If Your Memory Serves You Well
		by John Drake
		<Auxil1@aol.com>

(The events in this story take place immediately after the 
final episode of American Gothic.)

    The four walls of the sun-drenched room were papered with  
the drawings. Fat girls and skinny girls. Short girls and tall 
girls. Redheads, blondes and brunettes. Older girls and 
younger ones. Pretty and ugly.
    There were dozens of the drawings, all done in the same 
crude hand, in crayons of all colors. Some were simple sketches; 
others showed the signs of passionate, painstaking labor -- 
if only middling talent.
    In the center of the room, in a yellow shaft of sunlight, lay 
a boy with close-shaved hair and too-old eyes, all of his 
considerable concentration focused on a white rectangle of 
paper before him. Another work in progress.
    This drawing featured a blonde girl, a close view of her 
round face, with red, red lips and eyes of blue. Her blouse 
was the same color as her eyes, just a fringe at the bottom 
of the sheet. 
    The boy stared at the page for a long time, intent, almost 
glaring at it.
    Finally, he picked it up and, lacking a blank space on the 
wall, he made to tack it up on the back of the closed door to 
the room. But as he reached for the door, there was a knock. 
He drew back with a start, as if faced by a snake.
    But whatever peril he feared seemed to fade when he heard the 
soft, friendly drawl that came from the other side. 
    "Caleb?"
    He knew the voice; it was Billy, the new doctor in town. 
Relieved, but not especially pleased, Caleb put his latest 
drawing down on the corner of his unmade bed, and sat.
    "Caleb? Caleb Temple?" came the voice again.
    "Someone's at the door," the boy murmured to himself.
Then, he got up from the bed and opened the door -- just 
a bit, just enough to make one glowering eye visible through 
the crack.
    "What do you want?" Caleb asked, peering at the big man,
the only man in Trinity whose smile didn't seem to hide some 
dark secret, or show bared fangs.
    "Just checking up on you," Billy said through that smile. "I 
hear you've been having a rough patch lately. I just wanted 
to see if you were all right. You know, medically speaking."
The single eye narrowed a bit, suspicious. 
    "What do you know about mah 'rough patch'?" he asked, 
leaning heavily on the last two words, a question implicit and 
imbedded within his question.
    "Not a whole lot," Billy admitted, with a disarming shrug. 
    "You know, I've never seen such a bunch of tight-lipped 
S.O.B.s as those who live in Trinity, South Carolina."
His words were tempered with a touch a humor. Just not 
entirely.
    "You know," he continued, "they do love to drop their little 
hints and trail off in the middle of sentences, and such. But 
to find someone who'll come right out and tell you what's on 
their mind, well, you might just as well hope to find a 
sinner inside the gates of heaven."
    He looked hopefully down at what he could see of Caleb.
" 'Course, I always thought you were a little better than 
that, Caleb."
    "Maybe ah just got less to say," Caleb responded, warily, 
but seeming to warm just a little. "Anyways, who's been 
'droppin' hints' about me?"
    Billy laughed.
    "Who hasn't?" he said. "Let's see, there was Loris. And 
Selena. Oh, and Gail. And I believe even Lucas had a 
mystifyin' aphorism or two to share."
    "Aphor-what?"
    "Sorry. It just means talkin' without really saying much of 
anything." He looked down at the boy. "You know, it would be 
a lot easier to talk if you just let me in. Or you could come 
out."
    Caleb frowned, then shrugged. "Okay," he said, and he 
opened the door.
    Billy came inside, and they sat on the edge of the bed 
together. The doctor looked around at the walls, and 
whistled.
    "Whew, Caleb, you've been busy." He grinned. "Well, I 
guess you're getting to be about that age. Although, when I 
was a boy I spent more time lookin' at pictures of girls in my 
daddy's magazines than drawing them."
    "I ain't never really seen them kinds of magazines," Caleb 
said. "Besides, it ain't like that."
    "Well, what is it like?"
    Caleb screwed up his face into a quizzical look, searching 
for the words. 
    "Well, did you ever forget what somebody looked like? I mean, 
after they were gone and you couldn't see them no more?"
    Billy was thoughtful before responding. 
    "I don't know, Caleb. I never rightly thought about it 
before. But I don't think so, least not that I can remember 
anyway."
    "Ah can't remember what mah sister looks like. Her name 
was Merly," Caleb said. "Ah never thought about it much 
before either. Ah just always thought, well, there'd be 
somethin' to remind me of her. But, well, there's nothin' to 
remind me now. And ah can't remember her face at all 
anymore. Ah can't remember what she wore, or how tall 
she was, or anythin'."
    Billy nodded.
    "I can see how that would be frustrating," he said. "So these 
pictures are you tryin' to remember."
    "Yup."
    Billy thought for a moment.
    "Well, maybe if you can't find the answer in yourself, maybe 
someone else can help you. Surely there are people around 
town who remember your sister."
    "Yeah," Caleb said, but with a note of concern in his voice.
    "But what?"
    "But people 'round here aren't much like you, Doctor Billy. 
It's just like you said, people don't say what they mean or 
mean what they say."
    Billy frowned.
    "Surely, they could help with something simple like this?"
    "Nothin's simple in Trinity," Caleb said, with force. 
"Nothin' ever is."
    All Billy could do was agree.
* * * * *
    Notebook clutched firmly under his arm, Caleb squinted in 
the glare of the sunlight. It had been thirteen days since he'd 
gone outside to breathe the clean Trinity air. Thirteen days 
since he'd seen Merly last.
    Those last moments were foggy in his memory; he 
remembered the house, Lucas angry and violent, and Merly 
there. He wasn't sure what had happened, but he knew she 
had put herself in harm's way for him. Maybe permanent 
harm.
    What he wasn't so sure about was the harm she was 
protecting him from. Had it been Lucas? Or someone else? 
After Lucas had turned up dead, or seemingly dead, things 
got hazy.
    Caleb didn't remember much. But he remembered being 
angry, very angry. He remembered something about Gail. 
She'd made him angry, he thought. But he couldn't remember 
what she had done.
    And then, Lucas had turned up very much alive. He hadn't 
been dead at all, or that's what they had told Caleb. He wasn't 
so sure. With Lucas, things were never what they seemed.
    "Things are never, ever what they seem, Caleb," came the 
drawl over his shoulder, from the front porch. "And that's an 
important lesson to remember."
    Caleb turned, shadowing his eyes with his hands, to see 
Sheriff Lucas Buck sitting on the porch swing, somehow in 
shadow on what had to be the sunniest day of the year.
"What're you doin' here?" Caleb asked, unable to keep the 
hostility from his tone.
    "What else? I'm lookin' after my boy."
    "I don't need no lookin' after," Caleb said, and he turned to 
walk away.
    Lucas was right in front of him, but Caleb was used to that 
by now. He didn't even jump.
    Lucas squatted down to Caleb's level, took the boy's face in 
his left hand, as if he were looking for a mark.
    "Mebbe you need more lookin' after than you care to admit," 
the man said. "Do you remember anything that's happened since 
I was ... away?"
    "You mean, since you was dead?"
    "I wasn't dead," Lucas said firmly.
    "I think you was," Caleb replied, with equal certitude. 
"Maybe you never was alive in the first place."
    The boy pulled his face free of Lucas' hand, and the sheriff 
stood and straightened his vest.
    "You should show a little respect," he said dangerously.
    "Respect," said Caleb. "Right."
    And pulling the notebook closer to him, he walked away, 
feeling Lucas Buck's eyes bearing down on him all the way.
* * * * *
    Old Miss Harper enjoyed the summertime, the long break 
from the children of Trinity. A vile lot, they were, and she was 
glad to be rid of them, if only for a few months. 
    Once, when she was young, she'd thought she loved children. 
So she became a teacher. Still was, despite the fact that she 
could have retired long ago. But times were lean, and she 
liked the money too much to give it up. After all, she had 
the sewer tap to pay for, and she needed a new refrigerator. 
It seemed that every time she was ready to take a well-earned 
retirement, something else broke down around the house. Or 
some no good relation called, angling for money. Or the taxes 
on her house went up.
    The money hadn't always been so important; that love for 
children was all she needed when she began.
    But the lie had shattered for her, once and for all, nearly 
30 years ago. It seemed like yesterday, the day she learned 
the truth.
    It was the day men had walked on the moon. The day she 
learned the truth about herself and the truth about children.
They were vile creatures, the lot of them. And so was she.
It didn't matter. She'd lived a long life, if not an 
especially happy one. And she'd take long over happy any day.
And anyway, the summers were quiet, even pleasant.
Most days.
    This particular summer day, as she sat on the porch with a 
cold glass of lemonade, the yapping of her floppy eared 
beagle, Peer Gynt, warned her that her peace would not last 
through the morning.
    Old Miss Harper could see the disruption coming down the 
street at her, a blot on her mercifully childless summer. It 
was a near bald boy, carrying a notebook, coming up the walk. 
He stared at her.
    "Miss Harper?" he said, when he got close enough.
    "What on earth do you want, young man? Can't you leave an 
old lady in peace?"
    The boy seemed unsettled by that, and it made Old Miss 
Harper happy to see. She tried to put a little more bile into her 
glare. If this child was going to ruin her day, well, she'd 
be sure to ruin his as well.
    "Is this a bad time, ma'am?" he said, in what had to be his 
most mannerly tone. But it didn't fool Old Miss Harper; she 
was quite certain this boy had the devil in him. They all 
did, she knew, lurking just below the surface. And this one 
in particular...
    "Come here, boy, where I can see you."
He stepped up to the porch, hesitating there, afraid to get 
any closer. She peered at him as if he were some sort of 
exotic bug.
    "You're Caleb Temple, aren't you?" she demanded.
    "Yes, ma'am," he said. "I wanted to ask you somethin' "
She frowned.
    "And what would that be?"
    "It's 'bout mah sister, Merly. You was her teacher, wasn't 
you?"
    "GOOD GOD," she screeched, and the boy turned white and 
jumped back a step. "Who taught you to speak, boy?"
    "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said nervously. "I don't mean no 
offence..."
    "DOUBLE NEGATIVE!" Old Miss Harper crowed.
"What? What?"
    The boy was completely flustered now, Old Miss Harper 
noted with approval. Good. It served him right.
    "Oh never mind," she said crossly. "What is it you want? 
Somethin' about your sister?"
    Caleb swallowed, and stepped forward again, although a 
damn sight less impudently, Old Miss Harper thought. He 
spoke very slowly and carefully this time.
    "Did you teach mah sister, Merly?" he asked carefully.
    "Why, yes, I did," she said with a big, grandmotherly smile. 
"She was a vile child."
    "What?"
    "Just like all the rest," she said. "Vile and horrid."
    "Merly wasn't horrid," the boy said, with a fire in his eye. 
"She was the best person in the whole world!"
    Old Miss Harper looked at the boy again, and she suddenly 
felt the blood drain from the paper-thin skin of her face. 
She'd seen that look in a boy before. The day men had landed 
on the moon.
    She remembered...
... In the parlor, with her mother rattling on and on. It was 
unbearable, the way the woman would prattle, finding fault in 
everything the then-younger Miss Harper did.
    "When are you going to get married? I'm not going to live 
forever, you know, and I want to see my grandchildren. For 
God's sake, Bettina, you'll die an old maid. If you'd just 
pretty yourself up a bit. You know, you'll never get a man to 
look at you if you don't wear a little makeup."
    "Mother," she'd hissed. "Be still. I want to hear this. 
They're about to land."
    But on and on she went, droning over the telecast, over the 
solemn hushed words of the newscasters.
    Then, suddenly, steps on the porch.
    "Someone's at the door," her mother had said. Then there was 
a louder smash, and the door flew open in a storm of 
splinters. Miss Harper had rushed toward the door, only to 
have the wind knocked out of her by a blow to the midriff.
She lay, helpless and panting, as she saw a boy's feet pass 
by her face. Craning her head as far as she could, she saw 
his back as he crossed the room. He held a baseball bat, what 
he had struck her with.
    "Mother," she had gasped.
    She couldn't bear to look, as the bat swung back. Cringing, 
she looked away, toward the door -- where she saw a shadowy 
figure, in a long black coat. And then, the glint of a badge 
pinned at the lapel.
    "Remember what I taught you, son," the shadowy figure 
said in a deep, cruel voice. A voice she recognized: Sheriff 
Buck, senior. The splintering sound she heard behind her was 
his boy, Lucas, the original bad seed if she had ever seen one.
But why were they here? What was this all about.
    She craned her head back to the boy, saw him carefully 
sweep her mother off her feet with the bat. A sickening crack 
was probably her hip.
    Miss Harper had clambered to her hands and knees, 
crawling forward.
    "Stop," she gasped, fighting for her breath. "Stop."
    The boy, just 13, did stop. He turned and looked at her, 
started to raise the bat.
    "Remember what I told you, son," came the voice of the 
elder Buck behind her.
    She stared back at his silhouette. "Sheriff Buck? What is 
this?"
    "A lesson," the man replied.
    Miss Harper struggled to her feet, lurched toward her 
mother.  "Lucas Buck," she wheezed. "What are you doing?"
And he'd looked her in the eye, relaxing the bat in his hand.
    "Do something, Bettina," her mother whined. "For God's 
sake, don't just stand there. Help me. Oh, sweet Jesus, 
you're so worthless."
    And the boy, calm but with a fire in his eye, extended the 
handle of the bat to her.
    "Bettina! Get over here and help me! Dear Mary, mother of 
God! If you love your mother at all, get over here and help 
me!"
    And she'd looked at the handle.
    "I need you, Bettina! Come here at once!"
    And she looked in the boy's eyes.
    "You're never here when I need you," her mother wheezed. 
"Always letting me down. For God's sake, help me!"
    And the next thing she knew, her mother had stopped whining. 
    The room fell still.
    "Tranquility base here," crackled the television speaker. 
"The Eagle has landed."
    The boy was smirking at her, as the bat slipped from her 
trembling hands.
    "You just tell 'em some men in masks broke in here, Miss 
Harper," the boy said. "You just tell 'em that, and wipe your 
fingerprints off of that bat, and you'll do fine."
    Then, he was close up, in her face, and she could feel his 
hot breath near her lips.
    "And always remember the name of the -- the man -- who 
set you free. Lucas Buck."
    He kissed her lips. She backed away from him, from the 
horror of her mother's shattered skull in the periphery of her 
vision.
    "I own you now, Miss Harper," the boy leered. "Don't you 
forget it."
    She had clasped her hands over her mouth.
    "Come on, boy," the elder Buck said from the doorway. 
"That's enough."
    Young Lucas Buck sauntered past her, to the door. She 
followed him, watching. The older man clasped his shoulder, 
and they went down the walk.
    "You always remember your first time, son," she heard, as 
the sheriff's voice trailed off into the distance...
    The memory faded, and Old Miss Harper blinked in the 
sunlight, down at the angry boy who now suddenly seemed so 
familiar. She felt very cold.
    "I, I was just joking, child," she said, affecting the 
sweetest voice she could. "Did I say your sister was vile? 
She, she was a fine girl. A truly fine girl. Truly."
    Caleb looked confused now, and just stood there staring at 
her, unsure what to make of the sudden saccharine in her 
tone.
    "Truly," Old Miss Harper said, voice cracking. "Truly I did 
love that child."
    Caleb stared at her.
    "I swear it. You have to believe me!"
    The boy shook his head, and apparently decided to ignore 
the sudden change and proceed with his quest.
    "Anyway, ma'am," he said cautiously, "I was wonderin' if 
you could tell me what she looked like."
    Old Miss Harper was puzzled, but through sheer force of 
will, she kept her tone even, and saccharine sweet.
    "Well, surely, you know what your own sister looked like," 
she said. "Dear child."
    "Oh, sure," Caleb responded defensively. "Ah was just 
wonderin' what she looked like to other folks."
    He opened the notebook, and pulled a pencil out of his 
pocket, and waited expectantly.
    Old Miss Harper felt an unaccustomed trickle of sweat slide 
down her cheek.
    "Well," she stammered, "she had hair like an angel's, yes. 
And eyes like an angel's too. And her cheeks, like angels. 
And such a heavenly chin..."
    "Uh, ma'am," Caleb interrupted her nervously. "Ah meant, 
you know, what she looked like. You know, the color of her 
hair and such."
    "Oh," the old woman said, perplexed but unwilling to question 
the boy any further. "Well, she had glossy black hair, and 
dark eyes. And very fair skin."
    The boy scribbled furiously.
    "What about her face?" he asked, excited. "What shape 
was her face?"
    "Kind of heart-shaped," she replied. "Sort of pointy at her 
chin." Then as an afterthought: "Of course, it was the most 
beautiful point I ever saw on a girl."
    Caleb peered up at her from his writing for a moment, and it 
was obvious that he was wondering if he could trust the words 
of this crazy old women. Old Miss Harper held her breath for 
a long moment.
    "Thanks, ma'am," he finally said. "You've been very helpful."
    "Oh, don't mention it, dear," she replied, unable to keep the 
relief from flooding her voice. "You just come back anytime 
now."
    "Thanks, ma'am," Caleb said, and he loped off.
Old Miss Harper watched him disappear down the street, as 
she felt her courage slowly return.
    "Too much of his father in him," she muttered to herself.
    "Ain't that the truth?" came a voice from behind her, the 
heat of a man's face suddenly right by her cheek.
    Peer Gynt started barking and snarling madly, his long ears 
flopping up and down with his excitement.
    Old Miss Harper held completely still, not daring to move, to 
speak, even to breathe, as Lucas Buck walked out to the walk, 
staring down at the yapping dog, which was running in circles 
around his legs.
    "You know, Miss Harper, I'm mighty surprised you're still 
teachin' at your age," the sheriff said. "Still, it's 
probably just as well. I hear they're reassessing the 
properties on this street next month. Could be expensive."
He smirked at her, that same smirk from so many years ago, 
unchanged. Here was another one who was just like his father.
"Anyway," he added, "I know you couldn't bear to leave the 
children."
    Unable to stand it any more, Peer Gynt snapped at Lucas' 
pant leg with a ferocious growl. Buck frowned at the dog, his 
face distorting, ugly. Then he pulled back and let loose a mighty 
kick. Peer Gynt flew yelping through the air, crashing into 
Old Miss Harper's lap in a scramble of paws that raised her 
skin into goosebumps. She held very still, while the dog 
darted to the corner of the porch, whining.
    Lucas Buck chuckled.
    "Why look, Miss Harper. The beagle has landed."
    The teacher finally, mercifully, fainted dead away.
* * * * * * * *
    All things considered, the sheriff's station in Trinity was a 
quiet, relatively peaceful place. All the chaos and evil of 
the world was outside, that was what the sheriff and his 
deputies went out to face every day. But here, the sun shined 
in on the quiet desks, and rarely was a voice raised in 
anger.
    Ben liked to think of the station as an oasis, a sanctuary 
from the things he had seen during the course of his years as 
Lucas Buck's deputy. Although this was the place where it all 
began, he saw it as somehow isolated, insulated. Despite the 
presence of Lucas' office just a few feet behind the desk 
where Ben sat typing reports.
    On days like this, when Lucas took his business afoot, on 
the streets of Trinity, the sheriff's station seemed almost 
sanctified, Ben thought. Almost like a church, in its still, 
solemn peace.
    Ben looked out the window, and saw Caleb Temple peering 
in at him. The deputy smiled and waved the boy in. Caleb was 
a strange duck, for sure, and Ben had been disturbed by the 
boy's transformation during the time Lucas was under the 
ground. But Caleb was, at heart, a good kid, who'd had some 
rough breaks. And Ben was well-practiced at the art of 
overlooking behavior he found unsettling.
    The boy came in.
    "Howdy Caleb," Ben said cheerily. "How are you today?"
    "Ah'm fine, Ben," Caleb replied. "Ah wanted to ask you 
somethin'."
    "Ask away," Ben replied.
    "It's about mah sister, Merly."
    Ben's face darkened, but he tried to hide it.
    "What about her, Caleb?"
    "Ah'm tryin' to write down what people say she looked like."
    Ben frowned. "Why would you be doin' that?"
    Caleb looked at the deputy, considering, evaluating, those 
eyes piercing him. Then he nodded, as if Ben had passed some 
unspoken test. 
    "Ah can't remember what her face looks like, Ben. Ah 
need help to remember."
    Ben didn't have that problem. Given half a chance, the 
memories came flooding back to him. The dark, dirty Temple 
house, Lucas leaning over the half-wit girl. "Someone's at 
the door." Then a cruel twist of the neck.
    This above all else, more than anything else Lucas had 
done, haunted Ben's dreams. It had even haunted his waking 
life. Although he knew it was impossible, he also knew -- as 
sure as he was alive himself -- that he had seen Merly since. 
Spectral, beautiful, fleeting, scornful.
    He opened his eyes, and saw Caleb staring.
    Ben placed his hands together on the desk.
    "Well, Caleb, let me think," he said quietly. "She had dark, 
glossy hair. And dark eyes. And strong cheeks. And she stared 
right through you, as if you weren't there, sometimes."
    Caleb had opened his notebook, and was scribbling 
rapidly. "What about her voice? What did she sound like, 
Ben?"
    "Oh, I don't know. Like my mom, I guess, kind of 
righteous, scolding. Like she knew I'd done wrong and..."
Ben's voice trailed off. Caleb locked eyes with him again, 
for what seemed like forever.
    Ben broke it off first, looking down at his hands where 
they lay folded before him.
    "Although, of course, I never really heard her say anything. 
Except, you know, 'Someone's at the door.'"
    He looked up at Caleb again.
    "You know," the deputy said.
    "Ah know," the boy replied, and he walked out of the station 
into the sun.
    Ben sat there, not unfolding his hands, eyes closed for a 
long time. And the station, for just a moment, felt even more 
like a church than it normally did, as the silent sound of 
his remorseful prayer vibrated, deafening, from the walls.
** * * * * * 
    Dr. Taft had been present for most of Trinity's current crop 
of glad tidings. And for many years, he'd shared a genuine 
smile of joy with many an expectant mother.
But passing the years in Trinity had a way of wearing a man 
down, and who would blame him for fortifying that smile with 
a little nip in the morning, one at noon, and big one at 
night? Who would blame him?
    Well, he reflected, better not to put that one to the test. 
The smell of antiseptic more than explained any lingering 
scent of his medicinal supplement. And anyway, all those 
moms-to-be needed his cheer and his support to ease their 
anxieties about bringing a new life into this crazy world.
He peeked out into the waiting room. It was empty. It seemed 
empty often these days, no doubt thanks to the career-minded 
women that the modern age had created. They were waiting, no 
doubt, until later in life to start their families. Dr. Taft 
imagined that in a few years, he'd be inundated once more 
with patients.
    At any rate, he could use the break. They all thought it was 
an easy job, obstetrics. The other doctors, the surgeons and 
such, seemed to think so, anyway. But it wore you down, each 
birth, the harrowing, painful rite that brought forth a 
child. Some more than others.
    The front door creaked open unexpectedly. Ronnie, his 
receptionist was out to lunch, but surely she would have 
mentioned if he had an appointment...
    But he could see immediately that this was no patient. It was 
just a boy, Caleb Temple. Dark memories skittered across his 
mind at the thought of that name. Best get rid of the boy 
quickly, the sooner the better. He felt a sudden craving for 
his habitual anesthesia. 
    He sauntered out into the room.
    "Well, well, if it isn't young Caleb Temple. What brings you 
here, son?" He crouched creakily, and reached out a hand to 
ruffle what little hair the boy had. "Don't tell me you've 
got a girl in the family way at your age, son."
    Caleb twisted away from the man's touch, a shade 
suspicious but circumspect. When he spoke, he was 
scrupulously polite.  "No sir," he said seriously. "I ain't 
never done nothin' like that. Ah came to ask you a question."
    "Birds and the bees, and like that, son? I believe I've got a 
little book around here that 'splains all that in a sensitive 
way." He got up and started rifling around in Ronnie's desk. 
"I'm sure it's here somewhere..."
    "No sir," Caleb said. "It's nothin' like that. Ah had a 
question 'bout my sister."
    The craving for his medicine came on Doc Taft powerfully 
then, and he sat heavily in the receptionists desk.
    "Well now, what do you want stirrin' up old business like 
that son?"
    "Ah don't mean to stir up anythin', Doc Taft. Ah just knew 
you delivered most babies 'round here, and Ah was wonderin' 
if you remembered what Merly look like when she was a baby."
    Dr. Taft's face darkened a shade further still, as he sorted 
through his thoughts. The memories the boy requested were 
never too far from the surface of his mind, at least not from 
the surface of his sober mind.
    "Merly..." he sighed, and his breath caught for just a 
moment.
    There had been a storm that night, the night Merly was born, 
and the power had gone out. The delivery room was all lit up 
with lanterns and candles, hardly standard operating 
procedure. It had taken an unusually large dose of his 
special medicine to steady his nerves that night, what with 
the dim, garish lighting and the storm raging outside. 
It was a long labor, as well, going on and on, far into the 
night. And unusually painful for the mother, he recalled. 
Then there was the father, Gage, making things worse, down 
on his knees and praying at the top of his lungs. 
    "Lord, protect this child," he'd screamed. "Lord, bless this 
child! Lord, keep the devil away from this child!"
    It had been strange indeed, for this was long before the 
elder Temple had truly cracked up. Dr. Taft guessed he should 
have seen it coming. Especially...
    Especially when the child had finally, finally been born, 
screaming and bloodied into the world. Exhausted, half-
blinded by the rising sun coming in through the window, Dr. 
Taft had placed the girl into Temple's hands...
    And the man looked down at the child, and gravely back 
at the doctor, peering into his soul, it seemed. 
    "The devil's in this child," he'd said, solemnly. "She bears 
the mark of the devil."
    And he'd held up the baby's hands, his touch rough with the 
innocent newborn, held out her hands to show the sixth finger 
extending from each tiny palm.
    "The mark of the witch," Temple said. "You've got to fix it."
Taft had stepped back a little, his head throbbing with the 
need for just a nip. "OK, Gage," he'd said. "Come back in a 
couple of weeks, and we'll take care of it then."
    And still cradling the girl in one arm, Temple's other steely 
hand reached out and grabbed the doctor's collar. His eyes 
were wild, crazy.
    "A couple weeks is too late, Doc," he snarled. "The devil 
will be into her by then. You gotta do it now."
    "Are you mad?" Taft had cried. "This is a newborn. Too 
small for anesthesia. For God's sake, it'll be fine. It's just a 
slight deformity, man. Forget all that superstition. This 
kind of thing happens all the time."
    Temple had let go of his collar then, his hand reaching 
behind him to produce a gun. The room was hot and 
suffocating from the lanterns, the open flames of the 
candle, and when Taft saw the gun, everything started 
to spin and he couldn't breathe.
    Temple lay the child down on the small cot that had been 
prepared for it. With his free hand, he had picked up a 
scalpel, placed it in the doctor's shaking palm.
    The nurse cowered uselessly in the corner, while the mother 
moaned a little where she lay barely conscious after her 
ordeal.
    Gage put the gun right up to Taft's head, pressing it to his 
face right under his nose. The doctor could smell the oil 
used to clean it, the biting gunpowder that lingered in the 
barrel. The snout of the weapon was pleasantly cool against 
his lip.
    "Do it now," Gage snarled, "or so help me I'll kill you and 
do it myself."
    And with an act of will, Doc Taft had steadied his shaking 
hands...
    He shuddered, and broke himself out of his reverie, to find 
the boy staring at him strangely, full of suspicion and 
hostility, as if he could read the very storm of thoughts 
that raged across the doctor's brain. Doc Taft needed his 
medicine, just a nip.
    "She was a beautiful baby," he said. "Cute as a button."
    The boy kept staring for one long moment more, before 
mercifully releasing him.
    "Thank you, doctor," Caleb said, as if Taft had spoken 
volumes on end. "I'll be goin' now."
    The door shut behind him, just as a cold sweat broke out 
across his forehead. He rushed to his office, pulled the 
bottle he so desperately needed out from his bottom desk 
drawer, and took a long, long pull.
    He closed his eyes as the numbness came over him, stilled 
his pounding heart. He took a deep breath.
    He heard a creak at the waiting room door again. Damn that 
child, what did he want now? Wiping his lip, the doctor went 
back out.
    But the room was still empty, unchanged except for a tall 
package, in a brown paper bag left sitting on the 
receptionist's desk.
    Doc Taft went over to it and looked inside. It was a bottle 
of 15-year-old Scotch, with a slip of paper attached at the 
neck. He opened the note and read the words written within:
"A still tongue makes a happy life. Skoal!"
    The signature, with its trademark flourish, read simply 
"L.B."
* * * * * * * *
    In the light of the setting sun, Caleb sat by the river, 
tossing stones into the muddy water, and watching them 
vanish, untraceable. Perhaps his memories of Merly were 
destined to do the same, he thought, just disappear into the 
bubbling rush of life, never to be seen again.
    "How goes the quest?" came a drawl behind him.
    Caleb didn't bother to turn around.
    "Ah suppose you know all about that."
    Lucas sat on the ground next to the boy.
    "That's a sheriff's job, to know what's going on in his town. 
And I'm very good at my job, Caleb."
    "Ah suppose you are," the boy replied, and threw another 
stone into the water. They listened to the flow for a while.
    "Ah guess you'd rather ah just forgot about Merly," Caleb 
said after a while. "And why not? No one remembers anythin' 
nice about her. No one in this town remembers anythin' nice 
at all. Only secrets."
    "That's not true," Lucas responded. "We Bucks just have 
a way of bringin' these things to the surface, is all. But there 
are good things that happen in the town, just like the bad. 
Just like everywhere else in the world. And whatever else 
might have passed between me and Merly, she was there when 
you needed her. She sacrificed everything to save you, in the 
end. For that, I'll always be grateful."
    "Why?"
    "Because I love you, son," Lucas said gravely, the usual 
sneer missing from his voice, if only for a moment. Caleb 
peered sideways at the sheriff, his skepticism plainly 
visible on his face.
    "You may not believe a man like me is capable of that," 
Lucas said, philosophically. "I understand. It's tough to get 
to know a man like me."
    He stood up.
    "That's why I'm going to help you out, Caleb. You want to 
remember what Merly looked like? It's the easiest thing in 
the world."
    Caleb was listening now, despite himself. His hand twitched 
near the pen and notebook lying on the ground next to him.
"You don't need to write this down, Caleb. It's easier than 
that. If you want to remember Merly, don't focus on her face. 
Focus on her heart. Remember how she made you feel, and the 
rest will come."
    Lucas started to walk away, leaving Caleb to ponder his 
words. But before he went out of sight, he turned and called 
over his shoulder, "And don't say I never did nothin' for 
you!"
    Caleb smiled, just a little, at the corner of his mouth, 
again despite himself.
* * * * * * * *
    Back in his room, all grey and blue in the twilight that 
poured in the window, Caleb went from wall to wall, taking 
down the many pictures that littered every surface, and 
placing them all in a pile in the middle of the room. 
    When he was done, he picked up a piece of blank white 
paper and began to draw. The outline of her face came in 
strong, with a lovely slant to her jaw, tapering to a distinct 
chin. Her eyes were deep and dark, but with a little sparkle, 
and her lips red and smiling. Her dark, surrounding hair fell 
down to her shoulders.
    Caleb looked at the picture for a long time, then carefully 
propped it up against the lamp by his bedside. He lay down, 
staring at it with a smile for a long while, until at the 
last, he fell asleep. 
    And although the room grew dark as the night came into its 
own, the picture glittered and shimmered, just a little, with 
a reflected light left that might have been left over from 
the day.
    Caleb dreamed of Merly that night, good dreams. And he 
didn't even stir when Lucas crept into his room, very late. The 
sheriff picked up the picture and gazed at it.
    "Your memory serves you well, son," he whispered. 
"Good bye, Merly. I hope you found what you were looking 
for."
    He set the picture back where it had been on the bedside 
table, and crept out as silently as he had entered. It was 
good to know the boy was feeling better, but Lucas Buck 
knew the rest of Trinity was his responsibility too. It was late 
at night, time to attend to his people.
    "After all," Lucas said aloud, as he climbed into his car, 
    "This town just wouldn't be the same without me."
    He revved the engine, cranked up the volume on the radio 
and tore off with a screech down the otherwise quiet street, 
into the depths of Trinity's night.

		THE END