And Then the Monarchs Flew Away

By Lou Jones

At the age of thirty-three, Bill Mason is a popular fishing guide in Key West. Though successful, his journey had not been easy. He was orphaned at the age of eight; at fourteen he was a runaway, making his own way in the world. In Key West he found his calling on the fishing boats. He also found a lovehis wife, Beth.

Edgar Stanky has just retired. Reflecting on his forty-year career in business, he wonders if he has always lived the right life for him. Intent on making the most of retirement, Edgar and his wife Ariel, move to Key West where they find an exciting new lifeand, where they form a friendship with Bill and Beth Mason.

Suddenly, Bill is stricken with lymphoma. Confronted by his mortality he searches for something to believe in as he battles the disease. His struggle takes a bizarre turn when he experiences otherworldly visionsperhaps indicators of a higher level of consciousness. He becomes almost manic in his compulsion to share the mystical nature of his passing with Edgar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462009596

Lou Jones

Lou Jones is a Marine Corps veteran and retired Caterpillar Inc. division manager. Lou is a member of the Greensboro Writers’ Guild, Greensboro, Georgia, and the Georgia Poetry Society (contest chairperson, 2009/2012). Lou’s poetry reflects his keen interest in the human condition — our origins, behaviors, relationships, ideologies, scientific inquiry, how we view our world and the universe in which we reside. He previously published two poetry collections, From Microbe to Consciousness and After the Blast, also a novel, And Then the Monarchs Flew Away. Lou and his wife, Toni, live in The Fairways, Savannah Quarters, Pooler, Georgia.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

About The Author

ENIGMA

Here we are,

children of fortuity,

exemplars

of consciousness,

entrained

within the flow of time;

stewards

of a frangible sphere,

slight

among the galaxies.

Is our being but sport,

celestial theater,

a rendering

governed by the gods?

Are we simply pawns

to an astral dramaturge,

a scenarist who aligns

us with our tasks,

orders the confluence

of our disparate lives,

couriers our myriad trials,

grand triumphs, stinging defeats?

In the end

what is our destiny,

we players

who tread life’s runway,

where might we abide

when the heavens realign?

WILLIAM SANDERS MASON

PROLOGUE

"How about fate Daddy, let’s talk about fate!"

––––

It is a balmy Sunday afternoon in June, Cambier Park, Naples, Florida. Billy Mason and his parents sit on their favorite bench, shaded by a Banyan tree’s canopy of leathery green leaves. The Mason’s are enjoying the butterflies fluttering about in one of the park’s many flower gardens. A golden retriever dozes beneath the bench. The sleepy canine whips the air with its tail each time young Billy reaches down to pet her. It is a contented scene. Such park outings are a ritual for the Mason’s, a carefree getaway unencumbered by the patterns of their day-to-day lives.

William Sanders Mason was born June 14, 1974, in Naples, the only child of Sanders and Alice Mason. He was his Mommy’s little angel and Daddy’s number one pal. A supercharged child with, as his Mom put it, the curiosity of a scientist, the memory of an elephant, and the soul of a poet. Billy sported a head of curly black hair. His deep brown eyes housed a permanent sparkle that gave the impression he knew special things. His Dad once observed, When I look into my son’s eyes I see a knowing, something imbued prenatal, an indwelling wisdom.

Sanders and Alice were excited about the qualities they observed in their son. They looked forward to watching him explore his world, learn and grow, follow where his life’s journey might take him—but it was not to be, fate intervened.

Little Billy Mason became an orphan on his eighth birthday.

––––

An attorney, Sanders Mason practiced Family and Marital Law in Naples. Alice had been an elementary school teacher but gave it up to be a full-time mom when Billy was born. His parents had agreed Billy would be homeschooled.

Billy had many distinctive attributes, with an expansive inquisitiveness he questioned and observed at levels exceptional for his age. He had the ability to focus intently on the subject at hand, employing excellent reasoning and problem solving skills. He enjoyed learning, was hungry for knowledge, and had high physical and mental energy. Although precocious beyond his years Billy was also a normal little boy with most of the usual traits of a child, including a vigorous imagination.

His parent’s decision to home school was not lightly taken. They wanted to avoid the possibility of Billy’s extraordinary attributes diminished or stultified by the public school system’s one-size-fits-all educational template. They also wanted to minimize the influences of easy answers propagated by simplistic religious indoctrination, the media, entertainment culture, and other forms of mind-capturing diversions, what Alice referred to as frontal lobe banditry.

Billy’s parents were not overly protective, but did want their child to have the opportunity to develop his exceptional mental powers as free as possible of nonproductive influences. They wanted to guide him along a developmental path of his own inclinations, while maintaining his individuality. His Mom told him, "Billy, always be you. Do not give yourself away, ever. Trust who you are. You have a fine mind, learn to trust your own observations, thoughts, and conclusions." It was a heady assignment for a seven-year old.

His Mom and Dad worked primarily on the basics with Billy’s schooling, but also focused their efforts on his reasoning, comprehension, and problem-solving skills. To help, Alice spent countless hours reading to her son. Some stories were read in a single setting. Others were read serially, leaving Billy eager for the next session. His Mom had a way of dramatizing the stories that left him wanting more. Other stories were strictly entertainment, typical kid’s stories, meant to entertain and appeal to Billy’s emotions.

Billy asked probing questions. His Mom would explain the points being made. He did not hesitate to question her on the meaning of a particular passage, and didn’t give ground easily. Alice would use these occasions to challenge his reasoning abilities. She and her son parried over meanings, which at times turned into staunch debate on Billy’s part, a trait that would accompany him into adulthood. His insistence he was right had to run its course, he had to hit the wall and hobble to the finish line. It was through these sessions he learned sometimes people see things differently and it is okay to disagree. Invariably he would apologize to his Mom for his stubbornness. She would praise him for defending his point of view. On balance, his parents thought Billy’s forceful defense of his beliefs was a good thing. It was another aspect of his individuality. He had the courage of his childhood convictions.

Billy’s favorite story was Jonathan Livingston Seagull, the one he most liked to discuss. A typical interchange between Billy and his Mom is portrayed in the following vignette. The session began with the ever curious Billy asking, "Mommy why does Jonathan want to fly fast?"

Alice called this type of question an opener, Billy’s way of drawing her into a discussion.

"Well why does he want to fly fast Billy? Why would he try something so risky?"

Ah come on, I asked you first Mom. You do better en me. I like it when you tell it. Please. Go ahead. I’ll say things to help, Billy promised, employing his persuasive bargaining mode.

Giving in, Alice conceded, I will go first. But I will talk like a big person. I want you to listen closely and ask questions if you have to.

Yep, go ahead Mom, I like it when you talk to me that way—it makes me feel importan.

"The story of Jonathan Livingston Seagull is an allegory. Do you remember what an allegory is Billy?"

Sure Mom, I do, a story sayin one thing but meanin somethin else, like a fable, right?

Good Billy, that’s about it, and you are right, some people do call it a fable.

But I like alleygory best Mom, better than fable.

Why son?

Alleygory makes my tongue waggle. It’s fun. Try it Mom, say fable and then say alleygory, you’ll see. Try it.

I’ll try it, fable—alleygory. You are right, my tongue waggled, alleygory it is.

Good Mom. I pay attention to stuff like that.

"I know you do. Well let’s see, Jonathan Livingston Seagull is a unique story written by Richard Bach, a unique author. What does unique mean Billy?"

It means special, could be even one-of-a-kind, huh Mom?

Right. Do you remember why Richard Bach is unique Billy?

You said he has speshall septors.

Special receptors Billy.

Billy expressed his childlike chagrin. "Ya I know, I have to work on my pro-nun-cee-a-shun."

You do fine.

Alice was amused at her son’s exaggerated intonation. But how about special receptors, why are they unique?

You told me he can see and unnerstan things other people can’t. And, um, since he unnerstans stuff other people don’t, he writes about the stuff in his stories, his alleygories. Whadaya think Mommy?

Good Billy, good, you have a good memory.

"Thanks Mom, you make me feel good. Will I have good septors, uh, whoops, I mean re-cep-tors, like him?"

Yes, you will. I know you will.

I wish I knew Mister Bach, maybe he could teach me. I wish I was his friend.

"You are a friend to Jonathan aren’t you?"

Yes.

Then you are a friend to the author too.

I think you are right Mommy. Anyway, I have you to teach me. I will work hard to see and unnerstan stuff like Mister Bach does.

"Good—good. Now to Jonathan, he was not an ordinary seagull. He had something inside of him making him special."

Was it his soul Mom? Ya know, his real self.

Maybe Billy.

It’s a mystery, huh Mom?

Yes, it is a mystery. Alice took a little different approach each time she discussed the story with Billy. "Jonathan wanted to unlock doors."

Whadaya mean unlock doors?

Remember Billy? Unlocking doors means learning something new. It might be something about the world, maybe something about yourself.

"Ya, I remember. It’s hard to find the key sometimes isn’t it Mommy? Least what you said one time."

You remembered. Good for you. And in the world there are people who do not look for the key. They are content to stay behind doors.

Like lockin themselves away from life, right Mom? It is one of the alleygory parts, huh?

Yes Billy, very good, one of the alleygory parts. But once you walk through a door you can’t go back.

Go back to what Mommy?

Ordinary thought, easy answers, not wondering about things or wanting to know about the world, about yourself.

"Mommy, I wanna know everything, fly high like Jonathan. I wanna see and learn and know about myself."

"That’s good Billy. Jonathan did not want to be like the other seagulls. He knew he could do better. He wanted to reach his potential. Do you remember what reaching potential means?"

Sure Mom, it’s doin your best at what you know best, isn’t it? You said it’s usin your gifts.

Right sweetheart.

Mom, is it hard to reach your po, potential?

"Yes Billy, it is hard. Jonathan knew life could be more than squatting on the beach, scavenging for bits of fish, and sleeping on a rock. He knew seagulls were meant to fly, fast and far. Oh so fast and far. Jonathan knew if seagulls could learn to fly swiftly they would find more purpose in their lives, more meaning."

Kinda hard to unnerstan Mom.

"Let me read what the author, Mister Bach, said about flying: How much more there is now to living! Instead of our drab slogging forth and back to the fishing boats, there’s a reason to life! We can lift ourselves out of ignorance, we can find ourselves as creatures of excellence and intelligence and skill. We can be free! We can learn to fly!"

I like it Mommy. It gives me goosey bumps.

"Jonathan knew if he could do this he would find the beautiful part of himself, his essence."

Mommy I know what essence is.

What is it Billy?

Your real self. Your meant-to-be-self.

Good Billy. What else did I say about self?

"Findin your true self is like an explorer makin a discovery, and findin yourself leads to contentment. It will make you good and you’ll feel good. Jonathan knew bein his true self would, um, be hard and maybe he wouldn’t be poplur with the other seagulls. He knew some would be jealous and try to make him be more like them and others might even hate him. Whew. Whew. I need to take a breath. Uh, sometimes I talk too much. You told me lots of stuff about this and I try to remember it, but maybe I use too many words."

Billy you are doing fine. What else did I say?

"Some would want him to give them his fish because he could fly faster, dive better, and, um, catch more than they could. They were lazy and wanted him to, ya know, give them what he worked hard for, or uh, eat the scraps on the beach. He could be a good sample, whoa—whoops, there I go. I mean ex-am-ple. I get those two words mixed up. He would be an example for other seagulls. They maybe would try to fly faster and find their true selves. I guess that’s why he flew where other seagulls could see him, be a teacher, huh Mom?"

Right Billy.

"Mom, I like Jonathan. He was brave."

Why do you say that?

"Well it’s not easy bein your speshall self when everyone else is the same. And, and he had to work hard. He had to practice and practice. It wasn’t easy for him, ya know?"

Alice smiled. She followed up, "But was it worth it to Jonathan?"

Billy thought for a moment, For sure, otherwise he wouldn’t be happy, right; content? And bein your real self takes hard work, right Mom?

"Right. You are a wise little boy Billy Mason."

Do ya think he was a real seagull Mom?

I would like to think he was Billy. His message is real. You are my little seagull and you are real.

"Mom, I wish I could fly like Jonathan."

You will my little angel, oh my, you will.

Wow, thanks Mom. I know you’re alleygorying me. You mean I will find my real, meant-to-be-self, and if, if I do, it will seem like I’m flyin, right?

Right Billy.

Mom.

Yes, what is it?

Can I write Mister Bach a letter?

Alice paused, considering Billy’s question. I guess, I suppose—yes, sure you can. What would you say to him?

"Um, uh, first I would tell him I’m a little kid, almost eight years old. I would tell him my Mom reads me lots and lots of stories, but Jonathan Livingston Seagull is my most favrit. I think he would like to know how poplur he is with me. I would say you help me unnerstan his alleygories and you say he has speshall re-cep-tors. Then maybe tell him I’d like to be like Jonathon and find my real meant-to-be self. I might ask him if he’s going to write any more stories about Jonathan—um, tell him if he did, lots of little kids would probably read em. Stuff like that is what I would say to him Mom."

It sounds good. I am sure Mister Bach would enjoy such a letter.

Good, let’s get started on it right away Mommy.

Right away son.

And so it would go with Billy and his Mom.

CHAPTER ONE

An exciting part of the day for Billy was when his Dad came home from the office. Sanders tried to be punctual because his son and Callie would be waiting for him in the front yard, playing ball. Callie was a golden retriever. Her retrieval instincts had to be satisfied by chasing the baseball-sized pink rubber balls Alice bought at K Mart. Callie had a ritual of soft-chewing the balls before she sat them at Billy’s feet for tossing. This teething action and the ferocity of Callie’s ball retrieval style left the ball in a sodden, shredded condition after several tosses. Many of Billy’s little buddies refused to touch the balls, let alone pick them up and toss them. It was not optional for his Dad. He was expected to play ball with Callie when he came home, and naturally this practice, once established, couldn’t be revoked. Alice kept an ample supply of the balls on hand. No one in the Mason household kept track of the annual pink rubber ball expense. Billy earned the balls by keeping his room picked up and picking up after Callie in the yard and on the family walks. Everyone was happy with this arrangement. Sanders contended, Billy would rather have pink rubber balls for Callie than toys for himself.

Callie slept with Billy. An arrangement they both liked. Billy’s only complaint was the slumbering canine did bad stinkers sometimes.

After the ball tossing session Sanders would change clothes for the family’s early evening walk to Cambier Park. These excursions were called family observation and conversation hour. Billy particularly liked their Sunday outings. They would go earlier and stay longer at the park. On these walks he asked lots of questions and gathered treasures for his Nature Box. He picked up things matching what his Dad referred to as his treasure acceptance system. This included such items as pine cones, twigs with leaves on them, dead bugs, feathers of any size, tree bark, brightly-colored little rocks, maybe an expired butterfly, flower blossoms having fallen from their stems. Billy took the blooms home and put them in water to give them bonus life for an extra day or two. When he took them out of the water they went into the Nature Box.

Billy’s Mom established a rule. Each time he placed new things in the box he had to remove an equal number of older treasures. These he scattered in the wooded area behind their house where he and his buddy, Tubby Skoggs, could still check on them from time to time; little Billy the conservationist.

June 13,1982

Billy was hiding behind the front yard Magnolia trees. He loved this game. His Mom and Dad, playing their part, came out of the house and called for him.

Billy, Billy, Billy Maaay…son, they called in unison. And playing her part, Callie barked and ran in circles around Sanders and Alice. Where oh where is Billy? Alice asked aloud, with mock concern in her voice.

Sanders chimed in, Where could he be? I don’t see him anywhere. I guess he won’t be going to the park with us today.

I’ll bet he will want to go, Alice called out, I see lots of butterflies headed that way.

That was Billy’s cue. He jumped from behind the trees, his arms spread wide. Ta da! Here I am ya silly birds. I’m here. Right here.

His Mom and Dad responded as one, Billy wherever have you been? We have been looking for you.

Ya know! I’ve been away, far, far away, on a trip. But now I’m home. Home to stay, with you guys and Callie.

Was it a good trip Billy? Alice asked.

No. Not just good. It was a great, great trip. I learned a lot.

Alice said, We are off to the park. Would you like to come along?

C’mon Billy, urged Sanders, let’s go.

Yeah! Yeah! Canabeer Park. We’re going to Canabeer Park! Callie we’re going to Canabeer Park, c’mon, shouted Billy, engaging his Cambier Park parody.

Cambier Park is a ten-acre public park and playground located right off of Naples’ elegant Fifth Avenue, between Eighth and Park Streets. Dedicated in 1948 the park was named after the city engineer, William Cambier. The facilities include tennis courts, a baseball field, shelters, benches, band shell, shuffle board and basketball courts. The park is also home to the Von Liebig Art Center. The Mason’s lived in a three-bedroom ranch house about a half-mile from the park. They had considered proximity to the park when choosing their home.

What will we talk about? Billy asked.

How about telling us about your favorite things, Alice replied, you haven’t done it for a while.

Besides you and Daddy and Callie?

Yes, Sanders said.

Gosh, I like lots of things, lots and lots of things.

But tell us about your favorites, your very, very favorites, urged his Mom.

All right. Hmm, let me think.

Callie sat obediently while Billy hooked the leash to her collar. Good girl, Billy gushed, hugging Callie around the neck as she licked his face. Are you guys ready?

You bet, let’s go, Sanders answered as they headed down the gravel path.

Do you suppose someday we will get a sidewalk on our street? Alice asked with a smirk.

I am sure we will, replied Sanders with more than a hint of wry skepticism.

Dog in hand, Billy and his Mom and Dad headed down the street toward the park.

Here goes; my favrit stuff, but only my most favrit. I’ll tell ya about em while we’re walkin, okay?

Billy insisted on cutting to Eighth Street on their stroll to the park, wanting to stop and look at the huge Banyan tree by the City Hall, across from the park. He was fascinated with the aerial roots cascading down from the branches to form secondary trunks, offshoots that inspired him to refer to Banyans as drippy trees. He considered calling them waterfall trees but eventually decided drippy was the better designation.

Okay, Alice said.

"Well, I like fluffy clouds and the sky when it’s blue, and I like birds, speshally seagulls. Ya know that Mom. I like bugs. Uh, and I like trees, most trees, but speshally drippy trees, ya know that too. I like tree bark; little pieces not big ones. I like the ocean. Someday I will sail on the ocean and catch big fishes. Maybe you guys will go with me. I like fish, little ones too. And of course Mom I like books, mostly Johnny Seagull and the old guy and the fish story."

Alice winked and smiled at Sanders; tickled with the names Billy gave his favorite stories, Jonathan Livingston Seagull and The Old Man and the Sea, books Billy called the greatest alleygories.

Billy went on, I like smooth little rocks and rain when it’s warm and the wind isn’t blowin. I like cows, to see, not to touch or hug, they scare me a little but I still like em, cuz I can like things without touching em, speshally big things like cows. I don’t get to see cows much though. I extra-speshally like flowers and butterflies. Didya know butterflies are flowers that can fly? They are. Did ya know Mommy?

No sweetheart, I did not.

Jeez Mommy. Yer older, you should of. You knowed, didn’t you Dad?

I suspected it, now I know, thanks to you little pal.

When butterflies are in a flower garden they are visitin the other flowers that can’t fly, reglar flowers. Did you know that?

His Mom, in support of her son’s colorful imagination, confessed, I did not, but it seems to make sense.

When they’re flyin other places it’s because some people don’t get to see flowers, the butterflies fly around different places where people can see how pretty they are. I bet you didn’t know that either, isn’t it somethin? asserted Billy, puffed with pride over his perspective on butterfly behavior.

It is Billy. It is wonderful for butterflies to share their beauty, Alice offered, in agreement with her son’s impression of butterfly practices.

We can see them in the flower gardens in the park all the time. Butterflies hide when it rains ya know? The flowers that don’t fly like rain, but not butterflies. Maybe they can’t fly if their wings get wet. It’s maybe why they hide. But I’m not sure. Cause I don’t know where they hide. If I knew where they hide I could check, but I don’t know where they hide—so I can’t.

Watch for cars, cautioned Alice, as they crossed to Eighth Street.

Clear both ways. C’mon guys, Callie and me will lead the way.

Good job Billy. Thanks for checking on the traffic for us, Sanders said, praising Billy’s vigilance.

You are welcome. Let’s sit on the bench and look at the drippy tree. Callie and me will meet you there; we will save you a seat.

Be careful, keep Callie on her leash, implored Alice. Running, Billy and Callie headed down the sidewalk and plopped on the bench by the Banyan. Callie jumped up, sat by Billy, laid a paw on his leg and licked his face. Sanders and Alice, holding hands, came along at a slower pace to join them.

I like it when ya hold hands, said an observant Billy. I love lovin. Whoops. I should have mentioned that with my favrit stuff.

Getting up from the bench Billy walked to his Mom and Dad, stepping between them he grabbed their hands; leading them to the bench he looked at one and then the other, Gee, I love you guys and so does Callie, that’s what she means when she slaps her tail on the bench, right Cal? Callie responded with a flurry of intense tail slapping. Let’s sit down and look at the drippy tree, it’s somethin isn’t it Dad?

Yes it is Billy, it is something.

"Some—thing. Ing. I forgot to tell you I like ing’s at the end of words. It makes me think of bell’s ringing. Like ing, ing, ing! Sometimes I miss the ing’s at the end of my words but I still like em anyway. I need to do better with my ing’s. I think about stuff like that."

"I like ing’s too Billy, they do make a nice ringing sound," Alice said, affecting a studied agreement with Billy’s observation.

How old is it Daddy, the drippy tree? Billy asked, believing such questions were best asked of his Dad.

Probably at least a hundred years old, his Dad answered, knowing his response would lead to another question.

A hunnert years. Oh baby, a long time. How long will it live do ya think?

Probably another hundred years.

Wow, double wow! Two hunnert years, did ya tell me before Daddy?

I don’t think so little pal.

I don’t think ya did either. I would have remembered, two hunnert years old. I have to remember. I hope nothin ever happens to it. I love that tree. Do you think people will ever build somethin here and knock it down?

No son. When they built the City Hall they made sure the drippy tree was left alone.

Hmm. I hope so Daddy, responded an unconvinced Billy; he had seen trees knocked down in the building of the City Hall. I don’t like it when people knock down trees. How bout we go to the park. Okay?

All right, you and Callie go down to the crosswalk. And look both ways, Alice cautioned.

Callie and me will wait for you at the crosswalk. C’mon Callie let’s beat Mom and Dad to the crosswalk.

Keep Callie on her leash until we get to the park.

"I will Mommy. Ya always tell me that!"

Billy and Callie made their usual mad dash to the crosswalk and waited for Sanders and Alice.

Street’s clear everybody. Let’s go to the park, Cannabeer Park. Let’s go see the flowers. Let’s go see the butterflies. Let’s play ball Callie, yelled Billy as they crossed the street.

In 1982 the park had fewer facilities. Many of the courts and shelters were added through the years. The band shell was built in 1987. The Art Center opened a few years later. Although these additions displaced some of the park’s green spaces and gardens, there were still many beautiful flowerbeds throughout the park. In warm weather the flowers attracted butterflies by the hundreds; here Billy developed his love of flowers and butterflies.

Cambier Park, or Cannabeer Park as Billy liked to call it, was at the center of the Mason’s family life. They spent many of their sweetest hours in this beautiful little park. This little oasis sitting in the middle of a growing and thriving city was where they seemed to find contentment.

Can I let Callie off her leash Mom, we wanna play ball.

Okay, but go to the field. Your Dad and I will sit on the bench and watch you play.

Billy and Callie ran to the open space where the band shell stands today. This is where they played ball, away from the street and where Callie had developed a sense of her boundaries.

Billy, you let Callie rest once and awhile, instructed Alice.

I will Mommy.

Sanders put his arm around his wife. Look at them go, what pals they are, a boy and his dog, quite a pair. He is quite a kid. Do you ever picture him all grown up?

I do. I try to assess his attributes and cast them out to the future, wonder how they will manifest themselves in Billy the adult. Yes. But he has something about him I can’t put my finger on, it’s hard to grasp, he is curious, but most kids are curious, they want to learn about the world. But at times, when I’m schooling him, I swear he knows the answers before I ask the questions, even with abstract things. He seems to have special insights that, for a child his age, don’t compute for me.

"Are you sure it’s not simple parental bias? Everyone believes their kids are special."

"He understands Jonathan Livingston Seagull better than most of our friends, ditto for The Old Man And The Sea. He can cut right through an allegory, even point out what he feels are flaws. No, I am objective, not biased." Alice was resolute.

Billy and Callie ran to where Sanders and Alice were sitting. Mom, are you watching us? Callie is catching real good today.

Yes we are watching. You can make a few more tosses and then you and Callie come here and sit with us, rest.

Mom, sometimes she likes to rest under the drippy tree over there. Ya know she likes to lay under trees.

When you make a few more tosses you and Callie may sit by the drippy tree.

I’m not sure your slimy ball will stay together for a few more tosses, Callie has it chewed into a soggy sponge. Her usual routine, observed Sanders, she destroys her little toss balls.

Alice returned to the earlier conversation as Billy and Callie ran back to the field, You know how much Billy loves to learn.

Yep, I do.

When he has decided on something it can be like a confrontation, he asks questions and questions my answers, pokes and prods, cross-examines me. Maybe he will become an attorney like his Dad.

Good. The world needs more lawyers.

Sanders, do you ever get the feeling he’s baiting us, trying to see what we think about something that he has already figured out in his seven-year old mind? Alice asked.

A bit of a stretch I think, don’t you?

"Oh ya? What is your take on fate, hmmm? The other day he asked me what I thought about fate. Aren’t you happy you asked me about Billy the grownup?"

C’mon, think about it, maybe the term came up while you where schooling him, maybe it was part of an answer that stuck in his head and he looked it up, he loves digging through the dictionary.

Could be—I guess.

Well?

Well what?

"How did you answer him? How did you explain fate to our soon-to-be eight-year old son?"

I didn’t. I told him it was not anything he needed to know about right now.

What did he say? Did the answer satisfy him?

He said okay.

Good god, I need to start spending more time with you and Billy in your little Q and A sessions.

"You are welcome any time. I will bet you thought we were doing readin, riten, and rithmetic. This kid loves literature, problem solving and critical thinking. And he will be eight tomorrow. I am telling you, he is something else."

How did you close out the exchange?

I didn’t. He did.

How?

" ‘We should talk about it another time, with Daddy.’ That’s what he said, I suppose thinking his Dad should be involved in the more heady subjects."

What? Are you serious?

That is what he said.

Might the laws of the universe have been waived on behalf of our son? Sanders asserted with a tongue-in-cheek observation.

"I doubt that. But he and I have a lot to talk about, all the time. Enough anyway. Here they come. A tired kid, a tired dog, and a squishy, slimy, pink rubber ball."

Hi guys. Whatcha doin?

"We are