harley Pitcher stood on the Buck Creek bridge. At his feet lay an
unconscious man who had been bleeding from his right eye. The man's
other eye was closed. The blood had pooled in a circle around his head.
Blood covered half the foot bridge and dripped from one side into the rushing
water. Charley removed the man's large backpack onto which was lashed a
tent and a sleeping bag, so he could turn the man onto his back. He pressed
his ear against the man's chest. Even over the din of the rushing creek, he
heard, or rather felt, a distinct heart beat. Then he sat back and studied
the man.
     He was larger than Charley, who was only five foot two. The man had the
physique of a high school pole vaulter—wiry and long. Charley had been a
high school track and field coach, and he knew pole vaulters' bodies. The
man's chest and arms were not strong enough to fling him eighteen feet in the
air, but Charley knew the exercises which would strengthen a man's arms. The
man wore blue jeans and a black tee-shirt, which read, "Nancy Treyger's #1
Fan."
     Charley looked down the footpath. It was ten miles before he'd be out of
the forest, and it was five o'clock in the evening. He watched the footpath
for a long time and then the man. Aside from his bloody eye, the man also had
a swollen lower lip and a bruise on his cheek. Charley grasped the man's chin
and gently turned his head to the side. The man had a nice face. Charley was
sad to see it bruised. He wondered if the man's eye was still in its socket
but couldn't think of a way to check without hurting him.
     He was still holding the man's chin when a woman walked up to him. He
hadn't heard her approach because of the rush of the creek. Her face was in
a bad way too, and her eyes had been blackened. Also her left forearm had a
large purple mark on it. There were tear streaks etched in the trail dirt on
her face.
     Charley smiled to her. "Are you Nancy Treyger?" he asked.
     Her eyes narrowed. "How did you know that?"
     Charley smiled again. His own insightfulness always pleased him. He
said, "I read it on his shirt . . ."

from: "Breakfast With Charlie" by Holly L. Smith
Winner of Pearl's 2000 Short Story Contest

harles Kuralt comes by whenever I cook hash browns. I fry the
potatoes in olive oil mostly, though I do spray the skillet with Pam first.
The trick to a good plate of hash browns is adding the right amount of
seasoning. Too much garlic and they're ruined, not enough pepper, then
they're just potatoes in a pan. Charlie didn't used to stop by—when he was
alive, he didn't even know me. He must have more spare time now that he's
dead. He always comes to the back door and knocks four times: a rap, ta,
tap, tap.
     I was surprised the first morning I opened the door and found Charles
Kuralt on my back steps holding a pan of cinnamon rolls all covered in maple
frosting. However, one gets over those kinds of surprises. Some are harder to
shake. My older sister, Jane, left home four years ago when she was sixteen.
I left three years later, but I waited till I was eighteen. She packed up one
morning and was gone; she was always, well, Jane.
     Today is Sunday and my birthday. I set out my new yellow dishes, which I
brought home from the kiln on Saturday. I threw this set with Charlie in
mind, extra deep cups and bowls that are opened nice and wide at the bottom.
Charlie brings blueberries with him today. They are wild and perfect. He is
getting younger every time I see him. The first breakfast he was the old
Charlie—the Sunday Morning Charles. With each visit, his hair is filling in,
becoming brown again; he is starting to look more and more like the young
reporter. His body is re-lengthening and losing the compact look of age.
     "These are beautiful Anne," he says, lifting a yellow bowl off the
counter. He examines it carefully, taking in its weight and the slope of its
insides. His fingers trace the outline of the sunflowers carved on the
outside of the bowl. "Feels like I could reach out and pull a petal. You have
a fine hand."
     "Centering is the best part," I say, "bracing your hand—fixing the clay
so every part of it is just where it should be."
     "I can see that in you."
     "That I like things just so?"
     He grins at me and grabs a few eggs from the fridge. I love to watch him
fix eggs. He cracks them one handed and whisks them a quick swish-beat and
they're done. It is always hard when he leaves—it seems the dead, like the
living, should not be depended upon to return . . .