There were diverting wisps of homey conversation. What will you do now? Nora's charities. John's Irish culture projects. How will they be affected? Nora's son, young Marcus, had just taken Frank's last name. He was now legally Marcus Sumner. "Shannon, you should have seen him when those papers were finalized. He was soooo proud of having a real name! He's a good boy... And smart! ...." Frank sounded like a proud father. But he paused with a dreamy philosophic look peering through his mask of stiff skin.

"And?"

"Ver-ry intuitive. He doesn't need inventories of facts to know what's what. Great kid."

Shannon told Frank about her niece Taillte ..

"That's a name? Where do you dig up.."

..who was a natural dancer. While all the other kids practiced for hours, she merely had to watch. It didn't make her too popular winning all the prizes with the least effort. She didn't learn dancing, she released it. Frank and Shannon continued babbling on in this way until they passed northward over the crest of South Mountain, then down into and through a timeworn city whose glory had long passed. Conversation stilled as the town eased by. Something about this place. They both felt it. Not architecture, even with its period feel. Upswing visible. Store fronts, new paint . Scaffolds, repair, well stocked fruit stands, vegetables . Bright sales signs. No, not the physical. Something else. Children turned away. Children spun by knowing parents pointing into storefront windows - away from the street - as their bullet ridden car lingered by to oddly cooperating traffic lights. They were cloaked, invisible on their journey through the valley toward the mountain of the North Ward. They ascended as if kneeling, quietly trying to take in what it was that was not being seen. The North Mountain crest was transcended by two towers, buildings which in silhouette on the mount looked like a high held victory sign.

Each of the large nicely finished buildings was immaculate and well appointed. Grounds, shrubbery, planted window flower boxes, overlooking a beautiful and expansive unfenced reservoir encircled by a flowered walking path. A generous meeting area centered on a large lawn, a gazebo, and the sign Charles Darling Park.

Golden letters engraved on ebony embraced by oaken uprights proclaimed, Jake Green Apartments. There was beautiful music, live singing, with spectacular harmony coming from a center court yard.

Frank blinked himself back, "Oh, by the way," young Marcus, he told her, was now engaged to a singer, a thin and frail girl with a sensuous yet angelic voice. Shannon was straining to hear where the singing was coming from. There were proudly standing murals that had no apparent reason for being other than as declarations of life. North Mountain was alive with culture.

Days passed here in pleasant solitude, Shannon in one building, assured repeatedly of the provisions for the safety of her family, Frank Sumner in the other, initially sequestered to protect his anonymity. The camaraderie of people here was wonderful, yet nobody spoke of the events which had just transpired, of the men who appeared from nowhere, of anything that was or might yet be. There were no televisions. Who needed them? Local entertainment and story telling were too good to even bother with the tube. Shannon added a splash of Celtic spin to the local repertory with her own best recollections of The Twelve Swans, The Piper and the Puca, and of course The Stolen Child. Wide eyes and neck bobbing were a standing ovation. One of the children, looking her up and down and up and down unsure of himself, finally got the courage, "Misses?"

"Yes, honey?"

"You got presidents on your titties?"

His mother was both hysterical with the remark and at the same time embarrassed, sweeping him up into her arms, "Clarence! You don't go round askin' ladies 'bout their personals." She was kissing him while shaking her head.

Shannon had the best laugh in days over that one. She knew the origins of that question and told the little fellow that she was not that particular woman. Just about when it seemed that the issue had been cleared up he blurted from under his mamma's hug, "Then what do you got on'em?"

"Clar-ence! Come-on. Let's go find daddy." Little Clarence was still asserting his case as he flew away on the chariot called mama. The other children were rolling on their backs gasping for air and punching the grass, unable to contain themselves as Shannon O'Brien just sheepishly answered, "Nothing." Having nothing there was just as funny as having politicians. When the kids finally caught their breaths, winding down in eeeew's and hooo ha's, she slaughtered them by remarking that although there was nothing there, there was just enough room to tattoo A Few Good Men. Even the adults lost composure at that. One of the older gentlemen raised his cane and extended rhetorically, "Ahh. But which few?" She smiled him a wink then pondered it. That was a good question.

Frank Sumner sensed the unspoken ethic of the crowd and so contributed to story time by telling his own story, how his face got so burned. He knew the kids all wanted to know but the etiquette of style didn't allow the subject to be breached. Interestingly, style was maintained despite the story being retold by one of the children, to those who missed it. A Warrior of Stone ran into the mouth of a fire dragon to reclaim swallowed children from its belly. Sumner's chest also became an eventual object of interest. Shortly after his arrival, he had observed his car being shrouded and carefully loaded into a truck. "Good," he thought, "That soldier deserves a decent burial." He saluted, instinctively. A new one, black, took it's place with the explanation that bullet holes attract attention. "I've got money to pay for the.."

He was waved off. "No. Remove your shirt," was the reply. What do you say to a wall of big black men and an old friend who tell you to undress? Nothing. Just do it.