The Crash Heard Round the World by Donna Pingry

She had to die and it was my job to do it. Plus it had to look like an accident.

My name is Sam and you'll have to excuse me if I don't fill in all the blanks for you. It's not everyday that I get an assignment to knock off the world's most famous princess, but that's essentially what I get paid for - killing high profile people for major team players. These team players give little consideration to my expenses. They are paying for a job well done. I'm one of the best, if I do say so myself.

So here's this beautiful, sad, recently divorced princess and she's making some of my players very uncomfortable. They fear that she's on the road to making the Jackie Kennedy/Onassis thing look normal, so she's got to go. On top of everything, every reporter and TV crew from several countries is hunting her down to take pictures of her ill-fated romance. She's in Paris with her new billionaire boyfriend, about to get engaged, and it's my job to arrange a little accident. Bye-bye princess.

I picked up the extremely fat envelope from my mail on the way to the airport. In the envelope is my passport, airline tickets and background information on every person assigned to be anywhere around her royal person. The initial deposit has already been transferred to my numbered bank account. I settle into my seat in coach and get ready to work.

Why does someone like me fly coach? It's the rules of the profession. People like me blend in. You've seen people like me walk by you dozens of times, but you probably can't remember my face or what I was wearing. I blend well. This job was just meant to be. I'd venture to guess you can't even pick my picture out of my high school yearbook. The invisible person, that's me.

So, you ask, how do you kill a celebrity? Well, usually with their cooperation. There is always some fault, some little opening, some weakness that I walk into and make the whole thing happen. This princess had it all -- beauty, brains, money, connections -- a real star. She also had a boyfriend that was going to cost her her life. Too bad. But it's not my job to judge. This playboy boyfriend is surrounded by daddy's lackeys -- bodyguards, chauffeurs, servants in every shape and size. This is useful in my line of work. Lots of paid employees mean someone with a grudge or someone with a secret. In the envelope on my lap were lots of grudges and secrets and the names of all the people who had them. Yeah, this was going well.

It was a sunny day as I left the airport. Another trick of the trade is to take only one bag. Nothing to draw attention to you at customs. Just appear to be the casual business traveler, here today, gone tomorrow. My associates had my car waiting, gassed, and ready. Driving into Paris, I made a few calls to verify the information in the envelope. Then I rent a plain black motorcycle just like the newsboys have. Those things really zip in and out of traffic when you're following a story. I make a quick stop at a prearranged drop and pick up one high tech piece of equipment. It looks like a camera, but what's inside is vastly differennt.

I make another call to verify that my associates have followed my instructions to the letter. Someone's loved one is a little out of touch for awhile. Then I contact the man with something to hide. Something he'd rather die than have revealed. It goes just the way I like it. I now have access to the plan, the car, and the driver. You'd think that Junior's dad would have screened his employees better before giving his precious son into their care, but he left me an opening so who am I to complain? That's what makes my job interesting. Devil's in the details, you know.

So this inside guy with the past tells me that the night guy called in and he'll probably have to pull night duty after he takes the charming couple to dinner. No opening there, right. Wrong. The sudden illness on the other drivers part ought to have tipped you off. I leave Mr. Unfortunate in the bar slugging down a few glassfuls while I take care of the vehicle. I don't blame him though. I'm sure he already sees his life flashing in front of his eyes and he wants something to dull the pain. I leave a few well placed people in the lounge to see that he doesn't drown his sorrows too effectively.

The decoy vehicle is out front. How lame. Only a fool would fall for that trick, but I guess there's a few born every minute. I watch some of the reporters take off after the decoy from my vantage point in the alley. By now the chauffeur is in the target vehicle waiting on the happy couple and the bodyguard. The vehicle with the slight modification. I get a quick glimpse of the princess, tall, blonde, gleaming with diamonds. Her bad choice boyfriend looks tired. Must be too many late nights, too much booze, too many women. Too bad, lady. You picked a lemon again. He would't have lasted any longer than the blueblood you married the first time. The one with the taste for women who look like they should be wearing a saddle rather than riding on one.

I'm way behind the pack of reporters as we start off after the vehicle. If they just wait a bit longer, I'll give them the story of a lifetime. But they are sliding in and out of traffic like a pack of sharks after blood. As we get closer to the tunel, I work my way to the left of the car. This is close to the prearranged spot. No one's looking at me. They are after the fox. Maybe they want a picture of the engagement ring, the ring that the princess will never wear again. Mr. Unfortunate is doing just as he was told, pushing the needle to 100 mph and heading to the tunnel. Just inside the tunnel, I push the little gismo in the camera and the front left tire explodes, throwing the vehicle into the middle of the tunnel wall. Kind of like sending a pinball into a bonus point pocket. All hell breaks loose as the reporters begin to realize what happened to their quarry. As they try to figure out the details a vehicle come from the opposite lane and quite conveniently, a doctor, gets out and checks pulses. Two down and two quite near the edge. A quick inspection of the tire and no device. After that impact, there isn't much of anything left. I'm just one of the paparazzi lost in the crowd. My job is done.

There just isn't much more to tell. The princess had a big state funeral. The world mourned. The family accepted the death stoically and with little sign of loss. You could almost see the relief in Her Majesty's eyes.

"What was the secret that the chauffeur took to the grave?" you ask. Well that's another story. Why I told you is another story, too. You see, I just got another envelope in the mail. Evidently you are important enough to cause embarrassment to someone too. I'm sorry, but you won't be sharing this story with anyone else. Yes, I see from your eyes that you understand. It's nothing personal, just a job.

Catch and Release By Sharon Sherman

Measles and Mumps

A Bridal Bouquet

A Drive-In Movie

Coaches and Milanos

An Old Boyfriend

Throwback Thursdays

Sudoku, all except the Evil version

Farmville

Harry Potter

The BeeGees

Pet Rocks

Our Heart's Desire on a day to day basis

Our Wandering Thoughts

Old Photos

My Husband's Eye in the morning

My Mother's smile

But I could never catch a fish.

Back When I Met Mickie Mantle by Dennis Perry

Well, you already know how I got my name, Busher, from hanging around my father during his minor league career, how all the guys called me “Busher” which means a real minor league guy, like Pop, so they just kept calling me that right along and I loved it. Pop was in the Brooklyn organization. This is back when the Brooklyns were in Brooklyn.

Then I told you how I went right out of high school into pro ball, following Pop’s footsteps, as I was put in to the Red Sox chain after one year of independent ball out in Nebraska where the league was of the same name as the state. After the Red Sox had seen enough of me to get as good an opinion of me as they could,  I went to the Cubs organization.

But then you asked, did I play with, or meet, any of the famous players, so I have to answer you. 

Back when I played in the 60s, I batted off the great Marichal out in the desert, with the Cubs, and of course I knew Banks and Williams and all of them from spring training, and then, right up to ’68 which at that current time I was trying out for the Detroits, and in spring training we happened to meet up with the New York A.L. club, playing them in Lakeland, and I met the great Mantle. New York by-God Yankees. Mickey by-God Mantle.

Now, before that game, I have to tell you I was in the clubhouse  reading a letter from a high school player back in my hometown of Campovilla, Illinois, and he was saying how he wasn’t sure he was going to go out for the high school team this year, on account of he didn’t have much fun the previous season, being mostly on the bench, but he was taking kind of an inspiration from me as he mentioned  I’d been in the minor leagues eight years of  negative successful playing, and he wondered should he go on or was he making a mistake? I was making a note of the address, to maybe send the kid a few words, with a stub of a pencil I kept at the locker, usually which I used it to mark down notes after the game, recalling the pitcher’s name and what I did and all that. 

Now it also occurred that I was going to be at first base that day, against the New Yorks. That’s because of what happened the day before. I had been playing in the outfield against the Washingtons, and I had a little problem with a ball hit way up in the sky – and you know that Florida sky, that particular time of the year – it’s not the right sky. Well, what with not catching the ball successful, and even though I have a cannon out there, this Washington guy just put himself in gear and was able to get to second for a routine double, but then after the game old white-haired Mayo, our manager, pulled me over to the side as a couple of the fellows were walking by, and he said that I had to buckle  down, maybe I had to play my other position, first base, the next day, and then they’d see about St. Petersburg. I asked at that time, “Where is St. Petersburg?” and one of those walking-by fellows, maybe Oyler, says it’s in Russia, which then I think I recalled that from school, maybe so, and I was grateful for his reminder. I also have to explain to you that the ballplayers have their own kind words which are not the regular kind of words.

What they probably meant was that just like Russia, where people get sent away all the time, well, baseball could be like Russia and if something happened to another ball out there wrong, I’d probably be put back into the minors, no chance of making this club, which at the time I was trying to prove I belonged to. So, I didn’t want to go to Russia, meaning St. Petersburg.

But, because every day is a new day in baseball, I had another chance. Now, I also have to say this is my first game at first base that spring, although I was a natural over there, sort of like my outfield work, which was now proved, being a first-rate ballhawk. I guess they needed to see my work at first, just to give them another way they could get my bat, which I called Old Thunder, in the lineup, should the need arise.   

I was thinking about that as I went on out to the field, to warm up, and in the course of doing so, I stuck that little pencil in my back pocket and while the New Yorks were taking batting practice, out of nowhere I was called over to the batting cage by Mayo, him saying, “Here’s a fellow I’d like you to meet”, and of course it’s the great Mantle he was speaking of, who at that particular time was leaning on a bat watching the balls being smacked out by his teammate in the cage.  And of course he leaned on that bat greater than others could lean on a bat.  

My first thought was, there he is, looking a little bigger than he did on the gum cards I had back home, in ashoebox. He had big arm muscles, and blond hair sticking out the back of his cap. His face looked a little rounder than the pictures I’d seen, but he had a nice comfortable smile.

Mayo says, “Mickey, this here is Busher,”  - or some such, I can’t recall exact – “and Busher is one of my minor league guys trying to make the club. He’s got a good stick generally…” and he said some other stuff about my overall abilities.

Now, right here I have to add that I am generally known as a heady player with a lot of savvy. The reason most players don’t stick in the big leagues is because they have a lot of skills in other areas such as hitting and fielding, but they don’t have that brain power. Guy like me, by the time I get the acquired skills, what with my savvy, I’d be the complete guy every team needs. Of course you could say that it helps a team to have a guy or two to blam the ball out of the park, and a quality pitcher or two helps a lot, but you got to have the smarts to bring it all together.  And I’ve always been told that I think about the game different from most of the other guys. A lot of people have said it, and I take pride in it. So, today wouldn’t be any different, from my perspective. 

I told Mick I was pleased to make his acquaintance, but that I had never seen him play, my interests being with the Cubs and the National League mostly, but I had heard of him, I explained.

“That so?” he said, the words dripping out with that familiar-on-the-radio Oklahoma voice. I said, well it was so, and of course I immediately went in to how I thought the league would play out, once league play started up next month, figuring he’d appreciate my general knowledge, such as others have done. I said I thought the New Yorks were a little thin, and wouldn’t figure in the pennant for that go around, and Mick nodded, - I could tell he was registering the way I’d sized things up – looked away a little bit, and said, “Well, Mayo, I guess I should just rest up, my body sure could use it, not even play this season.”  To that, I thought, well, he probably didn’t mean it. I told him he should play, even though it was hopeless for his club. Mayo was smiling, knowing how I could figure things out.

I started to say something else which I now cannot recall, and Mick just jumped in and started talking about how he wasn’t feeling all that good, what with a knee that was balking, a sore wrist, sore back, a couple eyeballs tore up or whatever, stuff out of whack, a sprain here and there on his various fingers and other parts which were generally busted.  Anyone would assume he was not fit for play, but being a big star such as he was, that list of body ailments wouldn’t keep him out of the lineup. He looked fresh, and I said he looked okay, maybe not so hot, but okay to me, should anyone ask. I said also maybe one of the things I noticed was that he might be a little too heavy, and all he had to do was check himself a little bit in that chow line and he’d be back in his playing trim.  Again, Mayo had to smile at my figuring out overall observation powers. 

But, Mickey said was going to play, busted up and not in the greatest shape, but playing all busted up was just one reason he was such a big well-known star. Anybody knew, if you said “New York Yankees” you immediately thought of Mickey Mantle. 

Mickey sort of coughed, and said there was a doctor in Dallas who had come up with a new medicine which if he took it, might allow him to play till he was fifty. This medicine would fix up his general body, but I asked if it would fix that bum knee, or some other part that was really busted which he’d mentioned, but which I couldn’t specify on the spur of the moment, and Mick allowed that it would not fix those things, just sort of make his body feel better as to the energy and what all he might have, such as getting his veins going and other parts lined up the way he wanted, the way I recall it. 

I had to think for a minute or so, then I said if it wasn’t going to fix those busted things, then I didn’t think he should take it. He asked why, and I said, well, if he couldn’t put up the stats such as he was accustomed to doing, pretty soon the New Yorks would get to thinking of him as being a regular player, and the fans would recall how he used to put up the stats, which would’ve put him in the lore of the game, and if he just bumped along at a low level, pretty soon he wouldn’t be the great Mantle any more, and besides him the fans themselves would be upset. To say nothing of the manager. Old Mayo had to smile again at my savvy,and he told Mick I’d be at first base today, just like Mick was for them.

I took the occasion to mention to him that with his legs shot, and so his speed being shot, it was natural for him to be over at first base, and to not feel bad about being taken out of the outfield which had happened to him last year. This news wasn’t that new, having been in the Sporting News and all, but I figured he’d catch on to how I was on top of things. Mick just shook his head which I knew he was saying how I was right. “Something to think about, for sure,” he drawled that friendly way again, and he was looking at me keenly.“In fact, all of it,” he finished up.

Now, right then, Mick had to leave, he said, and he limped on over by the fence, where he started signing scorecards and autograph books for a whole bunch of fans clumped by the New York dugout. 

I was watching those fans, and boy were they happy! Here was the old Mick, that great figure of New York, and he made so many of them happy, what with the smile and autographs and some small talk, and all of them were walking away smiling and all of that.  And Mickey had that big old Mickey smile himself.

Pretty soon the game started up, and there I was, stationed at first. I recall it being a warm day, even for Florida at that time of year, which I’ve only been there in spring training, always in March, so I assume I am knowledgeable as to spring training type of weather, which is usually sunny and warmer than other parts of the country which are known for being colder.

A lefthander, Warden, was pitching for us and he got the first two out, then Mick came up, being a switch hitter he was hitting righthanded against our lefty. The crowd sort of had a buzz to it and everyone watched close as he fouled a couple back, took a ball, then Warden gave him a low, slow one, and Mick lunged out and missed it, striking out. This was a great strikeout, all the air seeming to go out of the park. 

Even striking out, Mick had a special quality about himself. I figured no one could strike out like Mick, and I had seen a lot of people strike out over the years, such as my own self.

I came up in the last of the second, hitting seventh, against a tall righthander, Bahnsen, and he fooled me with a fast one on the outside, which I managed to get the end of the bat on.  The ball went on out to Mick, I think it must’ve been pretty hot, though the next day the paper called it a dribbler, but anyway, Mick came in, seemed to trap it, then couldn’t pick it up clean, then grabbed it, then Bahnsen came over for the toss.

Of course, all this time, I’m blazing my way down there – I think people always knew I had that good speed, back then - so I was going to be safe, most probably, which is likely why Mick was rushing and causing himself to bobble that ball. Once he got it to Bahnsen, he bobbled it too, then picked it up, then fumbled for the bag, then I beat it in there by a hair. That’s one thing about the kind of speed I had, you cannot teach it. Just a gift. 

So as he was getting his breath, hunched over in the holding-on position at first, I says, “Well, Mick, you can’t be blamed for kicking around my hot one, you being not all that familiar around first base and all.” And he says, “Well, it’s the Busher!” and a big smile hit his face. “You sure did get me with that one,” he admitted.

The inning soon ended with no further advance by me, then later, Mick came up again, facing a young tall boy we had that year. Name was Patterson and I think he was from California or at least someplace like that. When Mickey stepped in, being the switch-hitter he was, now batting left handed, I called time and told Patterson that Warden had got Mick with a slow one, early on, just as a suggestion, which he didn’t acknowledge right off but I knew he had taken in because he burned in four or five in a row to Mick, just keeping that slow one in his back pocket just in case, so Mick couldn’t get comfortable about it. It’s just one of those normal things of baseball the average fan can’t know right off, but it’s part of the savvy I possess that is natural for me. 

Now I have to interrupt. One of my duties as first baseman of course is to roll out the practice ground balls to the infielders as the pitcher warms up before the inning starts up, and funny thing, that inning, no one seemed to be paying attention in the dugout for me to throw the ball in, as I shuffled around with my glove off and held the ball in my left hand,  so I stuffed it into my back pocket figuring no harm, and I put the glove back on my left hand, on account of we were now ready to play.

Well, right at that time, with Mickey there, I’m thinking Patterson would’ve been successful with that slow one, for sure, but before he had a chance to throw it, Mick lined one of the fast ones out there to right field for a single. The ball just fizzed off his bat, making a strange zzzzng sound. Anyone could see he was a real star by that fizz. 

Mick sort of smiled at me once he got to first, and he must’ve noticed  my back pocket, as he said, “Say, what’ve you got there, going to try a hidden ball trick or something?”  Well, I reached back into my right hand pocket, being as I had the glove on my left hand, so only the right one was available, and I felt thatlittle stub of a pencil, which I at that time recalled I must’ve left it there from the clubhouse. 

Actually, sort of funny, Mick was pointing out the ball I had in my other pocket, not the pencil.

“Oh, sure, I mean, it’s just the old infield ball, Mick!” and then I put two and two together, quick. I took my glove off, pulled the ball out, and the pencil, and I says, “Hey Mick, how about scratching your John Hancock on the old ball here, it would be a big deal to me?” See, I was remembering how he was signing all those scorecards and everything before the game, so I thought this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunityto get his autograph, being as he wouldn’t be about to sign in a regular season game, to say nothing of how I might not actually be on the club once they headed north for the season. 

I thought this was pretty smart but the ump, Honochick, an older guy, bellowed out right away, loud enough to hear in Russia, “Time! Hey, Busher, you can’t do that! Get that ball outa here!” This had the effect of causing embarrassment to me, and pretty much to Mick too, as he had his head down low, and his hands on his knees.

Old Mayo came running out and there was some jabbering going on, and I was instructed to give the ball to Mayo as he returned to the dugout, sort of shaking his head, walking slow, probably figuring Patterson should’ve given Mickey the slow one which he couldn’t do any damage with.

We got out of there with no runs, and I came up again the next inning, this time I hit a ball dead on the nose, nobody could hit a ball harder, right on the best part of the bat, but I didn’t get any liftage so the ball just sort of lined straight out to the leftfielder. So there I was, thinking another one of those odd things about baseball. Hit that one down to Mickey earlier, get on base. Nail this one hard, should’ve been a home run, no liftage, it goes for an out. As you can see, there’s no fairness to the game, mostly. And good pitching will usually beat good hitting, except as the vice versa.

Well, we ended up winning that game. Mickey had been taken out about halfway through and me right after that scorcher I hit, probably so I could rest up, and I didn’t think any more about that game till the next day when I was in the clubhouse getting a few things together for the bus ride over to Tampa Saint Pete, where we were going to take on the Mets, and I had been informed by Mr. Mayo to go on ahead and get ready to play first again.  

Just before the clubhouse guy says to get my stuff on the bus, he stops and says, “Hey Busher! The Yankees sent a little package over for you, I forgot to give it to you last night.” And he tosses me a little cardboard box.

Inside that box was a brand new official league ball, with the blue-green writing on the front of it - “Official American League Baseball” and on the other side of the ball, in the narrow space between the two red seams, there was a signature: “Mickey Mantle”.  I noticed right off in the “U” part of the ball, the fatter part, just above his name, he’d written, “The game needs more stars like you”. 

I felt like a million bucks, you can be sure of that! Mickey, taking time out for me!  I figured to hold on to this ball for the rest of my life. 

Then I thought of something else, and wrote a little note on some paper I had in the locker, with that same stub of a pencil. I found another ball box, got a paper bag, wrapped it all up, found the letter from yesterday from the kid back home, put the kid’s address on my package which I’d taped up together, and took it all to the clubhouse man. Without me saying anything, the clubhouse guy said he’d be glad to.  



This is Dennis' second short story fiction to be posted on this site. This story was one of many featuring the character, "Busher." Unfortunately, they were also written prior to mass sale of computers and thus part of someone else's collection somewhere. 

Prose or Poetry? by Sharon Sherman

Beauty lies among these lines

  of equal measure, beat and rhyme,

spaced amid the tripping tongue,

  a true delight for everyone.


How foul the words that come to me,

  (for sure, that"s how it seems to be),

when writing deeds of nastiness,

  it claims the power to depress.


But when the words are light and airy,

  bespeaking acts of friends or fairy,

twinkles lie among the lines

  evoking smiles and fun, this time.


"Oh, Romeo, my Romeo!"

  My love has asked where doest thou go.

For romance has its own sweet song,

  to move the heart, so right, so wrong.


And if you read this little ditty

  looking for an unrhymed gritty,

you'll not be satisfied with these,

  these lines of thought that rhyme with ease.

Review of the "As You Wish" series by Mindy Klasky

If wishes could come true, what would you do?

Mindy Klasky takes us on a delightful ride as she leads us through the lives of three young women staged to answer this very question in her "As You Wish" series. 

In Act One, Wish One, Kira is a stage manager at a small town theater that has just closed it's doors.

Wishing In the Wings shows us Becca, who is a producer at an off-Broadway theater. Unfortunately, she was just jilted by her boyfriend. Who disappeared. With her life savings.

Erin no longer has a job, a boyfriend, or a place to call home in Wish Upon a Star.  Unless she can get the notice of the producers for the exciting remake of Romeo and Juliet, she may have to give up on her dream of acting.

With humor, spunk, and more than one wish, Ms Klasky's heroines find new beginnings in the strangest places and love just around the corner.

Read them.  They will keep you emotionally invested to the end.

Bob White by Dennis Perry

I’d never been hunting and I wasn’t hunting this time either. I’d tagged along my friend Jack and his dad and uncle out to the country for a day of pheasant hunting, but it was pheasant hunting observing.

Me and Jack at 14 had no guns. Good enough for me. Me and Jack were there to more or less watch Jack’s favorite companion, the family’s Springer spaniel, Bob White.

Jack’s dad, Mac, or Mr. Mac as kids called him, said Bob White was sort of unusual for a Springer as he was mostly white.   When he ran through a field, he bobbed up and down, so early on, so Mr. Mac said, he called him Bob White. Bird dog, pheasant dog.  

Who’d argue with Mr. Mac? Dog trainer by hobby or actually a second profession, first being auto mechanic. Everybody in town knew him, Mac, the mechanic. Fixed everybody’s car. Mac, the guy who also raised and trained dogs.  He had a full-time trainer on his property, which was called the dog farm by most people. The dogs were always referred to as Mac’s dogs, like the pro trainer didn’t exist.

So this one fall day Jack said c’mon along with us tomorrow, or some such thing, and I’d jumped at the chance.  We were going out to the country, which from our little town was about five miles, but sure seemed longer, figuring in so little traffic, even fewer people than our town, and all that quiet. 

We got out there – a place Mac said he’d come several times before.  Farmer’s land, he said. Gave him a couple dollars to let us roam.  Said we couldn’t go through the wire, where the corn had grown and where the gold stalks now stuck out, the wire separating the corn from the untended land.  Mac explained Bob White could get near the wire, flush out pheasants right on that fence border, as pheasants liked to hide on the ground.

We couldn’t see the other edge of the field, were told it ended at a distant tree line, this was maybe a half mile on non-scientific guess.  Couldn’t see the far edge in front of us, either.  The field went down gently to a road, so I guessed when we got there we’d know it. Turned out it wasn’t all that far, not a mile, for sure.  “Perfect hunting ground” Mac pronounced it.

He gave me and Jack gallon jugs of water, gave Jack a small canvas bag.  Called it a “kit” – had tweezers for pulling thorns out of Bob White’s paws, if -come, had some medicine and tape, also for Bob White.  “Can’t be held up by a dog comes up lame,” Mac smiled to us. Seemed to make sense, but there was no food or water for us, I noticed. Maybe in the car. 

Bob White was eager for the task, jumping up and down. Jack and me walked down to the far end – to the road – near the wire line, instructed by Mac.  “You boys can be blockers, me and Uncle Ted here, you see, are against the wind. Bob White’ll flush ‘em, they’ll see you guys and spook short, we can bag ‘em.”  That was the whole explanation. I’d have to see it in action.

“Can’t shoot a hen,” Jack told me walking down the line.  “Gotta get the males, the ringnecks.”  I guessed a hen was a female, I suppose I should’ve known.  

“Hope the hunters spot the difference,” I said, hoping to sound knowledgeable. 

Jack, dark haired, several inches shorter than me, laughed. “They been doing it since ‘fore I was born, you too.” As he was smaller than me, this made him seem even younger.

We crossed a ditch, stood in the dirt road.  Road didn’t look much used. 

Before long Bob White came, well, bobbing through the taller crunchy field grass, right along the wire by the corn.  We hadn’t seen any pheasants come flying up.  Bad day for Bob White, I asked Jack, who assumed the role of the veteran hunter.  Birds’r a little deeper probably he said through a squint, though the sun was away from where he faced. I remained silent and Jack didn’t mind, the rest of the morning.

Bob White had come near us, scouted the ditch to our front, all along that north-south half mile stretch.  We moved with him, the dog actually ahead of us, the hunters probably not happy about it.  But maybe not; they never said, even later after the bad stuff.

Mac and Uncle Ted were quite a ways behind, something I never figured on, I don’t know why.  Mainly I thought if Bob White got a bird out then we could get shot, unintentional, and said as much.  Jack said no, they get ‘em in the air, then Bob White’ll go pick ‘em up.  He’s the best, that Bob White. Trained so as not to damage’em.  

The day was so clear, such blue sky, the early afternoon – still no birds bagged but Bob White had roused two of them out of hiding, near that far tree line – too far for a shot according to Mac when we somehow joined up. The pheasants had flown directly away  low over the tree line.

By mid-afternoon, Bob White had gone up and down that field a bunch of times after that first trip around the rough perimeter. We’d started at the top of the rise, a small bluff.  Where we were, down by the road, we had to move back up the rise, that was the pattern. Now the sun was pretty much at that time of day where everything looks gold, even the people.

Bob White’d had his water, then took off again, me and Jack set out to the “start” end again, as blockers.  I’d seen during the water break how Jack and Bob White just had this affection.  Best pals. Somehow it made me feel good, one of the best sights ever. 

Me and Jack, now getting near the top, could see Mac and Uncle Ted way back, the gold field haloed them and their fronts looked dark, the sun was angling just slightly further west after that water break. 

Not much later, Jack looked puzzled, gazing the field. I didn’t notice anything.  “Bob White’s not moving good,” he pronounced.  “Something’s wrong.  I’m going to find out what.”  I raised my voice that Bob White was probably just tired, but might as well have told it to the wind. Jack thrashed his way through the rough field, me a bit behind. Bob White was about a hundred yards ahead, picking his way. 

Mac and Uncle Ted shouted from far back, Jack get away.  I thought, maybe something happens Jack’ll get shot. 

Jack got to Bob White, I trailed in.  Jack didn’t want me to see his tears. Did anyway, turned my head. Bob White was whimpering, favoring a leg.  The hunters got there, sort of mad, sort of concerned.  I couldn’t judge which was most. 

Seems after a lot of discussion Bob White must’ve stepped in a hole, the left foreleg was probably busted, tape from the kit maybe helped, but the hunt I figured was over. Bob White was laying on the ground, no desire to move. We were there a long while, Mac and Uncle Ted doing about all the talking. I was surprised when they decided to keep going on. 

We go without the dog, Mac ordered, and he and Ted started back down the gentle rise.  Me and Jack stood with Bob White. Well, we ain’t leaving him, Jack said. No of course shot back Mac. You stay or you bring ‘im. So Jack picked up Bob White, carried him.  Soon we were catching up with the hunters, and Mac growled back, something about me and Jack and the noise.

I didn’t know why we were still hunting, but I guess these things don’t have time limits, except for daylight, which was about an hour and half left I figured.  I was thinking of the dog, of pain.

Jack was tired after carrying Bob White a few hundred yards. “You guys are a sorry sight,” Mac informed. Jack was dribbling water from my jug into Bob White’s mouth. I wondered if the dog was going to die, then pushed the thought out. Geez, he was okay, everything’d be ok. I was being a fool, more concerned for Jack, who was Bob White, the two were one in that field right then.  Jack said Bob White’d patch up fine. Said it more than once or twice. 

Uncle Ted said give me the dog, he’d carry.   You boys get down the end of the field by that ditch, you’re pretty slow he grumbled. 

We did, it was about where we’d first gone early on. 

We couldn’t see the hunters, but heard a shot. Me and Jack were pretty far from it, It sounded from over by the tree line, near where we’d just been. They must’ve got one out. I figured Mac probably bagged it, if Uncle Ted was carrying Bob White. Couldn’t tell. I noticed I hadn’t seen a bird, guessed we were pretty far away.

Mac appeared a couple minutes later.  You guys get on over to the wire by the corn, start back up.  He and Uncle Ted would be ahead of us, or the side, we would sort of be like Bob White now. We hunted about another hour. Never heard another shot, never saw another pheasant. Couldn’t hardly see the hunters, for that matter. 

We got back, making a big “L”- shaped walk on up the rise, way behind the hunters by this time. Mac was there at the top, fixing up the guns and ammo into some cases and little boxes.

Jack at first was sort of smiling, “Heard the shot back there, get a bird?” or some such, then the deep furrowed frown.  “Where”s Bob White?” he demanded from Mac.

Mac turned toward the car. I figured Bob White was there, as Uncle Ted was. Uncle Ted had a blank face, looked wrong, like somebody told him to have a blank face. Get into the car he said.  The car was about 50 yards from us.   

“Can’t let a dog hold up a hunt,” Mr. Mac ruled.  “Hunting dog can’t hunt, better off not being a dog,’ he finalized. He spat. Looked away. Especially from Jack.

Comes a time people have to accept life’s evils showing up. Can’t really prepare for them, even if you try. What I’ve learned, they usually chunk in a little here and there, give people time to think, to adjust. Shouldn’t have to take all the evil in one big chunk like Jack. Especially at fourteen, my opinion.  No evil could ever try to compete with this, couldn’t be the topper. Jack could laugh if it tried. I guess that could be consolation if he was to think about it.  He wouldn’t see it that way if it was explained. Then or now.  Me neither, likely. 

I don't remember riding home that day.

Jack's still my friend. I never saw Mac after that day, I assume he's died by now. All this was fifty years from this past Monday.

My friend, Dennis Perry, sent this to me in an email, saying, "Put together a little story for you. I sort of like it. Let me know what you think."

I think Dennis has a very clear voice when he writes. I'm there in the story whether I want to be or not. And, at times, I didn't want to be. It is so moving, so sad, yet life goes on. . .