Double Shot

Prologue You think you know people. You see a snapshot from the old days—from fifteen, sixteen years ago. The memories swim up. You think, Ah yes, those people from long ago. There were folks who were kind. Some who weren’t. And then there were some you barely knew. You stare at the photograph. Do I really remember these people? Define remember. Then you hear about a sacrificial gift, a private kindness pitched your way. Oddly, the gift was given so you’d be kept in the dark. Is it always helpful to be the recipient of good deeds? Define good. Say the snapshot does not reveal another reality—a hidden darkness, a nefariousness. A sin, as we Sunday-school teachers say. At the time of the photograph, a bullet was fired from far away. Not a real bullet, mind you, but a metaphorical one. An evil was done; a cruelty committed; a line crossed over. But it was hushed up. Denied. Forgotten. Define forgotten. Because, see, some people never forget. They’re called victims. Celebration of the Life of Albert Kerr, M.D. The Roundhouse Tuesday, June 7th, Twelve o’ clock noon. Chilled Asparagus Soup ♦ Radiatore Pasta Salad ♦ Arugula, Watercress, and Hearts of Palm Salad, & Champagne Vinaigrette ♦ Herb-Crusted Grilled and Chilled Salmon ♦ Potatoes Anna ♦ Spinach Soufflé ♦ Mini-baguettes ♦ Tennessee Chess Tartlets ♦ Fresh Peach Pies ♦ Homemade Vanilla Bean Ice Cream