When someone died, everyone felt compelled to send casseroles. The refrigerator was crammed full of twelve different kinds and she didn't know how she would even begin to eat them when the thought of funeral food made her stomach twist in knots. Mr. Giles must have covered them in plastic wrap and put them away, awaiting her return. There was enough food to feed a small country.

If he were here, everything would be gone in ten minutes flat. Their senior year in high school, she had often stumbled blearily downstairs Saturday mornings to find him sprawled at the kitchen table drinking coffee with her mother and working his way through a stack of flapjacks or a platter of sausage links. He had been captain of the baseball team and star forward on varsity basketball that year and was always hungry. Her mother used to tease him and say that they were going to walk in one day on Will gnawing on a broom handle after he'd eaten them out of house and home. Mrs. James' awful cooking had been legendary in the town. On the rare occasions his parents had dinner parties, you would find the unlucky invitees at Sal's Lunchcounter tucking in seconds and even thirds in a preemptive strike against the culinary horrors that would await them later in the evening. She had experienced many of those stomach-lining burning delights firsthand, for her mother had been the closest thing to a friend for Mrs. James. She suspected that those dinners at the white house next door were more about convenience than any real genuine affection on either of their mothers' parts.

But her mother had adored Chief James. Every woman in town had. Including her. He was always affable and complimentary. Even when she had been in that awkward stage with gap teeth and limp braids. Well Miss Buffy, don't you look lovely today. How can I convince you to run away with me? Would an ice cream do? It was universally agreed that Chief James was a singularly charming and gentle-natured man. Always letting off young James Dean wannabes with warnings when he caught them driving too fast (Now son, James Dean was quite a fella but you don't want to end up wrapped around a tree like him, do you? Because what would your parents do without you?) or when they were hauled into the station for shoplifting from Wilkins Drugstore. Mr. Wilkins always reported everyone and glared from behind his high counter at kids that flipped through the teen idol magazines to squeal at Frankie Avalon or Sandra Dee without actually buying any.

She still felt a sting of humiliation when she remembered how Mr. Wilkins had caught her clumsily pocketing a tube of Coty lipstick her mother would not buy her. He had marched her across the street to the station, holding up the lipstick as Exhibit A so everyone strolling on Main Street could see her for the common thief he was loudly proclaiming she was. She had sat squirming in a hardback chair while Mr. Wilkins waved the coral-colored lipstick in front of Chief James' amused face. He had given her a severe look that caused her knees to knock but it was quickly undone when he winked at her conspiratorially while ushering Mr. Wilkins out the door with a pat on the back and a promise that 'she would be properly punished.' Then he had sat beside her and handed her a chilled can of Coca-Cola and a sticky doughnut. Now Miss Buffy, I confess I'm at a loss as to why the most beautiful girl in town even needs lipstick. And I must say, this would break your dear mother's heart if she knew. I'm not the kind of man who wants to do that. The dear lady needs you to be a responsible young woman. And usually you are, despite my son's every effort to corrupt you. So let's just call this a lapse of your usual good judgment and leave it at that, alright darlin'? That's a good girl. And she had thrown her arms around him sobbing in relief and mortification while he patted her back awkwardly with his large, strong hands. Will had rolled on her bedroom floor in a fit of hysterical laughter when she admitted shamefacedly to what she'd done after he'd badgered her for a week. For two months after that, he and Xander and Angel had called her 'Sticky Fingers Summers' to her complete and utter humiliation. That Christmas, she had received a set of ten Coty lipsticks from Chief James.

Chief James was one in a million and by most people's agreement, the smartest thing Darla Strickland, the beauty from the wrong side of tracks, had done was snatching him up when he was the high school football hero and she was the high school tramp. He had been a good influence on her, everyone said. And they had the most beautiful golden son to prove it. Like father, like son. And just as she was her mother's daughter, mousey-looking and uneven-tempered, Will was most definitely his father's son; a charmer with hot blue eyes and sunkissed hair. He was the boy that was Going. Places. And when he started going steady with Drusilla Wolfram, the politically well-connected mayor's daughter, it was just further proof that William Strickland James was a name that would be on everyone's lips in few short years.

She shivered even in the sweltering heat of her mother's house. No one had expected that Will would not go farther than the white Victorian clapboard house on Revello Drive and Chief James would be shot dead by a burglar on one unusually mild night in July of 1960. Afterwards, when Will had been in the hospital and Chief James was buried with much weeping and fanfare, people had whispered that God worked in mysterious ways; too afraid to curse Him for fear that such senseless tragedy would befall them next. She no longer believed in God. God had died to her the night He took Chief James from them and left Will white as a sheet in a hospital bed with no future at all.

She sat in the darkness of her bedroom rubbing aloe lotion on her sunburnt shoulders, staring out the window, waiting for a sign from him, lost in her thoughts of the past. When Chief James had passed on, it was as if he took the town's soul with him. Everything bright and wonderful palled, turning grey and fragile as leftover brittle autumn leaves. He had been the best of them, the vibrant axis around which the town revolved. Without him, everything reeled off-course. And everyone's hearts were broken for that summer son lying pale and silent in intensive care; bereft of father, of future. They all knew that it was the loss of his father that would hurt most. Chief James had been Will's mentor, toughest critic, most heartfelt fan, and loving father all wrapped up in an older but nearly identical package. How many times had she'd seen him at Will's baseball and basketball games, cheering on his boy, booing at bad calls, helping to heft his son in the air after victories, and clapping him on the back after defeats? So many times. That's my son! Number nine because he was nine the first time he cracked a ball out of the field. No worries, son. We'll show 'em next time. That's the great thing about the game. There's always a next time, a next season. Another chance for you to shine.

The Chief had been so many things, but he had never been common. Never a common father who knocked around his wife or his kid when he'd had a few beers too many or didn't get that pay raise he was counting on. Not like Mr. Harris who was the worst and sent Xander to school frequently with two black eyes or a twisted arm. Or Angel's father who ran the grocery store on Pine Avenue and wasn't above popping his son a good right hook to the face when Angel stepped out of line or backtalked one too many times. When she was younger she often wondered what her life would have been like if her daddy had stayed and they had been a real family. Would he have slapped her and her mother around when they didn't get Sunday dinner on the table on time or when they overstarched his shirts? She couldn't imagine that her daddy would have been like that. All she remembered of him was his low, soft, deep voice and his large, long-fingered hands that always smelled clean and like Ivory Soap. Her mother had burned all his pictures when he left them to live the high-life with his secretary. She no longer remembered what he had looked like. Just clean smelling hands and a voice that made her four-year-old self feel protected. She used to imagine that he was a lot like Chief James. She had never told Will but sometimes, when they had been in elementary school, she would pray at night that his daddy could be her daddy too. Because in her mind, her daddy never hit or yelled or threw things, just like his daddy never did.

The only time Chief James had ever laid a hand to his son was four months after Will's sixteenth birthday. Late junior year in high school, he'd fallen in with the resident high school hoodlums. They'd fancied themselves a gang and called themselves the Trinity, which was blasphemy in and of itself. She'd noticed that Will, Xander, and Angel would be conspicuously absent from most classes to cruise around and smoke with that no-good hood Warren Meers and his yes-boys Andrew and Jonathan. When Will had told her he was in a gang, she'd almost died of laughter and made fun of him mercilessly. Ooo, scary! Do you all wear fedoras and carry Tommy guns? Because that would be even funnier! Oh, is Drusilla your moll? She'd laughed fit to bust a gut and his enfuriated, wilted expression had just made her giggle harder. It stopped being funny when that stupid idiot Warren had dared Will, Xander, and Angel, as part of their 'gang initiation,' to paint the word 'Pig' on all of the police cars at the station. Naturally, they had been totally inept and spent the weekend in jail since none of their folks thought they deserved to be bailed out.

The school hallways had been silent as a tomb that Monday morning. Afterwards, people jokingly referred to it as 'Bloody Monday.' Everyone waited to see what sort of condition the boys would show up in. Or if they could even walk into school at all. Bets were placed on the extent of physical damage they had gone through with their respective fathers the night before. Ten bucks Harris won't show because his old man busted his knee caps...Five bucks Angel's Pop gave him two black eyes and a broken arm...Ten bucks James waltzes in not a golden hair out of place, his old man would sooner shoot himself in the head than lay a hand on his precious boy... Xander had slunk in at the last minute before the beginning of first period with two black eyes and a split lip but both kneecaps intact. Angel hobbled in during lunch with a large angry purple bruise marring his sculpted left jaw and a twisted right ankle. Will had not come to school at all that day. Or the next day, or the next.

Finally after the fourth day of his absence, she'd blatantly defied her mother's admonishments to 'leave William be,' waiting that night until she saw the light in his parents' bedroom go out. She'd snuck the spare key from beneath the third pot of roses in their backyard and let herself into his house through the backdoor. She'd tripped over a baseball on the stairs, almost breaking her neck in the process. She'd tiptoed into his darkened room and shook his lazy behind when he refused to come out from under his covers. When he yelped in pain, she'd flipped the covers back and promptly burst into tears. His backside had been a mess of angry red welts, oozing blood and pus. There were dressings but it hadn't done much to help. She'd demanded in angry, teary whispers in between hiccups who had done it to him so she could kick the person where the sun didn't shine. He'd laughed hoarsely and told her to stop being such a stupid crybaby and to hand him a smoke. After more threats and tears, and weak swats to his head on her part, he'd finally admitted that his father had done it. She remembered choking on her tears in shock as he'd calmly explained that he deserved it. The old man didn't want to do it but mother insisted. She said that if he didn't, none of his men would respect him anymore and he wouldn't get reappointed. He was crying the whole time he was belting me and I couldn't cry at all because he was crying enough for both of us. He kept saying 'I'm sorry son, but your mother's right. If I can't show my men that I can handle my own son, my own family, they'll never listen to me again. And if I don't get reappointed, I can't take care of you and your mother, the way you two deserve to be taken care of.' And he was right. I made a mistake and he had to punish me. But damn if it didn't seem like he was the one being punished.

And she had laid her cheek against his burning hot one and spread more ointment on his back. They never mentioned it again after that night. He'd returned to school three days later, pale and unsteady, but a virtual hero to all the boys whose fathers beat them on a regular basis and didn't feel sorry for it at all. Chief James got reappointed and Will came home one day after school to find a fancy Swiss watch wrapped in a pretty box with a red bow on top from his father, who'd bought it with his bonus.

She jolted sharply out of her rememberances. There was something niggling in the back of her mind. She stared at his motionless blinds until her eyes ached with the effort. She had missed something, something important. And then, it dawned on her, so clear and perfect and simple. The spare key. Maybe it was still there under the third flowerpot in the backyard. It was highly possible, even probable she thought. Mrs. James had always, always been a creature of habit. How many times did Will use to complain about the routinized contents of the bag lunches his mother packed, which he always promptly tossed in the garbage can behind the school when he arrived each morning? Too many times, until one day she'd gotten so annoyed that she'd cuffed him upside the head and he'd punched her back in the arm. Monday...meatloaf sandwich, Tuesday...turkey sandwich, Wednesday...tuna on wheat bread...

If she could just find some way to look for the spare key, she could let herself in and talk to him. She hugged herself in satisfaction, ignoring the stinging of her burnt shoulders. Tomorrow was Monday. All she had to do was wait until Mrs. James went to work tomorrow. And then...and then she could see him again.

I could hear you talking with her this morning under my window. She was not nice to you. She has always feared you. Like your mother was, you are strong and clever. She is strong and clever too. But you have hope, something she does not. She gave up on hope a long time ago. But you have not. It is all around you, filling your eyes, spilling true and sweet from your lips. Your voice is still the same, you know. The darkest voice of my dreams. I still have hope too. Isn't that funny? That I, the most hopeless creature on God's green earth, still have hope? You have given it to me, with your voice, your fierce loveliness that knows no defeat. I am like the shadow slipping through the green stalks of corn waiting for you to find me. Soon, soon we will come together again. I can feel it just as I can feel my heart beating out the seconds for you. I am waiting for you. I think I will not have to wait much longer. Soon, we will fly again through the cornfield, the wind blowing your hair, the sun warming my face. But when we do, it will not be you chasing me or me chasing you. We will fly side-by-side. Hand-in-hand.

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