Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

They were both in college. He was getting a degree in computer science, she in the arts. Some days their schedules conflicted. She'd have a night class that started an hour after his last day class ended, he had a night job--they really had to work to find time together on those days.

Sam had decided he was going to ask her to marry him and that he was going to be wearing a tuxedo when he did. It was one of his quirks: Once he decided to do something at a particular time, in a particular way, that was how it was going to be. It was a quality that could be either endearing or annoying, depending on the circumstances. It had been one of those "one-hour-window" days. There was no way he'd be able to get to their apartment (they'd been living together for a year), put on the tuxedo, and get back in time to propose to her before his night job started.

Sam's solution? He'd worn the tuxedo all day long, through all of his classes, through the heat of the day and the jibes of his fellow students.

The one-hour window arrived, and there he was, and he took her breath away. More than a boy, but not fully a man, silly and handsome and down on one knee, and she said yes, of course, and he skipped his job and she skipped her classes and they smoked grass and made love all night while the music played loud. They never managed to get all their clothes off; when she woke up in the morning, the bow tie from the tuxedo was still circling Sam's neck.

They were married a year later. Two years after that they had both graduated from college. Sam got a job right away with a software company, where he excelled. She painted and sculpted and took pictures, waiting with patient certainty to be "discovered."

Two years later and still unknown, Linda began to have serious doubts. The total certainty from her early twenties was beginning to wane as she hit twenty-five.

Sam had dismissed her doubts, in an absolute kind of way that she still loved him for.

"You're a great artist, babe," he'd said, holding her eyes with his.

"It'll work out."

Three weeks later, he'd come home from work, and had tangoed into her studio--literally tangoed, stepping and twirling toward her with an over-serious look on his face and a phantom rose between his teeth.

"Let's go," he'd said, holding out a hand.

"Hang on a minute," she'd said, concentrating on her brushstroke. It was a painting of a baby, alone in a forest, and she liked it. He'd waited, tangoing with himself.

Linda had finished and folded her arms, smiling at Sam as he danced. "What's up, silly man?"

"I have a surprise," he'd said. "Let's go."

She'd raised an eyebrow. "A surprise?"

"Yep."

"What kind of surprise?"

"The kind that surprises you, of course." He'd tapped his foot, had motioned with his hands toward the door. "Giddyap. Get a move on. Take the lead out."

"Hey," she'd said, feigning indignation. "I'm not a horse. And I need to change."

"Nope. Tarzan say Jane go, now."

She'd giggled (nobody could get her giggling like Sam), and had ended up letting him drag her out of the house and to the car. He'd driven them down the local highway, taking the exit that led to the new mall that had just opened. He'd pulled into the parking lot.

"The surprise is at the mall?"

He'd waggled his eyebrows at her. More giggling ensued. It was an indoor mall, and Sam had led her inside, through the milling crowds of shoppers, walking, walking, walking--until he stopped.

They were standing in front of a medium-sized empty store. She frowned. "I don't understand."

Sam had indicated the empty space with a sweep of his hand.

"It's yours, babe. This is the space for your store. You can figure out a name, haul in your art and photos, and make the public discover you." He'd reached out a hand, had touched her face. "You just need to get seen, Linda. Once they see you, they'll know what I know."

She'd felt like the air had been sucked from her lungs. "But . . . but . . . isn't this expensive, Sam?"

His smile had been somewhat rueful. "It's not cheap. I took money from the house, from our home equity line. You can survive for about a year without turning a profit. After that, it'll get a little dicey."

"Is . . ." She'd turned to him. "Is this smart?" she'd asked in a whisper. Wanting what he was offering her, but doubting her ability to keep it from hurting them.

Sam had grinned. It was a beautiful grin, filled with happiness and strength. All man, now, no boy at all. "It's not about smart. It's about us." The smile had been replaced by seriousness. "It's a gamble on you, babe, and win or lose, it's something we have to do."

They'd gambled, and they'd won. The location had been a perfect choice, and while she didn't make them rich, she made a good profit. More important, she was doing what she loved, and her husband had helped make sure of that. It didn't make her love him more, that was impossible. What it did was add a new layer of permanence and certainty. This was the secret to their love: its priority. They kept their love important, above money, pride, or the approval of others. They continued to love each other, in life and in the bedroom. Two years later, Sarah was born.

Sam liked to joke that Sarah was a "red-faced, cone-headed beauty." Linda had watched in wonder as that tiny mouth found her nipple with single-minded certainty. Life had thrilled through Linda, something undefinable but huge, new and ancient at the same time. She'd tried to get that feeling onto canvas with paint. She'd failed each time. Even the failures were magnificent.

Linda watched her husband and her daughter fight their ticklewar as Doreen struggled to be a part of it in her desperate, doggy way. Sarah was special. The cone-head had gone away within hours, of course, and as the years moved on, Sarah had only grown more beautiful. She seemed to skip caterpillar, going straight to butterfly, hold the cocoon. Linda wasn't sure where it came from.

"Maybe we'll get lucky," Sam would joke. "Maybe she'll get ugly when she becomes a teenager and keep me from having to buy a shotgun."

Linda didn't think so. She was pretty sure that her munchkin was going to be a head-turner.

"I think she's just the best parts of both of us," Sam had said once. Linda liked that explanation.

19

SARAH HAD BABBLED NONSTOP THROUGH SUPPER ABOUT HER

birthday, all excited eyes and energy. Linda wondered how in the world she was going to get her calm enough to go to sleep. A common parental problem, the "Christmas Syndrome."

At least during Christmas, she could tell Sarah that Santa wouldn't come unless she went to sleep. Birthdays were more of a challenge.

"Do you think I'll get a lot of presents, Mommy?"

Sam looked at his daughter, puzzled. "Presents? Why would you get presents?"

Sarah ignored her father. "And a big cake, Mommy?"

Sam shook his head, regretful. "Definitely no cake," he said. "Girl's gone wonky in the head. Soft in the noggin."

"Daddy!" Sarah rebuked.

Linda smiled. "Plenty of cake and presents, babe. But you're going to have to wait," she cautioned. "The party isn't until after lunch, you know that."

"I know. But I wish it was like Christmas, where you get your presents in the morning!"

Bingo, Linda thought. Sneaky, yet obvious. Why didn't I think of it before?

"I'll tell you what, sweetie," she said. "If you go to bed tonight-- on time --and don't give me any hassle about it, I'll let you open a present in the morning. How's that sound?"

"Really?"

"Really. If "--she held up a finger--"you go to bed on time."

Sarah nodded her head in that overenthusiastic way of small children, head all the way back, then chin to chest, repeat.

"Then it's a deal."