The Knight of Pages Sample

Chapter One

Navigating the over-stacked aisles of One More Time used bookstore was not for the faint of heart nor the casual reader.  You had to be dedicated to deal with the owner’s idea of the alphabet, genres, and that only the hardcovers would find places on the actual shelves.  Paperbacks were stacked leaning precariously in vertical columns of best-selling fiction.  Once you crept by the halls of pulp, emoting the bookseller’s frustration of too many books and not enough help, and up the stairs, you found yourself in a quiet place insulated by cloth-bound adventures, dramas, comedies, and poetry.

Going to the counter and requesting help finding a particular volume was a fruitless endeavor unless the bespectacled, towering, wiry, pale knight of used books had just had it in his hand moments ago; otherwise, he would wave you away like a gnat.  But if you wanted to discuss the contents of what he deemed books of worth, then he had time for you.  He would push back a lock from his mop of salt-and-pepper hair, which refused to be tamed by any product suggested to the forty-year-old.  Nash Greene’s green eyes would fix on the patron’s face a moment.  His long spindly index finger would push his glasses upwards along the bridge of his Roman nose while his lips held a noncommittal position until the customer had made his case.

If you got a twitch from the right corner of his mouth, you had made a valid point.  If you got a full smile, you were in trouble.  Words would exit his mouth with such velocity that the conversant would take a step backwards, and if smart, would contemplate how to exit the shop quickly.  Nash would suffer idiots but never pompous pretenders.  He would gently guide the ignorant through the rough passages of a literary masterpiece, but he had no time for the parrots of English 101 professors - men and women who dutifully jotted down the coined phrases to memorize in order to, hopefully, impress others in their literary groups.

Clara Tyler walked into the shop, greeted by the set of old brass bells hung over the door that Nash had inherited from the previous owner of the shop.  He looked over and nodded as the familiar redhead slid her backpack off her strong long-distance-swimming shoulders and dug through it as she walked towards the counter.

“Afternoon,” Nash managed, intrigued by the package she drew out and set on his counter.  “Girl Scout mint cookies.  Clara, are you trying to seduce me?”

The thirty-five-year-old blushed, adding a deep-red hue to her pale scalp.  Ignoring the heat from her face, she said, “When I left yesterday, I found these girls cowering a few feet from your door.  I asked them what was wrong.  They told me they were working up their nerve to come in here.”

Nash raised his eyebrow.  “Am I that scary?”

“Sometimes.”

“I have never intentionally tried to scare a child,” Nash argued.  “Especially the little ladies in green who peddle these overpriced but delectable cookies.”

“It could be that the place is haunted,” Clara said, nodding her head in the direction of the stairs and the hardcover books.

“That’s a rumor.  It’s never been proven,” Nash sniffed.

Clara laughed.  “Don’t pretend to be outraged.  You’ve heard the sounds.  I’ve been chased out of there when I’ve had the urge to introduce some semblance of order.”

“There’s no ghost.”

“How do you explain the books moving in and out of alignment?”

Nash frowned.

“Come on, you’re not deaf.  If you haven’t seen it, then you’ve heard it.”

Nash bit his lower lip.

Clara studied the man, doing her best to push back the attraction she had for the shop owner.  It started the moment he unlocked the door that first evening when she had discovered his shop.  The shop had interesting hours.  It opened at ten, as most shops did, but it was closed between the hours of three and five.  The day she discovered the shop, she had arrived at four forty-five and chose to wait until five.  He had looked down at her, puzzled.  “If you’re lost, the Barnes & Noble is two streets down.  Hang a left and…”

“I’m not looking for Barnes & Noble,” she said, brushing by him and into the shop.

“The Second City Jazz club?”

“Nope.”

He continued to name places as he followed her.  She stopped suddenly, turning on her heel, and Nash walked into her.  She stepped back and tripped over a book left carelessly on the floor.  He caught her before she fell.  He may have saved her from falling to the floor but not from falling for Nash himself.

The sound of the cash register opening pulled Clara back into the present.

“What are you doing?” she asked as Nash counted out four dollars.

“Reimbursing you for my cookies.”

Clara knew this was the universe testing her.  If she waved the money away, she would have to acknowledge she wanted more from Nash, possibly scaring him off.  If she took the money, she would maintain the tentative friendship, but would it place her in a Mobius strip of perpetual friendship with no chance of developing into something more?

“It’s on me.  You can return the favor by setting aside a first edition of Good Omens, if one ever does cross your threshold.”

Nash picked up the money and jammed it into the drawer.  “You’ve got yourself a deal.  How was work?”

Clara worked as a chef at Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz, the trendy breakfast-only restaurant two streets over.  “Pretty busy.  I really wish Chicagoans would return to their love of fast-food sandwiches.”

“No you don’t,” Nash argued.

“Maybe not,” Clara agreed.

Nash picked up the package and slid it under the counter.  “I’m going to go out and buy a lottery ticket.”

“Why?”

“You brought me Girl Scout mint cookies, and you agreed with me.  This is a landmark day.  A herald of good fortune, a…”

“Oh, shut up.  Have you ever purchased a lottery ticket?”

“Only when I felt like throwing my money away.”

“That’s a no.”

“Gee, first I find out I’m too scary for Girl Scouts and, also, that I’m cheap.”

“I would have used the word careful.”

Nash picked up a recent acquisition and studied the spine.  “I like the word careful.  I’m careful with my money sounds better than cautious.  Why didn’t you use cautious?”

“Cautious eludes to timidity.  You’re not frightened to spend a buck; you’re just careful what you spend it on.”

Nash liked Clara.  He realized that, more and more, he was looking forward to her stopping in.  It wasn’t her easy-on-the-eyes looks or her body slightly rounded by the constant tasting of sauces.  It was her mind.  The delightful and insightful things that came unexpectedly out of her mouth never bored him.  Being with Clara was like reading a masterpiece.  He may have wanted the story to go in a different direction, but he was very pleased with the present plot.

“Why did you buy this place?” Clara asked.

“I’m leasing the building.  I own nothing but the corpses of trees in various forms.”

“How clever,” Clara said.

“Clever and careful.”

“Back to your ghost.”

“There is no ghost.”

The sound of a large tome hitting the floor above them seemed to call his answer into question.

Nash looked at his watch and strode purposefully to the door.  “It’s not a ghost.  It’s the gloaming.”  Nash held the door, expecting Clara to walk out before he locked it.  Clara stood her ground.

“Tell me about the gloaming.”

Nash shut the door, flipped the open/closed sign around, and placed his hand on the lock.  “Clara, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d really like you to leave.”

“Tell me about the gloaming.”

Nash moved quickly to the counter, grabbed his coat, and put a firm but soft grip on Clara’s arm.  “I’ll tell you, but not here.”

Another book hit the floor.  Clara allowed herself to be ushered out of the bookstore.  She didn’t complain when his hand left her arm only long enough to turn the lock on the door.

The premature darkness cast by the long shadows of the high-rise buildings surrounding them had the light-sensitive streetlights fighting their programing to come on.  It was only three in the afternoon, but the absence of light said it was dusk to the antiquated devices.

“I’m at a loss as to where to go?” Nash questioned.

“How about I sneak you into the Biscuit.  Johan’s not going to mind.”

Nash nodded.  The other choice would have been his or her place.  He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or not.  True, they had known each other for coming on a year, but beyond in-depth conversations about books, they hadn’t moved past the friend zone.

They turned the corner, and a blast of sunlight momentarily blinded them until they moved once again into the city’s shadow.

Clara let them in through the back entrance.  “Wait here.”  She trotted over to the alarm and reset it.  She waved Nash over.  “Let’s go down into the pit - unless you’re hungry.  I could make you…”

“I’m not hungry,” he interrupted.  “I have to admit to being fascinated by anyplace called the pit.”

Clara smiled.  “Johan carved out a space in his basement for we employees to have a place to go to get, as he calls it, ‘our shit’ together.”

Nash followed Clara through the gleaming kitchen and down the stairs.

“Mind your head,” she said, reaching up and tapping the offending low header of the cellar door.

Nash ducked under and watched as Clara moved through the darkness until she found a switch.  The illumination wasn’t strong, but from what he could see, he was being led through a passage made of boxes of napkins and toilet paper, which was followed by a broken-furniture graveyard until it opened into a small sitting area.  A sofa and several large overstuffed chairs placed helter-skelter gave a hominess to the basement room.  An expensive relic of early espresso makers dominated the corner along with a pristine, antique, deep sink and a small refrigerator that sported a faded Northwestern University sticker on the front.

“Welcome to the pit,” Clara said.  “I’m going to make myself a Clara special.  I demand you join me.  Any allergies?”

“To unfermented soy,” Nash said.  He found himself a large armchair and sighed as it not only accepted his long frame but seemed to understand the need to have one’s feet on the ground.

Over in the contrived kitchenette, Clara looked like a mad organist, her hands flying here and there as she was momentarily surrounded with a burst of steam from the old machine.  Nash took a moment to admire his friend.  The woman was strong from years of being a chef.  Her hair fell down her back in waves of auburn.  The waistband of her jeans gapped in back where the mass-produced denim didn’t allow for the pear-shaped form.

“Just about finished,” Clara said, her back still to him.

Nash shook himself free of the thoughts that began to creep into his mind, thoughts of pulling Clara to him and sliding his hand down her back.

Clara balanced a tray and kicked an ottoman, as she walked, over until she trapped Nash in his chair.  She placed the tray down on the footstool and asked him, “Cream?”

“That depends on whether the Clara special demands cream?”

“It does.”

“Cream please.”

Clara poured a small amount into the large cup.  Instead of stirring it, she allowed the cream to bubble upwards, mixing with the dark brew that smelled suspiciously like expensive bourbon.  She handed him the cup and waited until he took a sip.  It was glorious.

“Very nice,” he said.

Clara smiled, replaced the tray with her behind on the footstool, and picked up her cup.  She crossed one leg and then the other until she sat yoga-style atop it.  She took a sip of her coffee before looking into his eyes.  “Tell me about the gloaming.”

Chapter Two

Nash took another sip and enjoyed how the liquid warmed him.  The combo of caffeine and alcohol balanced the other out.  Whatever stresses he was holding on to had drifted away.  “I call it the gloaming because of the darkness that comes over the shop between three and five.  As you know, especially in summer, there can be four more hours of daylight after this time, but not in my little shop.  It’s just as much twilight as if vampires were free to come in and browse.”

“Do you believe in vampires?” Clara asked.

“Not the Twilight kind or even the marvelous creatures written by Anne Rice.  And no, the only vampire who visits my shop is my landlord.”

Clara laughed.  She’d seen the pale creature who bustled in without more than, “Where’s my check?” and bustled out again with said check.  She never was sure if this hooded being was male or female or if it really mattered, but in retrospect, with the exception of the pale skin and liquid movements, he didn’t really resemble Bram Stoker’s 1897 vampire at all.

“The gloaming comes and brings with it a darkness that feeds the books.”

Clara took a gulp of her brew.  Her eyes watered, but she wouldn’t allow herself to cough.  She did squeak out, “Feeds?”

“Gives them power.  I’m not talking about the books coming to life.  You’ll not find Tom Sawyer insulting Queequeg in my stacks.”

“I should hope not,” Clara said.

“And it doesn’t affect most of the books, just the special ones.”

“I don’t understand,” Clara admitted.

“Back in the store, you mentioned the books that go out of alignment.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Hey, you’re supposed to tell me about the…”

“Humor me.”

“Very well.  One of the first times I was in your shop, I was walking down one of the fiction aisles, and I remember thinking how beautifully straight the books were, the spines barely touching the other books.  When I got to the end of the aisle and turned around, several of the books had been moved.  Pushed forward as if to say…”

“Pick me up,” Nash completed.

“Yes.”

“What if, instead of you choosing a book, the book chooses you?” Nash asked.

“Intriguing.”

“Do you remember any of the titles?” Nash asked.

“Just Rebecca.  I recognized the edition.  I remember being surprised because I had recently read an article about Daphne du Maurier.  I read Rebecca when I was going through my gothic phase in my teens.  I remember standing there and thinking that I didn’t have the maturity originally to understand the book when I read it.”

“But you didn’t take it home?”

“No.”

“If it was during the gloaming, the book would have found its way into your backpack, whether it was you putting it there or me.”

“So you’re saying the book would have taken control of me?”

“Or me.  If you opened it and began to read, maybe I would have experienced seeing Manderley again too.”

“I think I’ll call bullshit on this story.”

Nash sat there a moment, trying to decide if the risk that Clara would reject his friendship if he continued was worth the telling of his story.  But the stubborn set of her chin pushed away the fear, and he began, “Early in my bookshop days, I had an elderly woman make her way slowly past me.  She used a cane, and I could tell that she hurt.  I mean, every joint in her eighty-year-old body hurt.  I cleared my voice and asked her if I could help her.  She asked where the real books were.  I wasn’t going to get into a debate with this octogenarian that all books are real.  I pretty much took for granted that she wanted a hardcover book.  I told her that they were upstairs and offered to fetch whatever she was looking for, for her.”

“That was before your grumpy days.”

“Be nice,” Nash warned Clara.

She lifted her hand.  “I’m sorry, please continue.”

“She said the journey up the stairs would be worth it, so I let her go.  Admittedly, I shadowed her first with my gaze and then with my body.  I was not going to let the woman fall to her death on my stairs.  Once she was upstairs, I came back down and took care of a few stacks of best sellers.  I listened to her footfalls.  The slow steady clump of the cane, then step, step.  Clump, step, step, and then nothing.  Since I didn’t hear her fall, I assumed she was reading.  Suddenly, there was a flurry of light steps, which alarmed me.  I ran to the stairs in time to see this dignified woman slide down the banister with her cane and a book tucked under her arm.  I caught her before she flew off the end.”

“And…” Clara prompted, not knowing where his narrative was going.

“She handed me the book and waltz-stepped her way to the counter.”

“What was the book?”

“Mary Poppins.  She had come in to buy something to read to her great-granddaughter who was recovering in the hospital.  I remember she said something about not seeing it the first time she walked by.  But she felt it call to her.  She kept up the zany energy until she left the building.  That was when the cane was no longer a prop but became a necessity.”

“Forgive me, but you’re not trying to tell me the book gave her energy?”

“No, of course not.  It put her in the Mary Poppins state of mind.”

“Did the store cause this connection or did the book?”

“The book in the store.  I didn’t understand the timing until more and more strange occurrences happened when the shadow of the giants fell upon my little shop.”

“It still could be a ghost.  Ever hear of possession?”

“Only that it’s nine tenths of the law…”

Clara glared at Nash for his glib answer.

“The book chose the woman.”

“Nah, something chose the book for the woman,” Clara argued.

Nash set his empty cup down on the floor.  He needed both of his hands to talk properly.  “On one hand, you’re telling me I have a ghost selecting books for my customers, but on the other, you refuse to believe that a book could influence the mind of the customer and cause this, let’s say, connection.”

“Yes.  Ghosts used to be people.  Sentient beings.  Books are but an assemblage of words on a page.  They don’t think.”

“You don’t think authors pour their life and soul into their books?” Nash questioned.

“That’s different.  Are you telling me that all Mary Poppins books during the gloaming cast a spell over their readers?”

“No, of course not.  By the way, I never stocked any of P.L. Travers’s books upstairs.  I kept them on the ground floor with the other children’s books.”

“The easy answer is that a customer had it in hand and decided against it and put it on a shelf.  That’s probably why she didn’t see it at first.  She wasn’t looking for it there.”

“That’s what I thought.  It took a dozen or more incidents to convince me that something paranormal was happening in my shop between the hours of three and five.”

“But you don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Not in the shop.”

“Maybe the gloaming brings them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know?” Clara admitted.  “But it makes more sense than the gloaming feeds your books with paranormal energy.”

“Does it?” Nash questioned.

“It wasn’t during the gloaming that Rebecca pushed herself forward,” Clara stated.  “If memory serves me, it was just after you reopened your door at five.”

“I can’t be exact with the time, but years of being there have convinced me that if I want to keep most of the weirdness away, I close the shop between three and five every afternoon.”

“Do you feel the books are dangerous?”

“I have had a lot of time to think about books while I’m working,” Nash explained.  “After an adventuresome incident, I started to think about books that may influence certain minds to do more than take a ride down the banister.  The Catcher in the Rye has a history with snipers.  Thomas Paine’s Common Sense still strikes a chord with revolutionaries.  Let’s not forget in whose hands Mein Kampf seems to find itself.  In 1774, Sorrows of Young Werther by Goethe developed an immediate cult following, and at least one copy was found in the pocket of a suicide victim.”

“You’re saying these are bad books?” Clara asked.

“No!  Just that if I kept them in the store and someone read them during the gloaming and acted out, hurting themselves or others, then I would be responsible.”

“Sell the stock and start over.”

“I have found books in my shop that I never brought in.  The reason the spines are aligned is, I do that periodically so I can try to catch these vessels of mischief.”

“Sell the shop and move on.”

“I have a ten-year lease.”

“Who signs a ten-year lease?”

“I assure you it made sense in the beginning.”

Clara looked at the man she still had imprisoned in the large chair.  She unwound her legs and scooted the footstool backwards.  “Thank you for telling me.  I assure you I will keep it to myself.”  She reached down and put his and her cup on the tray.

Nash nodded sadly.  “But I won’t be seeing you anymore.”

“Why not?” she asked, lifting the tray.

“I thought…”

“Every one of us has quirks.  Yours is saving the world from your books.  Mine is believing in ghosts and my insatiable hunger for chocolate-covered cherries.  I’ve given them up for Lent and then chose to become a lapsed Christian for succumbing to my craving two days in.  I’ve learned to make a healthier version of them myself, but I really like the cheap ones.  Lord knows what’s in them.”

“What else do you believe in?” Nash asked, connecting with her dark brown eyes.

“Angels, fairies, most of the things little girls believe in.  I’ve never quite grown out of believing that we aren’t alone here.”

“Have you ever seen a ghost?” he asked.

Clara looked at his serious face and nodded.  “Mostly just the wisp of something.  Things that can be explained away.  It seemed a harmless fascination.  I would watch ghost-hunter shows, scanning their footage in hopes of seeing or hearing something no one else heard.  I’m not sensitive, so I never expected to actually see an active haunt, just pictures, perhaps, from the past.  When you do see a ghost, it changes you.”

“I take it you did see one,” Nash said.

Clara put the tray down and resumed her seat in front of him.  She pushed her hair back behind her ears.  Nash thought that she looked like an elf when she did this, but he’d never tell her so.

“I used to walk through the theater district on my way to work from the pool where I swim laps when the lake is too cold.  Sometimes, I weave in and out of the alleys.  They have a certain ambiance that is hard to explain unless you’ve been there.”

“It could hardly be safe,” Nash said.

“I get up so early that by the time I start walking, the late-night lurkers have long gone.  It’s like I have the city to myself.  Once, I stopped walking to answer a text from Johan.  It was a reminder for me to teach Raul not to be so heavy-handed with the cayenne pepper when he makes the hollandaise sauce.  I answered with a pepper emoji.  Immediately after, I felt a chill and assumed the wind had wound its way from the lake to the alley.  I looked up from my phone, and a face was inches from mine.  I peed myself.  I’m not lying.  I stood there frozen.  The result from my only active bodily function was running down my leg into my shoes.  I waited for it to move, speak, anything.  It just stood its ground.  I managed to step backwards, and the ghost smiled and disappeared.  I wanted to take off running, but standing in your own urine takes the athleticism out of you.”

“You should have said, takes the piss out of you,” Nash said, his eyes twinkling.

“I’ll remember that next time I tell the story,” Clara said.

“Go on.”

“I stood there, looked around me, and felt something.  I felt that I had in some way invaded the space of the ghost.  It seemed happy when it was able to frighten me.  I remember thinking respect my space.  The next day, I returned, and I could make out the spot I had stood in by the faint aroma of piss.  I shook the can of spray paint I had purchased at the Ace Hardware and circled the spot with Day-Glo orange.”

“Why?”

“I’m not really sure of my motivation.  Maybe so I could avoid walking over the spot, or in my fantasies, I could show someone where to find a ghost.  After a few days, I let the fantasy go and, eventually, only thought about the ghost when I passed the theater.”

“Which is every morning?”

“I’ve changed pools since then, one closer to where I live.  I have a place a few blocks from here.”

“Me too.”

“I thought maybe you lived above the shop.”

“No.  There is a small apartment up there, but I live elsewhere.  The third story is for storage.  Tell me about the ghost’s face,” Nate said, returning to the subject.

“I couldn’t tell you eye color, but it did have eyes.  I remember overly accented eyebrows and the hair being pulled back so tightly that the chin seemed prominent.  The mouth was a slash of red when it was closed, and the teeth were yellow when it smiled.”

“Coffee drinker,” Nash suggested and ran his finger over his teeth.

“Tea or wine,” Clara offered.

“Smoker!” both said in unison.

This brought on laughter, and the tension created with the telling of the story eased.

“Now I see your fascination for my shop.  All this time I thought it was for me.”

Clara tried to control the blush that was rising.  She popped up and walked swiftly to the sink and began the task of cleaning the cups and cream pitcher.

Nash got to his feet.  He walked over.  Clara pulled out a fresh dishtowel and tossed it to him.  Nash obediently dried the dishes while watching Clara disassemble the ancient espresso machine.

“Mind me asking you a personal question?” Clara asked.

“No.”

“How can you make a living if you close for two hours during the day?”

“I’m just missing the hours that seniors take naps, parents pick up their kids from school, and the working class is… well… working.”

“Ah.”

“The only time it’s a problem is when I have a dealer who insists on doing business at that time.”

“How do you resolve that?”

“Meet the dealer somewhere else.  Usually, it’s the lobby of their hotel.”

“So you’re not talking souls with a garbage bag full of paperbacks.”

“No.  I make most of my money trading in first editions and rare books.”

“Do you go to auctions?”

“No.  I belong to a group, and we share the cost and expenses of a scout.”

“Who does your repairs?”

“If it’s simple, I do it.  If it demands an expert, I leave it in the good hands of Miss Natalie.”

“Miss Natalie?”

“Miss Natalie Boccasavia.  I bring my books to her personally.”

Clara felt funny.  “I don’t know why I’m interrogating you?”

“I find it charming.  But turnabout is fair play.  Are you married?”

Clara almost dropped the portafilter basket.  “No, I’m not married.”

“Seeing anyone?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I’m butt ugly.”

It was Nash’s turn to jostle the item he was drying.  “Be serious.”

“I don’t know.  My hours are crazy.  My last relationship sucked.  I’m seventy percent happy with my life right now.  Why ruin it?”

“You’re telling me that being in a relationship is only worth thirty percent?”

“This is where the happiness ratios get tricky,” Clara stalled.

Nash finished drying the cream pitcher and waited.

“If you’re friends with the person you end up in a relationship with, it’s worth another thirty percent.  So you can imagine if your partner with whom you were also great friends with leaves…”

“You’re back in forty-percent-happiness hell,” Nash answered.

Clara took a leap.  “Are you married?”

“Nope.”

“Ever?”

“Yes.  The money to open the shop came from a very guilty ex named Rita.”  Nash looked sideways at Clara.  “I’m not seeing anyone.  I’m not broken - beyond my penchant to run off at the mouth and be insulting.”

“Challenging.  You’re challenging,” Clara said.  “Sorry, thinking aloud.”

Nash grinned.  “Today, I found out that you think I’m careful with my money, challenging instead of insulting, and - what was that other thing?”

“Clever, you’re clever,” Clara answered.

“Seems to me I should return the compliments,” Nash said.

“Don’t.  I don’t like forced admissions,” Clara said.  “Shall we go?  I’ve got a Clara-do list to complete before I hit the hay.  My day starts at 4:30 a.m.”

Nash followed Clara through the maze and up the stairs.  He waited outside while she armed the alarm.  She didn’t meet his eyes when she walked out.  Nash was puzzled.  Where had he gone wrong?  Did he unintentionally bring up bad memories?  He didn’t want their hour of closeness to be swept away with bitter brooms.

“Clara, are we alright?  Did I blunder?”

Clara looked up at Nash and saw sincerity in his eyes.

She bit her lip and shook her head.  “I really like you, Nash.  You’re my thirty percent.”

“And you don’t want to lose it by taking a chance on making it sixty.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll take a step back, but I do want you to know that I have the same fears.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” Clara said and leaned over and gave him a clumsy hug.

Nash fought the urge to make the hug the start of something else.  He counted out the appropriate seconds of body contact and released her.  They made awkward small talk until they went their separate ways.

Clara crossed the street.  Nash watched her until she was safely on the sidewalk before he turned and continued towards his shop.

Clara leaned against the wall of the building and watched Nash walk away.  She balled her fist and cursed.  “Clara, you big dope.  You’re nothing but a big chicken.”  She looked up and caught a slice of sky.  “Chicken Little, the sky is not falling.  He’s scared too.”