Silent Keys: Chapter Three

Don Wilkins was the kind of man who needed to control everything, even the death of his wife, Livi. It didn't quite work out the way he had so carefully planned.

He kissed Livi's hand and rose to go into the spare bedroom which had served has his ham shack for years. Like a shock wave, dizziness hit him. Was it his heart problem as usual, or could it be the tea?

Darned stuff's sure taking its sweet time working.

Leaning against the wall, he waited for the spell to subside. It did to some degree, but unlike his regular heart spells, vertigo made him reel like a drunkard.

Groping his way along the hallway, he clicked on the light in the bedroom and stumbled to the chair in front of his radio station. Most of the shelves were empty now. Dust shadows revealed where his HF radio, amplifier, and antenna tuner lined up in a row. The guys in the club came a few days ago and scooped up most of his equipment to donate to new members of their club.

As they unscrewed and lifted the heavy gear off his shelves, he had to close his eyes against the tears. These things were going to good homes, like beloved pets being farmed out. It's going to be okay, he repeated to himself. These guys knew the quality of this equipment and would use it wisely.

They all thought he and Livi would be traveling to Idaho to visit their daughter and search for retirement homes. None of them had a clue of his plan and never would in time to stop it.

He was glad Rick was there to shepherd the crew because Don just wasn't up to it. Together, he and Rick had fastened the gear to the shelves tightly enough to prevent it all from tumbling off the shelves during an earthquake, an old habit from living in California that would never die. Even the shelf unit itself was screwed into the wall joists. Watching his cronies disassemble it all, though, was the final humiliation that his beleaguered body had done to him.

Rick seemed as stunned by this removal as he was. Occasionally, he swiped his sleeve against his nose to suppress a sniffle. There was no other sign Don's dearest old friend had a cold, so it had to be emotion betraying his usually stoic demeanor.

"We had some great times on these old radios, didn't we, Rick?"

Again, Rick sniffed. "Yeah. I can't believe you're doing this, Don. Why don't you let me and Doris drive you two up there. Maybe we can smooth the way between you and Carol. Besides, we haven't taken a road trip in years. It'll be fun."

Don chuckled at the offer. "Always there for me, ain't ya, Rick. Well, we'll be fine. I can handle this. You don't need to worry about us anymore." Now he had to wipe his nose on his sleeve. "Yeah, don't worry. We'll be fine."

"Well, I don't give a damn what you say, Don. I'm coming over tomorrow to help you pack your car. Don't argue! I'm doing it!"

Don sat, his mouth agape. What could he say to that other than a resigned okay? Rick could be a pushy s.o.b. at times. Always trying to worm his way in to take over whenever Don showed the slightest sign of weakness.

As the last of the equipment was carted out of the room, Rick squeezed Don's shoulder, his fingers pressing hard enough to trigger pain. Don was sure Rick wasn't trying to hurt him. It was just his cranky old muscles complaining again. He looked up at his old friend and couldn't contain the sob that shook him. Before tears started rolling down their faces, Rick pulled away and marched out the front door.

"See you tomorrow," Rick's voice trailed over his shoulder before the front door closed behind him with a final whoosh.

With all Don's radios gone, there would be no way Rick could call him. He didn't have a cell phone, and Rick rarely used his. Radio was the key to communication between them. Although they lived just a couple of miles from each other, they talked with each other on the radios every day. Now, their rag-chewing days were over and that had to be the most difficult part of this whole plan. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to let Rick come over after all. One last goodbye.

That night, Don prepared for the closing scene of this charade by packing two valises with clothes. Livi seemed confused as she watched him skid them down the hall floor to the front door, ready and waiting for Rick to carry them to the car. 

Don had dressed Livi in a clean jumpsuit and combed her hair into a neat bun at the nape. Don detected a hint of excitement gleaming in her eyes as she waited for Rick to arrive. She thought they were actually going to Idaho that day instead of carrying out their pact. It disturbed Don that her relief in that knowledge challenged his resolve to actually pull it off successfully. As the time drew closer, his nerve was waning.

Around 8 a.m., Rick rang the doorbell. His shin bumped the suitcases as he entered, and he stared at them as his shoulders sagged. The reality of their move finally cemented in his brain. They were really going to Idaho. Or so he thought. He sighed deeply and picked up the suitcases. "Okay, let's get this circus on the road."

Loading the cases into the trunk of Don's car, he stepped back onto the sidewalk as Don helped Livi into the passenger seat. One last time, she gazed up at Rick, a grin opening up her countenance with a happiness Don hadn't seen in over a year. "We're going to see Carol. We're going to see Carol," she chanted with childish glee, her gnarled hands clapping.

Don closed the door carefully and leaned his head on the roof of the car for a moment. Goddamn, this is a bitch. I've never lied so much in my life, especially to my best friend and my wife.

The two men shook hands then Rick enveloped Don in a hug that lasted far too long. Don almost collapsed in Rick's arms. Pushing against Rick's body, Don righted himself and nodded. "Right! Let's do this."

He shuffled around to the driver's side and struggled to fit the key into the ignition. Turning the key, the old car shivered and knocked before settling into a purring hum. Ready to go! Don yanked the shift to drive and slowly pulled into the street.

Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw Rick standing there, making sure they were really going to leave town. Did he suspect something else? The man was amazingly perceptive about people. Don had a difficult time getting away with anything, especially where Livi was concerned. Rick watched him like a hawk ever since their wedding day, waiting for him to falter in his care for Livi. As they stopped at the corner, Don saw Rick get into his car. Goddamnit! Is he going to follow us?

Rick u-turned in the direction of his home. With relief, Don took Livi for a bit of a ride around town to buy time. She waved to the gazebo in the park and pointed to all the shops on Main Street she had enjoyed over the years. At last, he returned home and took Livi into the house. By that time, she had receded back into her oblivious state of mind and didn't say anything about what had transpired that morning. She stared into space for the remainder of the day until Don set the teakettle on the stove.

He dragged his finger through the dust on his radio desk and examined it closely. It imbedded into the whorls of his fingertips, showing years of housekeeping neglect. Livi would've been scandalized. She kept her home immaculate. Not a ruffle or knickknack out of place, but she left his radio station alone, sacrosanct and inviolable. Perhaps she carefully dusted the dials and the desk where he wrote his logs and QSL cards. If she could, though, she would've found a way to poke something under and around all his equipment, making sure no dust mite survived.

The shelf collected a patina of oily grit under the heavy radio components as if it were an archeological dig. He had spoken to people all over the world, and now all he had to show for it were thick patches of grime and a wall papered with postcards recording all his DX contacts. It was a colorful display of how he had worked the bands to reach as far as the power of his radios could handle. The cards came from all over the world, even one from the Holy Grail of contacts, the Pitcairn Islands, where Fletcher Christian and his fellow mutineers from the Bounty spent the rest of their days. The ham who sent that postcard was a direct descendent of Christian. Don was quite proud of all those QSL cards and felt a great deal of pleasure showing them off when the hams came over the other day. But when he pointed out that one, encased in a shiny, clean plastic sleeve, one guy gasped with such envy, it boosted Don's ego back up from the depths it had sunk since this whole health fiasco started.

"Wow! You contacted the Pitcairn Islands?"

"Sure did. Don't you remember me telling you all about that?"

The man wavered with a vacant expression then shook his head. Don figured the guy had lost some of the entries in his mental Rolodex. It was just a few months ago. Or was it? Now, Don couldn't remember. His band of aging brothers were all losing their marbles.

 Those QSL cards hung tattered and time-worn, the tape yellowed with age. He bet if he peeled one off the wall, there would be a square just a tad off-color from where the sun had bleached the paint around it. That meant the colors of the cards themselves would've faded too. Nothing was bright and shiny anymore. Even though they had moved to Nevada just a couple of decades ago, the whole house was a ragged affair, a museum of an era long past admiration. Just like the rest of this state, with its ghost towns, backwater saloons, and beleaguered economy.

When the first waves of California migrants, which he and Livi rode, arrived in this valley east of Lake Tahoe, there were mostly cowboys and Indians, literally. Fields of cattle and sheep and a couple of Washoe colonies. The Californians brought energy, business acumen, and style. Now the place was filling fast with more escapees from California and Don often joined in with the "first-wavers" in disgruntled complaint.

"Damn, this place is getting more like San Fernando Valley every day!" Rick growled. "They're turning it into the place we left behind."

Don thought it was pure irony his cronies would be echoing the old-timers whose families went back five generations. Then he pictured the Washoes, totally unimpressed as the whites gobbled up their lands with strip malls, motels, and housing developments.

Suddenly, a pain lurched through his stomach. The tea? No, it was something else that roiled inside him. He remembered how much time he had spent here, not talking to Livi, not playing with his son, Eddie. Livi pursued her own interests, he guessed. She had her amateur radio license too, but she rarely joined him on the nets. Instead, she pottered about the house, doing whatever it was she did.

They were in the same house after all. They didn't need to be in each other's way all the time. The years had formed a companionable marriage between the two of them that filled him with contentment. She seemed happy with it, too. At least, she never complained about it.

Now the pain intensified. He doubled over as it radiated through his body like a sword of judgment, twisting in his gut. It's the tea, it's the tea. God damn it! Why was it searing through his entrails like this. Livi didn't show any pain after she drank hers.   

He wanted to rush out and check on her, to be with her now as he had not been all the years gone by. He felt so wobbly, though, he wondered if he would be able to finish everything he needed to do. At the moment, though, all he could do was sit and think.

It was almost time for the VHF net. An exercise for emergencies, the net was a regular ham radio check-in to see if everyone was okay. Every Tuesday, he answered roll call with his call sign, a simple good evening to the net salutation, and the prescribed report: no traffic. Tonight, he wanted to listen as everyone within reach of the repeater checked in. Just like a grade school classroom that covered miles of territory. He wondered if anyone would miss his check-in. What would they say about him and Livi?

His fingers itched to hold a mic, to press the push-to-talk button. He desperately wanted to hear that silly little coo-coo sound the repeater made to acknowledge a signal connecting with it. The silence in the room hissed like static, a sound that always grated against his nerves. He yearned for one last transmission, just one more chance to speak his call sign - AB6D. What would it hurt to hear his buddies' voices again, to check-in one last time, to let them know he was still among them?

Thinking all his radios had been scooped up by the hams, he remembered a cheap 2-meter handy-talkie with a rubber duck antenna that he'd forgotten about. Without the 18-inch vertical antenna he once kept on the windowsill, the hand-held radio may not even penetrate the house's walls.

Opening the bottom drawer of the desk, he found it there, forlorn and neglected. With a trembling finger, he zeroed in on the radio's ON/OFF button, flaring the indicator window with light.

Miraculously, he heard the Morse code identification signal from the repeater. Within moments, the radio picked up the preamble of the VHF net that identified the sponsoring club and contact information. These particulars jumped out at him for the first time in the hundreds of nets he had heard. How often had he wondered if anyone even gave a damn about the club's P.O. Box or website. But tonight, every detail of that preamble became a precious incantation.

It suddenly filled him with pride as he listened. This was his club holding a net that he had initiated soon after the club erected the repeater on the highest mountain peak they could reach. He and Rick climbed the ladder to the rooftop of a retired forestry service watchtower that supported antennas for various agencies. They shared space with the sheriff, the county dispatch, even highway patrol and another club's repeater. That repeater was the club's greatest accomplishment, and he held it as a personal victory. It was His Baby!

After the preamble was completed, the roll call named every member of the club. When his name was called, his thumb massaged the PTT button. He opened his mouth as if to answer, but all that came out was a raspy breath. He was supposed to be gone, out of town. The ham doing net control that night even announced their alibi to the group. His plan fell solidly into place, set in concrete. His was committed now.

Then Net Control started talking about the upcoming events he and Livi would miss. The Pony Express Re-Ride was in a month, and the Death Ride Bicycle Tour in July. Livi always enjoyed the annual Field Day picnic, but she hadn't been able to bring her favorite potluck bean dish for a couple of years. She was thick-as-thieves with the wives in the club, but when Livi's symptoms became more apparent, none of those ladies ever showed their faces at the door. It was as if Livi had become a ghost.

After about a half hour, the VHF Net Control signed off with the usual we will now return the repeater to regular amateur use. The abrupt silence surprised him. His throat tightened. For the first time in his long radio career, that voice cutting off so completely felt like death. The air waves were void of any sound at all.

A minute later, though, some of the hams started talking again about him and Livi. They discussed the news about their move to Idaho and how much they would miss Livi. One guy even had the gall to say, "yeah, she was a fine lady, but I won't miss Don at all. We might actually get something accomplished without his vice grip on the purse strings."

What were they complaining about? He wasn't that hard on those guys. Yet they recalled the arguments with him about procedures and protocol that grew to be a predictable feature at meetings. Almost like it was an item on the agenda.

Okay, now we will have our monthly fight with Don about the Treasure's Report.

He had been the Treasurer for years until some new member piped up and volunteered to take his place. For some reason beyond his comprehension, the Board accepted the man's offer and the membership agreed so quickly and decisively, it made Don's breath catch in his throat. How often had they complained about his name being the only one on the signature card at the bank. It was a matter of convenience, he told them all. Or that he insisted on having everything sent directly to his home address instead of the P. O. Box.

"I guess he figured things would go missing if the secretary received any of it."

That remark surprised him. That wasn't it at all. Or was it? Did he really have that much distrust in people? He just thought, since he handled the membership records, it was more convenient to just have it all come to his house. Why did they need to waste money on a post office box anyway? That was over a hundred bucks a year that could've built up the account balance. Besides membership dues, they rarely received anything other than junk mail and the yearly bill for the box itself.

And that snide remark about accomplishing things without his hands on the purse strings. That was a low blow.

Many times, he had reminded them that he was a professional accountant and knew better than anyone how the club's finances must be handled. For that reason, he also refused to allow the bank balance to dip below $10,000.

"What if something happens to the repeater or that emergency trailer you guys are putting together? That's a lot of expensive equipment that needs to be maintained and eventually replaced. If I let you all have whatever you want, we'll be broke in no time."

That's when Rick, his best and most trusted friend since high school, came in with a statement that floored him. "So, Don, what do you think we'll do with your money, build a party trailer? Put in a bar with a blender for margaritas? Maybe a hot tub?"

My money? MY MONEY? He was so flabbergasted, he couldn't even speak, but the anger smoldered inside him for years. Rick of all people making that kind of statement. My money, indeed!

Sure, those guys knew how to build radio stations with hardware store parts. They could rack up hundreds of contacts during Field Day. But he knew how to balance the numbers. He was the one, the only one, who kept that club solvent. If they didn't like it, they could damned well waste money on an audit. Ungrateful bastards!

There were lots of arguments. It seemed he had to justify his authority every time they all got together. He usually prevailed, though, much to their consternation. Many of the founding members left the club because of the rancor. He hadn't seen many of them for years, even around town, and wondered if they were dead. Not that he gave enough of a damn to call out to them and find out.

That's their loss, he thought as he recalled some of those early Board meetings. Sometimes Don wondered if the fists pounding on the table would soon meet someone's face. Most of the guys were engineers, just like he wanted to be. They possessed the same my way or the highway attitudes about what they knew to be right, just like he did. That only added to his confusion about their complaints.

What really rankled, though, was the way they talked down to him. Sure, he never made it to Stanford, but he finished at San Jose State with high marks and grew a successful accounting firm. He had taught himself everything about electronics they had learned, except he applied himself more diligently. And at tax time, they all came to him like supplicants with hats and tax papers humbly in hand. Their jumbled boxes of receipts belied the stern attention to detail every engineer he knew would normally insist upon. How could such detail-oriented people be so disorganized when it came to keeping track of their money?

The new people running the club now were wishy-washy, more easily cowed or willing to accept others' opinions rather than stand up for high standards. Most of them were of that generation that never went into the military, never acquired the discipline it took to do things properly, to work as a team under a competent commander. That was what was wrong with this country nowadays. Too many bleeding hearts and wimps. He was glad he was checking out of the whole mess. May they all rot in Hell.

Listening to his cronies shred his legacy finally broke him. Usually, the hams around here didn't use the frequencies to air their grievances about a particular person. That was taboo. Instead, they'd go on and on about their physical ailments, or how prices were too high, or the government was taking away their Constitutional rights. But this hell and damnation session about him was way out of character. It felt like a boiler blowing off steam.

They wouldn't dare say those things to his face, but they were letting loose now that they thought he was gone. It was like attending his own funeral. While they were all somber and respectful in the service, afterward over the funeral potatoes and Jello salad, they would let the bad memories rise to the surface. Only for him, apparently, the memories were all bad. His weakened body trembled violently as he forced himself not to break in and tell them off good. Instead, he couldn't hold in the tears any longer.

He had spent his life suppressing his emotions. He was a man, damn it, and men don't cry. Knowing life would go on without him shook him to his core. He knew he was dying anyway, but if he could live just a few more days, he would ….

What would he do? What was done was done and couldn't be undone. Not at this stage in the game. He barely had the wherewithal to carry out the pact he and Livi had agreed upon. He had to keep focused and not waste energy thinking about his legacy. So, after the rag-chew between his cronies had stopped, he took several deep breaths to regain his energy. His chest ached with a weight of all he had yet to endure to get this done.

He turned off the handie-talkie, looking at its benign innocence. He wanted to fling it against the wall, but after hearing the verbal blowback about his life, he dared not take the chance that pieces of the radio wouldn't shatter as karmic splatter into his face. He'd had enough shrapnel hit him in Korea.

Stewing there at his station, he spotted the brass-plated Morse Code key way back on one of the shelves. It should've gone with the rest of the stuff. Clicking the ON switch, he tapped the key, enjoying the ring of its tone echoing in the quiet room.

Oh, how he loved CW. All those guys who could tell the stories of their lives with the dah-dits of a simple code brought him the greatest pleasure. He could reach all over the world with CW, even when the HF bands were lousy because of the sunspot cycles. No matter what or where, he could always reach somebody with Morse.

Then he tapped out the letter S and K, dit-dit-dit  dah-dit-dah,  the sign-off letters used at the end of a Morse Code message that meant Silent Key. The contact was complete. There was nothing more to the message. The term also applied to deceased hams, their obituaries often entitled "Silent Key."

He and Livi would soon be Silent Keys. Their messages were finished. There was nothing more to say.

Despite the hard feelings he had engendered among his fellow hams, he wanted to think the radio waves would carry their voices to accompany him and Livi on their way to Eternity.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registered that the doorbell rang. Then his mother answered the door. "Oh, hello Olivia. Another session with Donald?"

"Well, let's just say this is another attempt. I'm making some progress, but I've never been very good at math and science. My brain seizes up when faced with numbers.

His mother laughed. "Yes. I know what you mean. I'm surprised to see Don so adept at biology. He really hates that stuff. My son has a one-track mind. All he can think of these days is that radio in there. He's in there with it now."

"That doesn't surprise me. His biology teacher seems to think that Donny tunes out of class most of the time."

Both women laughed at Livi's play on words.

"Tune out is right, Olivia. He's tuned out everything ever since he bought that annoying Morse code key. It drives me crazy, hearing that thing in the background. Please, break the spell. PLEASE! I will be forever in your debt."

"I'll do my best, Mrs. Wilkins, but it isn't going very well. This will be my last session if I don't get this biology stuff in my head. It's really hard for me to understand these things and studying with Donny is … well …." Don heard a long pause and wished Livi would complete that particular sentence. "Well, you might not understand how distracting this all is."

Mrs. Wilkins chuckled softly at Livi's remark. "Oh, that will be sad if you give up. I had trouble with science classes too. I flunked biology because I couldn't bear to dissect that stinky old frog."

Then Don heard Livi giggle at his mother's story. Something had passed between the women that he knew involved him in some devious, female way.

"I like you, Olivia. You've been good for him. You should see ...." His mother ended the sentence mid-air. "Well, I hope you'll continue seeing Donald anyway." His mother's footsteps drew closer to his door. A gentle rap of her knuckles announced it was time for his tutoring session.

He dropped his connection to another CW ham in New York without signing off properly. Usually he wouldn't do that. It was bad form and he didn't want the guy to think he was just another ham-fisted lid. But Livi was here. He didn't want to keep her waiting.

Upon opening the door, his mother pointed to the dining room table. It had been the rule: no girls in his bedroom, as if that would ever be a problem. Maybe his mother knew something about him that he tried to hide. Livi was different. Other girls just didn't interest him, but … well … Livi was different.

She was also cold as ice. All business when it came to these tutoring sessions. Don sometimes wondered if she liked him at all, taking this assignment at Mr. Thompson's orders like she had something to prove. For a solid hour, she would review the lessons for the previous week. He would bend toward her, smelling the fresh scent of Camay soap behind her ear, mumbling every once in a while, "yeah, you understand this stuff. Good job. You're finally getting it."

Last week, without breaking her recitation of taxonomic classifications, she swatted her hand toward his face as if batting away a fly, sending him back into his seat. "I'm just not getting this for some reason. And you hovering over me like you do only distracts me."

Aha! I'm getting to her. But maybe I need to turn it down a notch. Looks like she's mad at me.

He straightened up in his seat and took on a more disaffected air. "There's a very simple mnemonic to remember how to classify an organism. It goes kings play chess on fine green sand. Kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species. Get it? Easy-peasy!"

"Kings play chess … on fine green sand. Kingdom phylum, class, order, family … genus … species!" She seemed quite pleased with herself. Then her expression fell into a blank stare. He could almost hear the cogs trying to mesh in her brain.

Suddenly, she huffed at him and slammed her purse on the table. "I'm done. I can't connect all this stuff together. It's just words that have no meaning to me. I may as well accept the fact that I can't do this."

Don gasped in horror. "No, don't give up yet." He grabbed her hand, which gave him a sensation that stirred up already frenzied hormones. Quickly, he clasped his hands together as if in prayer and plunged them between his thighs. Settle down, boy, settle down.

Rocking back in his seat, he pulled a draught of air deep into his lungs. "Here, let's try something more concrete. Maybe this will get through to you. Let's say you found this strange creature in a slimy, algae-infested lagoon somewhere." He set her purse in an upright position on the table. Bemusement crossed her face.

"Here we've got our new species: containeria, bagata, clutchata, patentleatheria, claspidae, olivia, o. beigis."

Sputtering saliva from her firmly pressed lips, she suddenly opened up and guffawed with her whole body. "Kingdom = containeria, phylum = bagata, class = clutchata, order = patentleatheria, family = claspidae, genus = Olivia, and species is o. beigis." She laughed again as she realized how he had classified her beige patent leather clutch with its gleaming clasp. "I can see this in my mind."

For his brilliance, he hoped in all his boyish dreams she would plant a kiss on his lips to reward him. Alas, she simply gazed at the wall, mouth agape.

Organisms. I hate anything organic … except for Livi. If only he could make her see that, to know just how lucky he was just to have her within a foot of him, no matter what the reason. After he heard that angelic voice of hers crossing the echoing space of the auditorium, it was all he could do to keep his mind on his radio.

He'd be working DX, the long distance HF bands, reaching some old guy in Papua New Guinea or some such place, and her face would pop into his brain, scattering his words around until the guy would go silent, unable to understand what Don was talking about. It was then that Don didn't know what he was talking about either. 73 to ya, he'd say, and sign off, pounding his head with the heels of his hands. What's wrong with you, you dork?

All of that was last week. Today, as she placed her textbook on the table, he leaned over, his hand upon the book. "Since you say this is our last session,' I want to show you something really cool."

He took her hand and led her to his room. "Leave the door open so my mother won't have a conniption. I'm not going to do anything … what's the word … untoward."

Livi giggled at the archaic word. "Conniption? Untoward? Just how far back does your mother go?"

"Eons! Anyway, I want to introduce you to the second most wonderful thing in my life." He pulled his chair for her to sit and he kneeled next to her in front of a bank of boxes with mysterious knobs and dials. He pushed a button on one and its display lit up with an amber glow, indicating a semicircle of numbers. A crackling whine emitted from a speaker. Taking the mic in his hand, he said "AB6D calling any station for a signal report."

A raspy voice boomed over the speaker. "Your signal is five by nine, AB6D, This is W1CD in Portland, Maine." The man's signal sounded as if he was in the next room.

"Portland, Maine," Livi gasped. He's all the way across the country?"

"Yeah, I talk to this guy all the time. He's got a really powerful rig, must have a hell … excuse me … a heck of a tower doing a thousand watts. So that's why he's so clear. He's an old guy, though, that's why his voice is so scratchy. HA! Clear signal, scratchy voice."

They both laughed at his joke, which pleased Don. It was the first time she broke the ice. He continued talking to W1CD for a minute or so then turned off the radio. "Now you know why I don't do well in school. This is my second biggest love. I can't concentrate on much else."

"You second biggest love? What's your first?" Her face was as innocent as the patch of daisies in his mother's garden.

Oh boy! That was direct. Now what could he say? He gazed at the floor for an uncomfortable amount of time.

"It's kinda hard to say out loud."

She peered at him with those incredibly blue eyes. It was like she knew, but she wanted him to say it out loud. Why did girls need this "out loud" I love you bit?

He coughed into his hand, leaned back against the wall, and stared back at her, meeting those eyes with a defiant attitude.

 C'mon Donnie Boy, show this girl you're a man.

My first love … my first love is …." He breathed deeply then broke eye contact with her. "My first love is this." He slid the brass-plated Morse key toward her and tapped out a signal that answered her question, but she wouldn't know.

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Dah-dit-dah-dah   dah-dah-dah        dit-dit-dah