps turned backwards and the third boy had a thermos tucked under his arm like a football.

     “Well, hello Olivia,” said one of the boys wearing a baseball cap.

     “Hey, Kirk,” Olivia said.

     “How’s Jackie?” Kirk asked.

     “She’s good, home for Thanksgiving.”

     “Tell her I say hi,” Kirk said. He introduced his friends, but Emma instantly forgot their names. The boy with the thermos said, “You girls thirsty? Vodka and lemonade.”

     “I’ll take a swig,” said Kim. The boy handed Kim the thermos. She drank and passed it to Lauren.

     “How about a smoke to go with it?” Olivia asked, holding up the pipe.

     The three boys looked at each other, grinning. “Now we’re talking,” Kirk said, and in short order, the thermos and the pipe were making the rounds.  

     Emma felt trapped. When the thermos was handed to her, she took a small sip. It was a potent mix, and she suppressed a grimace at the taste of vodka. Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She took the phone out and saw that there was a text from Kyle: Hey Emma, greetings from sunny Florida (I hope it’s okay that I am texting you). A picture was attached: Kyle in a swimsuit and t-shirt, smiling under a palm tree. She took a few steps down the trail and typed her reply: Hi Kyle, great to hear from you. Wish I was there. Don’t get sunburned. Oh, and what day do you fly back north?

     She sent the text and looked back at the bench: the group had formed a closed circle of impromptu partying, and no attention was paid to her. She raised her cell phone to her ear, mimicking a phone call, and started walking down the hill, hoping one of her friends would call her back. But the only sound from the bench was raucous laughter. She took a few more steps and broke into a run.  

​

     For the first time since freshman year in high school, Emma stayed home on a Saturday night, holed up in her room with Hazel to keep her company. She had not received any texts from Lauren, Kim, or Olivia since she left them at the bench, and the apparent loss of their friendship was an aching lump in her stomach. Even if they did reach out to her, she sensed that she would not fit in with them again. Not unless she changed. Not unless she smoked pot. And then there was Kyle. If not for him, she would be alone, with only her thoughts and her cat to keep her company. She lay back on her bed, closed her eyes and pictured the stretch of caution tape fluttering in the darkness beside the railroad tracks. She dozed off. Her phone buzzed on her bed. Her eyes opened and her stomach tightened. Maybe the three of them talked and agreed to offer their wayward friend an olive branch of sorts. Maybe Kim borrowed her dad’s car, and they want to know if she wants them to pick her up and go to a party. But when she picked up her phone, she saw that the text was from Kyle: Hey, sorry I missed you earlier. I get home Monday night (missing a day of school). I will ping you when I’m back in town, okay? She sat up and replied: Sounds good, looking forward to it. She sent the text and dropped the phone on the bed. To her surprise, she was disappointed that the message had not been from one of her girlfriends. “So,” she said, leaning over and stroking Hazel’s back, “it really is over.” Hazel watched her through half-closed eyes and purred.  

​

     The next day, Sunday, Emma did not want to leave her room. She browsed social media, read a few chapters of a book, and completed some homework. Restless, she looked out the window. A crow landed on a branch high up in a tree in the backyard. Silhouetted against the gray sky, it cawed twice. She picked up her cell phone and again pulled up the obituary of Howard Franklin. The service was at 11 AM. Tomorrow, a new work week would begin, and the world would move forward with one less lawyer fighting the good fight. She looked at her watch: 1:25 PM. She grabbed her coat, pet Hazel for a few seconds, and dashed out of the room.  

     She stood at the top of Prescott Street. It was familiar to her now, comforting even. She walked down the sidewalk and stopped again in front of the pedestrian gate. The air was cold. She looked over at the caution tape wrapped around the shrub, and it occurred to her that it would remain there until someone removed it. She took a step toward the railroad tracks but stepped back as a car slowly approached and pulled over on the other side of the crossing. A woman and a teenage girl got out. They both wore black, the girl in a knee-length dress and a jacket, the woman in a pants suit. The girl was slim and held a bouquet of flowers. The woman was heavy-set, her face round and fleshy. They walked alongside the tracks to the cleanly swept patch of ground. The woman eyed the caution tape. She stepped over, snatched it from the shrub and stuffed it in her pocket. The girl knelt and placed the bouquet on the patch of ground. She stood and they joined hands and bowed their heads. As though on an unspoken cue, they turned together and walked back to the car. As the woman opened the driver side door, she looked across the tracks and saw Emma. Their eyes locked for a moment, and then woman ducked into the car, gunned the engine, did a U-turn and drove away. Emma took a few steps and looked down the tracks at the bouquet of flowers.

​

     The hallways of the high school were empty. A bell rang, its tone shrill. Classroom doors opened and students poured out into the hall. Emma moved swiftly through the noisy throng, talking to no one. She exited through the main entrance and cut across the lawn, knapsack slung across her shoulders. The route she took was familiar, a headwind urging her to turn around and go home. Clinching her knapsack tighter, she plodded on and within thirty minutes was standing at the top of the semi-circle driveway. The black SUV was parked by the front door. The house looked different in daylight. Like an open book. She fidgeted with one of the straps of her knapsack, unsure of what to do. The front door opened, and the teenage girl came out and got into the SUV. Emma stepped behind a tree at the curb. She heard the car approaching and ducked her head. When she looked up, the car was fading down the road.    

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