First place, Prose: 'Things Happen'

Judge's comment: Read the first line, and you're hooked: "Maggie, it doesn't mean anything." And so we continue reading, wondering if that's true.

The piece ends with an intriguing image: Maggie just standing there in the middle of the door frame, as if the frame is holding her in place.

This is a well-crafted story; with its omens and superstitions, it's a bit reminiscent of Stephen King.

"Maggie, it doesn't mean anything!"

I inch closer to her on the couch and place my arm around her shoulder. She stiffens to my touch and resists as I try to pull her to me.

"Look," I tell her. "It just happened. That's all. Don't make more out of it than that."

Maggie continues to sit upright in silence, staring at the floor - not looking at me, and perhaps not even hearing me.

I let out a deep sigh as I pull her tighter.

"Maggie, come on. It's nothing!"

She shakes her shoulder free from my arm and leans back, resting her head on the cushions of the couch, looking up now at the ceiling.

"No, Dennis, it does mean something. Things like this don't just happen."

Maggie sits up again, rigid and with a lost look in her eyes, as if she's the only one in this room. I gently touch her cheek to comfort her, but she brushes my hand away. Exasperated, I grab both of her shoulders and turn her to face me.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Maggie slowly closes her eyes as tears begin to well, then turns her head from me.

Not knowing what else to do, I rise quickly from the couch and, saying nothing, walk to the kitchen. I rummage through the "drawer that has everything" and grab the roll of tape. Carrying it in one hand and dragging a kitchen chair with the other, I return to the archway of the living room. Maggie remains seated, arms limp on her knees and head down. She glances up as I stand beneath the "Welcome Home Daddy" sign with the pink and blue crepe paper and balloons that she made this afternoon to surprise me. Bending over, I reach to the floor and pick up the white knit booties.

I place the chair beneath the sign, step up, and triple tape the booties in the exact spot they once hung. Still on the chair, I hop completely around to face Maggie, catching my balance as I teeter to my left. Stable again, I stretch my arms out to my sides and proclaim "Ta-Dah!" for my simple solution to end this drama that has been unfolding for the past twenty minutes.

A hint of a smile creases Maggie's face as I step down, sit next to her and again place my arm around her shoulders, gently pulling her toward me.

Maggie rests her head on my chest, sighs deeply and says,

"It's an omen, Dennis."

Apparently it's not over.

In utter frustration and in hopes of moving past this senseless superstition, I plead with Maggie,

"Look! Can we please get back to where we were before this happened?"

She knows from the tone of my voice that my empathy is losing its battle with my patience and agrees to continue the ritual of going through the litany of baby names that neither of us seem to be able to agree upon. But I can tell that Maggie isn't here right now as she furtively glances at the white booties hanging securely on the sign, believing they will fall again while willing them to stay there.

It's getting late, and knowing that our thoughts have wandered far from where they started, we decide to let them get lost completely. For the next hour, we sit silently and separately on the couch, bathed in the dim glow of some mindless television shows of no interest to either of us, until we're too tired to stay awake any longer.

It's a restless night as Maggie tosses from side to side. I know where her thoughts are and I won't go there. I can't put myself where she is. I don't understand her superstitions: a spoon falling on the floor means company is coming; you can't put new shoes on the kitchen table - for what reason I don't know; and you're not allowed to kill a moth in the house because it's the spirit of a loved one.

None of these make sense to me, but these superstitions sometimes chart Maggie's course. It's not rational, but this is how she deals with life. Her mind works differently than mine. That's what comes from letting feelings rule you. Yet, I love Maggie's innocence; that's one of her most endearing charms - so much like a child at times. It's those moments of naiveté that draw me closer to her. But it's also those moments that push me away.

***

Two days have passed as I sit at the kitchen table drinking my morning coffee, reading the Chicago Sun Times, and cursing the Bears for losing nine out of 10 games. Why do I bother with the sports section during football season?

It's now twenty minutes before we have to leave so I can drop Maggie off at work and continue on to school, but she's still in the bathroom primping. She always takes a long time to get ready, so why does it bother me so much when it happens? But today seems much longer. I know her day can't start without a cup of coffee so I sound my morning alarm without looking up from the paper.

"Come on, Maaggieee! Coffee's ready! Let's go!"

I hear the bathroom door open. I'm immersed in an article about Gale Sayers and continue reading, expecting Maggie to pour her coffee and slide into her chair across from me. It takes a few seconds before I realize that this isn't happening. I glance up from my paper and see Maggie standing in the doorway of the kitchen - just standing there in the middle of the door frame, as if the frame is holding her in place and she would fall to the kitchen floor if she moved an inch.

Her face is ashen and her eyes glisten with tears. She looks past me in silence as if not seeing me, just staring straight ahead.

"What's wrong?" I question as I put down my coffee cup. She doesn't answer, just stands there - eyes wide and empty. "Maggie, wh ... what's wrong?" I repeat as I begin to rise from the chair. She doesn't move; she doesn't speak. "Damn it, Maggie, what is it!?"

Her voice stumbles, "Dennis, I ... I ... I lost it."

"You lost what?"

"I ... I lost our baby."