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having Barry, which changed her into a chunky, middle-aged mom.  Her facial beauty was still there: high cheekbones and thick, dark hair.  Her narrow, hazel eyes added an oriental enchantment.  But the alluring contours that had formerly attracted men hid somewhere beneath thick thighs.
           She regretted the body change; a once proud, self-assured woman changed into the ordinary.  But as Barry grew up and transformed into a little person, she found her life centered around him, enjoying his happiness, preparing him for his chance at life.  With Barry dead, her life reeled out of focus.  Bitter thoughts dominated her mind, leaving her alone in a world of suspicion.
           Bradley returned with an ice cream cone.  "What was all the ruckus in town about?"  He started the car and continued on.
           She looked at him squarely to say it, "A Federal Agent got stabbed in the back with a kitchen knife."
           He turned quickly, "For real?"
           Helen closed her eyes to narrow slits, "You should be grateful I kept you from getting into town."
           Bradley shook his head, "I should have had Barry living with me, the way things are in this armpit of a place."
           "This 'armpit' is my home.  It was Barry's home.  We were born here.  Stop the car, I'm getting out.  I don't want any favors from you."  When he continued down the road, she yelled, "Stop the damn car!"
           "Now, you don't mean that, Helen."
           "'I don't mean that'?  You mean to say I don't know what I'm saying?"
            "Stop, Helen, I don't need this.  Not after today."  He paused awhile, but couldn't keep from saying it: "You've made it a point to put all the blame for us breaking up on me.  It wasn't just me.  You had something to do with it.  That, and your bullheaded brother Max, trying to take my place as a father when I'm not around.  I resented the hell out of that."
           Helen stared at the side of his face, enraged.  Bradley was fully aware of her temper and watched her warily out the corner of his eye as he drove--still licking his ice cream cone.  But he glanced at the road at just the wrong moment: Helen took a roundhouse swat and drove the ice cream in his face, rubbing it into his pores and down his shirt.  Bradley jerked and shouted as the car swerved to the opposite lane.  Helen jammed her left foot on top of his, on the brake, skidding the vehicle to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road.
           Leaping out, she slammed the car door and kicked it, then stomped off into the woods adjacent to her home.  Shortly after entering the forest, Helen followed a worn trail through an open stand of hemlocks.  Gray light from clouded skies peeked through the conifers.  Droplets clung desperately to needle tips--only to be yanked loose by a gust of wind that stirred through the trees.  An August wind, colder than usual, whispered sounds and carried fragrances of evergreen.  Helen noticed none of it.
           She stumbled upon a rustic campsite just off a trail: Rocks encircled a fire pit, a brush lean-to was off to the side.  Its roof was an old plastic tablecloth --her tablecloth.  Helen looked around the camp and found a box.  She lifted the lid and discovered her kitchen knife, some silverware, matches, and a picture of Tater and her with Barry.  Her eyes brimmed with tears as she studied it.   It seemed like just yesterday they had taken that hike and set the camera to automatically photograph them in front of Cascade Falls.  Helen looked through all the articles and smiled; she would have scolded Barry for playing with knives and taking her kitchen utensils.  Now she sat in his lean-to and recalled what a solid young man he had become.  She couldn't recall when he stopped asking for a bedtime kiss; she wished that nightly routine hadn't ended.
           Helen followed the trail out of the woods to her lane that