A Rose-Red City

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Danger came to Jerry Howard in the middle of a clear and languorous summer afternoon. It came without warning and it came by the hand of a friend.

He was in his workshop, happily titling a book, surrounded by tweezers and tools, by punches and gold leaf and the sweet smell of leather and glue. If he raised his head he could look through the double doors into his library and beyond that, through the big windows, watch the passers-by going up and down the sun-warmed cobbles of Fishermen’s Walk. On the far side of the walk sat seagulls, posed and preening on the rail— and where else could one find blue seagulls? Beyond the rail, in turn, the harbor shone like glass below a porcelain sky and a breeze as gentle as a maiden’s first kiss. Nowhere, he would have said, could he be more content, or secure.

SCAR… he aimed a careful L.

A shame to be indoors, yet he was long overdue for some worktime. That morning he had gone fishing with Father Julius, plodding through wet grass and drippy willows and carefully laying invitations to suicide on the trout pools.

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