"Uh, Pinky?"

"Yes, Jim?"

"Monsignor Kelly said something that I didn't quite understand."

"Oh?"

"Yes. He mentioned something about developmentalism. I'm supposed to talk to this Brother Robert guy about it. Problem is, I've never heard of it."

"Oh, I see. Yes, that is a problem."

"I was wondering...do you happen to know anything about it?"

"Of course. It's actually quite simple. Developmentalism is just the notion that people should focus on improvement--their own improvement and the collective improvement of humankind."

"Oh, yeah," Jim commented. "I remember Grandpa and Captain Solem discussing that. But I don't know what I can tell Brother Robert about it. Maybe I should call Paddy back and cancel..."

"No need to worry, Jim," Pinky assured him. "When the time comes you'll know everything you need to know about it."

Jim was not placated. This "just-in-time-inventory" approach to knowledge made him uncomfortable.

"And how am I going to learn about it?" he asked.

"It'll come to you," Pinky reassured him. "Trust us."

"You mean like in my dream? When the words came to me?"

"Exactly!"

"You know," Jim said pensively, "I think maybe that's what is at the root of all of my problems."

"What is?"

"The fact that I never have anything to say."

"Well, I don't know--"

"No," Jim insisted, "think about it. I've got writer's block because I have nothing to say. Hell, I managed to write two whole books without saying anything. Sarah left because I had nothing to say. Not so much as an `I-love-you-please-don't go'. I'm always putting off coming here to see you because I really don't have anything to say. Now I'm worried about coming up blank with this Brother Robert. Even in my dreams I have nothing to say until Grandpa's ghost comes along.

"I don't know why this never occurred to me before," Jim ranted. "Must've been...evaka." In this context, the root word "evaka" translated to "blinded by my eyes". Jim couldn't think of any appropriate English expression. Perhaps "unable to see the forest for the trees" would have sufficed.

"Or evakakoi," Pinky suggested. Evakaga, the passive voice of the noun, meant "hoodwinked". But the active voice, evakakoi, referred to someone choosing blindness, like a conspirator not wanting to know all of the details of a plot in case of capture.

"What?" Jim countered indignantly, stunned by the rebuke.

"I'm sorry," Pinky mollified, "I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that your grandfather never seemed to have this problem."

Jim would have laughed if he were not still taken aback by the "evakakoi" remark.

"No," Jim agreed wholeheartedly. "Grandpa never had that problem. He always had something to prattle on about. Except at Mrs. Solem's house, of course. But even then I think he was trying to tell me something."

"Any idea what that might have been?"

"He wanted me do the things he did. To like the things he liked. He wanted me to be just like him."

"Your grandfather always had something to say," Pinky said slowly, as if putting the final piece of a puzzle into place, "but you didn't want to be like him."

This time Jim did laugh. It was nothing more than a small harrumph, but it was, technically, a laugh. Now, at least, he understood what Pinky meant in saying "evakakoi".

"Jim, have you ever considered writing a romance story?"

Again the Ponder surprised him, this time with such a sudden change of subject. What the hell did romance writing have to do with any of this? The suddenness of this detour reminded Jim of Sarah; she used to drive him to distraction, changing subjects every second sentence. Still, it was a warm memory. Jim would rather have Sarah drive him to distraction than to wander there on his own.

"Ground control to Jim," Pinky prodded lightly.

"Oh, yeah, sorry, what were we talking about?"

"Romance. Have you ever thought about writing a romance?"

"Not for a nanosecond," Jim replied flatly. Hell, he thought, if I knew anything about romance I might still be married.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Jim," Pinky sympathized.

"Damn!" Jim thought, "I keep forgetting that Pinky's reading my mind."

"Maybe it would help if you thought of me in the second person. Have you ever done that?"

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're saying."

"You thought to yourself: `I keep forgetting that Pinky's reading my mind'. Try thinking: `I keep forgetting that you are reading my mind'. After all, it makes no sense to talk to someone in the third person when they're right in front of you."

"But I wasn't talking to you," Jim defended. "I was thinking to myself."

"As long as you're contacting us you're talking to us. But that isn't the point I'm trying to make. I'm saying that it might be good for you to think of someone in the second person."

Jim shrugged at the suggestion but resolved to give it some thought later, when he would be alone and "disconnected from the host".

"Anyway, about the romance writing," Pinky persisted. "It's a very lucrative field for a writer. I've heard that there are more romance novels sold than--"

"I could never write a romance novel," Jim interjected.

"Why not? If you're worried about appearances you could write under a pseudonym."

"It just isn't in me." Jim spoke conclusively and dismissively, hoping the conversation would move on to another topic.

"I sense you're growing a little impatient with this, Jim. But could you indulge us for a while? Just a few minutes of your time?"

"Sure," Jim sighed. After all, it wasn't like he was late for a hot date.

His hand started to buzz again as the Ponders organized themselves for another presentation. Jim winced at the thought of having to sit through some Gothic heart-throbber.

"Tell me you're not going to make me sit through a romance story."

"Okay," Pinky complied, "we're not going to make you sit through a romance story."

"Now tell me the truth."

"We're going to make you sit through a romance story."

"Please," he begged, "make it short and painless."

"We will, we will," Pinky promised.

"I wasn't speaking to you," Jim volleyed, "I was talking to God, praying for death."

An image of a thin, well-groomed lady appeared. Pinky narrated that this was Daisy. She was staring blankly out an attic window onto the brush-cut carpet of golden wheat as it swayed in homage to the westerly wind. Her face, once alluring, would now be described as "well preserved". Footsteps sounded on the ladder until a younger woman entered. Pinky informed Jim that this was Daisy's daughter, Catherine.

"Mother!" said Catherine as her head appeared in the doorway, "Are you still up here?"

Daisy peered down at the sailor suit on her lap. She then looked around at the paraphernalia in the attic. How long had she been up here reminiscing? How had she allowed the past to take up so much of the present?

"What time is it?" she asked.

"It's almost five," replied the daughter impatiently, "Dave is taking me to the airport. I've been wondering where you've been!"

"Where I've been?"

Daisy let the question hang in the air for a moment.

"Please," she continued slowly, "let me tell you about where I've been."

Catherine went to the window and positioned herself to see the driveway. She then turned back to see the troubled expression on her mother's face.

"Please," Daisy entreated, "sit down. This won't take long. And it's something I should have told you years ago."

Catherine found an old stool in the corner, dragged it out into the centre of the room and sat on it.

"It's about your father..."

"You mean the funeral?" Catherine interposed.

"No," answered Daisy, "not the funeral."

Catherine started to speak but stopped herself.

"This was your father's uniform. From the war. That's when I met him, you know. He was sent out to the coast for training. I was a local. I worked as a clerk in the Administrative Office."

A horn honked in the driveway. Catherine went to the window, opened it and shouted "Just a minute, Dave!"

"Maybe this can wait for another time," suggested Daisy reluctantly.

"No, no," Catherine insisted. "Go on. If worst comes to worst we can take a later flight. We're flying stand-by anyway."

Daisy went on with her tale as Catherine sat down again.

"I was a debutante. Maybe the last of the debutantes. Anyway, there weren't a lot of women on the base. And there were so many men! So many..."

Daisy's voice drifted off for a moment. After collecting her thoughts she continued quietly.

"I was going out with quite a few of them. Besides your father, I mean. Chief Petty Officers, mostly. There was John Truro. He was a real card! Used to put fake orders and announcements on the bulletin board. Once he had the entire camp show up for an inspection by the Admiral of the combined fleet. The camp commander, his assistants, the whole staff and every sailor on the base lined up for an Admiral that wasn't coming. They might still be standing there if the company clerk hadn't checked the announcement and discovered the fact that no one had signed it.

"Then there was Bob Clancy. He'd been involved in community theatre before the war. I guess he would've been in the movies if things had worked out differently. A great dancer! I used to leave my Saturday nights free for him. He'd take me down to the Lobo Lounge. We'd close the place.

"And then there was Jason Curry. Jason was a sensitive soul. He had been studying to be a psychologist before enlisting. I was sure that he'd became a great therapist after the war.

"The Duty Officer would come in around 8:00 A.M. and report back at 5:00 P.M. The rest of the time I'd be working alone in the office. Anyway, one night your father took me down to the beach and proposed to me. Just like that! I was flabbergasted! We'd only gone out a few times and I didn't know what to say. I felt awful. Your dad was such a simple man. So different from the others. How could I turn him down? I was sitting there crying in my office when he came in."

"Dad?" asked Catherine.

"The Puppet Tiger."

"Who?"

Daisy smiled at a delicious memory.

"The Puppet Tiger. That day, at lunch time, when most of the camp was in the mess, he appeared at the counter. A hand puppet. A cute little tiger! He popped up from out of nowhere and asked `Why so sad?'

"I looked around. Where was the voice coming from? Then I saw him. In a second I went from crying to laughing. We started to talk. I asked him who he was. He said his name was Titus. Titus the Tiger.

"We started to talk. About everything. About John and the others. About your father. It was amazing! I didn't even know who I was talking with but I never held anything back.

"I told him about the proposal. He asked me if I was in love. In love! What could I say?"

"What did you say?" Catherine queried.

"I...I told him I didn't know."

"And what did he say?"

"He said that a person could be in love or in doubt. Never both."

"So you didn't marry Dad the first time he asked?"

Daisy shook her head.

"I wasn't ready yet," she explained. "But life went on. I kept seeing your father. And the others. My Puppet Tiger would visit me every day during lunch time.

"One day I asked the Puppet Tiger who he was. He told me that his name was Titus. No, no, I meant who was he really? He told me that he was a friend. I threatened to jump over the counter and unmask him. He told me that I could do that but that then there would be no...no mystery in my life. No mystery!"

Daisy laughed for an instant before becoming very serious.

"If I had to do it all again I'd be over that counter in a heartbeat!"

Catherine grinned at the thought of her mother leaping over a counter.

"You know, Cath, I used to watch the way you and your father got along. You were so close. Sometimes, seeing the two of you, I felt..."

Daisy stopped. Dave would be getting upset soon.

"When we dated I used to listen to your father talk about this place. The way he describe this farm you'd think it was Shangri-La. I was a city girl. Couldn't understand why a patch of dirt in the middle of nowhere could mean so much to anyone. But the look in his eyes!"

Daisy came to a conclusion.

"That's what did it," she said.

"That's what did what?" Catherine asked.

"A week before everyone was scheduled to ship out your father asked me again. I remember talking to the Puppet Tiger about it. You see, the other men, they had their interests. Practical jokes with John, the theatre with Bob, psychology for Jason. But none of them had that gleam in their eye. They did what they did because they liked it and were good at it. But it wasn't part of them the way this farm was part of your father. Your father was the only one among them that would allow anything to become part of him. And I wanted to be part of someone. Part of him.

"I couldn't help noticing the sadness in the Puppet Tiger's voice as I told him of my wedding plans. Suddenly, finally, it occurred to me. Titus had to be one of the three men I was leaving. Here I was, babbling about your father, not thinking about my Puppet Tiger.

"I stopped when the truth dawned on me. I would never see my Puppet Tiger again. I said as much.

"But Titus shook his head. `I'll never leave you', he promised."

The end of the story had come too quickly for Catherine.

"Did you ever see him again?" she wondered.

Daisy lowered her head and stared at the sailor suit on her lap, brushing its fabric with her hand.

"No, I guess I didn't."

A frown crossed Daisy's brow as she thought of something left unsaid.

"Your father and I were very much in love once. That may be hard for you to believe. But he had you and the farm. Me, I had nothing but memories. Life on the coast. The parties, the friends, my family. And memories of my Puppet Tiger.

"Over the years those memories ate away at me. So I tried to find him. Find my Puppet Tiger. I tracked down John first. But when I asked him if he had ever visited me as a Puppet Tiger he thought I was pulling a practical joke on him. When he laughed at the question I knew that he was telling the truth. He was not my Puppet Tiger.

"It took me more than a thousand phone calls to find Jason Curry. Sure enough, he's working as a psychoanalyst down east. When I posed the question he...suggested that I could benefit from some therapy.

"That left Bob. He had been an actor before the war, remember. But when I contacted the people in the records department I got the news. Bob had been killed in a bombing raid during the war."

Daisy drew a deep breath before finishing her story.

"So that was that. My Puppet Tiger was dead. And I was alone."

"I'm sorry," whispered Catherine. "I didn't know..."

"Neither did I," Daisy said. "Neither did I. How stupid I was!"

Catherine recoiled. What was her mother talking about? A minute passed before her mother could explain.

"You see, I was going through your father's things here in the attic. Wondering what we should keep."

Daisy raised her eyes, gazing directly into her daughter's eyes. Then she opened the white uniform in her lap. There, under the folds, was a furry hand puppet, its stripes faded with the passing of years.

"He said he'd never leave me..."

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