See No Evil

“Some people swore that the house was haunted. But not anymore. Now it’s just 

another law office.“ The guide chuckles and rattles on, taking the occasional sip from his 

“This tour is not worth the $30,” Sid complains to his girlfriend. Sid and Sophie 

continue to wander the historic streets of Savannah on the last leg of their combined 

pub-crawl and ghost tour, the Georgia air clinging to them like the hanging moss on the 

southern oaks lining the streets. 

“Ah… this is mah favorite part,” explains the tour guide with enough accent to be 

endearing but not annoying. Does he practice that? Sid wonders. The guide waves his 

hands in a giant circle. 

“What don’t you see? Any of that hanging moss.” The guide is right. Around the 

square, there are the usual benches, brick paths, city vagrants, but not a trace of moss. 

Sid forces himself to hear bits and pieces of the guide’s story about William Wise, a 

slave owner from the 18th century. Wise beat his slaves, raped them, made them bathe 

him every day. One day, the slaves had enough. They saw Wise smirking in his slave-
drawn bath water and snapped. Husband and wife slaves held Wise’s smug face under 

the water for as long as it took. They fled town only to be dragged back. The husband 

was executed, but Alice the wife pleaded for her life. She was pregnant. With Wise’s 

baby. She waited out the pregnancy, and then was hanged in this same square over 

three days. Her baby died weeks later.

“And so,” the guide finished, “there’s no moss cuz it don’t grow where the blood 

of innocent lies. Look here-- this part is new.” He points to a wooden mausoleum-looking 

shack on the edge of the square. “Go in this box, even the unbelievers swear they 

hear Alice’s voice wailing and searching for her baby. Your turn.” The guide leads the 

skeptical Sid to the door. Sid can’t embarrass himself by asking for company and takes 

a step inside. 

The heat envelops him before he even closes the door. His collar feels tight. 

Man, it’s a sauna. He takes a long draw on his beer and feels it goes down like sand. 

Then he hears the scratching. “Sophie?” he pants. The poor construction of the hut is 

more like a sauna than Sid realizes. “…Alice?” he calls, not believing his own ears when 

he calls the name. Another scratch, followed by the sound of tattered rope dragging 

in the dirt. The last thing Sid remembers is a pair of eyes staring at him from a moss-
draped figure holding an empty shawl where a baby should have been.

But it’s the ambulance sirens that Sophie remembers. She remembers the 

guide morphing from endearing host into frantic accuser. “It’s too hot this time!” He’s 

screaming in his phone. “I know you said it’s fine, but we may lose this one.”

“This one?” Sophie wonders. The aimless happy hour conversation of the tour’s 

other members is long silent. 

The guide continues yelling over the deafening sirens. “Of course heat stroke 

makes you have hallucinations… Yeah that’s our product, we sell an experience. But 

damn man, forcing heat stroke for a little added experience was bound to go too far. A 

cup of water and a free t-shirt ain’t gonna solve this mess.”

The moss-less trees block out the streetlights, with the departing sirens casting 

swirling shadows over abandoned cups. The guide stares on in disbelief, thinking that 

Alice is the least of his worries.

Nothing was ever the same again after that.

Punctuality

The laughter subsides, and Nathan continues with the story in his happy-hour-hoarse voice, “and then the text goes on, ‘…quitting job. Going to fla/tampa right now. Sorry for letting you down. Need a education, a car w a heater, my dog. A affordable place to live… And ultim. A salary 5 times higher.’” Nathan finishes reading/shouting the text from his phone, grimacing at the poor grammar, but loving that the story gets better the more times he tells it. 

“Wait, so this guy really did that? He was late to the meeting in Philly and then just drove straight to Florida?” Inquires Jess.

“Yessir. But here’s the best part—“ Nathan’s friends wait for the ending of a story that already has them in tears. “I showed the texts to my boss during the presentation, saying, ‘Uh… I don’t think Justin is going to show up,’ and right then, my boss stands up in the middle of the meeting, opens his phone, calls HR, and tells them Justin is no longer with the company. Ridiculous!”Nathan and his friends grab the bucket of tasteless “genuine” beer from the waiter and huddle around their circular table like camp kids at a fire.

“Nathan, man,” Jess continues. “That Justin will be missed though. He did so much for the company.”

“Yeah, like what?” Nathan was genuinely curious.

“He left us this priceless story!” Drops of beer splash on the already-sticky table as the laughter begins again.

With the bucket of longnecks depleted and stories cycling back to where they started, the group disperses, and Nathan and Jess head back to their cars. 

“You okay to drive?” Jess asks.

“Please. I’ve been a lot more messed up than this.”

“Alright, hotshot. See you tomorrow.” Jess blows a half-hearted kiss, which turns into a hand catching her slightly off-balance approach to her car and climbs in. Like every driving school teaches you, she does the first thing you aught to when you get in the car. She checks her phone.

“See ya.” Nathan folds himself into his new GLI and winds his way back to his apartment. “Justin…” he mumbles. 

Wondering what Justin has been doing, months after the infamous texts, Nathan pictures Justin with his dog and a still-sputtering car, driving around Florida. He pictures Justin reuniting with his parents, smiling as he pulls into a familiar driveway, recollecting his impromptu fourteen-hour drive down 95. He pictures Justin easing into the bed Justin slept in so many nights growing up. 

Pulling into his own place, Nathan unlocks the door, kicks the trash bags to the side, opens the refrigerator, and finds himself scrolling through his contact list, one name at a time. 
 

He pictures Justin with his family and friends, back in a native setting. Justin tells his own story of corporate life and missing a meeting and ending up back where he really belongs, not chasing someone else’s dream. Nathan imagines the genuine smiles of Justin’s family and the contented bark of Justin’s dog.

Missed connections

This morning, I was walking to church and saw a note attached to a styrofoam Starbucks cup with some tea bags hanging down. The note read, "John- I found your passport. Give me a call, 602-358-4274." It was such an important message but left so innocuously, it made me wonder. What could the situation possibly have been behind this note? I made a resolution to try and get a novel done by the end of the year, but this seemed like the perfect prompt for a short story. So here goes-
______________________________________________________________________________

There's nothing like mid-January in the Northeast to sap your energy. You see discarded Christmas trees littering parking lots, icicles clinging to cars that are practically colorless, covered with sand, salt and whatever else is dumped on the roads to keep traffic moving. It's a desolate scene when you look out the window, but inside, attitudes still have the peripheral warmth of the holidays. John looks up from his computer to glance at the clock.

"I gotta get going soon. It's almost 3."
"You'll be fine John, just print your boarding pass and we'll head out in a minute," his girlfriend Maria responds.
"Dammit, it's an international flight, you know that's not possible. Especially with all this underwear-bomber ridiculousness. They're gonna take as long as possible to let me through security. Who schedules a meeting in Jordan anyway?"

The stress of a State Department relationship always seems to arise unexpectedly. You realize when you're given the opportunity, that it's not an ordinary position, and since it's something you've worked toward your whole life, it's a given that that you will accept whatever position you are offered. Who knew Maria would have such a hard time finishing her degree. The planned move to a job in Costa Rica had to be postponed so Maria could finish her Master's of Public Policy. I agreed to delay my assignment for a few months, but Maria's advisor kept pushing back her thesis defense to squeeze a few more hours from his last remaining student. Not that it was entirely out of Maria's hands, but she had also been dragging her feet in finishing up. So now, the Costa Rica spot is gone, and the only available opportunity is in Jordan. Amman it is. Who could say no?

"Did you see the pictures from the trip?" Maria called. "They came out great. I keep saying this, but I just wish we could freeze time as easily as it is to do with a camera. Oh... did you get your tea leaves from the kettle?"
"Mmmph."
"What?"
"Mmm... yeah, great pictures. Tea? I already have a mug. OK, let's go. I don't want to be late."

John and Maria pile John's things into the car, pull away from the coveted townhouse parking space, and pull out slowly. The hybrid electric car is eerily quiet as the electric engine powers the car completely from zero to ten miles an hour. Only the crunching gravel and browned pine needles crunch loud enough to let you know that the car is actually moving. It will be ten months before John can return again to the States. There are so many things left unsaid in the car, it almost seems necessary to roll the windows down to relieve some of the anxiety. 

"Why did you did it?" John asks.
"The tea leaves? I thought they were old enough to throw out." Maria responds. Why does she do this? John thinks. She knows exactly what I'm talking about. 
"Not the tea leaves. The passport. Why did you take my passport?" John wasn't going to ask the full question right away. It was already stressful enough.
"I... I didn't want you to go. I walked by your bag yesterday and saw it sticking out. I don't know, I just had it in my hands before I realized. Flipping through all of the pages, reliving our vacations through the stamps of customs agents. It was like a photo album. I couldn't let go of it."
"Most people would just put it back in the bag at that point."
"I know! I thought I would take it for a while and then put it back. I walked away after putting it in my purse. And then... I went for a walk. Around the new waterfront area. You know that new place that sells the fudge? I was walking up and down the sidewalk, thinking how I could make the last few hours with you manageable..."

John sighed. Maria was not taking this time apart well at all. But what could he do? There's no way he can request another post now. Damn Jordan. If it was some place he actually wanted to be, he could deal with it. But Jordan? The only ally the US has in that area. Doesn't mean the people there like us there any more. Why does the US care if a bunch of Israeli diplomats just avoided a terrorist attack. Any little event and the government gets scared. What kind of a place is that? 

"I could go for some fudge right now. Man, that's one of the things I know I'll miss. That mess won't last in the desert."
"John..."
"I know, I know. So what happened?"
"I kept walking and walking... getting angrier and angrier. I needed a tissue and opened my purse. And that's when it happened. I saw the passport. I saw the flag on the pier. I hated it. I hated our country, thinking we could go anywhere, and do whatever. I hated watch lists and clearance lists and visa lists that wouldn't let me spend a whole ten months you. I hated my advisor and his incapacity to meet a deadline. And before I knew it, the passport was in the water. I..." Maria isn't even focusing on the road anymore. Why was she driving in the first place? 

"Jesus. So that was your plan? Throw it in the water and hope everything flushes away into some oceanic drain? Why didn't you tell me you lost it? Why are we even driving to the airport? What's your plan now?" John can't believe what he's hearing. Maria told him the passport was in the car, but that she had ripped a few pages out. It didn't seem like a big deal, but now he knew exactly how tortured Maria had been the past few hours. "Get off here. Maria, get off the highway."

"What? We can ask the TSA at the airport... we can show them your license and your visa and... and..."
"Get. Off. Here."

Maria pulls off I-66 and eases to a stop. The same eerie green-policy-induced silence. You never thought the sound of an engine could have been missed so much. 
"Drop me off at Matt's. It's right up this hill."
"John, we can..."
"Maria, do you know what this holdup is going to do to me? To my job? To the damn State Department? We switched from buying refundable tickets last week. And now, whatever travel changes come out of our own pocket. It's going to be 2, 3 thousand. NNgghh... I don't even care about the ticket. I'm done. My first assignment, and I can't even leave the damn country."
"John, don't go."
"I'll see you Maria. Drive safe." John gets out of the car and glances at the Hickory Muse sign identifying the complex of condos. I wonder how much the home-owners association paid for that, John wonders absent-mindedly. Matt opens the door and the two disappear.

Maria is in shock. She never intended any of this. She glances at the bag in the back and wonders when John will miss most of his things. She knows she can only hope for his call. 

But there may be a chance.

"What if?..." She wonders aloud. Before she realizes it, she has turned around, floored it back to the highway and is looking for a parking spot by the harbor. 

A few hours later, after repeatedly banging on the door and ringing the doorbell at Matt's place, she is too exhausted and soaked to attempt further contact. She hastily writes a note, wondering if John even knows her number by heart with all the stuff he has going through his head for work. She places the note on top of a cup of his favorite tea and pulls away, with only the grunge of month-old snow and ice providing the soundtrack of her exit.

"John- I found your passport. Give me a call, 602-358-4274."