The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Barbara Davis

I’ve had too much wine tonight, I think. It has made me morose. Or perhaps I’ve simply had too much life, too much sadness—too many scars.

“What reason could they have to come for me, Maman?” Her eyes glitter, fever mixed with fear. “Don’t you see? They don’t need a reason! But they’ll find one. People always find a way to justify their hate—and give others an excuse to fall in line. They put words in people’s mouths, plant them like viruses, then watch them spread. People here in Paris—people we know—will be infected. And when the fever spreads, they’ll point the finger at anyone they think might save them.

I vowed would never happen to me. And yet I see her sometimes, when I stand at the mirror, the me I might become if I’m not careful, cold and brittle and so very solitary.