Four Saints
By Gordon Kearns
Part Seven (Pages 59-67)
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suddenly life's course changes; and how permanently. Three children I met within the last ten days; three children I learned to love ...deeply ...in just ten days; three children erased from society's memory.
I was back in my hospital room. As a result of my desperate run-a-way the day before, the doctors insisted I remain a few days longer, just for observation. Mark Stegman came to see me again, and Al Towbridge of all people. They said all the right words. Mrs. Barnes dropped by also. We cried together. She rationalized that Missy, for all her life feeling unworthy of people, died feeling important. For that Mrs. Barnes was happy. Jenny Preston came by. She was on her way to a shopping spree --the ideal way to spend a school holiday. And, of course, Marty was there, just as frustrated as me that the bastards of the world seem to have won again. Late in the day, about six o'clock in the evening, I was alone again, sitting in my wheelchair staring out the window. There was a light tap on the door.
Shannon
"Miss Wallace?"
"Yes ...come in ...please," I said. The nine year old girl stepped into the room. A pretty girl, as typical a fourth grader as you could find in any school in America. Her hair: typical child's dark blond, typically fine and straight-falling to her shoulders, and more or less brushed back above her ears. And a typical sweet smile. I recognized her immediately. "You're one of the kids I met at Dickinson ...Shannon, isn't it?"
She smiled that I remembered her name.
"And you're the one who caught me ducking out on Father Becker's sermon last Sunday morning."
"I started to go with you, but I thought it would look funny everybody walked out on the Monsignor at the same time." She giggled. "But he does ramble on and on, doesn't he?"
"Now Shannon." A woman appeared in the doorway, smiling, and put her hand affectionately on Shannon's shoulder.
"Maybe if everyone did hop out to the rest room during the homily, he'd get the message." A man crowded in behind Shannon and the woman.
"It seems I have a houseful of heretics," the woman said good naturedly. Shannon came over to my chair by the window, pulling the two grown-ups along. "Miss Wallace, I'd like you to meet my parents: Mr. and Mrs. Weber."
"Liz and Doug," Mrs. Weber said, reaching to shake my hand.
"Everyone calls me Wally," I said.
We moved out to the day room where everybody could be seated in relative comfort. After enquiring about how I was recovering, Doug Weber said, "I hope we're not disturbing you in what has to be a very difficult time. But it seems that when Shannon read about your friend Melissa in the paper this morning, it affected her more than anything else in all her life. She insisted on talking with you about Melissa, and would've gone out to find you by herself if we hadn't agreed to help her." Shannon's cheeks reddened. "As it turned out, she would've had quite a time tracing you here to the hospital. With schools on a vacation, no information was available from that direction. After calling just about every 'Wallace' in the phone book, we finally got your parents, who, of course, told us about your terrible experience."
"My father's name is William; I guess you had to call every 'Wallace' in the book. Shannon," I said turning to my little friend, "how can I help you?"
Shannon lifted her head so that her eyes met mine. "Miss Wallace ..." she hesitated.
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"Wally, please ...we're friends."
She smiled, the tension easing. "Wally ...I... who was Melissa Barnes? I mean, Wednesday at school everybody was saying Deborah had come back alive again ...out where she used to have her visions. When I went to look for her after my Girl Scout meeting, she was gone. The people were saying she was taken away in a police car. Then this morning in the paper you said the girl in the meadow was Melissa Barnes ...and that she died. What did it mean that she was a 'living memorial'? And that she was working with Scot Bennett on a memorial? I know Scot Bennett. He and Deborah used to go around together. And now he's dead, and Deborah Irving is dead, and this Melissa Barnes is dead. I ...I need to know what it's all about. I... need to know. Miss ...I mean, Wally ...who was Melissa Barnes? What was all that about yesterday? Can you tell me?"
"Missy," I said absently, as my thoughts wandered back to the soaking wet, wheezing child huddled in my arms, saying so proudly that Deborah Irving told her she did an important thing. Then I noticed Shannon and her parents staring patiently at me, waiting. "Missy ..." I repeated, "everybody called her Missy.
"She did look like Deborah; few twins have ever looked as alike as those two. In fact, when Scot first saw her, he thought she was Deborah. She had the same hair, mouth, nose eyes, cheek bones, and complexion, and, as I understand, she was about the same height. Actually, though, Missy was almost two years older than Deborah. Beyond their appearance it seemed they were exact opposites. Where Deborah was outgoing and made friends easily, Missy was more withdrawn and had very few friends. And where Deborah would never read, Missy read everything she could get her hands on. In fact, Missy came under much criticism for reading too much, to the detriment of her schoolwork. Even with all her reading, Missy barely scraped by in school. She never took part in class discussions ...I understand Deborah loved that kind of thing. And while Deborah was healthy and athletic, Missy had some severe problems, mostly due to her asthma. And where Deborah appeared self-confident in most things she tried, Missy never thought she was important.
"Scot told me that Deborah would sit quietly inside her own world as expert after expert treated her, and I know that Missy used to pose for hours as her father carefully kneaded her image into a mound of clay. Down deep, I think the two girls did share the same soul, a soul able to create a more reasonable life than the one each had to live."
I started at the beginning, at least the beginning for me, when I first met Scot (so much has transpired ...too much has transpired for a time span of only a week and a half). I explained Scot's concern that Deborah was being erased. I told of my conversations at Dickinson and with Marty and with Monsignor Becker, and of the later conference in Dr. Stegman's office. I talked about Scot's relationship with Deborah, and of his decision to build a memorial for her --and of our meeting with the Barnes family, and especially Missy. I told of how Missy enjoyed Scot's story about skinny-dipping with Deborah at Mrs. Metzger's pond (a story that Shannon enjoyed as much). I explained about the bronze statues of Missy in Mr. Barnes's studio, and of how Missy talked her father into using one of them for Scot's memorial to his Deborah. And I told of the accident and the explosion, and of Missy's determination that Scot's dream would be achieved. And, finally, I told about Missy's self-sacrifice, and the man who was going to kill her, and her vision of Deborah. I told everything. These people ...this child came to me for the truth. I told the truth as I knew it, along with a few deductions of my own, --and as I would tell it again and again in years to come.
"Thank you ...Wally," Shannon said.
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"Yes, thank you," Liz Weber said. "But this was a real-life horror tale more frightening and tragic than any I've ever encountered in books or the movies. You think Dr. Hornsby was behind all the evil, then?"
"I think ...he pulled the trigger and drove the car, but he wasn't alone in destroying the children. For each in his own way I hold several honorable people accountable." Then turning to Shannon, I asked, "Why was it so important to you to learn about Missy and everything?"
Shannon didn't answer at once. When she looked to her parents, she found them also patiently waiting for her to respond. "Well... all the kids ... and me, too ...when school started this year, were waiting for somebody to do something about Deborah getting murdered. But nobody did. There was no special assembly or minute of silence or sympathy note in the principal's newsletter; and none of the teachers ever mentioned her name. It was the same as you said Scot believed. He thought they were trying to erase her. It was like that. They were ignoring her, pretending nothing happened, pretending there wasn't a rape and there wasn't a murder ...and there wasn't even a Deborah. She really was being erased. Then when I saw the article in the paper about Missy Barnes with her asthma, sacrificing her life ...dying because she was doing something about it, I wanted to find out what it was all about. She gave us ...me ...a direction --something I could do. And if she died for it ...it had to be a very important thing she did. I thought, maybe, I... could take up where Missy Barnes left off --you know, in the meadow; three times a week or so, maybe. It would be ...like a relay race, sort of; you know, Missy hands the stick to me and I run the next lap."
"Shannon!" Doug Weber said, startled, "do you really know what you're getting involved in?"
Liz Weber put her hand to Shannon's cheek. "It's a beautiful thing you want to do, but ...you'd have everybody looking at you, and talking about you."
"And more than that," I said. "Three children died one way or another connected to that meadow. We think the murderer is dead, but there are others who feel as strongly as he did about keeping the visions quiet. Maybe they wouldn't try to murder you, but it's highly possible they'd try to hurt you, or get their hands on you in some way to make you stop."
Doug: "I don't think I could let you do this, sweetheart."
Liz: "I'm sure if we all put our heads together, we could come up with some plan that would accomplish the same thing, without being so dangerous."
Shannon lowered her eyes for a moment, and when she looked up again, her cheeks were flushed. "There's something else," she said quietly. "I didn't want to tell; I thought you'd say it was silly, or my imagination ...and maybe it is. ..but ..." She hesitated again. Then she bit her lower lip, sat up straight-backed, took a deep breath, and said emphatically, "What you don't understand is I have to do it."
Doug: "What do you mean, you have to do it?"
"Last night I talked to the lady."
Liz: "Last night ...the lady? When did you see a lady?"
"When I was putting on my pajamas to go to bed last night, there was this lady."
Liz: "A lady in your room ...last night?"
"Yes, a beautiful lady, all dressed up in a long blue gown, like the lady Deborah used to talk about. Only she was real... she truly was. She sat down right next to me on the bed. I held my pajama top up in front of me so she wouldn't ...you know, see me. But she laughed so friendly and told me I shouldn't be embarrassed. So I laughed too and just laid the pj top in my lap. Then she turned serious and said that she had an important thing she wanted me to do ...and
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things she wanted to talk to me about. But it would take a long time ...maybe years, she said. I asked her if she was the same lady who talked to Deborah, and she said she was. And I asked her ...I asked her if she still talked to Deborah. She said she talked to Deborah all the time, and Deborah's boy friend Scot, too --and another little girl I didn't know about yet, but I would know about her soon. Then she told me that three times a week, just like I told you, she wanted me to come talk with her in the meadow where she used to meet Deborah." She looked from one to the other of her parents. "Don't you see; I have to go to the meadow; I have to go as Scot's memorial to Deborah, and I have to go to talk with the lady."
Shannon's flat statement about "the lady" stunned the three of us. Did she make it up to support her wish to be a living memorial? Or did she want so much to do something about Deborah that she imagined or dreamed up "the lady"? Liz Weber was the first to regain her composure. "Shannon, dear, when word gets around about what you're doing ...you have no idea of the unhappy things you might have to suffer."
Doug Weber: "People wouldn't let you alone; you'd be followed everywhere you went."
Liz Weber: "And the kids, all your friends, they'd tease you ...or stay away from you because they thought you were crazy."
Doug: "Come on, sweetheart, we can get this thing figured out without doing something that drastic."
Shannon listened, but didn't seem to be affected by their pleadings.
Liz: "What about your other obligations: the Girl Scouts, your schoolwork ...what about your gymnastics? You'll never be able to keep up with your gymnastics if you're spending so much time with ...at that meadow."
Shannon: "I'd do the best I could with my homework, the same as always; though I guess my grades wouldn't be as good. But the Girl Scouts and my gymnastics. .." she thought a moment. "I'd hate to have to stop them ...but I think this is more important, so I suppose I'd have to give them up."
I was speechless. I wanted to take hold of her shoulders, and shout at her innocence, "No, no ...don't you know there's been enough tragedy? Don't you know children need to do children things? Don't you know the bastards of the world will never let you have peace?" But the words refused to pass my lips. I could find no way to tell the child not to do what she had to do. Nor apparently could the Webers. However, they did establish some reasonable rules of the road. For one thing, Shannon always had to inform one or the other of them when she was going to the meadow. And second, she had to accept one or the other of them --or someone approved by them (this last as a result of my volunteering to help) --accompanying her every time.
Friday, October 21, 1983
Shannon wasted no time embarking on her mission. School was out at three thirty, and by three forty-five she was seated resolutely at her post in the meadow behind the goal posts of the Paul C. Metzger Memorial Soccer Park. Nor was time wasted for the news to spread that yet another child had taken up the vigil where Melissa Barnes had left off. As soon as word reached me at the hospital, via Jenny Preston, I put in two calls: the first to Marty Stansberry to tell him Shannon had begun, and reminding him to keep an eye on her for awhile, so she wouldn't end up another victim of ...whoever. My second call was to the newspaper, to inform the reporter from Wednesday night, and give him the background information I had. He was totally sympathetic, and promised he would get the story in the morning edition, one way or another. But more important, he promised to put the story on the national wire. Of course,
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there were negatives to public awareness of Shannon's crusade, but it was my hope that a spotlight might act as a shield discouraging overt threats to Shannon's well-being. Anyway, I was determined I would never again allow one of my little friends to be swept under the rug.
Epilogue
Six years have gone by; and Shannon Weber has never missed a single one of her three visits per week to the vision meadow, always under the watchful eye of one of her guardians: her mother or father, or Marty or myself. A few school buddies are usually in attendance also; Marilyn Hughes and Bucky Quinn are regulars. This would make for a pretty modest audience, if it weren't for an ever changing two or three hundred pilgrims from all over the world who watch and pray and meditate while Shannon keeps her vigil. The wired story had hit the jackpot. Within weeks of the first story's appearance, Shannon had been seen on network and local television news programs, talk shows, and nationally syndicated newspapers, magazines, and tabloids. At first, Catholic publications and commentators had taken a stand-offish view of the proceedings, as they usually do in such situations. But later as more notoriety attended Shannon's vigils, even they took a more active interest in the story.
The pressures on Shannon turned out to be far greater than we had predicted. For a long time, Monsignor Becker visited the Webers almost daily, demanding first that Shannon cease all that heretical nonsense, hinting that her visions might be diabolically inspired. With the massive media assault and the resulting invasion of influential lay and clergy, he changed direction, seeking to control Shannon rather than stop her. He, along with sincere cohorts, began insisting Shannon join an order or, at least, be transferred to St Michael's where she could be protected and guided and her revelations given the proper interpretation and airing. Later, larger domains took over, and the Webers were almost overwhelmed with charming and very persuasive representatives from the archdiocesan level to the Vatican, impressively arguing that the Webers should not be so selfish as to hold on to a child selected by God to express His wishes. Shannon put them all aside respectfully with her ready response: "If the lady says for me to join an order or go to Catholic school, I will. But as long as the lady doesn't mention it, it mustn't be all that important."
What complicated things were the numerous and persistent claims of miracle cures associated with Shannon's vigils. At least three seemed authentic, with documentation by recognized medical authorities, and are presently being investigated by the Vatican. Shannon has never claimed miraculous powers and does not accept credit for the cures. But when people petition her to pray for them or a loved one, she answers every time that she'll mention it to Deborah, Scot, Missy, or the lady --whoever she talks to next. She does talk to all of them now, separately and in combination. As it happens, the most authentic appearing cures were ascribed one each to conversations Shannon held with Deborah, Scot, and Missy. Deborah, as you know, was Jewish; Scot was never baptized --his mother raised him in no particular religion, anticipating he would select one for himself when he reached twenty-one; and Missy's parents, though nominally Presbyterian, were true flower children when they were younger and raised Missy in the belief that religions only separated people from their God, and what was in each person's heart was what was important. Were Monsignor Becker's foundations ever shaken!
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Actually, Shannon makes nothing special of her conversations. To her, they are just that: conversations. She tells Deborah, Scott, Missy, and the lady what's happening in school, if she's met any interesting boys, what's worrying her --just regular "rap" stuff. For their part, they tell about riding on clouds, visiting stars, and skinny-dipping in muddy ponds; although sometimes they're sad that people are trying so hard to hurt each other or change each other, or they're making rules for how everyone should live. In none of the hundreds of interviews Shannon has held with the media or investigators or the curious has she ever used the words "vision" or "apparition." Nor does she report receiving messages. Never has she suggested a religious connotation to what she's doing. She consistently says she is following in the footsteps of Missy Barnes, who gave her life acting as a living monument for Deborah Irving, the first to talk to the lady in this same meadow. And she always tells about Scot Bennett's crusade that Deborah Irving should have a memorial.
Shannon's dedication to the spirit of the three is genuine. Once, a few weeks after she began her vigil, she asked me to take her over to Mrs. Metzger's pond. She said she'd already told her parents what she wanted to do, and they agreed --as long as I was with her. When we got there, she slipped off all her clothes, ran down to the brown water, and dove in, swimming where it was deep enough and crawling in the mud where it wasn't. After a while, she stood on the bank and covered herself with mud. Mostly she played silently, sometimes doing cartwheels and walkovers, often gleefully falling on her rump or flat-out full-face in the slippery muck. Every now and then she would let out a whoop or squeal or giggle, staying the wave of sadness my mind was tempted to ride. I couldn't help smiling in reflection of the joy she was experiencing in her free, naked play. Mrs. Metzger was right:
"Nudity young people defines innocence; it is guileless; it is the essence of life." Finally, Shannon washed herself off in the pond and, still in the buff, ran up to the top of the berm, did a saucy pirouette, and sat down beside me. "I wanted to know," she said simply. I wrapped my arm around her bare shoulders. Thus we sat for a long time.
One of our predictions didn't come true, thankfully. Her friends never did turn on her. In fact, she gained an even greater respect from them. As mentioned earlier, her friends are often in the group watching her in the meadow. However, Shannon never voluntarily broaches the subject of her vigil with her friends, although she happily answers their questions openly and fully. She is a high school sophomore these days with good, but not outstanding grades. It's difficult for her to manage all the demands on her time. I make it a point to talk to her at least once a week at school, to help her handle problems she might be experiencing with her studies. Of course, I see her much more often after school at the meadow, and I usually drive her there and home afterwards. So I keep up pretty well on her activities. She has started dating boys, but they are given to know that all interests and obligations in her life are secondary to the priority she assigns her vigils.
Does Shannon Weber really see and converse with three dead children and a mystical lady in blue? As a good friend of mine might say, "She says she does, so I accept ...no, I believe she sees and converses with three dead children and a mystical lady in blue."
Two years ago, in recognition of his kindly, patient, perspicacious, and liturgically proper handling of a most difficult public event, as well as his years of wise, gentle, and respected pastorship, Monsignor David Becker was appointed Auxiliary Bishop, and charged with the
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coordination of ecumenical activities in the archdiocese. Father Theodore Wilson was appointed pastor of St. Michael's in his place. "Father Ted" is an aggressive entrepreneurial sort. He immediately established the St. Michael Pilgrims' Hostel and Retreat Center, including a fully stocked religious gift and book shop and a restaurant/cafeteria with seating for two hundred. The book shop maintains a complete selection of material about famous apparitions in the Church's history. A best seller is the biography, Shannon Weber: Faithful Child of Our Holy Mother, The Church. Naturally, it was unauthorized; Shannon would never talk in that way about herself, and her parents consistently refused to give permission for her to be so blatantly exploited. However, Father Ted shrugged off the Weber's obstreperousness, and had the book published anyway. It has made a mint for St. Michael's School, and is responsible for the beautiful face-lift of the church itself.
Catching up on some of the people you met earlier. Susan Irving Friedman filed for separate maintenance from her husband John shortly after our famous meeting in Mark Stegman's office. He's been desperately resisting an out-and-out divorce. It wouldn't be seemly for the chairman of the American Israel Support Committee. However, it appears to be a losing battle. I expect the final decree to come within the year. I doubt it will affect his position too badly, but he has a tendency to over-react, which his colleagues read as the sign of a sensitive man. Susan has struck up a new and closer friendship with her former neighbor, Jane Bennett. They share a bond of tragedy that will last for the rest of their lives.
Sally Parks was made principal of Dickinson Elementary School --who did you expect? Tom Preuss has had a request for transfer on the superintendent's desk for several years. Dr. Towbridge steadfastly ignores it. The parents would be too upset and probably raise a lot of hell if Tom were transferred.
Barry Daniels was named Director of Personnel for the Oak Forest School District --what's there to say?
Walter Harriman was named Man-of-the-Year by the City-County Chamber of Commerce three times in the past six years.
Captain Phil Schmidt received his twenty-year service plaque, with a special commendation for the dedication and integrity he exhibits in the performance of his duty.
Mayor Workman will continue to be mayor of Central City for as long as he wants.
Linda Metzger has never missed a Shannon Weber vigil.
Jenny Preston still keeps me posted on all the gossip at Dickinson -- and everyplace else, too.
Marty Stansberry and I were married four years ago. We have one child so far: a boy. We thought at first to name him "Scot," but I doubted the original Scot would've thought much of the idea. Each person has to be seen as his own individual person, I'm sure he'd say. So we named our son "Kenneth," after no one in particular.
About the Barneses. Peter Barnes recovered quite well from the injuries he received in the bombing --at least his physical injuries. Jason Barnes is a happy and popular student at Neumeyer Elementary School. Margaret Barnes has just given birth to a beautiful baby girl.
Peter Barnes's stature as a sculptor has grown without bounds. He is respected throughout the world. He no longer does much concrete work, just enough to keep his hand in. He is known primarily for his bronzes. He works in the classical style, but it's said that his compositions exhibit a particular, almost tangible human warmth. Guess who's been posing for him; and I love it. I'm Diana the huntress in his "gods" series. Missy was right: it'll be a real kick to be legitimately viewed in the altogether by respectable, admiring people.
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Peter did finish the Deborah Irving project and placed it in the vision meadow near where Shannon sits three times a week. The nude bronze, "Missy," he donated to the botanical garden, where it was placed in the Circle of Roses. Thousands of school children pass by it each day. It's become an accepted tradition of sorts for each child in his or her turn to rub some part of the statue for luck. Thus it is that the patina is as bright and shiny as the day it was completed. Missy must love the importance the children attach to her image. Peter was kind enough to give me the small bronze, "The Naiad," which I keep prominently displayed in my living room and in my heart. He kept "Missy's World" for himself.
When Peter Barnes asked, the Webers happily agreed to allow Shannon to pose nude for a part of his most ambitious project so far --Shannon herself was ecstatic about the idea --a life-sized bronze of Deborah, Scot, Missy, and Shannon happily running hand in hand along a muddy bank (for Deborah, Scot, and Missy he relied on the photographs taken on that happy Saturday posing session with Scot and Missy --along with his own personal memories of and feelings for them). Titled "Four Saints Skinny-dipping at Mrs. Metzger's Pond," it presently stands proudly in the center of the original pond, which is now a beautiful lily pool, itself the center-piece for the 1,000 acre Deborah Irving Memorial Wildlife Refuge.
*****
There were perhaps three hundred people in the quiet crowd that formed a gentle ring in the vision field, a respectful forty yards from the silent, unmoving Shannon Weber, sitting on the ground cross-legged indian style at the circle's center. Some in the group stood. Some sat on blankets with friends or family. Some brought lawn chairs. Some were in wheel chairs. Some had heads bowed; some lips moved in silent prayer; some fingered Rosary beads; some meditated; and some stared blankly, their minds in lonely lands. As usual, I sat on the ground in the front row, keeping watch over my young friend. The image of that solitary figure keeping steadfastly to her long ago dedication is a constant presence in my consciousness, whether awake or asleep.
Shannon is but one of the specters haunting my heart. Welcome specters. You see, I didn't put a period at the end of the sentence. I love my husband. I love my child. I love ...I enjoy my work. I keep my life as interesting and active as possible. But my specters are always with me. Images. A defiant teen-ager at my office door. A cold, wet, wheezing child held tightly to my breast, painfully relating the story of a naiad and her human playmates. Two nude youngsters teasing each other in an artist's studio. A saint skinny-dipping alone in Mrs. Metzger's pond. And a picture, as dreadful to me as if my own eyes bore witness, of a dark-haired child napping on a flowered bedspread, a hole in her forehead ringed in gunpowder. Images of souls I will not forget. Souls I will not allow to be erased.
Shannon and I relaxed in the car, watching as the circle gradually broke up and the devoted vigil-keepers slowly drifted their separate ways.
"Passions ..." Shannon said thoughtfully. "People are funny about their passions, aren't they Wally?"
"I suppose they are, Shannon," I said. "What do you have in mind?"
"Oh, I don't mean these people. They just want with all their hearts to believe ...in me, in the lady, in Deborah. They want so much to believe ... they have so much hope ...like, if someone they love is sick or in pain or crippled, they hope so much that the person can get well again; or if things are going real badly for them, they hope their luck can be made to change for
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the better; or maybe they hope for peace or an end to poverty. And all that's okay Their passions are real, honest; and they don't hurt anybody else.
"With Dr. Hornsby ...well, he thought his passions were so valuable that he was justified in killing a little girl he thought stood in their way; he didn't think her life had value. But even in this he was all mixed up in his passions, wasn't he? Take that time he spanked her in his office, he didn't stop at five, six, or seven swats. He kept hitting her and hitting her --even as the pee ran down her legs. And if he raped her to cover up the true reason for killing her, why did they find semen in her mouth?"
She paused a few seconds, and then continued on: "Monsignor Becker, now he turned to the Church for his passions. But the Church doesn't have passions; passions are personal; only people have passions.
"Rabbi Friedman made his selfishness a consuming passion.
"And all those official people --the mayor, the county executive, the publisher, the police captain, the superintendent of schools --they purged themselves of their passions; official people think they're above passions.
"But Deborah, Scot, and Missy ...they lived their passions. They played, laughed, cried and refused to cry, mourned, got mad and stubborn, loved, were audacious, had wonderful fancies ...and visions; and ...they cared ...with all their might ...they cared about one another --all right out in the open ...in front of God and everybody ...unashamed. They lived their passions. But they were exposed ...alone ...vulnerable."
It was getting dark; the crowd had mostly dispersed. Only a few individuals remained, heads bowed in prayer ...or weariness.
Shannon continued: "What's a shame is that regular people have for all their lives been made to fear their passions. They don't recognize they have a closer kinship with the Deborah's, Scot's, and Missy's than with the Hornsby's, Becker's, Friedman's, and all those official people. But the regular people need to attend to the Deborah's, Scot's, and Missy's ... because ...because they give living some semblance of reason."
She turned to look directly at me. "I'm going to keep coming to the meadow, even if the lady says it's okay not to, and even though Scot and Missy did kind of win: they got their memorial for Deborah. But I'm going to keep coming anyway ...I guess as long as I live. And when someday I can't come any more, then maybe ...maybe someone else will take the stick from me. I hope so. Somebody should be keeper of the passions left behind by Deborah, Scot, and Missy."
And Shannon.
END
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