Twisted

resist a smile—“I would venture to say that thou acquitted thyself admirably.”
    Will Shakespeare often deflected the course of the conversation to allow for the inclusion of puns, which he loved. But neither was Charles Cooper a stranger to wordplay. He riposted, “Ah, but ’tis sadlytrue, friend, that my talent for bearing witness in Court is no match for thy over bearing witti ness in taverns.”
    “Touché,” cried Shakespeare and the men laughed hard.
    “And here is to thee too, my friend.” Charles tapped his tankard against Stout’s.
    It had been the big man’s task to wield his barrel-maker’s tools with sufficient skill to loosen the railing at Temple wharf just the right degree so that it would not give way under casual hands but would fall apart when Murtaugh stumbled against it.
    Stout was not as quick as either Shakespeare or Charles and attempted no cleverness in reply. He merely blushed fiercely with pleasure at the recognition.
    Charles then embraced Shakespeare. “But thou, Will, were the linchpin.”
    Shakespeare said, “Thy father was a good man to me and my family. I will always remember him with pleasure. I am glad to have played a small part in the avenging of his death.”
    “What might I do to repay thee for the risks thou took and thy efforts on my behalf?” Charles asked.
    The playwright said, “Indeed thou have already. Thou have bestowed upon me the most useful gift possible for a dabbler in the writer’s craft.”
    “What might that be, Will?”
    “Inspiration. Our plot was the midwife for a sonnet which I completed just an hour ago.” He drew a piece of paper from his jacket. He looked over the assembled men and said solemnly, “It seemed a pity that Murtaugh knew not the reason for his death. Inmy plays, you see, the truth must ultimately out—it needs be revealed, at the least to the audience, if not the characters. That Murtaugh died in ignorance of our revenge set my pen in motion.” The playwright then read the sonnet slowly:
    To a Villain
    When I do see a falcon in the wild
    I think of he, the man who gave me life,
    Who loved without restraint his youthful child
    And bestow’d affection on his wife.
    When I do see a vulture in its flight
    I can think of naught but thee, who stole
    Our family’s joy away that evil night
    Thou cut my father’s body from his soul.
    The golden scissors of a clever Fate
    Decide how long a man on earth shall dwell.
    But as my father’s son I could not wait
    To see thy wicked soul entombed in hell.
    This justice I have wrought is no less fine,
    Being known but in God’s heart and in mine.
    “Well done, Will,” Hal Pepper called out.
    Charles clapped the playwright on the back.
    “It be about Charles?” Stout asked, staring down at the paper. His lips moved slowly as he attempted to form the words.
    “In spirit, yes,” Shakespeare said, turning the poem around so that the big man could examine the lines right-way up. He added quietly, “But not, methinks, enough so that the Court of Sessions might find it evidentiary.”
    “I do think it best, though, that thou not publish it just yet,” Charles said cautiously.
    Shakespeare laughed. “Nay, friend, not for a time. This verse would find no market now, in any case. Romance, romance, romance . . . that be the only form of poesy that doth sell these days. Which, by the by, is most infuriating. No, I shall secrete it safe away and retrieve it years hence when the world hath forgot about Robert Murtaugh. Now, it is near to candle-lighting, is it not?”
    “Very close to,” Stout replied.
    “Faith, then . . . Now that our real-life tale hath come to its final curtain, let us to a fictional one. My play Hamlet hath a showing tonight and I must needs be in attendance. Collect thy charming wife, Charles, then we shall to the ferry and onward to the Globe. Drink up, gentlemen, and let’s away!”

G ONE F ISHING

    “D on’t go, Daddy.”
    “Rise and shine, young lady.”
    “Please?”
    “And what’s my little Jessie-Bessie worried about?”
    “I don’t know. Nothing.”
    Alex sat on the edge of her bed and hugged the girl. He felt the warmth of her body, surrounded by the peculiar, heart-swelling smell of a child waking.
    From the kitchen a pan clattered, then another. Water running. The refrigerator door slamming. Sunday-morning sounds. It was early, six-thirty.
    She rubbed her eyes. “I was thinking . . . what we could do today is we could go to the