The Store Keeper’s Wife

A Modern Fable

by C.W. Godsey

A girl grew up in a small town in the mountains, very similar to any small town in America in the early 20th century. This girl, whom we shall call Flora, was the oldest of three children. Flora was an ordinary girl--pretty, but not beautiful; clever, but not gifted; and possessed of that peculiar brand of fear which allows one to live life as a series of "if only’s" and "I could have’s."

Since her parents were elderly, it fell on Flora to care for them as their health diminished. This Flora did this without much complaint, and contented herself with dreams of her life as it would be when she finally was free to live it. Her father passed into heaven while she was still young, but Flora’s mother grew older and weaker. Her life stretched on for years, and Flora dutifully waited for her mother to join her father. The years rolled by, and Flora watched as first one, then the other of her siblings left home to make their fortunes. Her friends married, had families, moved on. And still Flora waited.

One day, after she’d long given up hopes of ever realizing even the least of her dreams, a miracle happened. Flora’s mother slipped quietly away in her sleep, a peaceful and long-overdue concession to mortality.

For a while, Flora did not know what to do. She’d spent her whole life waiting for this moment, but now that it had arrived, she was in a quandary.

"I shall go to the city," she stated firmly. "There I shall find my fortune. I shall use my talents, and the world shall rejoice in my accomplishments."

So Flora gathered as many of her things into her carriage as she could. She was both frightened and exhilarated at the prospect of her upcoming adventure.

How could she have known how differently from those childhood fantasies her life would turn out?

***

Corabeth could hear her husband in the bathroom. He was singing a tune...what was it? "Love Me Tender," by Elvis Presley. Without opening her eyes, Corabeth Godsey burrowed back under the covers. The man was an eternal child, she mused through a deep yawn. At least he'd let her sleep in again. He'd been doing that often lately, a courtesy Corabeth certainly did not fail to appreciate.

Somehow, though, she sensed something was wrong. Ike crooned softly, his voice tinny against the tile of the bathroom floor. What was wrong? She didn't open her eyes, but she could sense the quality of light in the bedroom. It was late.

Corabeth drew in a deep breath, steeling herself to leave the comfort of her warm bed.

She never let it out.

***

"It's time to go," the voice said.

Corabeth looked up, as through a haze. She was still in her bedroom, Ike still warbling his morning song. She turned in the direction of the voice.

It was Zebulon Walton.

"Zeb?" The sound of her own voice unnerved her. It seemed incongruous. She turned to the bed, saw her own body laying motionless.

"We have to go, sweetheart," Zebulon urged. "Your time here is done."

"I don't understand," she whispered, turning to face the older gentleman. He stood before her, looking just as he had years earlier--a wizened Cupie-doll of a man, eternally cheerful, rosy-cheeked and full of mischief.

"Oh," his gruff voice held a hint of laughter. "I think you understand well enough, Corabeth." He nodded to her still form with a meaningful wink. "No dawdling, now. We've got work to do."

"But...." Corabeth could not tear her gaze from the bed. How was this possible? How could she be looking at herself? She looked down at herself, trying to distinguish the watcher from the watched. There was a tugging deep in the middle of her chest; she felt it pulling her...elsewhere.

"Corabeth, I'm older and wiser. I know what's best; and it is not best for you to stick around here and watch what's coming."

"What's...coming?"

His answer was interrupted by Ike, coming into the bedroom. Corabeth stared as her husband of all those years looked straight through her. He wore the same thing he'd worn for decades--straight trousers, a starched white shirt, and bow tie. She paused, wondering when he'd gotten so old, when his hair had gone completely gray?

"Corabeth," he said softly. "Time to rise and shine." He puttered into the main living room for a moment, then came back. "Come on, honey. It's late."

"Oh, my lord," Corabeth whispered as realization began to dawn on her.

"Honey, come on." Ike leaned over to give her leg a gentle pat.

"No...." Corabeth turned away. She couldn't watch as Ike tried to rouse her, as he called her name repeatedly. She could not take the heart-break as he realized she was not waking up. "Zeb, this can't be happening...."

"It happens to all of us, child, sooner or later."

"But..."

"No buts.'"

Corabeth lowered her face into her hands, shaking her head slightly. She could hear Ike now, murmuring her name in soft, repeated whispers. She turned to see him gently cradling her head in his arms, tears streaming down his face.

The pulling in her chest felt like a tug-of-war. "I cannot bear this," she choked.

Zebulon Walton reached out a sturdy arm to draw her to him. "It gets easier. You're not used to it."

"I don't want to get used to it." She shrugged off his grasp, reaching out in an attempt to touch Ike Godsey's shoulder. Her hand swept through him as though he were made of fog. "Ike," she whispered. "Mr. Godsey...."

"He can't hear you now."

"I can't just leave him. What will he do? How will he manage?" Corabeth knew, even as she said them, how foolish the words sounded. He would manage. She stared down at the pair, husband and wife, for a long moment. It felt as if her heart were being ripped from her body. She wanted to cry, but somehow knew tears were irrelevant. "Will he be all right?" she whispered.

"Of course, he will." She felt a soft hand on her shoulder and knew it was time to go.

***

If she had tried to describe the journey he led her on, Corabeth would have been hard-pressed even to begin. She felt the sensation of speed, of light, of great distances and microscopic closeness. Even in her grief, her loss, she felt dazzled. Everything was happening so quickly.

"Why didn't I get any warning?" she asked suddenly.

Her companion began to laugh heartily. "My dear child, life is a warning for death. What more did you want?"

To her surprise, Corabeth started to laugh as well. It suddenly seemed an absurd joke--one minute she's trying to squeeze another few minutes of sleep out of the night, and the next she's traveling with a man who'd been dead for forty years to a place she couldn't even begin to imagine.

"Where are we going?"

"Home."

***

She found herself in a quaint, Edwardian parlor. An upright piano graced the main wall, its polished mantle draped with hand-made lace doilies. Silver-framed pictures book-ended a vase of carnations and two crystal candle holders.

Corabeth gasped as she saw the pictures. "Papa...." she whispered, holding the nearest picture reverently. "Papa. Is he here?"

She turned to Zebulon, who’d made himself comfortable on the crimson-velvet settee. "He’s here, all right. They’re all here--your mother, brother Frank, John and Livvie. All your friends and family, waiting to welcome you back."

"Then..." Corabeth set the picture back down on the piano. This room, this place, was exactly as she’d remembered. Home. Before Papa’s death. Before the Depression. Before the long, terrible years of loneliness.

"Why did I take you here?" Zeb prompted.

"Yes."

"We like to give you a few moments to regroup, in cases like these."

Her eyes shot upwards, sharp and suddenly alert. "What do you mean, cases like these?"

His laughter took her by surprise. It annoyed her. "Well, child, you haven’t been doing this for very long. It’s understandable for you to have a few moments of...disorientation."

Her exasperation dissipated as quickly as it appeared. He was right. She felt herself acclimating, adjusting to the air and the energy of this place. She traced her fingers over the piano keys, tuned but with the dull padding of age.

"Corie, child, don’t dawdle." It was her mother’s voice. She looked up to find her mother sitting next to the piano in the straight-backed chaired she’d always reserved for lessons. She couldn’t have been more than forty-five--still beautiful, in a stern Victorian way.

"I’m sorry, Mother," came the reply. A young girl of no more than ten or eleven years hurried to the piano and hopped onto the bench. Corabeth held her breath. Deep brown hair, tied back in blue satin bows. The sweet blue and white dress she’d loved so much that she’d begged to wear it every day for a month after her mother had sewn it for her. The smell of peppermint and pipe tobacco from the library where Papa sat musing over his papers.

"Zebulon?"

He was gone.

Corabeth turned back to the tableau spread before her like a scene from a play. Nothing mattered except the child and the mother. The endless scales, the mind-numbing arpeggios, the hint of summer coming in through the French windows. Brother Frank was off in the tree house, probably copying Bible verses for fun. Orma Lee was getting into who knew what kind of trouble. And here she was, victim of her own potential.

"Hold up your wrists, dear. Mustn’t have lazy hands."

"Yes, Mama."

How many hours had she spent, fingers flying up and down the keys like an obedient whirlwind? How many sunny days lost to the hopes that at least one of the Walton children would live up to the talent given them by the Almighty?

She heard the sound of laughter from the other room. Papa. More laughter, and she could make out Orma Lee’s high-pitched shrieks of glee. Corabeth squeezed her eyes shut, reminding herself that jealousy was a sin just as much as greed or hate.

"Don’t forget the sharps, Corabeth."

"Yes, Mama."

***

Flora set out alone for the city, her eyes straight before her, her jaw set, her courage mustered as much as possible. She drove for days through the mountains, through the tall pines, the dusty roads. She drove when she was hungry; she drove when she was tired. One evening, when the sun was dipping just below the mountain ridge, Flora felt herself nodding off. A sharp lurch of the carriage jolted her awake.

She had strayed from the muddy path, and her wheel was stuck.

"Oh, dear," thought Flora. "The sun is almost down. If I cannot unstick my wheel, I will be stranded alone at night in the mountain wilderness."

Before she could decide what to do, a hooded figure appeared from the forest. Flora cried out, but the figure held up a single, withered hand to silence her. With a sweep of that hand, a gust of wind rose, swirling around Flora and the carriage. When the wind settled, Flora saw that the ground around her wheel had dried, and the carriage was now free.

Flora gasped. "Why, thank you, stranger. I am in your debt."

The stranger nodded. "You can repay me easily," came an old woman’s voice from beneath the black hood. "I ask only a simple gesture."

"Anything," Flora stated. "If it is in my power, I will give it to you."

"Only a kiss," said the hag.

"A kiss?" Flora laughed. Such a small price for such a grand gesture. "So be it."

The hag stepped closer to claim her reward. But when she removed her hood, Flora shrunk back in horror. The witch was haggard, her face misshapen and covered with open sores. Her teeth, which were yellow to the point of green, lopped over her lower lip like a crooked saw. She leaned in, her breath a curious combination of sulfur and mold.

Flora turned away from the crone, horrified at the thought of touching even the nethermost hem of her garment, much less placing a kiss on that horrid face. "I cannot!"

The witch’s gray eyes sparkled with fury. "You gave your word! My magick for a kiss."

"Please, kind mother," Flora said quickly, hoping to calm the old woman’s anger, "anything but that. I have my mother’s jewels, many fine antiques. I will give you anything, but please--"

"A kiss you promised, and a kiss you shall deliver." At Flora’s ashen look, she growled. "You will not make good your promise, child?" Flora cringed, unable even to look the hag in the face. "Very well, then. A curse on you. Go. Take your fine carriage, your jewels and antiques. You shall find no pleasure in them. You, who cannot offer the simplest kindness, will know only envy, only regret. You will hear the lark, and long for the canary. You will eat fruit, and long for bread. You will read poetry, but wish for song This is your curse. Be gone with you, before I decide not to be so forgiving."

With that, the old woman vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving Flora shaking with fear. She quickly stepped into the carriage, and rode down the dark road as fast as she could. With so much time lost, she would never make the inn on time. Flora thought hard, trying to keep the witch’s words as far in the back of her mind as possible.

Just over that hill, she thought, my cousin and his wife live. I will go there, and they will give me shelter for the night.

***

"Corabeth?"

Had she been dreaming? Focusing, Corabeth darted her gaze to the piano, which stood silent and ghost-like on the wall. She was seated on the settee, hands clasped tight around her knees as she rocked slowly back and forth.

"Corabeth, honey, are you all right?" Olivia Walton rubbed gently on her back, a warm forgiving touch that threatened to send Corabeth into a fit of inexplicable tears.

"No," she breathed. "No, I’m not all right. I am not in the least bit all right." She glanced up at Olivia, chin wobbling and face tight with anguish. "How do you expect me to be all right?"

Olivia smiled, the same look of serene rightness she’d worn while dancing with John at the Versailles Restaurant in Charleston, the same night Ike Godsey had proposed to Corabeth, sending her into hysterics and changing her life forever.

"I suppose you’re here to help me...reorient." There was an undertone of bitterness in Corabeth’s voice, a meanness she couldn’t help, but regretted nonetheless.

"I just came to say hello," was the soft reply.

A harsh, quiet laugh escaped Corabeth’s lips. "Hello."

"You weren’t expecting this." Olivia took Corabeth’s hand, clasping gently. "You’ve forgotten what it’s like."

"What what’s like?"

Olivia pursed her lips, searching for the words. Wisps of her brown-blond hair fluttered at cheeks. "You don’t remember what it’s like...not to be living. It’s okay, Corabeth. It happens to all of us when we first arrive. Once you meet with your guide, it’ll all begin to come back to you."

"My...guide?"

"Your teacher, the one who helps you with the transitions." There was a long pause as Olivia realized she was speaking a foreign language to the distraught woman. "Do you have any questions, while you wait?"

"Yes. Where am I?"

The other woman shook her head, laughing. "You never believed in easy questions, did you, Corabeth?"

"It’s not a difficult question. Where am I? Heaven? Hell? Somewhere else I’ve never heard of?"

Olivia hesitated, choosing her words with care. "You’re in the place...between. You’re here to review, to rest and rejuvenate."

"I don’t understand."

"You will." She tilted her head, slightly. "She’s coming. Don’t be afraid, Corabeth. I’ll see you afterwards." She gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and before Corabeth could say anything, Olivia was gone.

She was alone. Alone in this museum exhibit designed to remind her of home. Alone in this place...between. Between what? Heaven and hell? Life and death?

"You always analyzed things too much."

She whirled. A beautiful child stood before her, about ten years old, blonde with wide blue eyes. "Aimee!"

"It’s about time you joined me."

"I don’t understand. How can you be here? You...you live in Washington, D.C. with Beth. You’re not dead."

"You know that isn’t necessary. I’m here. That’s all that matters." She reached out her hand, drawing Corabeth to her feet. "Come. It’s time to begin."

***

Drusilla’s Pond was just as she’d remembered it--warm, golden tones reflecting from the water. Aimee led her to a picnic spot just under an oak tree. A faded checked cloth had been spread on the bank, held down by the old wicker basket from the 30s. Corabeth dropped slowly to her knees, gently caressing the basket handle.

"I brought some sandwiches." It was Ike Godsey. A mid-1930s, falling all over himself, eager to please Ike Godsey. Corabeth felt her heart stop for just a moment. Had he ever really been that young?

"That was very kind of you, Mr. Godsey." The response came from a young woman standing in the shade. It was yet another version of herself.

Corabeth sat down hard in the grass just beyond the picnic site. This was getting strange. She looked for Aimee, who was nowhere to be found. She was sure to be close, however. Watching. Observing.

"I brought some soda pop, too. And...and some cake from Olivia Walton. Applesauce..."

Corabeth watched as her younger, sterner self looked away from the overzealous suitor. She remembered this day well. Ike and Corabeth had been married for three weeks. Three long, uncomfortable, transitional weeks. Ike, in desperation, had suggested a picnic after services one balmy Sunday afternoon. Corabeth smiled at the memory. Despite her years of accusations, the man did have a gentle and romantic heart--in his own way.

She surveyed the younger version of herself closely. The woman stood away from her husband, arms folded loosely across her waist. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and she wore a perfectly laundered cotton dress. Eyes downcast. How terrified she was! And of Ike Godsey, for goodness sake.

A voyeuristic impulse struck Corabeth. She leaned forward, resting her chin on one knee to watch the scene unfold.

"It’s a beautiful day," Ike ventured. He stepped closer to his wife in an attempt to sneak his arm around her waist. With a single fluid motion, she was out of his grasp, under the guise of watching a bird swoop down over the pond.

"Yes. Quite lovely." The younger Corabeth tugged at the collar of her dress. "Although a bit warm for this time of year."

"We could always go skinny-dipping." The withering look she gave him stopped Ike’s chuckle dead in his throat. "Or...maybe not."

Oh, don’t be such a prig, the older Corabeth thought as she watched the uncomfortable pair settle down to their picnic. "I don’t ever remember being such a..."

"Prude?" Aimee had rejoined her, seating herself on the grass next to her mother.

"What is she so afraid of? It’s just a picnic."

"She doesn’t have your years of experience. Don’t you remember?"

"I remember a few uncomfortable weeks, but this--"

The young girl pointed to the couple seated before them. "Remember," she murmured.

The word hung between them for a brief moment, then Corabeth understood. Standing, she walked to the younger version of herself and...merged with her. It lasted only a moment, but left her shaken and upset when she finally separated and rejoined Aimee.

"How did it feel?"

"Terrible. She--I was so terrified."

"Of what?"

"Of..." Corabeth searched her soul, hunting for the origins of the stark, painful anxiety she’d felt. "Afraid...of loving him. Of letting him love me." She shook her head, not wanting to watch the couple, who sat transfixed in uncomfortable silence. "Of needing him."

The being who wore her daughter’s smile gazed up at her. Corabeth felt a sense of eternity in those eyes, an overwhelming rush as she realized this child was as ancient as the mountain itself. "Is that all you feared?" Aimee prompted.

The young couple vanished, and Corabeth found herself back in her mother’s home. She stared at the tall, vibrant sixteen-year-old before her, hardly recognizing her own reflection.

"Mother, you simply must--"

"Corabeth Walton, you are not going and that is final." Her mother shook her head, hands wringing together in outright bewilderment at her daughter’s unexpected defiance.

"But, Mama, this is important!"

"And your father’s health is not?"

A toss of the head, a quick pivot on her toes, and young Corabeth was seated melodramatically on the settee. "Of course, his health is important. But it will only be for a few hours, and the doctor said Papa will be fine. The girls are counting on me. I’ve been practicing for months, and I’ll absolutely die if I have to disappoint them. My life will be completely ruined!"

Corabeth watched in horror as the scene unfolded before her. The Doe Hill Ladies’ Auxiliary Annual Elocution Competition… She’d been chosen to recite The Wreck of the Hesparus, representing her school against young ladies from all over the county.

"I’d forgotten this," she whispered to Aimee. Her daughter said nothing, but watched as the drama continued.

Corabeth’s mother looked tired, too tired to fight with a strong-willed teenage daughter hell-bent on winning glory for the family name. "If you must go, you must go. But I want you back immediately after the competition."

"She let me go." It was an accusation, a single-syllable oath of long-repressed self-loathing. "She let me go...."

"You couldn’t have known."

The scene shifted. Corabeth had returned much later than planned, still grasping the second place medal in eager hands. Papa would be so proud. She couldn’t wait to climb into the chair next to his bed, kiss him on the cheek, and show him how well she’d done.

Orma Lee was the first person she saw as she entered the house. The ten-year-old’s ashen face shook her out of her elation, sent an early warning signal that something--something terrible--had happened.

"Orma Lee, where’s Mama?"

Her sister bit back tears and, noticing the medal Corabeth carried, crunched her expression into one of pure loathing. "You’re horrible. I never met anybody so horrible as you. I hate you! It’s all your fault!" She ran up the stairs, leaving a stunned Corabeth in her wake.

Aunt Cordelia came rushing out of the study. "Child, thank god you’re home. We sent a message to the school, but--"

"What happened?" She was beginning to tremble. The medal, which had been the center of her universe only moments earlier, now burned like a white coal in her hands. "Where’s Mama?"

"Quiet, child. Sit down."

"Where’s Mama?"

The older Corabeth felt a lump rising in her throat as she mouthed her aunt’s reply. "She’s with your father. He’s had another attack."

"No." Corabeth had never before noticed the medal dropping to the floor. Her memories of this moment had been forgotten, blissfully buried in the deep recesses of her mind. "But the doctor said--"

"Corie, honey, please sit down."

"I want to see him." She began heading to her parents’ bedroom. Corabeth felt herself move to stop the young woman, just as her aunt did.

"You can’t see him, angel," came the soft admonition. "He’s no longer with us."

***

The days Flora spent with her cousins stretched longer than she’d expected. Despite their kindness, she felt uncomfortable, shy in the company of so many people. The couple had been blessed with many children, and in that happy home, Flora came face to face with the loneliness of her own childhood. Try as she might, she could not help compare her fortune to those of her kin; no matter how she looked, it always seemed they had had more opportunities, greater understanding, unconditional love. In the heart of joy, Flora found herself withering.

There lived a man in these parts. A store keeper by trade, he was also a bachelor. He was not particularly clever, and only modestly handsome, but his kindness and generosity were well-known in the community Good-humored and liked by all, this man met Flora when she first arrived in the small hamlet and immediately fell in love with her.

But his experience was small, and the shop-keeper struggled to show his affection for the equally shy Flora. When he spoke, his words came out wrong. When he moved, he tripped over things. He began to despair of ever winning her heart, and entreated with Flora’s cousin to help him. He brought gifts, made compliments--but the curse the witch had placed on Flora was beginning to take effect in earnest. She could not see what was before her; all she saw was the happiness it seemed fate would give only to others.

One night, the store keeper sat in the yellow moonlight with Flora, nervous and uncertain what to say. For her part, Flora could only listen to the crickets and make the simplest responses to his questions. Yes, it was a lovely night. No, she was not too cool.

The store keeper, in a frenzied effort to say something--anything--blurted out a proposal, asking for Flora’s hand in marriage. To both their surprise, Flora said yes.

***

"Please," Corabeth whispered to Aimee. "Make it stop." In a heart beat, she found herself back at Drusilla’s Pond. No picnic lunch, no awkward newly-weds. Just Corabeth and her guilt. "Why? What purpose could you possibly have for showing me this?" At Aimee’s silence, she felt a surge of anger rising in her. "Is this my fate? To spend an eternity constantly re-living my failures, my disappointments? Is that my punishment?"

Aimee plucked a clover, twirling it absently between her thumb and forefingers. "There’s no need to be angry with me, Corabeth."

Her fury was palpable, and she almost struck Aimee before stopping herself. Through gritted teeth, Corabeth said, "guide or not, Aimee Godsey, you are still my daughter, and I’m still your mother."

The child’s gentle smile embarrassed her. "I’m sorry, Mother." There was nothing patronizing, nothing ironic in the statement. Just ‘I’m sorry.’

A long silence hung between them. Finally Corabeth said, "Must it all be sorrow? Is that all my life was? One disappointment, one heart-ache after another?"

"You choose your own fate, Mother. You see what you choose to see." She handed the clover to her mother, still smiling serenely. "Don’t you understand? It’s all your choice."

***

They were bumping into each other again. Their marriage only a month or two old, Ike and Corabeth Walton Godsey were learning a new form of mathematics. Probability. The probability that Corabeth would be in the same exact spot Ike would attempt to reach, at the exact same time. The probability that Ike would use a word or phrase that completely mortified his wife. The probability that they would find yet another difference of personality to be hurdled.

This particular Saturday morning it was the post office. No matter how often Ike tried to sort the mail, Corabeth found a way to interrupt. He would hear her moving items in the store and would rush out to check on her. She would answer the phone, and he would stop to make sure she was giving correct information. And the mail remained unsorted.

On another day, they might have become annoyed with each other--snapping, then shyly apologizing. But there was a sweet hint of honeysuckle in the air, and the sun spread a golden glow over everything. Today, these little disturbances, far from being exasperating, seemed endearing in the cool Blue Ridge morning.

"Corabeth, what are you doing?" Ike looked up from the mail to see his new wife, perched precariously on a chair just next to the stove.

"Do you know how dusty it is up here, Mr. Godsey?"

The storekeeper stared at her in amazement. Was she really dusting the stove pipe? Atop a rocking chair? "Honey, get down from there. You’re going to--"

"I’m sorry, Mr. Godsey." She leaned over, peering into the office. "I didn’t hear what you said."

"I said..." He abandoned the mail yet again, stepping out into the store. "You shouldn’t be up on that chair. It’s dangerous."

"It’ll only be a minute. Hold it steady, and I’ll dust the other side."

With a sigh, Ike leaned on the chair to steady it, placing him eye-level with his wife’s -- assets. He grinned broadly, enjoying the view. "Take your time, sweetie."

"Actually, I’m done." She turned on the chair, tripping over his outstretched arm and stumbling. Fortunately, he caught her as she fell. Breathless, she held to him for a long moment before struggling back to her feet.

Ike let out the breath he’d caught in his chest as she fell. "Corabeth, I mean it. You need to be more careful. What if I hadn’t been here?"

"Well," she responded, quickly pulling her dignity back around her. "I wouldn’t have tripped over you."

"Look, I just--" He shook his head, letting go of her to point at the stove pipe she’d just dusted. "You don’t have to do that, you know."

Corabeth smiled gently. "I don’t mind, Isaac. As your wife, it is my duty to be helpful and industrious."

"Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but--"

"But what?"

He grinned. "I just don’t want you to feel like the hired help."

A twinkle took hold of Corabeth’s eyes. "Well, if I am to be hired help, Mr. Godsey, we should certainly discuss my salary."

"Salary?" Ike laughed.

"Salary. Compensation for services rendered." Corabeth was grinning broadly now.

"I think it’s against the law to pay for that sort of service, honey." Ike kissed his wife softly on the cheek. "But, after last night, I’m willing to think about it."

"Mr. Godsey!" A blush covered his wife’s face, spreading right down into her collar. "I don’t know whether to slap you or kiss you."

"Well, if I’ve got a vote in this...." Ike pulled her into a warm embrace. "I’ll pick the kiss."

She blushed again, but granted him the kiss. Before she knew it, he was sitting in the rocking chair, holding her in his lap. So wrapped up were they in their own little world that Ike and Corabeth did not hear the bell on the door. Nor did they notice John Boy Walton for a moment or two as he stood there, watching the show.

"It’s okay," John Boy chuckled as they scurried to their feet. "You’re married."

***

Corabeth watched the scene from her vantage point behind the counter. "Aimee, I don’t really feel this is an appropriate moment to share with one’s daughter."

"Is there something wrong with loving your husband?" Aimee sat on the soda cooler, a huge smile brightening her entire expression. "You were sweet."

"Sweet, maybe. But I--I just don’t feel comfortable...."

Aimee hopped off the cooler and strode to her mother’s side. "You wanted to see something happy. This is where you took us."

"Where I took us?"

"It’s what I tried to explain earlier. You are controlling this. You wanted to see something which proved your life wasn’t all failures and disappointments. You took us here." Her mother’s look of obvious discomposure seemed to amuse her. "Would it be easier if I went away?"

Corabeth favored the girl with a suspicious gaze. "You never really go away, do you?"

"No. Not since you were born. I’m your guide; it’s my job. But if it would make you feel better, I can pretend. That way, you can get this mushy stuff out of the way."

As the young girl winked and skipped out of the store, Corabeth rolled her eyes. Death was nothing at all like what she’d expected.

***

"I control this," she murmured to herself. The fact that, unchecked, her mind had brought her only to sadness and failure was fairly disconcerting. It was only when she purposely tried to think of something positive that she’d relived the scene in the post office. "Am I really such a pessimist?"

The figures from her last memory had faded into mist, and she walked around the shell of the store alone. The place fairly glimmered around her. She looked at a chair, and heard laughter. A glance at the cash register brought the smell of flour and molasses being put into a paper sack. She wandered around, bringing herself to places where the walls and floor and furniture seemed to sparkle with energy, amazed at the memories which sprung around her like jack-in-the-boxes.

Corabeth found herself in the kitchen, standing next to the stove. She felt a sudden burst of cold air, and the smell of bacon filled her nostrils.

"Hi, honey." Ike Godsey came into the kitchen, buttoning the cuff of his heavy dress shirt as he placed a quick kiss on her cheek. "Wow, that was some storm last night. I thought it was going to blow the roof off the place!"

She jumped as she felt his kiss. Again, something had changed. No longer was she merely watching the memories; now, it appeared, she would relive them. She looked down and saw the bacon beginning to burn. Catching herself, she took the pan off the heat. "Storm?"

Her husband looked out from behind the ice box door. "Don’t tell me you slept through that whopper?" He took a bottle of milk from the ice box, and put it on the table.

"No, I just--"

She was interrupted by the phone ringing in the store. "Hold that thought," Ike quipped. "I’ll be right back."

Corabeth let out a huge breath as he disappeared into the store. Try as she might, she was having a hard time placing this memory. Bacon, storm, dress shirt--she dredged the recesses of her mind trying to make a connection.

Ike made it for her. "Holy mackerel!" He ran back into the house. "Corabeth, you gotta see this." He turned off the stove and pulled her by the arm into the store.

"Really, Mr. Godsey, I don’t know what you are up to!"

Leading her to the store front window, he turned her to face the morning. "See for yourself."

"Oh...my...lord..." was all she could think of to say. Looking out through the plate glass window, Corabeth could see nothing but white. Snow covered the road, halfway up the gas pumps, up to the porch itself. Shards of ice dangled from the porch roof, glittering and twinkling in the gray light. It was as if Mother Nature had gone out for ice cream and brought enough back for everybody.

"That was Miss Fanny on the phone. She said the sheriff told her almost all the roads in Jefferson County are closed due to the storm. Trees are down all over the place, and they’re expecting another one this afternoon. Over in Charlottesville, the power is out in half the town." He grinned, looking for all the world like a fourteen year old boy presented with an unexpected school holiday. "Reverend Fordwick has canceled services today. Come on!" Before she could say anything, Ike was bustling her into a warm coat.

"Mr. Godsey, I--"

"It’s our first snow, Corabeth. We have to make a snowman."

She stared at her husband as if he’d gone completely mad. Afterlife forgotten, Corabeth had fallen into the role full-heartedly. "A snowman? I hardly think that we should--"

"Aw, come on, honey." He was already out on the porch, slipping on the icy surface just for a moment. "Just a little one, for good luck."

She stepped out onto porch, clutching herself against the bitter frost. "Good luck or no, I am most certainly not going to play in the snow like a hooligan."

Ike stood knee-deep in powdery white snow and grinned conspiratorially. "Oh, I get it. You don’t know how to make a snowman, and you’re too embarrassed to tell me." He turned back to his work with a nonchalant shrug. "That’s all right. I understand. I guess folks in Doe Hill just don’t know these things."

His comment was rudely cut short by a snowball to the back of his head. He whirled in his tracks and saw Corabeth armed with another projectile, which she let loose aimed directly for his chest.

Upon impact, Ike gave her an astonished look. "You realize, of course," he said. "That this means war." A third snowball landed smack on his right shoulder.

"That was for Doe Hill!"

The subsequent break-down in communications between warring factions did not by any means dampen their fun. In fact, by the time they dragged themselves, soaking and exhausted, back into the store, Ike and Corabeth were laughing so hard they could barely stand up. Ike took her coat, which was covered with melting white powder, and hung it in the cloak room just inside the store. Their faces and hands were bright red, and both were shivering.

"I think we better go into the house. It’s warmer, and we can get out of these wet things."

"Good idea, honey." Ike made sure the door was locked behind them, then followed his wife into the house. She stood in front of the stove, hands wrapped tightly around her waist as she tried to get warm. Ike snuggled up to her, resting his chin on her shoulder as he stood behind her. "Mmmm, this is better."

"I can make some cocoa," she whispered as he began to kiss her neck. "Then we’d better change. If we’re not going to church, we have several chores we can do around the house. You’ll want to shovel the snow around the pumps for tomorrow, and I can--"

Ike shook his head. "Nope," he growled into the curve of her neck.

She turned a softly scathing look at her husband. "‘Nope?’"

He deftly unbuttoned her dress at the waist. "Nope." A second button succumbed to his fingers. He traced the soft white skin of her belly, sending shivers of a different kind through her as he turned her to face him. "Nope."

Corabeth pulled herself out of the memory, not wanting to play this game anymore. The rest of the story was simple enough--Ike had conned her out of chores and into the bedroom for the entire day. It was scandalous, but even now she thought back with a certain degree of delight at the memory.

Grief cut through her like a blade. She didn’t know what was crueler--remembering the pain or the pleasure.

"Life is but a walking shadow," Aimee quoted from the kitchen table, where she sat drinking a glass of milk. "A poor player that struts and frets upon the stage and is seen no more. An idiotic tale, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

"Well, I’m glad the tuition we paid for finishing school didn’t go to waste." And the subject was closed--for the moment, at least.

***

The years passed, and Flora and the shop keeper grew comfortable with each other. As with all married folk, they had their share of happiness and tumult, wealth and struggle. As the store keeper grew to love his wife more each year, she learned to care for him as well. They had a daughter, a beautiful child with blonde curls and a sweet disposition. Flora poured her energy into this child, determined the girl would never want for opportunity. And her husband agreed, sacrificing and struggling to make a comfortable living for the three of them.

Still, in the back of Flora’s mind, was the witch’s curse. Her husband would give her a compliment, and she’d wonder how a more articulate man would have spoken. Their garden would bloom, and she’d think how nice a rich man’s garden would be. No matter what he did to please her, a part of her would always wonder what more could have been, had she only waited, had she only followed her true path.

***

It was starting to snow again as Aimee poured a cup of coffee for her mother, who sat quietly at the kitchen table. "Here," she said, putting the cup into the older woman’s hand.

Corabeth said nothing except a mumbled "thank you."

"You wanna talk about it?" Aimee reached into the cupboard and pulled down some crackers before sitting down.

"What is there to talk about?" Corabeth listened to the wind howling against the roof. "I didn’t know it stormed in heaven."

"Who says this is heaven?" God-fearing Baptist that she was, Corabeth didn’t even blink. Aimee sighed. "What are you thinking?"

"Don’t you know? I thought you knew everything." She traced a pattern on the table surface with her fingertip, oblivious to the watchful eye of the young girl sitting next to her.

"You know it doesn’t work that way."

"How does it work?" Corabeth looked up from her coffee with dull eyes. "You’re my guide, but you’re also my daughter. How could you have been with me all the time, from the moment I was born, and still have been born yourself? What about the times you weren’t with me? You didn’t even know me until you were almost ten years old."

Aimee rested her chin on the palm of her hand. "You think too much. Did anyone ever tell you that?"

"I’m sitting in my own kitchen, drinking coffee with a ten-year-old spirit guide, watching scenes from the life I’ve just left, and you tell me I think too much?" She paused, catching herself unprepared for her own vehemence. "If you are supposed to be the teacher, why choose to be my daughter?"

"Didn’t you learn anything from being a mother?" Aimee offered. At Corabeth’s shrug, she said, "Besides, who says I didn’t go there to learn from you?"

"If that is the case, I fear you were sorely disappointed." She took a long sip of coffee. "The only things you could have learned from me were by negative example. How not to do what you wanted with your life. How not to be patient. How not to finish anything you ever started."

"How to overcome shyness. How to learn from your mistakes. How to love someone, even when all the odds are against that love. How to forgive. How to be brave." Aimee nibbled on the corner of a saltine. "How to let go. I thought you’d never learn that one, but you did...eventually."

Corabeth looked up at her daughter’s serious expression. They were both remembering the same thing.

***

Like all people, Flora and her husband grew older. Their daughter married and went away, eventually having a daughter of her own.

***

Washington was stifling this time of the year. Corabeth tugged at her collar, trying not to be impatient...and failing miserably. "Aimee, are you ready yet?"

Her six-year-old granddaughter came running from the bedroom, half-dressed, all chocolate-colored curls and energy. Aimee, normally graceful and composed, scooted out after her daughter. "Not quite, Mother."

Corabeth watched as a giggling Beth neatly avoided her mother’s grasp. With a sniff, she seated herself dramatically in the easy chair to wait. "In my day, little girls did not run around like..." She paused, not knowing exactly how to describe the high-spirited little gadfly who insisted on calling her "Gram."

Beth ducked away from her mother’s arms, and ran sprawling into her unsuspecting grandmother’s lap. Oblivious to Corabeth’s look of horror, the child dissolved into fits of laughter as she planted a quick kiss on her cheek and bounced back into the bedroom.

"That’s it," Aimee panted, leaning on the arm of her mother’s chair. "No more Crunchie Puffs for that child. Ever!" At Corabeth’s disapproving sigh, Aimee slumped slightly. "Oh, come on, Mama. It’s not every day she gets to go to the Zoo. She’s excited."

"Well, I hardly believe a little discipline would be out of line, Aimee. You know what I always say--"

"Mother, I know what you always say." She leaned over, kissing the top of Corabeth’s head as she steeled herself for another round of chase-the-child. "You always say what you always say, so why say it now?"

Corabeth pursed her lips. It wasn’t her child, running around like a banshee. She’d promised Mr. Godsey she wouldn’t interfere with Aimee’s parenting while she was in Washington for a visit, but it hadn’t been easy. It had only been two days, and she’d bitten her lips so much she could barely feel them anymore.

After Jeff had been unexpectedly called up for duty in Viet Nam, the Godseys had begged their daughter to returned to Walton’s Mountain in the meantime. It was a futile request. Aimee stubbornly refused to leave their rented home, despite financial concerns and the headaches of taking care of a child alone. She didn’t want to take Beth out of her school, she’d said. She’d wanted to give the child some stability while her father was away, she’d said.

Corabeth’s visit here was by way of a compromise, and she knew it. Aimee had always had an independent streak, and no amount of cajoling or pleading would change her mind once it was set. As a squeal of laughter burst from the bedroom, Corabeth smiled ironically. It was a sort of poetic justice that Aimee’s child was just as high-spirited and independent as her mother.

Before long, the morning miracle occurred, and Aimee managed to corral Beth and finish dressing her. She followed her mother out of the bedroom, wearing dark blue dungarees and a light pink shirt. On her feet were a pair of sturdy, if somewhat scuffed, sneakers.

"Oh, Aimee! Is that what you’re having my granddaughter wear in public?"

"What’s wrong with it?"

"Dungarees? A tee-shirt? How are people going to know if she’s a boy or a girl?"

Aimee rolled her eyes just enough as she began packing the picnic basket. "For Christ sake, Mother, we’re going to the Zoo, not brunch at the White House."

"There is no need to take the Lord’s name in vain." Corabeth sat stiffly in the easy chair, wondering where this girl had gotten her manners. Certainly not Doe Hill Academy! "I certainly never let you go out improperly dressed at that age."

"No, that you didn’t." Aimee packed the last bottle of soda into the basket, then reached out her hand for Beth. "Come on, Munchkin. The monkeys are getting impatient."

"Are there flying monkeys, Mama? Like the Wicked Witch had?"

Corabeth just caught sight of Aimee’s surreptitious glance as she said, "No, not at this zoo, baby. Washington is outside of the Wicked Witch’s jurisdiction."

***

The day passed smoothly, despite its less than organized beginnings. In spite of herself, Corabeth began to relax as she saw the camels and gorillas and otters through six-year-old eyes. Beth greeted every exhibit with equal curiosity, from the free roaming peacocks who nibbled popcorn tossed by visitors to the lumbering old mama elephant, splashing her calves with water. Everything was, "Look, Mama," and "Gram, look at this!"

The two adults were worn out by the time they carried the sleeping child into the house, just after dusk. Corabeth went to the kitchen to make some tea as her daughter brought Beth into the bedroom to set her down.

"Aimee, where is your tea?"

"In the canister above the fridge."

Corabeth reached up, standing on her toes, to retrieve an exotically decorated tin. A deep mauve, it was laced with gold gilt in an Eastern design. Corabeth opened the tin and sniffed. Grimacing, she pulled away from the canister.

"Did you find it?"

"Aimee, what on Earth is this? I asked for tea."

Her daughter took the canister from her hand and looked into it. "It’s tea, Mama."

"It doesn’t smell like tea."

"It’s a blend of Japanese oolong and toasted brown rice. It’s really good." At her mother’s look of disdain, Aimee sighed. "Do you want me to buy some Lipton in the morning?" Corabeth said nothing. "Come on, Mama. We’re both tired. Can’t you just--"

"What? Stop being the Wicked Witch?"

Aimee let out a hard breath, put the lid back on the canister, and put the canister back on the refrigerator. "I’m going take a bath." She walked out of the kitchen with her mother silently following behind. "Mama, what?"

Corabeth looked away, obviously distressed, but stubbornly refusing to talk.

"What is wrong? You’ve been snippy all day." It was an understatement. The two had been getting on each other’s nerves from the moment Corabeth arrived on the train from Jefferson County.

"Aimee...." The older woman turned to face her daughter straight on, hands folded tightly across her chest. "Are you taking drugs?"

"What?" Aimee began to laugh, then stopped when she realized her mother was serious. "Where did you get an idea like that?"

Corabeth sat gingerly on the clean but slightly-dilapidated couch. "Your father and I have been so worried about you, Aimee. We want you to come home."

"So you accuse me of being a drug-user?" Aimee collapsed into the easy chair. "Really persuasive, Mother." If anything, Corabeth looked even more uncomfortable. "Mama, I am not on drugs. I don’t even use aspirin. The strongest thing you’ll find in this house is a tube of ointment left over from Beth’s diaper rash days. Are you satisfied?"

"Aimee," she leaned forward, taking her daughter’s hand in hers. "You’ve changed so very much. I don’t feel...I don’t know you anymore. You’ve developed all these...strange ideas."

"Like what?"

"Well," Corabeth looked around the room and pointed to a small porcelain statue on the desk. "Like that. Where on Earth did you find that?"

"It’s Kwan Yin, Mama. The Eastern goddess of loving-kindness. One of Jeff’s coworkers gave it to us."

"Eastern goddesses, brown rice tea--" Corabeth shook her head. "Do you know what Beth told me yesterday? She told me you don’t go to church. Is that true?"

It was Aimee’s turn to look uncomfortable. "We...well, we think it’s best not to force our religious upbringing on Beth."

"Force your religious upbringing on her? Aimee, how is the child ever going to learn if she doesn’t go to church?"

"We teach her about a lot of different religions. For instance, one of her school mates is Jewish. Her family invited us to the older sister’s bat mitzvah. Beth loved the singing and chanting in Hebrew. She’s been to a cathedral, met a Buddhist nun, and, yes, she’s been to a Baptist church." Aimee looked at her mother, trying desperately to feel empathy rather than defensiveness. "Mama, this isn’t Walton’s Mountain. Beth has an opportunity to learn about an entire world of cultures here, and Jeff and I are trying to show her as much as possible."

"I don’t think it’s wise to expose a child to so many different ideas. You’ll only confuse her."

"Oh, god, you are such a hypocrite." Aimee bit her lip, wishing she could take the words back as soon as they hit the air. "I’m sorry, Mama. We’re both too tired to be having this conversation."

Corabeth wore an expression of steely self-control. "No, I think we need to have this conversation right now. So, just exactly how did your hippie friends convince you that I’m a hypocrite?"

"My friends are not hippies, and we really need to stop now."

"Why? So that you can brew some fancy Japanese tea and laugh at how provincial your mother is?" Corabeth’s temper bubbled just beneath the surface. "I may not know about the goddess of loving-goodness, or have friends who have bat mitzvahs. But I’m not stupid, and I know when I’m being patronized."

"Give me a break. You’ve been here two days, and you’ve criticized everything I do--the way I dress Bethie, the food I eat, everything. You came here expecting a disaster, and it kills you to think that I might just be doing okay on my own."

"What kills me, young lady, is the fact that you’re raising my granddaughter to be a godless wild child."

"You leave Beth out of this. You never raised a child from birth, so please don’t presume to criticize how I’m raising her."

"Do you want your child to become some hooligan, some hippie with no sense of decent values and morals?"

"I would rather my child be a hippie than come out like you."

A long silence hovered above the room as Corabeth let that sink in. Finally, after several long breaths, she stood and headed for the guest room.

"What are you doing?" Aimee asked, following her in.

"I’m leaving. I’ll pack my bag and be on the first train back to Virginia."

"Oh, please. You’re not leaving. You’re just trying to lay a guilt trip on me."

"Call it what you will, Aimee, but I am leaving." She pulled the trunk out of the closet and tossed it on the bed. She had to fuss with the latch, which was stiff with age. When it finally opened, the top flew backwards onto the mattress with a plop.

Aimee sat on the bed, opposite the trunk, and watched as her mother began to throw dress after dress into the trunk. As usual, she’d brought way too much clothes. Aimee took a deep, calming breath, wondering how she was going to straighten this out without compromising her own hard-earned principles. "Mama, we’re both very tired. We both said some things that...well, maybe we should get a good night’s sleep and talk about this in the morning."

"I won’t be here in the morning," came the terse reply. A navy blue dress emphasized her point as it hit the bottom of the trunk.

"Look, can’t we talk about this?"

Corabeth let out an exasperated sigh. "You know, I may just be a country storekeeper’s wife who never got any further in life than Jefferson County. I may be a complete embarrassment to you and your cosmopolitan friends. But I don’t feel I have been that terrible a mother to you that you could say such a thing to me."

Aimee felt a pang of guilt, made even sharper by the knowledge that this time Corabeth wasn’t even trying. She was hurt, and it showed in every fiber of her being. Aimee put her hand on her mother’s arm. "Mama, sit down." Corabeth shook the hand away. "Please, I want to explain what I said."

Her mother gave her a sharp glare. "What you said was quite self-explanatory, thank you."

"Mama, please!" When the older woman finally, reluctantly, sat on the bed as far away from her as possible, Aimee continued in a gentler tone. "All my life, I’ve been listening to you talk about all the things you could have been. A dancer, a writer, a stage actress. So much of your life you’ve lived in fear, Mama. I don’t blame you; you’re a product of your circumstance. But I don’t want that for Beth. I don’t want her to make decisions based on fear, or lack of opportunities. I don’t want her to look back at her life and think, ‘I could have--’"

She eased closer to her mother, putting an arm around her waist. "I remember when you and Daddy first came to get me at the orphanage. I looked at you and thought you could have been a movie star. You were so poised, so elegant. I wanted to be just like you. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized how much you had missed, how many opportunities had passed you by. You found a way to overcome those missed opportunities, and I truly believe you made a good life for yourself and Daddy. But, Mama, don’t you see? All the things you could have been, given the proper encouragement and opportunity--these are the things I want for Beth. I can’t raise her the way you raised me; I can’t raise her the way your mother raised you. It’s a new world, and she’s going to have to be a new kind of person to succeed in this world."

Corabeth said nothing. She looked down at Aimee’s feet, clad in woven sandals, toenails polished a dark brown-red. "Those shoes can’t possibly have proper arch support, dear."

Aimee laughed. "You’re a work of art, Mama."

Corabeth gave her a small smile and a gentle squeeze. "I want all those things for Beth, too. I want her to have the best she can have. Is it so wrong for your father and I to want to help out?"

"You are helping, Mama. Just by being here, but I--" Aimee paused, looking for words. "I was going to say I needed your support for the way I’m raising my daughter. But that’s not true. I don’t need your support." She looked straight into her mother’s eyes. "I want your support."

"It’s a new world out there, isn’t it?" Corabeth whispered. She drew her daughter into a tight embrace and whispered, "I love you."

***

The clock next to her bed read just after one in the morning when Corabeth heard the door open. She cracked open her eyes, adjusting to the darkness. A small set of padded feet scuffed across the floor and two wide eyes peered over the side of her bed. "Gram?"

"Beth, honey, what are you doing up?"

"There’s a monster in my room. Can I get in with you?" The child scurried under the covers next to her grandmother, who made room for her in the bed.

"What kind of monster, Bethie?" Corabeth stifled a gasped as the child elbowed her in the stomach, trying to get situated.

"A purple one," came the muffled reply. Beth insinuated herself into Corabeth’s arms, curled up like a rag doll against her. "With green teeth and yellow hair."

"Oh, my. That sounds very frightening."

"Can I sleep here with you? Just in case the monster comes back?"

Corabeth smiled to herself. "Just this once, sweetheart."

They lay there in silence for a long time before Beth whispered, "Gram, are you going back to Virginia tomorrow?" At her grandmother’s astonished gasp, the child explained, "I heard you and Mama fighting. Please don’t go, Gram. I like having you here. I like how you talk and the words you say, and you smell pretty."

"Oh, darling, I’m not going home yet. Your mother and I just had a disagreement. We talked it out, and I’m going to stay a little while longer." She hugged Beth reassuringly. "You and I will have a lot of fun before I go, and maybe someday, you can come visit your Grandpa and me in Jefferson County. Would you like that?"

"Do they have bears in Jefferson County?"

Corabeth laughed softly. "Not in my house."

***

The storm had passed by the time Aimee and Corabeth finished their coffee. "Don’t you see, Mama? You learned, little by little, to open your mind. Looking back on it now, a lot of what you said was sensible, and I would have been sensible to listen to you. But you let me make my own mistakes. You let me grow up, something your own parents never let you do."

Corabeth nodded. "It hurt to hear those things from my own daughter." She looked at the ten year old guide sitting before her. At one moment, she seemed both innocent and ageless, child and woman simultaneously.

"But you listened, and you learned. You could have just walked out that very night--there had been many times in your life when you would have. Your pride would have forced you out of my life and Beth’s life, possibly forever. But you didn’t walk out. You stayed. And because of that, you were there for Beth when she needed you most." Aimee grinned lopsidedly at her mother. "Are you up for another memory?"

***

One evening, when the air began getting cooler and the days shorter, the store keeper went up the mountain to hunt. Being old and having difficulty with his sight, he accidentally shot a cat, thinking it to be a rabbit or squirrel. A burst of smoke appeared where the dead cat fell, and a horrible crone screamed in outrage.

"What have you done?" she shrieked. "For this, you will die."

"Please," cried the store keeper. "I am an old man. If I die, who will look after my wife? I beg of you, forgive me."

Surprised by the store keeper’s modesty, his deference, his concern for his wife, the hag whispered, "I’ll tell you what, old man. If someone comes to claim you, I might be persuaded to let you go. But if night falls three times before then, I will take your life." With that, she cast a spell on him, causing a blue light to swirl so quickly around him that he fell into a mysterious slumber. He stood there, shotgun in hand, a human statue waiting to be admired.

"Now," said the witch. "We shall see."

***

Corabeth walked down the lane to see Mr. Godsey straightening the red, white, and blue banner in the front of the store. Bicentennial fever had hit the entire country, and Ike Godsey was no exception. "Rhinestone Cowboy" was playing on the small transistor radio he’d set on the porch near the bottom of the ladder, and Ike was happily singing along with Glenn Campbell when he noticed her. "Hi, honey. Is the banner still crooked?"

Dressed in her second-best dress, Corabeth looked the proper Southern matriarch. She’d just gotten back from the memorial site where the Walton’s Mountain fourth of July picnic was being set up. Her hair, now completely silver, was swept up in an elaborate coif and held in place with an antique silver barrette. "Mr. Godsey, I hardly think it’s appropriate for a man of your age to be climbing ladders."

Ike scowled. "Aw, Corabeth. I’ve been climbing ladders all my life, and I’m not about to stop now."

She scowled, but knew it was futile to argue with him when he got...macho. "Where is Beth?"

"Inside." Her husband began to descend the ladder, as quickly as age and caution would allow. "She’s been in Aimee’s room all day."

"I can’t imagine why she’d be inside on such a beautiful day." Corabeth opened the door to the store, which was closed for the July 4th holiday. "Bethie! Why don’t you come out and join us, dear?"

There was no answer.

She tried again. "Beth, we’re going to the picnic in a little while. I saw Jason Walton, and he said Patsy is going to be there."

Ike put a hand on her shoulder. "It’s no use, Corabeth. I tried three times to get her to come outside, but she’s not budging." He shook his head. "I don’t know who that teenager is, but it sure as heck isn’t our grand-daughter."

"She’s thirteen, Mr. Godsey. You know what thirteen-year-old girls are like. " She frowned as Ike began to take down the ladder. "No, don’t do that. You can have one of James Robert’s men move that tomorrow."

"I’m not gonna have Jim Bob’s mechanics come running every time I need something done around here. I’m not an old man, Corabeth."

"Of course you are, Mr. Godsey." Corabeth said as she headed into the store.

"Well, you don’t have to treat me like one," her husband muttered, leaning the ladder against the porch and following behind her. "Boy, it’s sure gonna be a scorcher today."

"I’ll need you to get the ice chest out of the storage shed. I’m making petit fours for the picnic and will need something to transport them."

Ike rolled his eyes. "Corabeth, why can’t you just make sandwiches like everybody else?"

"Petit fours are..." Corabeth let it slide. "Never mind. Just get me the ice chest, please." Walking into the kitchen, she called out, "Beth, do you want to help me prepare for the picnic?"

Still no response. Corabeth sighed. Aimee’s daughter had been with them since just after school let out, and it had been the same thing day after day. She came out for meals--mostly--and locked herself in her room for the rest of the time. She was sullen and non-communicative. Patsy Walton, Jason’s 12-year-old daughter, had made several attempts to befriend her, but Beth would have nothing to do with her.

Corabeth felt a pang of sympathy for her granddaughter. Beth had been raised in Washington, DC, a huge city with lots of things for young people to do. And she’d been unceremoniously dumped on her grandparents for the summer in what could quite possibly be the most boring place on Earth. Corabeth knew first-hand how bored one could become on Walton’s Mountain. She tied an apron around her waist and walked over to Aimee’s room. Knocking on the door, she said, "Bethie. May I come in?"

"Yeah."

Unceremonious, at best, Corabeth thought. She opened the door to find Beth digging through the closet. "Gram, do you know where my trunk is?"

"I thought you put it in your closet."

"I did," came the muffled response. "I had it under my sleeping bag. Don’t ask me why I brought that thing, but Mama made me. Anyway, my trunk’s not there."

Beth came out of the closet, dressed in a pale green Ocean Pacific t-shirt and a pair of denim shorts Corabeth found just a little too short. Her chocolate-colored hair was shoulder-length, layered and perpetually messy. Corabeth had to resist the urge to grab her cutting shears every time she saw it.

"Is there something specific you needed, dear?"

"I had my tapes in there."

"Maybe your grandfather put it somewhere. Mr. Godsey!"

Ike poked his head into the room. "I was just going to get that ice chest for you."

"Do you know what happened to Beth’s trunk?"

"Sure. I moved it out into the storage shed yesterday, so she’d have more room. I thought she might want to have Jason’s little girl come by for a sleep--"

Beth’s face turned pale. "The storage shed? Are you crazy? My tapes’ll melt in five minutes out there." She bolted past the older couple, who followed her as quickly as they could into the shed. Opening the lid of the trunk, she knelt down to survey the damage. "They’re ruined!" She pulled out an eight-track tape, holding it up in front of her grandparents. "They’re ruined!"

Ike turned a helpless look to his wife, then said, "I’m so sorry, Beth. I didn’t know you had anything in the trunk."

"We’ll go to Charlottesville tomorrow and replace them," Corabeth offered.

"Tomorrow’s Sunday," Beth said bitterly. "The stores are all closed. Besides, they wouldn’t have half of these tapes out here in the Twilight Zone." She slammed the lid of the trunk and dragged it back into the house without another word.

Ike and Corabeth stood in the July heat for a long moment, unsure what to do.

"Honey, I swear, I didn’t know she had tapes in there. I thought it was shoes or something knocking around."

"It’s okay, Mr. Godsey. I’ll talk to her once she’s calmed down. Why don’t you go on to the picnic without me? I’ll stay with Beth."

"But, Corabeth--"

"Just say I had a migraine and thought it best to stay out of the heat." At his look of confused dismay, Corabeth felt a sudden wave of pity for him. He’d never known how to handle these situations with an adult woman, much less with an adolescent girl. "It’ll be fine, Ike. I promise." She kissed him softly on the cheek. "Let’s go inside and throw a few sandwiches together. You can’t arrive empty-handed."

***

She waited about a half hour, then knocked softly on the door to Aimee’s room.

"Go away."

Never being one to take orders in her own home, Corabeth opened the door and stepped in. Beth sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by her precious music. Corabeth didn’t know all that much about eight-track tapes, but she gathered from the look on her granddaughter’s face that they weren’t in good shape.

Beth completely ignored her, pushing a tape into her player. It warbled weakly, then gave up altogether. "Another one ruined, thank you very much, Grandpa."

"You know it was an accident." She sat on the bed. Beth continued to ignore her, testing one after another of the tapes in the machine. Each one seemed irreparably damaged by the heat.

"Great," the teen-aged girl muttered. "I’m stuck here in Hee-Haw Land with no music, nothing to do, and bored out of my skull for the entire summer."

Corabeth watched silently for a moment, certain this had more to do with it than a few melted rock and roll tapes. When had her sweet-natured little namesake become so...petulant? Something was going on, something serious, and Corabeth intended to find out what it was. Now.

"I don’t think you’re being fair to your grandfather, Beth. You don’t really think he intended to destroy your property, do you? We love having you with us, and we want you to be happy."

This earned her a pair of rolled eyes and a snort.

"Do you have something to say, young lady?"

Beth tossed another tape into the rock and roll funeral mound. "You don’t have to treat me like a kid. I know why I’m here."

"What do you mean, you know why you’re here? You’re parents are going to be very busy this summer and wanted you to have some time out of the city."

"Oh, you don’t have to lie right to my face, Gram! I heard Mama and Daddy talking about the divorce before I left. I know they just wanted to get me out of the way so they could go through with it without a hysterical kid on their hands."

"Divorce?"

"Oh, come on, I--" At her grandmother’s ashen expression, Beth stopped short. "I...I thought you knew. I thought that’s why--"

Corabeth was glad she’d been sitting down, because surely her knees would have given out beneath her had she been standing. "When did you hear this, Bethie? What did you hear, exactly?"

"I heard Mama, talking on the phone with a lawyer." The wind seemed to be out of her sails now, and she climbed up on the bed next to her grandmother. "They fight all the time, Gram. They tried to pretend everything was okay, but after I’d go to bed, I’d hear them."

"What did they fight about?"

"Everything -- money, work, the house. Mama wanted to go back to school for computers, but Daddy didn’t want her to. He said he didn’t need his wife supporting him; she said he was just scared she would be more successful than him. It was horrible."

Corabeth gathered Beth into her arms, rocking gently as the girl began to cry. "Oh, darling -- sweet child. You’ve been carrying this burden all alone."

"I’m sorry I’ve been such a geek. I just--I just don’t know what I’m going home to."

"It’s okay, sweetheart." Corabeth kissed her tousled hair softly, whispering her name as she did.

"Why can’t they be like you and Grandpa? You never fight."

Corabeth laughed, then choked on the laugh. Beth looked at her curiously, and she said, "Your grandfather and I have been fighting since the day we were married, and will probably have an argument right there at the Pearly Gates."

Beth shrugged, shaking her head. "You argue, but you still love each other. Mama and Daddy don’t even like each other any more."

"People..." Corabeth struggled for the right words to say. "Married people go through phases, honey. There have been times when your grandpa and I could barely stand being in the same room together; other times, we were like two peas in a pod. Maybe your parents are using this summer to try to work things out."

"You’re such an optimist, Gram." She sighed. "You didn’t see them together. The day they brought me to the train station, they didn’t say a word the whole way. It was spooky. I almost wished they would have screamed at each other; that would have been better than the silence."

Corabeth brushed Beth’s curls out of her eyes, gently caressing her face as she did. "I don’t know, baby. I just don’t know."

Beth sniffed. "A lot of kids at my school have divorced parents. Some live with their dads, some with their moms. But none of them have a real home."

"You’ll always have a home, my precious one. Right here. You’ll always have a family here on Walton’s Mountain."

They sat there, quietly, for a long time. Corabeth put aside her own shock and dismay at the news, focusing only on comforting the child. She’d deal with the news later, in her own way. Finally, the young girl began to relax, her tears subsiding a little. "I’m sorry, Gram."

"No need for apologies. I’ve been known to throw a few tantrums myself."

Beth grinned, looking up at her through tear-reddened eyes. "You’re a legend."

They both laughed, then fell silent again. Corabeth looked down at the pile of tapes on the floor, poking at one with the toe of her shoe. "Now, that’s an interesting picture on the cover of this one."

"It’s a group called Styx. You’ve probably never heard of them."

"Styx? Like the river that leads into Hades?"

"They’re a rock band. They’re really good."

"You must really like music. There are almost...ten tapes here."

Beth blushed. "I’d have more, but I only get so much allowance. They’re kind of expensive." She looked down at the destroyed collection with a sigh. "It’s gonna take me a life time to save up enough to replace them."

"We’ve already discussed that. Your grandfather and I will replace them."

The young woman rested her head on Corabeth’s shoulder. "You don’t have to do that. It’ll be okay."

"Well, your grandfather has a portable radio you can listen to in the meantime."

"Thanks anyway, Gram, but the only station around here plays country music." She grimaced. "I don’t really like country music."

Corabeth laughed. "Don’t tell your grandfather, but neither do I." She put a finger to her cheek, thinking. "Maybe I have some records you might like. Come with me."

She pulled the girl out into the living room. The old victrola had been replaced years earlier with a hi-fi record player. Corabeth opened the cabinet and urged Beth to join her. "We have Mozart, Vivaldi, Brahms..."

"Our teacher played Brahms in music appreciation. One of the boys fell asleep."

Corabeth narrowed her eyes. "No Brahms," she said firmly, putting the record back on the shelf. "Ah, here’s something interesting. The 1812 Overture, by Pietr Tchaikovsky. Have you ever heard it?"

Beth shook her head. "I don’t think so. Maybe."

"It’s one of the most famous pieces of music ever written. It’s dramatic, lyrical, and best of all…" Corabeth put the record on the player. "It’s got cannons." She grinned wickedly. "It’s the only piece of classical music I can get your grandfather to listen to without a fight."

As the record began to play, she and Beth sat back to listen. Despite initial misgivings, the girl began to enjoy the music, asking questions and pointing out instruments she recognized. At one point, she caught her breath excitedly. "I know that! It’s the French national anthem. We heard it in world history class."

"Well, this piece is about the battle between the French and the Russians at Waterloo."

"Who won?"

Corabeth frowned. "Obviously you didn’t pay very much attention in world history class."

"Well," Beth mused. "It was written by a Russian guy, so I guess the French didn’t win." She sat back, listening some more. "This is pretty cool, Gram."

"I don’t believe I have ever been ‘cool’ in my entire life." Corabeth smiled to herself, trying not to laugh as Beth bobbed her head along with the music. She looked like she was in the audience at a rock concert. "Why don’t you join the band, if you like music?"

Beth looked back at her grandmother, rolling her eyes. "Band?" Apparently, band was not ‘cool.’ "I always wanted to play the piano, though. But Daddy wouldn’t let me take lessons since they were too expensive."

"I can teach you the basics this summer, if you’re interested."

"Are you serious?" Beth rolled over, suddenly on all fours in front of Corabeth. "Are you serious? You could teach me piano?"

"Well, my mother taught piano for years. I play myself." Corabeth straightened. "I’m not Liberace, but I can certainly give you a solid foundation upon which to build."

A huge smile took over Beth’s face. "Can we start today?"

Two hours later, Ike Godsey returned home to find his wife and granddaughter sitting at the piano in Godsey Hall, repeating scales--Corabeth at the high octave, Beth at the low. They were so engrossed in the lesson they didn’t even hear him come in.

"Hi," he said tentatively.

"Grampa! Hey!" Beth looked up quickly from the keyboard. "Gram is teaching me to play piano. Isn’t that the greatest?"

Ike shot a questioning look at his wife, who silently assured him they’d discuss it later. "Sounds great," was all he said.

***

"Beth never would have made it through that summer without you," Aimee said.

Corabeth watched as the scene faded, the sound of a B-flat scale echoing in the dusky shadows. "I did the only thing I could. It was ironic that, after all that time, I finally found someone who shared my interests. You should’ve seen her face the first time I played the old Carmen record for her. She said the story was better than soap operas."

"You put your own needs aside for her sake. You couldn’t ever really do that for me or Daddy. But, for Beth, you learned."

"I guess I did learn something after all." A quick glance at her coffee cup told her it was cold. She pushed it away. "So. Now what happens?" Before Aimee could answer, she said, "No, don’t tell me. It’s up to me, right?"

Her guide smiled. "It’s up to you. Right."

Corabeth put her hand over Aimee’s small hand, squeezing tightly. "I want to see your father. Just once, to make sure he’s doing okay."

"Are you sure you want to do that, Mother? It can be...upsetting."

"Please, Aimee. I just want to see him...before I go."

The girl sighed. "It’s up to you."

***

Ike Godsey still opened the store every day. Business was not what it used to be, but Ike didn’t keep the store open for money. He was set for life. He just liked the order, the routine of counting out the change, turning the sign over, unlocking the door. He had help. They treated him like a china doll, but he didn’t mind. It was better than being alone.

"Hi, Mr. Godsey." It was Jake, the boy he’d hired for the summer, arriving ten minutes late as usual.

"Morning, Jake." Ike shuffled over to the cooler, checking to see if it was stocked. "Jake, I want you to put some more sodas in here today. Remember to put the hot ones at the bottom--"

"Okay, Mr. Godsey. No problem."

Ike frowned. Maybe by three o’clock, after two reminders, the boy might think to do it. He went to the office, which had been the post office before they’d built the new postal building. He wanted to check the books, then see about--

He was interrupted by the phone. He picked it up immediately. "Godsey’s General Mercantile."

"Hi, Dad."

"Aimee!" Ike grinned like a Cheshire cat. "How are you? How’s my granddaughter?"

"The rebel without a cause? She’s fine. Graduating this spring. With honors, if you can believe it! I was hoping you’d come out for the graduation, and maybe stay a while."

"Well, I don’t know, honey. I have a lot of things to take care of and--"

"Dad, please. We’ve talked about this before. I don’t like the thought of you living all alone. We can get a bigger place; you can have your own room. It’ll be great."

"Yes, we have talked about this." Ike tried to keep his voice calm, but it was hard. "I’m not going out to Washington to be a burden on you. I’m fine here. This is my home."

"But--"

"I was born here. I’m going to die here. That’s my last word on the subject. Now, can we talk about something else?"

***

Several hours had passed, and still the store keeper had not returned. Flora paced the hard-wood floors of the tiny grocery store, wondering what had become of him. He was old. Perhaps he had become confused, or lost? As the sun sank lower in the west, she grew more and more worried. Finally unable to wait any longer, she set out up the mountain to find him.

It was dark, and the owls’ and crickets’ songs fought for supremacy of the night sky. Flora was frightened, but she kept on, following the trails worn so well by hunters. The moon was high above her now, and she depended on its light to guide her way.

She was about to give in to panic, when she stumbled onto a patch of trees just a few steps from the trail. What she saw made her cry out in anguish. There was her husband, standing, unmoving, beneath a gnarled pine tree. She ran to him, pressing her hands to his face in an attempt to revive him. She kissed him, spoke his name, but nothing could rouse him from his supernatural sleep. Exhausted, she fell to her knees before him and began to weep.

"What shall I do?" she cried. "How shall I wake him? My beloved, my husband. How shall I live without you?"

At that, the old enchantress appeared to her. "So, it is you, my unfaithful child."

"You have cast this spell upon him," she whispered. "Please, please, I beg of you. Spare him."

"He has killed my familiar. For that, he must die."

"No! Can there be no other way?" Flora threw herself at the hag’s feet. "He is a good man, a kind man. He would never have knowingly harmed the poor creature. Please, I beg you, do not harm him."

"A life for a life, my pet. That is the rule."

Flora heard the determination in the crone’s voice, the utter lack of sympathy. "Then, please," she said, her voice barely audible. "Spare him, and take my life instead. For all the things I have done, or failed to do, please....take me."

The witch frowned. "You would trade your life for his?"

"He is my heart," Flora said. "He is all that matters."

‘Very well, then," the witch said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a hand-full of herbs. Blowing them into the air, she began to sing her enchantment. Flora felt light-headed, confused as the spell filled the air. Her eyes became heavy. As she began to fall into a deep slumber, the last thing she saw was her husband’s eyes opening.

***

Corabeth watched in amazement. She saw Ike Godsey before her, not as the man he was, but in the fullness of his being. She saw everything he was, everything he wanted, everything he couldn’t even dream of becoming. Finally, truly, she recognized him for who he was. She turned to Aimee with an expression of wonder on her face. "It’s him...I didn’t know."

"We’re like icebergs, Mama. When you’re next to one, you can only see the tip of it. Most people never see anything more than that."

"I lived with him forty-five years, but never recognized him." She stared at her husband, seeing him for the first time. "My dearest one," she whispered. "How could I possibly have forgotten?"

"It’s one of the trade-offs of being alive. You know all of this going in, but you forget it before you can use it. You give yourself clues, though. Landmarks along the way, to help you remember what you were born to do."

"Clues?"

"The music box he played for you when he first showed you the house. The rose when you danced the tango. The Carmen record. Even the red, white, and blue banner. They were all clues, designed to remind you who you were."

"And I missed every single one of them."

Aimee gave her a quick hug. "It doesn’t matter. You did okay."

"I wish I could do it again," Corabeth whispered, still watching her husband. "I wish I could do it again. I would have more fun. I wouldn’t worry so much about what other people thought."

"Do you really want that?" Aimee prodded.

Corabeth’s eyes widened. "You mean I could? Go back, relive my life and do a better job of it?"

"Well, not quite...."

***

Epilogue: 1984

Washington, DC

Aimee Godsey washed down the last of her sandwich with a warm swig of Diet Coke before turning back to her monitor. Her neck was killing her, but she had to get this coding in before the end of the day. She glanced at the framed pictures on her desk--the one of her mother and father on their 20th wedding anniversary. Beth’s graduation picture, complete with a neon-blue strand of hair sticking out from under the cap. Aimee laughed for a moment. It was an odd little family she had.

"Ms. Godsey." Charlotte came in from the outer office. "I’m sorry to disturb you, but you have a call on line two."

"Who is it?"

"I’m not sure. It’s a woman."

"I’ll get it." She picked up the receiver and waited for Charlotte to transfer the call. "Aimee Godsey. How can I help you?" At the voice on the other end, she started to laugh. "Elizabeth! How’s my country cousin? Still saving the world, one tree at a time? Oh, you heard? Who told you, Jason or Daddy? Yeah, I’m in shock, too. I thought for sure she’d wind up in some militant feminist rock group or something. When she told me she was applying for the Klineberg Conservatory, I almost fainted. Well, yeah, I’m just happy she’s going to college. I would have never suspected Klineberg, but--you’re right. I can just see her in one of Jason’s classes, fighting over the lack of female composers on the curriculum."

There was a pause as Aimee tried to decide how to broach the next subject. "Um, Elizabeth, did Daddy tell you anything else? No? I thought not. Well, I guess you ought to hear it from me. I’m going to be a grandmother. No, no, she’s not planning on getting married. Apparently, she planned this from the start. I don’t know--she says she wants to be a mom, and that she’s not about to get married just for the privilege of having a kid. I know. I know. But, what can I say? She’s 21; she’s on her own; and she’s not asking for any favors. Daddy? Actually, he’s taking it pretty well. He’s even offered to make a studio for her and the baby in Godsey Hall. Yeah, I heard about it. I’m just glad he wasn’t hurt. No, I can’t convince him. He’s stubborn. Part of me hopes Beth’ll accept his offer. I’d feel much better if I knew he had somebody with him. Sure, he’s still in good health, but he’s getting on in years. Jake told me he’s been talking about Mama a lot. Yeah, she’d have a fit if she knew about Bethie."

"Aimee?" It was Allen, who was helping her with the programming. "Got a moment?"

"Hold on, Elizabeth." She put her on hold. "What is it?"

"Larry just told me they moved the deadline up. They want the coding done at three, not five."

Aimee groaned, then pressed the hold button once more. "Gotta go, Elizabeth. All hell’s breaking loose, and I’m in the middle of it. Yeah, I’ll see you soon too. Give my love to Drew."

She disconnected the call and turned a weary look at Allen. "Three o’clock? They must be nuts."

***

The birth was more difficult than she’d expected. She focused, trying to remember everything she’d learned in class about birth. It was no use. They’d warned her she’d forget everything at the moment of truth, and they were right. Corabeth just held on, trying to make the best of it. She could see a light and hear voices.

"Come on, Beth. Just one more push."

"What was I--OW! What was I thinking?"

"You can do it. I see the head."

"I don’t want to do this anymore."

"Just one more big push--yeah, that’s great. Keep breathing. Just one more...oh, Beth! Oh, Beth, he’s beautiful. He’s just beautiful."

Corabeth panted, cold and tired and scared. The light was blinding, and there were too many people. Too much noise. She squirmed as somebody began to wash her, measuring her and putting her into a warm blanket. This was terrible. What was she doing here? What had possessed her to do this again?

She looked up, and saw Mary Ellen Jones smiling down at her. "Hi, there," she said. "Welcome to the world, baby boy."

Baby boy? Oh, yeah. Baby boy. That’s right. She was--it was too confusing. It didn’t make sense. Life was nothing at all like what she’d expected.

Mary Ellen lay her...him on his mother’s stomach, where he immediately began to nurse. He looked into his mother’s eyes. Beth. Bethie. He knew her. It was okay. It was so warm. He suckled, getting sleepier as he did so. He was beginning to forget. Beth was there. That was good. She was his mother....

"Do you have a name picked out, Beth?" Mary Ellen asked.

"Yeah. Corey Isaac Godsey." She leaned down and kissed his warm head. "Hi, sweetheart," she whispered. She was covered in perspiration. He noticed sleepily that her hair was a mess.

***

Ike Godsey watched as his two-year-old great-grandson valiantly attempted to stay awake. "Corey, you’re getting tired. I’ll finish this tomorrow night."

"No, Grandpoppa. Finish it. I’m not sleepy." This was said through a heavy yawn and the back of a tiny hand pressed against a pudgy cheek.

"All right," Ike said, opening the book he’d had for almost twenty years. It was the only copy of the book his late wife had written. She’d given it to them on their thirtieth anniversary, shyly telling him he was the only one she trusted not to laugh. He’d read the story so often its hand-made binding was tattered and worn. But it still seemed as fresh as the day she’d first read it to him.

"Now, where were we? Oh, yes..."

‘Very well, then," the witch said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a hand-full of herbs. Blowing them into the air, she began to sing her enchantment. Flora felt light-headed, confused as the spell filled the air. Her eyes became heavy. As she began to fall into a deep slumber, the last thing she saw was her husband’s eyes opening.

She was dying. Flora knew this immediately, but she didn’t care. Her beloved store keeper was safe, and that thought would sustain her to the afterlife. He regained his senses just as she fell, and flew to her side to catch her.

"What have you done?" he said hoarsely. "Why have you taken my beloved wife?"

"She gave herself willingly so that you might live," the hag said plainly. "She has broken the spell."

"But..." The shop keeper held his wife’s lifeless body in his arms. "No. You cannot take her. I will give you anything--all the money my store has made, my home, anything. Just spare her life."

"You will give anything? Be warned, store keeper. I do not take kindly to those who do not adhere to their promises. Were she alive, your wife could assure you of that."

The store keeper closed his eyes. Nothing this horrid woman could ask of him would be worse than this. He would do anything, if it meant even one more moment with his Flora. "I will do as you ask, provided you promise to spare my Flora’s life."

"Very well then. What I want from you is--" She leaned close, her wretched face only inches from his own. "A kiss."

"A kiss?" The store keeper looked at the enchantress, who was no less deformed thank when she’d made the same request of his wife, years earlier. "You will spare her life in return for a single kiss?"

"I keep my word," the witch snarled. "Unlike some humans I know...."

"Very well. It is agreed. One kiss, and my wife returns unharmed."

The witch nodded, tapping her feet and bouncing giddily at the thought.

The store keeper breathed in deeply, preparing. Finally, he closed his eyes...

...and pressed his lips tenderly against those of his dead wife. The witch began to curse, shrieking and accusing, as the kiss deepened and Flora began to stir.

"Unfair," she howled. "You were supposed to kiss me!"

But the clever store keeper had tricked her. Never had it been stated that he was to kiss the witch, only that he was to kiss. And kiss he did, drawing his beloved Flora into his arms, heart filled with delight as her breast rose and fell with life. Her eyes fluttered open, and she cried out with delight at finding him unharmed. In dying, the spell of long-ago had been broken, and Flora was able to finally love her husband truly and without reservation.

The witch, fooled and angry, disappeared in a cloud of smoke, leaving the shaken couple to return home alone. From that day on, Flora never once took her clever husband for granted. And he never told her how he had tricked the witch into giving her life back.

"Well, Corey, what did you think? Did you like the ending?"

Corey was sound asleep. Ike grinned, then leaned over to kiss the child. "Goodnight, Corey."

*********

"The Store Keeper’s Wife" ©1999 C.W. Godsey. "The Waltons" and its characters © and are property of Earl Hamner, Jr. All rights reserved. No infringement on any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferrred. This is a work of fiction, and any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

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