"You're serious?" I say, thinking maybe I came in on this conversation late and I'm confused.

    "It's in the Bible," Mrs. Stern said.

    I want to retort. I want to say; you've got to be fucking mad. O.K. so I'm not a Christian, but Jews, even Jews like me, Kevin Rosencrantz, who never make it to the synagogue, believe Jesus was a great man. O.K. So, he wasn't all there. He thought he was the savior come down to earth. We all have our faults. Some people believe in him. All right, I'll admit he had long hair and wore sandals, but so does my grandma and she's not a pot smoker. This woman is one crazy bitch, I think to myself. I say the only thing I can say. "The food smells great. When do we eat?"

    This raving lunatic obviously has her own, very unique interpretation of the Bible. I own a Bible. That's where the similarities end.
  

  So, she goes on. "The Bible talks about flying saucers. In the Old Testament . . ." She closes her eyes and quotes the verse. "God said to Moses: When you go and lie with your ancestors, this nation shall rise up and stray after the alien gods of the land into which they are coming. They will thus abandon Me and violate the covenant that I have made with them. I will then display anger and abandon them. I will hide My face from them and they will be [their enemies'] prey. Beset by many evils and troubles, they will say, 'It is because my God is no longer with me that these evils have befallen me.' On that day I will utterly hide my face because of all the evil that they have done in turning to alien gods."
   

     Deuteronomy 31:16-18
 

    I am shocked. I choke. She has quoted 'the verse' -- actually three verses -- the only verses that I know from the Bible. My grandfather taught me those verses

    He said on his death -bed, "Kevin, if you remember nothing else," he said with his hand tightly gripping mine. "Remember this. Never lose sight of who you are. You are a Hebrew, a Jew, a son of Abraham. And just because you are, people will hate you. Don't lose faith Kevin. Never lose sight of the fact that you are one of God's chosen people." Then my grandfather quoted 'the verse,' 'the verse' that predicts the holocaust, 'the verse' that warns us (the Jewish people) that if we lose our faith, the persecution will happen again. He made me repeat it and promise to learn it by heart. I promised. I held this dying man's hand with a promise that I would learn 'the verse' and keep it forever with me as a warning. Then my grandfather asked, "Is the nurse wearing a bra?" Those were his last words. I held his Torah in my hands looking down at the Dvarim. The verses were written in Hebrew, but the margin was written, Deuteronomy 31:16-18. I bought a bible that day.

    And here is Mrs. Stern stepping on the only thing I have ever half way believed in. I believed every word my grandfather said when he quoted 'the verse.' And now this woman has turned it into something ugly. Just because these verses have the word alien in them she has manipulated them to mean actual aliens from outer space are going to come down and swallow us whole. Never mind about that. This woman is a Jew hating, alien loving, pot smoking demon from the lower bowels of Hell. She has to be stopped. I have to say something. This is 'the verse,' 'the verse' that predicts the holocaust, 'the verse' that says Jews will die because they have grown apart from God. And people like Frieda Stern and Craig (Hitler's Grandson) Brown will be the evil that falls upon us. I have got to stop her before the slaughter begins.

    "Is there rosemary in this lasagna?" I say.

    Gilda and Mrs. Stern look at me in disbelief.

    The one thing I have learned about crazy people is this: if they start going on and on, you've got to agree, sound interested or change the subject. A contradiction or argument could make them angry. You do not want to make a crazy person angry.
 

   "You know of course," Mrs. Stern says. "You know that we are protected?"

    Oh great, I think. Now she's gonna bring the United States Constitution into this. She's going to tell me how America says she has the right to hate whomever she wants. Her words are flat and meaningless to me. An anger has welled up inside, taken over every cell of my body. She has quoted 'the verse.' Hell will freeze over and I will be proclaimed Saint Kevin Rosencrantz before I forgive her.

    "Angels," she says. "Guardian Angels, they sit on our shoulders, protect us from harm."

    "Never Again!"I say. The words are a scream in my mind but barely audible to my ears. Gilda looks my way. I can feel her stare even though I don't return the look. "Never Again!" The words throb madly in my temples, but are still barely audible.

    "I have a picture of mine," Mrs. Stern says.

    "Never again!" My jaw is clenched so tightly that my teeth are about to crumble under the pressure.

    "Mom," Gilda says. "Why don't you show Kevin? Mom has a picture of her guardian angel. She had it drawn at the Psychic Fair last week."

    O.K. I just want to let you know that the anger is not gone. After all, she did quote 'the Verse,' 'the Verse' that predicts the death of six million Jews and the further persecution that is going on right here, but Gilda has thrown me off.

    "Psychic Fair," I say. "I didn't know they had those." Mrs. Stern has gotten up to go get the picture. Oh my God, I think. All the psychos together in one place, that spells Freudian paradise doesn't it.

    There is a long silent pause. I can hear myself breathing. I concentrate on breathing in and out slowly. I can feel my pulse beating in my throat. The air seems cold around me, cold and thick. I hold Gilda's hand under the table hoping a human touch will calm me down.
 

    "Answer me this," I say to Gilda, trying to break away the ice that hangs in the air. "Why show up to a psychic fair if you already know everything that is going to happen while you are there?"

    Mrs. Stern walks back into the room. The anger rushes back into me like a tidal wave. "Never again," I mutter with my jaw clenched. I can feel a pulse beating a violent rhythm in my head. "Never again," I say, this time louder.

    "I've got the picture," says Mrs. Stern with a happy lift in her voice that is obviously fake. She holds out a pastel picture in front of her, a picture of her Guardian Angel.

    "NEVER AGAIN!" The room echoes with my voice. The wine glasses on the dinner table threaten to shatter. Gilda is looking at me in complete confusion like a puppy scolded for the first time. Mrs. Stern is about to cry. Her heavy body trembling, she looks like a bowel of Jell-O riding in a car with no shocks. There is a horror stricken look on her face, like Don Ho hearing Metallicca for the first time.

    "Never again," I say in soft conversational tone. "Never again," I say with a laugh in my voice. My voice cracks. "Never again will I . . . " I pause to think.

   "Never again will I taste lasagna this good."

    The horrified look drops off of Mrs. Sterns face. Now, she just looks puzzled, like Edith Bunker realizing her husband is a bigot. Gilda looks at me and starts to laugh. The laugh is forced, a little too nervous and hysterical to be real. Mrs. Stern turns to look at her daughter. Gilda's nervous laugh becomes a little more relaxed. Soon, Mrs. Stern is laughing with her.

    Have pity on him; Gilda tells her mother with her eyes. Their laughs are fraudulent, like a psychiatrist laughing at a patient's joke about suicide.

   I'll laugh if you do, Mrs. Stern says back to her daughter with a slight cackle in her laugh. I am Alice, trapped in Wonderland, being heckled by the Mad Hatter. Yes, here I am being called crazy by their fake laughter, and these two are talking about seeing their Guardian Angels and Jesus smoking pot. Well, if I'm crazy, then hallelujah; at least, I won't be gobbled by space aliens. I'll stay here and eat lasagna. Only one problem there.

    The lasagna is burnt; the cheese is black on the top. The center is cold. I look up at Gilda and smile. I put my hand on her leg a gesture that says, O.K. enough is enough. I think about commenting on how good the lasagna is again.

    The laughter stops. The house is dead quiet, like a mausoleum. I should be scared. I should be afraid, very afraid. Instead -- every fiber of my being tells me I should be scared shitless by the silence -- Instead I take this time off from the insanity to look around.

  The house is cluttered: old books standing in piles, extension cords leading from small appliances to overloaded circuits, stacks of manila folders filled way beyond capacity sitting on top of a file cabinet that looks like it has never been used, what must be a hundred empty hangers hanging off the back of several of the dining room chairs. And laying amongst the clutter, somewhere in between the books and old, unused magazines, somewhere beyond the piles of folded laundry that hide once used furniture, is a dog named Shorty, and two identical black cats named Pitter and Patter. I know of the animals because I have seen them outside. Once they are inside, they are like me, lost among the clutter.

    I look back at Gilda. She and Mrs. Stern are staring at me. They say with their eyes; Don't you feel uncomfortable? You're the crazy one here. I refuse to bend, refuse to become uncomfortable on command. I am not their play toy. I am not their puppet on a string. I am not their Hebrew slave. Then she does it. Mrs. Stern pulls out the heavy artillery. She reveals the picture. Of course, by this time I know three things: Mrs. Stern is certifiably crazy, she hates me and all Jews, and Mrs. Stern is certifiably crazy. So, the picture, the picture I see in front of me should not bother me, but this woman is certifiably crazy and she hates Jews, and this picture hangs above her bed.

  Oh, yeah. One more thing. The picture is of me. Gilda starts to giggle and then covers her mouth. She looks over at me. She has her mouth covered, but I can still see the biggest stupidest looking grin on her face.

    I force myself not to look angry.

    "What?" Mrs Stern asks, feeling left out of the joke.

    Gilda looks at her mother then back at me as if to get approval. She turns back to her mom before I have the chance to react. "It's him Mom. It's Kevin, stinking, Rosencrantz. It's Kevin in some sort of silly angel robe."

    "Well, I'll be damned," says Mrs. Stern. "My angel looks just like you. You have an Astral twin, Kevin." "Hey, Kevin," Gilda says. “Maybe my mom has one guardian angel sitting on her shoulder and another next to her at the table."

   Now, I am frightened, as I should be. I am very, very frightened.

   Wait. Maybe Gilda and her Mom were right. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe they are the sane ones talking about Aliens and guardian angels. Maybe I am the crazy one for just being here. Or maybe I am not here at all. Maybe this is all just a terrible dream. Maybe Big Mrs. Stern and my batty girlfriend Gilda are just figments of my imagination. Or maybe all of this is real and I should find the quickest and safest route out of this concentration camp.

    I need a drink in the worst way. I grab the nearest thing to me, my glass of red wine. I gulp it down like it's cold milk. I almost choke when I realize what it is. This is no ordinary red wine, no Merlot, no Cabernet Sauvignon, no Zinfandel. No. This Wine is Kosher. This is Jewish wine, prepared by Jewish hands, blessed by a Rabbi, nectar of the Hebrew Gods. And it tastes like shit. Oh yeah, real Jewish wine. Jewish wine, the good kind, tastes like Black strap molasses with a tinge of wine flavor. And this is not the good kind of Jewish wine. It probably took Mrs. Stern an hour to pour this in my cup. My tongue threatens to retreat into my throat. I gag, partially out of surprise, but mostly out of taste.

   "Are you O.K.?" Gilda asks.

    "The Wine," I say. Gilda stares. My tongue is numb with the flavor. I wonder whether or not she understood.

   "I thought you were Jewish," she says. "You are Jewish, aren't you?"

    I nod. "Yes," I say. I try to think of a Jewish holiday that falls around July twelfth. "What are we celebrating?" I ask.

  "Having another Jew in the house," says Mrs. Stern. I suddenly notice a Star of David hanging around her neck.

Wild Cherries
By Lydia Suarez

             Ten visitors on each of the tours was not bad for a weekend in February.  Claire envisioned each admission as a batch of plaster for the architect.  She drove home along a winding landscape of silver clouds, firs embraced by mist and fog rising from barren fields.  The thaw had sprung waterfalls that puddled the roads.  By tonight, it would be frozen over. She saw Jim's car as she pulled into the driveway.  He was home early from the business trip.  She was glad she had stopped to get his dry cleaning and provi sions.   

            Claire began volunteering with the preservation group when they were fighting to have the property declared a historical landmark and wrestle it away from the greedy clutches of a developer.  A century before the home had been the grandest of all the winter residences in the region known as the "Inland Newport."  Later, sold by the heirs of a railroad magnate, the house incarnated into a summer resort where it languished into disrepair during the remaining seasons.  Then the lost years when it stayed vacant until the cult overran the property.   

            "You up there?" she called from the base of the stairs.

            "I'll be down momentarily," he answered.  "Look on the kitchen table."  She pictured tulips.  Whatever Jim was doing, he would not be down until it was finished.     

            The lion on the kitchen table stood two foot tall.  Stone and sphinx-like on a pedestal, it stared back at her.  How could Jim have found it she thought flush with panic?  He never went in the attic.  Clutter made him sick.  Claire had meant to return it.  

She heard Jim coming down the steps.  The same steps she had skimmed as a teenager with only her toes bouncing off the edges.  Jim planted each foot in a rhythm that had worn down the same spots, like the contours of their perfectly ordered lives: kids in college, retirement funds, a four wheel drive.  The lion could end all that.  She remembered her mother now long gone, "Your behavior could ruin everything Claire," she had cried.  "Don't you understand how hard I've worked to get all this for us?"

            "Looks like a wish come true," Jim said kissing her cheek and taking the groceries.  "Another victory for the restoration project."  He set the bag on the counter.  Claire sat down at the table.

"Boston lettuce, not Romaine," he said proudly.  "I see you've been listening."

            "I don't know how it got there," she said.

            "Of course you don't," he said fishing in the bag.  "I stopped at the florist.”  Jim popped a grape in his mouth. 

            "Not them," she said.  She stroked a cold yellow petal.

            "Granny Smiths," he said with a disapproving groan.  "Why didn't you get Pippins?  These may not be tart enough."

            "That's all they had."  Actually, she had grabbed the green apples closest to her cart.  

            "That's really something to find it after all this time," Jim said.

            "I can explain," she said.  Jim cut a wedge with the paring knife. 

            "It's all right," they're a bit too sweet, but they'll have to do."  Jim slammed another cabinet door, "I personally hung the hook," he said.  He sighed as he pushed aside a tower of pots.  "Explain why you can't hang a cutting board.  There's no reasonable explanation for that."

            "No, the lion."
            "No need."  If you recall, it was I who assisted you ladies with the court battle.  You've been my personal tour guide," he said.  "That lion is one of two that graced the Carrara marble fireplace in the grand reception hall where the moguls of society mingled," he recited.  Jim reached for the Japanese chopping knife. 

            "I didn't know.  I was young Jim."
            "Weren't we all?" he said.  "This celery is anemic."

            "It was already washed," she said in her defense.  Jim rocked the knife back and forth with a finesse she wished he possessed elsewhere.

            "There's no fern hair on this," he said.  "It's practically white.  You don't feel young anymore?"

            She hadn't felt young in decades.  "It wasn't something I would do now or ever again," she said.

            "Don't be so hard on yourself," he said with a reassuring nod.  “The lion looks good for a hundred years old," Jim said.

            "One of the perks of not being alive," she replied.  "I hope you can forgive me."
            "Darling Claire," you're still as silly as when we met.  I forgive you for the apples and the celery," he said dropping them into the bowl.  "Just remember no produce in bags, ever."

            "The lion Jim," she began.  She would just blurt it out and spare herself his cross-examination.  Tell him most of it.  I was sixteen.  He was always leading me to do things.  She would skip the part about being madly in love and the yearning that felt like physical pain.  She wouldn't mention that for the entire summer she had sneaked back home hiding grass stains on her back.  Or that that the night in question, Eddie had been taking the second lion to the car while she waited inside.  That the flashlight beams had paralyzed her while he had gotten away.  That a call from her stepfather had it dismissed.  That her mother hadn't talked to her for a month.  That no record existed but everyone knew.  Judge Warnock's daughter had been arrested for trespassing into the abandoned mansion.

            "Aren't you going to read the note," Jim said. 

            Claire poked the tulips, "I can't find it; maybe they didn't attach it to the bouquet." 

He swung his head back from the refrigerator door, "Why would I write you a note?"  He sniffed the mayonnaise.  "Unless you have a secret admirer we don't know about," he said with a chuckle. 

Jim came over to the table.  "He's mighty heavy," he said.  "It was tough to carry him in from the porch where he was patiently waiting for you."  Jim tilted the lion revealing the envelope.  

She instantly recognized the left-handed slant.  It was the same as the handwriting on the napkin.  The one Eddie had slipped to her at the restaurant where she had convinced her mother to let her waitress.  Before her mother could make her quit the job and banish Eddie, he had managed to pass her the message.  When she had gone home and looked under her porch, she found her half of their future.   For thirty years she had hidden her lion like a dead body in a Poe story. 

            "What's the note say?"  Jim asked.  "I wonder if the dishes are chilled enough." 

Claire had no idea about plate temperatures.  She tore the envelope.  "Why don't you check them," she said buying time. 

Claire read to herself, "In town and read you're on  the executive board for the gilded mansion.  Congratulations."  When he had stolen the pair, Eddie had promised, "Someday they'll be on our mantle." 

            "Did you make the reservation?"  Jim asked.

            "I totally forgot."

            "Damn it Claire.  Can't you do anything?" he snapped. 

            "I'll do it right now," she offered.

            "Don't bother.  You've done enough damage.  I was counting on taking him there."  Jim headed for his den.  

            Claire unfolded the note again: heavy bond with a Beacon Hill address and a PhD after his name.  She read his last line, "Now they can finally be together.  Regards, Edward."

            "Well they had nothing of course but when I told them we were taking the Judge, they conceded a six."  Jim arranged the leaves in concentric circles.  He was still trying to impress her Dad.

            "He'll be pleased," Claire said.  Her father didn't always remember who she was anymore.

            "Just need the walnuts," he said sticking his arm to the bottom of the bag.  "You know they weren't added in the original Waldorf recipe."

            "Really?"  He told her this every single time he made the salad.

            "What's this?" he said pulling out the bag.  "Dried cherries," he exclaimed. "My  wife the rebel," Jim said.  "They're not traditional." He poured the elixir that would  plump them from their shriveled state.  "But sometimes we need to be a little wild, don't we Claire?"