REALITY

I found Flo lying on the carpeted closet floor, stark naked, in a twisted odd position. The way she was lying was better than what I had expected. My banging on her front door, as hard as I could, bruised my hand. There was no response except by a neighbor to tell me to stop the noise. Trying the door knob I found it turned. This was not like Flo. My heart was palpitating erratically as I walked into the apartment, tip-toed thru the foyer. No Flo. She wasn’t in the den, dining room, kitchen. The more places she wasn’t, the more frightened I was. I dreaded finding her bloody, twisted body in one of the bedrooms.

 

The guest room door was shut, which warned me, ‘Don’t open that door.’ But I had to open it and stood there shaking like a newly hatched bird.  My hand almost froze, didn’t want to turn that knob, but I did it slowly, then gently pushed it a bit wider with my foot, saw the bedspread still neatly on one of the twin beds. No Flo.

 

Most of the apartment had been checked. All I had left was the master bedroom, dressing area, closet and master bath. Dr. Phil  was spouting his own form of wisdom on the t.v.  The night table lamp was on. Flo had to be here someplace. The dressing room was empty  although make-up had not been put in the drawer. No Flo.

 

My eyes saw blood everywhere, running down the walls, over Flo’s chopped up body. ‘Don’t look in the closet, don’t, don’t!’  an inner voice said to me. I looked, had to look and that is when I found her with her eyes open but not seeing me. My knees buckled as I dropped to the floor, took her hand and called loudly, ‘Flo, Flo, talk to me. What happened?’ Her head turned. Her eyes blinked. In an unfamiliar voice, she asked, ‘What are you doing here, Irene?’

 

The strikingly beautiful friend I’ve had for twenty-five years was a stranger. I thought at once of the old movie about Shangri La. The beautiful young female left the Eden of her home and instantly was caught by the devil and became old, so very old that she was a dying hag. Flo’s always coiffed, short hair needed color to cover the gray I’d never seen. Her svelte body evaporated and had lumps and hanging folds. Manicured fingernails were broken.

 

I grabbed a clean heavy towel off a rack to cover her. She pushed it away and mumbled, ‘Big robe-big robe.’ There was only a silk negligee on a hanger. ‘Leave me alone. I’m resting. Go away.’  My hand reached hers so that I could get her to her feet but there was no cooperation and she just laid there like a dead fish.

 

Help came unexpectedly. A neighbor in the next apartment found Flo’s door open, heard the t.v. blaring and saw us in the closet. It took us many tries to get Flo on her wobbly legs and into her bedroom to lie down. ‘What are you doing here? Why am I in bed?

 

Isn’t it still morning? Make Dr. Phil louder.’ Bess and I realized we were pretty stupid. We should not have gotten Flo up. Maybe she fell and broke something. Why didn’t we call 911 immediately? Flo overheard us and asked why we should have called 911. ‘Whose been hurt?’ she asked. ‘Flo you were lying on the floor naked. That’s why.’

 

That got Flo angry. ‘I  told you I was only resting. You are both a pain in my neck. I’m O.K. go home.’ Bess and I did a twin reluctant shrug and left.

 

I crossed the parking lot, went upstairs to my own apartment, had a glass of sherry as I tried to believe what I has just been thru was a dream. Exhaustion over-took me and so did sleep. It took time for me to realize the noise in my ears was the jangling of my phone. A quivering voice wailed, ‘Come back, Irene. Come back now. I’ve called an ambulance myself. Something is happening to me and I’m scared. My arm is shaking and I can’t hold it still. Hurry.’

 

Hurry? I almost flew. The ambulance had just pulled in front of Flo’s building. The medics told me to stay downstairs, out of their way. I got on a separate elevator and was able to tell them exactly where I had left Flo. She wasn’t there. They and a gurney found her naked on the closet floor. She looked at them and told them in no uncertain terms to get the hell away from her and let her rest.

 

I stayed out of the way while they checked her pressure, pulse, spoke to her softly to ease her fear, and 1,2, 3 lifted her onto the gurney, onto the elevator and into the ambulance. The door closed but I could still hear her shouting, ‘Leave me alone. I’m only resting!’ Flo was hospitalized for two weeks. She had had a stroke. Her mind wandered and her speech was slurred.

 

The last thing I ever heard her say was, ‘Go home. I’m fine.’

Hearts together: SISTERS

Lynn’s cell phone played the opening bars to ‘God Bless America.’ She touched 'talk', said only ‘No’, looked my way, excused herself, went into the hall closet and closed the door.

I sat frozen on the piano bench and waited as patiently as I could for her to come out but ten minutes was all I could take. My knocking on the closet door brought no reply. This called for action. I opened the door and there she was, sitting on the floor, her head on her bent knees, her body shaking with sobs. Lynn motioned for me to go, get out, leave her alone. That I could not, would not, do.

Instead, I sat down on the slightly worn carpet next to her, put my arm around her shoulder and locked my lips. We stayed like that, swaying a little for a long time. ‘You can’t help me. Robbie’s commanding officer informed me that Robbie has been injured but gave me no other information. Isn’t that a dumb thing to do, Sis? Go home.’ ‘I’m not leaving you now, Sis. You need me more than you did when you fell into the lake and didn’t know how to swim. Come on, get out of the closet. I’ll play piano for you and if you are good, I won’t sing.’

I took her hand and helped her back on her feet. The love songs she usually asks for and hums when I treat her to my clumsy playing wouldn’t be right. Classics are too somber, my repertoire too scant. I ran a riff of nursery rhymes, Here we go around the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush and Row, row, row your boat, stopped looked around for Lynn’s reaction and she wasn’t in the room.

She simply evaporated and came back in the kitchen. ‘What are you making? I asked even though I saw a pot of water boiling on the range and a box of raspberry Jell-O already torn open on the table. Trying to be light-hearted, I suggested she add some fruit, canned if she doesn’t have fresh handy. ‘I’ll be here when it sets,’ I told her.

Her cell rang again. Lynn was visibly shaken and knocked over the boiling water. Fortunately it only splashed on her shoe. From her expression I knew who was calling. ‘Yes, Colonel Kelley, this is Mrs. Robert Burrows. What has happened to my husband?’ Her voice and hands shook. ‘He’s not dead, is he? Please don’t tell me he’s dead!’ Lynn listened a moment, looked at me and shook her head ‘No.’ I breathed a little easier. ‘He’s a hero, Mrs. Burrows but I am not at liberty to tell you more now. He is in the hospital on base, has lost no vital parts and will be returning to the States next week. We are expecting him to reach Bethesda for rehab and you will be advised as to visiting days. He’s doing well and wants you to keep writing those lovely letters that he shares with his buddies.’ ‘Colonel, that means he isn’t blind, right?’ ‘Right.’

Linda thanked him, told me all that I had missed. She took a box of lemon Jell-O from the cabinet, set the water to boil again. With a teary twinkle in her eye she asked me to play ‘I’ll See You Again.’ I play it smoothly, almost professionally, I think. Linda hums, hugs me and suggests I take more piano lessons.

We laugh and go back to the kitchen to make the lemon Jell-O.

MEL

This time the vibes were right. They were zinging. His picture in the dating book looked better than most, snow white hair, trim body, Goldwater glasses, really pleasant smile AND he played golf AND he was seeking a country club woman AND he responded to my request to meet him. Evidently my bio pleased him too. This was surely going to turn into something worthwhile. My usual negative attitude almost disappeared when I called him as his voice was strong, polite, and as close to anxious as I'd ever heard.

 

At first I suggested we meet someplace for lunch but he thought it would be much nicer if he picked me up. He slurped his coffee but that wasn't bad. He took me home and we would meet later. The time was set, my hair cut, my apartment more immaculate than ever, fresh strawberries, cherries, wine ready for when he could come back to spend more time with me.

 

All of my terrace shades were up so the lovely golf course view would be impressive when he first entered. Music wafted softly through the rooms. My high hopes were dying as he didn't appear on time. I looked out the window over and over in case I saw him confusedly searching for my building. No Mel. 20 minutes after the appointed time I decided to call Security and was shocked that my phone was not working. Without it, Mel could not buzz me to be admitted.

 

Nervously I hurried downstairs just in case he was waiting at the door. No Mel. Back upstairs to try the phone again and found one off the hook. My fault, my careless fault. I grabbed my car keys and rushed to the front gate and actually caught sight of a stranger with white hair trying to get through. I made contact with the man, calling him 'Murray' for some unknown reason, and got lucky. One second later and he would have been gone. From this point on I must take back my 'lucky' thoughts.

 

I felt terrible that he was so hot from driving around, arguing with the gatekeeper, but by the end of our visit I wish we hadn't met at all. We talked for a bit and then went to my selected restaurant, one I expected to be quiet but the noise of the young crowd was most annoying. Mel suggested we share something, a salad perhaps. That  was fine with me but that was all that was fine.

 

The man seldom eats out, makes spaghetti and frozen dinners at home, has absolutely no interests other than saving things like string, barbed wire, doesn't belong to a club at all, reads only the paper, goes to movies alone, and has no social life. He  turned out to be a dud from Dudsville.

 

There was surprisingly some interesting conversation and he seemed very knowledgeable in a few areas, but I was quite sure I overwhelmed him with all of the things I do, interests I have. I tried to encourage him, excite him to tape his memories, his family history for his children, but he said he wasn't a good speaker. None of my suggestions to improve his poor attitude flamed any kind of spark and that alone doused mine. Finally he left, 3 hours together was more than enough for me, and so I lay him to rest in my pile of discards, hoping he won't call me again..and already wondering how to politely say, 'No thank you.'

 

I'll find a way and then keep on trying to find that elusive somebody to make life even better. My mind and growing file remain ready!

Charlotte's Web: DREAM ON

I remember Melvin when he was just beginning to walk. His little hand held on to his mother’s open fingers. Taking a few tiny tottering steps he’d look at her smiling face and go boom on his tush. Each time I saw him he walked a little further. A sadness came over me when he had his first birthday and could hold a railing and get up a low flight of stairs by himself.

 

Still I knew his mother, Charlotte, kept him in his playpen most of the time or she would not be able to do her chores, use her lovely script hand to address wedding envelopes and make a few bucks. Melvin hated that playpen. I, and all the neighbors on my floor, could hear his yells, his screams, hear him throwing toys on the floor. At twenty two months he could not be restrained anymore and managed to climb out.

 

His curiosity could have killed the cat if they had one. Charlotte, in a frenzy, knocked on my door one morning. ‘Help me, please Burt. Melvin has stuffed crayons in the wall socket I use for ironing. I can’t get them out.’ No fool was I. First I got my high intensity flash light, made sure my trusty fold-up small screwdriver was in my pocket. In her place I shut off the electricity, told Char to hold onto Melvin, and unscrewed the socket cover. What a mess was in there. ‘Charlotte, you will have to call an electrician. The wax has melted way down into the wall. Maybe it can cause a fire. I don’t know.’ There was a little pause. ‘I can’t afford an electrician. I’ll have to iron in the kitchen.

 

Knowing I had no electrical experience, the only thing I could do was ‘lend’ her the money to fix the wires. If I didn’t, I’d worry every night and day about the possibility of a fire. Lend, shmend, I thought. I’ll never get my money back. I’ve watched enough Judge Judy to know a contract has to be clearly written and signed by all parties. From my old loose leaf book that still has clean unlined paper in it, I dated it and listed the $50 loan I was making to Charlotte Venzini, to be re-paid at five dollars a week for ten consecutive weeks with no interest.

I signed, handed Charlotte two twenties and a ten spot and had her sign. For that I got a hug and a small peck on my cheek. I turned her electricity back on, went downstairs, put the loan paper in my safe deposit box, a cigar one I had saved since high school. The treasure, still having a hint of tobacco smell, went back on my closet shelf.

 

It was almost dark so I fixed a light supper and went into the den/living room to watch the Discovery Channel. Margaret Meade’s old films about the natives she found so interesting was enough for me to doze off.

 

Natives were white. One of them looked like Charlotte. They were doing the Charleston. Their naked bodies glided around a large bonfire. Tom toms were beating. I woke sweating. Nothing happened between , Charlotte and me in my dream.

 

My Seagram’s gin was near my bed. I took a swig right out of the bottle and went back to sleep looking for Charlotte.

Almost true: CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER

This is a damn dawdle morning, all sorts of petty annoying, long delayed items to finish off. The shoemaker just around the corner from my house will be glad to get my dyed shoes off his shelf and $15 in his pocket. I owe more late fees on the last book I got from the Public library, ‘The Color Purple’ that I could have bought it at a signing session. Today I will definitely pay the fine and they can have their book back. My Impala windows need a washing inside and out but I wait for rain and now my wipers barely get thru the dust and grit. Today I used my ten dollar coupon and let the sun come in.

 

I have used up eight, nine and nine-thirty of the morning. At ten I almost pass the Nest Egg diner, turn and go in for a coffee. It is too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. The place is almost empty. A waitress offers me a large booth that could hold eight with ease, but it wasn’t going to hold me. Pointing where I prefer to be, I ask for a table on either end of the aisle. ‘No problem,’ she says, leads me there and hands me a menu. Before she has a chance to disappear, I ask for a decaf and blueberry pancakes. ‘Ask Marty to make them thin, please.’

 

There are no customers in my row except me and one elderly man at the opposite end, where in another hour 10 people will be yakking away, eating and swallowing gallons of coffee. With nowhere else to look I glance at him. He’s near enough for me to watch but too far away to start a conversation. His hair is thin, peppered gray. It is brushed straight back so neatly, perfectly, that every strand looks glued down.

I also note his heavy turkey gobbler neck. It waddles as he chews. Rimless bifocal lenses show big blue eyes that have no gleam.

 

In front of him is the biggest, overflowing plate of unrecognizable god knows what that I have ever seen. It’s a hodgepodge of browned greasy potato cubes, meat of some animal still pink, veggies that grow someplace and have been cooked too long. I can make out what looks like pieces of orange rind. I manage to pour too much syrup over my pancakes and eat only part of one of the three before me that have already gotten cold. The man eats slowly, chews delicately, savoring every fork full. Not until the Great Wall of The Nest Egg is partially lowered do I see a toasted bagel, heavy with cream cheese, near his left hand. He cuts it into small cubes and dips each tidbit into the extravaganza still uneaten.

 

My belly is getting bigger just watching him, yet I can’t eat my pancakes. Nausea is riling up. At no time do I see him look over at me or away from his platter. Peace is on his face. ‘Miss, may I have a box for my pancakes? They heat up nicely in the microwave.’ There are more nitty gritty things I have to do but first I go between the aisle and stop behind the man who is still eating.

 

‘Sir,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t take my eyes off of you enjoying such a huge lunch so early in the morning. What is that you are eating? He looks at me and says, ‘I’ll be darned if I know. I like surprises. I closed my eyes, touched the menu and asked the waitress to bring me that. Would you like a taste? There’s plenty still here.’ ‘Thank you, but no thank you. I’m full. The pancakes were delicious. There’s more than enough for me to have for breakfast tomorrow. Enjoy yourself.’

 

I walk to the cashier’s desk, give her my left over pancakes and ask her to put them in the garbage. By the time I get home, I believe that the man’s weird breakfast/lunch/dinner combo was made from everybody’s garbage. 

 

Yep, that’s about what it looked like. I skip dinner and just have a cup of tea. 

Down MY memory lane

This story was the first I wrote in what was to become a group of 'date' stories when I became a widow. Some of you may slightly recall them but I would like to sprinkle them in with my new writings to give my mind time to build up new ideas. Any objections? If so, just delete when your memory tells you to.

 

                               THE SEARCH BEGINS

I knew it was coming and tried to be prepared for widowhood. Yet when the heavy crying slowly dried up, I was empty, lonely and needed help. I know there is somebody out there for me, but where is he hiding? Being a widow isn't fun. I don't like it and have decided to change my status while keeping my standards and morals high. Is the man who will make my life happier the writer of personal ads? Does he belong to a dating service, a country club? Does he go on cruises alone looking for me? Does he live in an area similar to mine? Does he play golf, enjoy cards. theater, music, movies, traveling, conversation--warm and meaningful? If so, I'll find him somehow, someplace but before I do, start out on the road with me as I take my first step into a world strange, foreign and scary. 
                                   

                                             CHUCK

 

Fearfully, tearfully, I had placed my first ad. How I agonized over the few short, expensive words I wanted to convey. As I saw the ad in print I wondered if any man in his right mind would reply to a senior widow's cry for help. Why would he? Column after column of 'gorgeous gal, lovely young miss, absolutely super lady, I've got what you want' ads made mine ridiculously ashen.

Three days later one call on the 900 line came in so I set aside my scant replies, except for Chuck's which had some very vague possibility. Just a little phone call, a little hope, and there he sat, hound dogged looking like my Uncle Harry. Although I had written that I lived a country club life style, was a JWW Sr., non-smoker and lived in Hampton, my resurrected uncle was none of those.

I looked closely at the stranger having lunch with me and thought 'What am I doing here?' Myself silently answered, 'You're waiting for the Bluebird of Happiness to land on your shoulder. It's time now to spread a little bird seed.'

His face brought my dear Uncle back to me.. He could have been any one of my father's six male siblings, each bearing an extremely strong resemblance to one another. Their eyes, being blue or gray, were the one outstanding difference. Jowls beginning to sag, hair a striking beautiful shade of almost blue white, broad noses, supposed laugh lines on faces which I seldom saw smile, came back to me from their graves.

Smoke curled from Chuck's nostrils, yellow stains covered his fingers. He was wearing khaki pants with a wide belt and plaid suspenders. Our religious faiths were different. He had no interest in golf (or- as it turned out--ME).

 

What Chuck liked was picking his own fruit, walking the beach, fishing, none of which he mentioned as we spoke on the phone.
Had I not been outgoing, inquisitive, silence would have reigned. It was like the proverbial tooth pulling to yank some words from his coffee filled mouth. He coughed into his paper napkin and laid it on the table. Ugh! We were on totally different wave lengths.

 

As I tried to eat my dry tuna sandwich without choking, I did learn something. Chuck wanted more than I would be willing to give him that afternoon or ever in my life time. He knew a nice, clean cozy motel down the road. 'Maybe some other time, Chuck. Let's go. I have a doctor's appointment.' The lie didn't even burn my tongue.

 

I needed something sweet with my coffee just to try to get the smell of him away but skipped it. The waitress brought the check and darn if he didn't ask me to split the $10 tab in half. With no hesitation I gave him five dollars. 'What about the tip, Honey,' he asked. 'Chuck, I paid for the ad and wasted my money. You pay the tip. You at least got service.' That was mean. that was wrong and I didn't care.

Outside I watched him go to is his little pick-up truck with the right fender badly dented. I got into my nice, comfy, undented Camry, locked the door  and headed home. That elusive Bluebeard of Happiness had messed on my head.

Chuck and I didn't even say GOODBYE

Ending the beginning: TIT FOR TAT

 

The day ends as usual. I can’t contain, restrain myself. ‘Get off my back. I’ll do the dishes when I’m ready,’ I snarl. Faye and I argue, come close to fisticuffs, seldom find pleasure at home any longer. Things began to sour months ago and now vinegar would be tasty. ‘What more can I do for god’s sake? You’re never satisfied so leave.’ My wife, the former joy of my life, slams the front door and actually leaves. Sally, Marc and Jeff, our three kids, are four, eight and twelve. We spaced them perfectly. Surely they heard the nightly battle and the slamming door. 

 

On the sink are the unwashed dinner dishes, needing only a scraping, a rinse and trip to the dishwasher, but I am too exhausted to do it. Being criticized and beaten into worthlessness doesn’t sit well with me. My washing, ironing, fixing school lunches, going shopping, preparing meals, keeping everything moving smoothly is killing me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t keep up. I want t o go to work again where it is easier than staying home. How can I look for it when I am a slave to a tyrant?

 

Faye does what she can to help with our financial situation. Perhaps foolishly, I suggested she contact her former boss and try to get a part time position. Since I came up with the brain storm, I would be a house husband. It didn’t look hard to me when Faye was the Madam. I rued my offering immediately and knew I should never have opened my big mouth.’

 

‘William, I’m home. What’s for dinner?’ What I had in mind was a mouthful of my fist, but answered softly, deliberately, ‘I fixed us a nice meat loaf with gravy galore. Gibby’s had a sale on bagged salad dressing so I bought two. ‘William, haven’t you ever noticed the children don’t like the bagged salad? I usually wash and dry a few leaves of lettuce, shave two or three carrots, chop a large tomato (Maryland if Gibby’s have them), add a small can of chick peas and top with a dollop of mayo. The enjoy it. You and I will have to eat a lot of salad before it gets limp. I’m going to get into something more comfortable. Down in fifteen. We can eat in the kitchen, if you like. It’s easier.’

 

Faye relaxes. I get more uptight than usual and take it out on our children.  Grace hasn’t set the table yet so I have to do it. Betsy won’t let go of her cell phone. ‘Betsy, say goodbye now to whoever that is or it might be the last time you say the word.’ Betsy starts to cry and hangs on to Faye’s soft plaid sleep jammies. ‘William, stop being so mean to Betsy. Just ask her nicely to tell her friend she has to have dinner now. That shouldn’t be too hard for you to do. Is it?’

 

I’m hot under and over my collar, worn out from trying to keep the house from falling to pieces, helping with homework, vacuuming the carpet that doesn’t look dirty, I may have to–-? May have to what?

 

Faye loves her old job. Gets a raise after being back only one month. She bubbles over when we finally get to bed, can’t stop talking. I hear about D.J.’s clients, the multiple cases he handles in only one day. We are becoming not just strangers but enemies.

 

Television is my savior when the children are in school. I leave a chore for later to watch CNN without being interrupted with an argument. Dr. Edwards is being interviewed by Oprah. He’s a well known psychiatrist who is aware of the new roll being played by couples, called Switcheroo. Men are doing women’s work and women are having a great time in their new position as feminine men, not homos, just working people. It is a much bigger marriage problem than is known, it is a tornado of destruction. Dr. Edwards, takes a deep breath and goes on with a BUT exclamation point. There are ways to deal with this. ‘Husband’s get on line. Go to www.athomedad.org. It will teach you how to face and fix the knocks that try men’s souls. There is another site which can help you, www.marriagefixingtime.rnow. Williams jots down the sites and files the slip of paper in the trash can.

 

Faye isn’t blind, she isn’t deaf, isn’t stupid. Something has to change, get a lot better fast. ‘William, let’s get the children settled so we can talk. How about I fix us a snack with green tea and a hefty slice of the chocolate cake I brought home from the bakery?’ William doesn’t reply so she starts the pow wow. ‘William, I have talked to Mr. Stewart and have given notice I will work only on Mondays and Thursdays for a while. He surprised me and said they will work out a pay rate and I can start whenever I want. What I want is to be the home maker again so you can seriously look for a job you will like and make a decent living. It won’t be easy for any of us but we will manage. Want to give it a try? Saturdays and Sundays we’ll have our family, our used-to-be good times. It’s going to work. You can count on me. May I count on you?’

 

We go to bed and start practicing for the first time in many moons.

Both of us feel a little better and smile

Calmed: HOW SWEET IT IS

Judy picked up her steaming cup of coffee, blew on it and set it back on the counter. The woman seated to her left gave her a disapproving look. The coffee cooled, became wishy washy tan before her sunny-side eggs/bacon on the side arrived. She asked the waitress for a coffee replacement and the toasted English muffin  PDQ., before the eggs got cold.

 

There were only six at the counter that holds twice that many. The early bird crowd had already left so service should have been good. It wasn’t. She put her fork into the hard yellow eyes that stared helplessly  at her, put the fork down and was about to walk out the revolving door when her waitress and the manager blocked her exit.
‘Miss, you forgot to pay your check,’ the manager more or less politely said. Judy calmly explained her reason, received an apology and was offered a free breakfast. Still huffy, she turned it down. Her aim had been to be at the Balmer Bank of Easton, just around the corner, when the door opened.

 

Several police officers who were lined across the street in a row were turning back all pedestrians.’‘What’s going on, Officer?’ she asked the one closest to her. He gave no answer. ‘Is the bank being robbed?’ No reply.’ Hell’, she muttered, turned, pushed her way thru the growing crowd and went back towards the diner, not bothering to look in.

 

Across the street was a Dobriner bakery. The smell of sugared petit fours and chocolate lady fingers tickled her nose, forced her to cross the busy street at the traffic light and open the door to the bakery. A young waitress, her hair in blond braids topped with a Dutch starched cap, smiled, seated Judy at one of the small wooden tables and offered her a menu. Not needing one, Judy asked for a steaming cup of their special Swiss hot chocolate with marshmallow topping and an eclair. Guilt almost gagged her. A vision of herself getting fatter and fatter didn’t stop her. The yearning, hunger for satisfaction had to be removed.

 

The eclair was served on a dainty white paper doily, warm chocolate sauce already enisleing it. Small frothy bubbles topped the hot chocolate. A taste of the eclair sent her half way to heaven. Anger, anger at the diner, the silent police, disappeared.

 

The waitress was clearing away the almost licked clean plate when someone gently tapped Judy on the arm. There beside her was a nice looking man wearing a tan tweed sport coat, rusty brown Italian knit blousey shirt and dark pleat less slacks. ‘Remember me?’ he asked. For a moment she didn’t and then she did, the manager that she had stiffed. ‘Yes, yes, I remember you but you are all dressed up and look different. What are you doing here? Who’s minding the careless dump?’ ‘Not I,’ said the manager. Today I had to open the place, set up the register, etc. etc. and now I am off the rest of the day thru the week-end. This place draws me like flies to sugar. At least once a week I treat myself to its delights and now there is an extra one here. I’m having a piece of Dobriner’s seven layer mousse cake. I’ve suggested to one of the bakers I know they should make it ten layers, raise the price. Customers would devour it and not mind the increase.’

 

Judy started to leave. ‘How about sharing a piece of that cake with me? I’ll give you four layers and I’ll take three. ‘ Regretfully she told him she couldn’t possibly eat more sweets. ‘Sure you can.’ He signaled for the waitress. Judy sat still. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘My name is Joseph P. Randall. What’s yours?’  ‘Judy Bierfeld.’

 

Their seven layer cake arrived and disappeared slowly. Judy didn’t get to the bank until Monday.

Check Mate: KNOCK IT TO ME

The store window in a run-down neighborhood has only a globe and a handwritten sign on display, ‘FORTUNES TOLD.’ It is daylight and I am able to see one lady inside sitting on a black wooden chair, her back to the street. A colorful shawl with long fringe is over her head and shoulders. It is my duty to evict her. The owner of the down-trodden building has notified the police that she is trespassing and is illegally there. On his report, he added, ‘She may be illegal in the States too. Check her out.’

 

I knock on the door but she makes no move to get up or turn around.  I knock louder. No movement. Could she be unconscious, dead? Nah, I think. The door is locked. A black cat walks across the bare floor and settles down next to its mistress. Before I left the station house I had checked. There is no phone listed for 405 Cinder Lane. My only alternative is to check the alley, a job I don’t relish. I’ve walked this block before and others like it, kicking garbage, hearing rats squeak.
Somebody or something kicks a tin can and I jump. I’ve faced guns, covered bloody bodies but this assignment is creepy.

 

I haven’t liked gypsies since my dad told me years ago they are conniving, dirty thieves who carry big curved knives in their loose, colorful clothes. Being prejudiced is not what I want to be yet am about gypsies. Go do me something.

 

The gate to 405 is hanging by a few rusting screws. One running rat can send it clattering to the ground. I am very careful, don’t touch it and squeeze in with no mishap. Six wooden steps are warped. What must have been brown shellac is almost gone. Why hasn’t the owner fixed this house and the three others he owns on this one street? The way they are why should he give a damn who has taken shelter inside?

 

From the step I peer into the dirty window and see a rusty sink. There is a range that no charity would accept as a donation. Suddenly my eyes pop open wide. In the corner is a brand new shiny stainless steel GE refrigerator with freezer. This makes no sense at all. I use my billy club and tap on the window. A single light bulb hangs on a chain from the ceiling. The lady comes to the window and looks at me. I look at her and see one of Macbeth’s witches. Her nose is long and sharp. What looks like a large wart is on her chin. My eyes move up and meet hers. They are a radiant blue with yellow circles around them. The shawl she had on is now tied around her hips. Long, blond softly waved hair bowls me over. With lips like sweet cherries I no longer see the wart. Her hand goes to her chin and she touches it lightly. A small Band-aid falls to the floor. The woman is no gypsy. They have unkempt black hair my father told me.

 

She motions to her ears, covers them. Her fingers move too fast for me to read them. No wonder she didn’t answer my rapping. All I can do is use the small note book I have in my jacket  pocket. I put my name and Police Officer Ed Sims on it. You have to move out of here now or go to jail.’ Tearing off my note, she writes on the back ‘No place to go.’

I take her hand, lead her to my car and drive her to the Women’s Shelter, stay with her long enough to give them the little info I have and start to leave. With her rosy ruby lips she mouths, ‘Thank you.’

Both doors to 405 were left unlocked so I go back to be sure she hadn’t left anything there and intended contacting the owner from the station house. In the kitchen everything is the same except the shiny new GE refrigerator/freezer is missing. That fast it must have been stolen. The captain sends me to one of the newest high rise condos in Philly where a suite has been burglarized. He assigns me a new partner and I vow to him we will catch the bastard and we do eventually.

 

In the meantime I often wonder if one of the deaf/mutes gypsy friends stole the refrigerator.

The Prairie: LITTLE HOUSE HERE

There was once a house, a house right here where I am standing. My mother, father, two sisters, one brother and our precious little runt that I named Wiggles, lived here. We had Sunday picnics in our back yard when the weather was perfect and the lilacs smelled like purple candy. Daddy bought us a rubber swimming pool that we had to pump up with Marvin’s bike pump. It was hard to do. We took turns puffing up the sides. It held no more than six kids at a time so we took turns in and out. As the last few roses died, Daddy did the dis-honors and let the water out to run down the path into the alley and down the sewer.

 

Morning was warmer than usual for early March. Easter was only a week away. Our Emerson radio told us we wouldn’t need sweaters but instead should take our sun parasols out of storage. We would reach about 80 degrees by noon. Suzy, a year younger than I, as soon as she finished her Hershey’s chocolate milk, began begging mother to let us squirt the lawn ourselves. ‘Absolutely not,’ she said. ‘It’s too early. You’ll catch your death of cold.’ Suzy gave mother a nice, soft hug, looked like she was about to cry, and Mother gave in. ‘O.K., but for no more than one hour. I’ll let you know before that to turn off the water and wind the hose.’

 

Daddy took the hose out of the shed after lunch and sat down on the porch to read his paper and check on us. Mother straightened the kitchen and came out to sit with Daddy and watch us when he wasn’t.
A rumble of thunder and a distant flash of lightning and we were finished. Daddy wasted no time telling us to turn off the water and get in the house. Black clouds, the blackest black I ever saw, came from nowhere. Sirens began to screech. We didn’t get too scared because Taneytown set them off once a month so we should know what they mean., take cover. The wind grew stronger. Daddy and mother hurried us towards the house but newspapers were blowing, glass was breaking, flying. Our porch roof lifted up like tissue paper, broke in pieces and blew away. The choo choo loud noise grew louder and louder until I thought my ears would burst.  We huddled against the cement wall next to the wash tubs. The only window in the cellar was in the back door. Five of the six small panes broke, some glass dropping outside but one piece flew at Suzy and cut her arm. Mother pulled out a tea towel that had been soaking in a tub and wrapped it around Suzy’s arm.

 

‘Come here, Wiggles,’ I called. Wiggles didn’t come. ‘Wiggles,’ I shouted again, ‘come out from under the stairs.’ Wiggles didn’t come out. He was gone. Mother told us to hold on to each other and pray together. Everything went dark. The wind from the window was sucking us into the frame.  Daddy squeezed me, Suzy, Ellie and Nick behind the furnace. He and mother laid down flat on the cement floor behind a heavy, filled steamer trunk my grandma brought with her when she came from Rumania.

 

The thunderous roar, the black twirling wind stopped. Debris that had gathered was everywhere. Almost nothing in our house was saved, not next door or next door to that. Fire engines, ambulances could not use the streets and zigzagged any way they could get into Taneytown. They carried in their hands, on their backs, anything that might be needed. I saw our black hose hanging from one of the few trees still rooted to the earth. It looked like a dying snake. Except for Suzy’s cut arm, we were not injured.

 

Mother noticed a white wicker arm chair, that wasn’t ours, sitting in the middle of our yard, as if it were waiting for god to apologize and help us survive, As young as I was I knew it would take a very powerful god to do that and wanted to cuss him for sending the tornado to our town, killing 11 neighbors of ours, ruining our houses, our lives.

 

As I let go of that sacrilegious idea, I heard a familiar yip. Wiggles, his black curly fur filled with little pieces of who knows what, came running to me. He licked my dusty legs and my face. I yelled. I screamed with joy. My family came together. We knelt on the ground, held hands and thanked our lord for saving us. Wiggles wiggled his short black tail, ran in circles around us.

 

We said ‘Amen’, got up and got to work helping ourselves and anyone else we could.

Lt. Sass's story: RED WATER

The Blue Danube is many things, but blue it is not. The Green River is a pukey green mixed with muddy clay. The Red River is red today, very red. Mississippi State Police are in charge as the three headless female bodies found on its shores, must have come from the Red River that flows into ‘Ol Miss. They must have floated in during the night. So far few details are known. There can be no leaks to the media until further notice. My attempt to speak to an M.E. is useless. I am shooed away like a buzzing fly.

 

Wireless computers blink tide, current speed to find where the women were made into garbage. The Atchafalaga River, that also comes into the Mississippi, has its own police force looking for clues, heads. My Press badge with its red ribbon flapping for attention gets me no favors, no entry. This story is going to be big, atomic big, in just a few hours. In the meantime, I don’t stand still. I roam around wherever I am allowed to be, making copious notes that will be mere fluff to my story.

 

What I judge, with no one to confirm my opinion, is the bodies seem to look about 35 to 40 years old, neither heavy nor anorexic. I doubt they are sisters but may be related, friends, work or play together. Fingerprints were taken before the ladies were removed to the morgue. Flesh was puffy, bloated. Temperatures were useless but taken anyhow.

 

There must be a hundred photographers, newspeople sniffing around besides the quickly growing group of busybodies parking their cars, straining their necks, asking questions. At last posts arrive and yellow tapes are everywhere. The just curious are exiled. A siren blasts the morning air. Sheriff Mason gets his men in a circle. I can’t hear what he tells them but surmise a head has been found. It takes only a few minutes for the news to leak out. Two heads, eyeless, had washed up near the Mississippi and are in the morgue. Vomitizing pictures fill my mind. Matching a head to a bloodless body is too much for me to think about. I go under the yellow tape, walk in the warm sun, feel its warmth and sit down in the grass, try to pull myself together.

 

Business is not as usual on the Red River. Boats laden with minerals, fruits move slowly while pleasure craft are stopped, sent back to their piers. At 5 p.m. the press is called together, given the bulletins that are okay to release. The police know that sometimes they get lucky leads and have become cooperative with those, like myself, still waiting for more details. As much as can go out without causing panic hits the news faster than lightning flares and disappears.

 

I had passed a motel not far from the crime scene. It is full. The Come Inn is next in line and I have decent accommodations. Sleep comes easily, morning comes too fast. As soon as my eyes open, I call my paper, The Sandpiper Sun, for an update and boy do I get one. A small unusual tattoo has been found behind the ear of one of the victims. Our front page has a photo of it. Detectives are already on the streets checking tattoo parlors. There can’t be too many around here.

 

If any headway is made today, I don’t make it. In a small shopping center I locate one parlor. The door is locked. Only a low night light is on.  I drive to Alaya, a town of a few thousand. The police have been there and covered the shops with no luck. I need a little pick me up and stop for a beer or two, sit at the bar and try to map out a plan. A young  sorta hippie type guy comes in, making the crowd at the bar total two. His beaded neck chain is tangled. His eyes look somewhat glazed, dilated. I don’t care about those things but do care that he has tattoos on both arms and on his neck. In with my notes is the picture of the tattoo behind the ear of the head. I look without staring at those designs so close to me. ‘What are you looking at, Mister?’ my drinking companion asks. I show him the pic I have and he doesn’t blink nor speak. He drinks his cola and asks to see the pic again. ‘I’ve seen that before. It is a composite of an angel, St. Peter, gates to heaven and a chicken. Don’t ask me what it means. It’s very small and hard to figure out.’ This may be a break. ‘Do you know who the artist is?’

 

The shop happens to be around the corner. I leave what is left of my beer, a tip for the bartender and five bucks for my ex-drinking partner. At that point I realize interrogating the tattoo artist is not my job. Alaya is such a small town finding the police station means walking a few blocks. That is where I go and tell the officer what I heard. He is quick, calls two other men, leaves one in charge of the desk and asks me to go with him and the other officer to the tattoo shop. Harry, the artist, looks at the photo and tells the police he never saw it before. It is not a very sincere answer.

 

The officers who I thought were probably hicks or country bumpkins are not. They tell Harry to lock up and come with them as they have
questions that need answers. I may, if I like, wait in a side room that has a coke machine, a hot coffee pot ready, and a vending machine. Thinking after two hours of waiting, I have been forgotten, but no, I am called in to make a statement about my learning the artist’s name.

Crap, I never got the name of the guy in the bar so am of little help.

Strict instructions to keep my mouth shut upset me. Damn, I have a story that nobody has. Maybe this guy is the killer or knows who might be. Months go by. Harry has a pro bono lawyer, who turns out to be excellent. The ladies I.D.s are known, families notified. They bury their loved ones. Harry, looking haggard, beat, is found guilty and given an execution date one year from the reading of the verdict.

 

My name is never mentioned in the paper but I get a thousand dollar bonus from my boss and I know I was the one who brought a criminal to justice. I can live with that.

Maybe: THE BOGEY MAN

My last bite of corn muffin and last sip of almost cold black coffee worked out perfectly today. I leaned back in my comfortable office chair and felt myself falling. The chair crashed into the safety glass window without cracking it. However, I cracked my hip against my desk, fell to my knees and howled like a banshee. Up-ended, the loosened ball bearing in the wheel was clearly visible. Question marks exploded in my head. ‘Ms. Nancy, please come in. I need assistance.’ Dressed neatly in a tweed retro suit, small copper ear rings dangled silently. Her medium high heels were silent on the carpet. As usual, she carried her secretary’s notebook and had a black ink Paper-Mate pen ready for work. At first she didn’t notice my lopsided broken chair but when she did, she let out a huge gasp. ‘All I want you to do is call maintenance to come get this broken heap and bring my other chair that is in the meeting room PDQ.’ ‘How did that happen, Mr. Hancock?’ she asked. I shrugged my shoulders and put a quizzical look on my face.

 

The maintenance man arrived quickly, pushing a dolly, lifted my heavy chair as if it were a balloon, took it away and was back with my black chair in a few minutes. I limped to the black one, tested it to be sure somebody hadn’t fiddled with this one too, and okayed it to go behind my desk.

 

All thru my busy morning I kept thinking about that loose ball bearing. How could it have dislodged itself with no squeaking warning? Could the charwoman have knocked her heavy bucket against it? Not likely. Why do I care? What’s the big deal? Fixing it will give maintenance something to do for ten minutes. My phone rang and rang too often. The fall worried me. ‘Ms. Nancy, I’m going out for lunch. I’ll walk over to Buffy’s Bar and should be back by one.’

 

Darn, another annoyance. I missed the elevator. It was a long two minutes until the next one came. A short, fat man wearing black trousers that were at least a full size too small got on with me. His light grey knit shirt was not tucked into his pants and made him look even fatter. At floor ten I felt a slight quiver in the elevator, decided quickly to get off at nine for safety’s sake. The short man did too, plus a lady I’ve seen before. Silently we got on the next elevator and stayed silent to the ground floor.

 

Sunlight dazzled my eyes. Gas fumes filled my lungs. My hip was hurting more with each step I took. My walk to Buffy’s took longer than usual but I made it and so did the short, fat man who was on both elevators with me. He had added overly large sunglasses that hid his squinty eyes.
I was taken to a small table near a post that suited me fine. Two tables behind on the right sat Otis the elevator man. There was no reason I could bring to mind why I should worry about him but I did. I dropped my napkin so I could turn and see him. Yes, he was watching me.

 

My crab cake order came and had to go back. I had ordered them broiled and they were deep fried. I turned to see the waitress coming and look again at my tail. Definitely he was watching me. My crab cakes came broiled and I was given a free cold Shlitz to make up for the error. I had to get back to the office and needed extra time as walking had become very painful. Checking and double checking, I breathed easier. The fat man was gone.

 

Just as I got on the elevator, had my finger ready to punch 19, the fat man squeezed on, was almost hit by the closing door. He had somehow changed clothes. Now he had on a tan suit with a white shirt and brown tie. The suit fit better than the too small black pants. He also wore tinted eye glasses. We did not acknowledge each other. I hit floor 18 and got off before my floor. Mr. Short Stuff got off too and walked behind me to the end of the hall. I was trapped. I tried to turn the knob on the last door but found it locked. With no warning, I spun around, yelled ‘Ouch’ as I did so, and asked in a gruff and stern manner, ‘Why are you following me? Mister?’ The stranger started to laugh. ‘Why are you trying my door? Can’t you see the sign ‘Closed Until 1:30?

This is my office.’ He put his hand out to me and introduced himself. ‘I am Dr. Swanson and have been in this office for 2 years. My secretary is inside to answer calls when I go out. Mr. Hancock. If you thought I was watching you it was because I am an orthopedic surgeon and noticed your limp. It was worse leaving Buffy’s than when you walked there in front of me. Here’s free advice. You should have your hip x-rayed as soon as possible.’

 

My luck had changed. ‘Dr. Swanson, any chance of you x-raying it for me? I’m already late and Ms. Nancy must be worried.  She’s my personal secretary. ‘ ’Well, it is unusual but I think I can manage to take care of you now. Give my receptionist your medical history and your insurance cards.’ I followed him in, followed his instructions and had no more worries about weird things and people.

 

For the next full day my worries were more important. Will I need a cast, surgery? The day after that I didn’t have to worry about that either. My large bruise and soreness would disappear in a few days. I was very pleased.

 

All I had left to ponder about was what else is going to happen to me tomorrow? I know for sure something will.

Smile-You're on Candid Camera: AH PARIS !

I’ve been told I have a provocative smile, one that could get me anything I ask for. I’ve looked in the mirror many times and see nothing special. Recently I’ve had my teeth bleached by my D.D.S., at a cost of $750 semoleons but so far, I haven’t caught one fish, much less the handsome, young, rich man for whom I want to set my net.

 

Yes, there is one I’d cast my line for but have had no opportunity. His name is Alan or Allen. He’s only been at Frankfort, Gleason and McCabe a few weeks and seems to have already shown an interest in Casey. Whether he invited her to lunch last Friday or they just happened to be leaving at the same time, I don’t know, but I keep my eyes open and see them return together.

 

Allen now has his name on the glass panel of his door, Allen Kirk. Several times a day he passes my desk to gather case histories from secretaries like I am, or to go to the men’s room. I know he has a coffee thermos on his desk like the big shots have. If I want a cup, I take a break and go to the employees lounge.

 

My new pearly whites and provocative smile are not working any magical spell. Each morning I get a nod and another when he leaves. I’m considering blacking out my two top front teeth with a Milky Way Wrapper like we kids did years ago. Allen would surely notice my smile then. Halloween is ten months away so I table that silly idea.

 

Yesterday I accidentally (on purpose) let my expensive pink Waterman’s fountain pen fall off my desk just as he walks towards me. Does he stop and pick it up? No. It rolls under my desk before he notices. I am down on my hands and knees, tush in the air, my hand probing the space behind my trash can until I retrieve it. Then I see him and his brown shined loafers  standing behind my chair. With a soft and pleasant voice he asks, ‘May I help you up, Ms. Glazer? Why in the world are you crawling on the floor?’ My white teeth in a red embarrassed face could not have been attractive. ‘Sorry, Mr. Kirk. See this Waterman pen? It was a gift to me from a special person in Paris and I do cherish it. The trouble is the point is broken and it no longer writes.’  He pauses and asks, ‘Why don’t you get a new neb?’ I let my provocative smile shine, lower my eyes and fib a little. ‘The story is too long and complicated.’  Bingo! Interest happens. Birds sing, bells ring. ‘How about explaining it to me over lunch today?’ I almost faint. Like a child I ask him if he is serious. ‘Of course, I’m serious. How’s 12:30? Let’s meet at the elevator.’ ‘Thank you, I’ll be there but you do know I must be back by 1:30, don’t you? Do you want me to bring roller skates?’ Mr. Kirk has a darn nice smile himself.

 

Lunch goes smoothly but I foolishly select a spinach salad for my meal. Half way thru, Mr. Kirk looks oddly at me. I become very self conscious. He smiles broadly, more broadly than I can, leans across the table, dips the corner of his white napkin into my glass of water and tells me to show him my white teeth. In a moment he has a piece of spinach as big as a nickle that had been stuck on my tooth on his napkin. We laugh together. It is time to return to the office. I enter first. He waits a few minutes and walks right past my desk.

 

Allen comes out of his office at two, holding some papers to show me and tells me what I already know. ‘You didn’t tell me about Paris and your pen. How about Friday night for dinner? The invitation is only good if you promise not to order spinach.’ ‘I won’t. I don’t even like spinach. Your smile entranced me so I couldn’t think straight. You order for me Friday.'

No butterfly she: HELP WANTED

The sun was broiling, burning into my scalp. I punched in the four security numbers and waited. There was no click, no light went out. Something was wrong. I never leave the place without setting the alarm. Why was the pad dark? Backing down the short stairway, I called A T and L Co., explained to a deaf ear what I had found when I came home. Feeling like a Sgt. Major I loudly and sternly told the voice to send a guard to Ms. Campfield’s house immediately. Smart ass told me they can’t do that. It isn’t in the policy. My temper turned red.

‘To whom am I speaking?’ I asked. ‘Basil Greene, Ms. Camble.’ ‘Mr. Greene, it’s Campfield, now you get Mr. Jason on this phone or you will be in a lot of trouble.’

 

While I waited for the boss man my concern and anger boiled thru my veins. He was going to get a peppery mouthful from me. His cheery good afternoon did not assuage my disgust. My fire fell right on him.
‘Mr. Jason, I have paid your exorbitant fee to protect me for over ten years, never called you and now I am suggesting something is not right at my place and I’m not going inside the house until A T & L goes in and makes an inspection. Either my alarm was disarmed by a stranger or two or your company’s lines are on the fritz.  Don’t tell me to call the police. Get your men here. I’ll be waiting outside and it is too damn hot to wait long.’

 

A black van parks in front of my neighbor’s house. Two men in khaki uniforms that have lots of pockets cross the grass, walk up the flagstone path to my house. ‘Whoa. Where are you men going?’ In unison the Bobsey Twins replied, ‘Inside, Lady.’ They alarmed me. I saw no name on their uniforms. ‘I.D. now, Men,’ was all I managed to say. The taller, more stocky one looked me over and apologized, ‘We must be at the wrong number.’ Before I could say what I was thinking, ‘Help, Help, somebody call the cops,’ they got in their van and drove away.

 

‘Get Jason on the line, PDQ, Basil. This is Mrs. Campfield.’ He said, ‘Mrs. Campfield, I’m Larry. Basil is on a break. Hold on, please.’ Irritation in his voice, Jason, asked, ‘What do you want now? I’ll send my men over as soon as they return from a job.’ My worry grew like Gippetto’s nose. It was scary. ‘You mean you didn’t just send two men in a black van to my place?’ ‘No, Mrs. Campfield, I just told you I’ll send them when they get back from a job. Why don’t you call the police?’

 

‘Larry, put Jason on the line again.’ ‘Mrs. Campfield, this is Basil. Hold on.’ I held on. Mr. Jason questioned me as if I were a burglar. Did the police find anything wrong?’ ‘They didn’t because they refused to come over. ‘Is your door or window broken? Did you see a body inside?’ ‘No, No. And I wasn’t taped to a chair either. If I am murdered when I go into my house alone and someone is hiding in my basement, don’t apologize to me. I’m going in now and whatever happens, you will get the blame.’ I heard a little snicker and hung up.

 

The knob turned easily. Nobody jumped out at me. The alarm in the foyer was dark. I saw no mess, no broken vases. The living room furniture looked as I had left it. Only a good copy of two Picasso’s were missing from the wall.  I sighed with relief when I turned on the dining room light. My cherished Stickley furniture was not mutilated.
Then I saw the server door was not closed tightly, opened it and saw an empty hole. All of my sterling silver was gone. Right there, I sat down on the floor and cried. I pulled myself together, went to the kitchen for a an Advil and glass of water and had a fit. ‘Pigs, pigs. They ate all of my fresh fruit and left banana peels on the table and peach pits on the floor. ‘

 

A little voice inside of me said, ‘Don’t go upstairs. Call the police now and stop touching things.’ Within 5 minutes two police cars arrived. I saw their cars plainly marked, checked their badges at the door. They looked around, made notes and asked if my alarm had been on. ‘Of course, of course. I always set it before I go out, turn it off when I get home and re-set it when I am alone. Always.’ Sgt. Aaronson told me not to touch the key pad. ‘In fact, Mrs. Campfield, don’t touch anything. ‘ He guessed right when he said, ‘Too late, huh?’ The officers dusted everything and found lots of prints. All mine. They left.

 

‘Basil, Larry. Mrs. Campfield calling, Get that Jason on the phone.’
‘Mr. Jason. The police just left my house and it had been robbed. The captain told me I was lucky not to have been here.’

 

You, however, won’t be so lucky. Cancel my policy and don’t leave the state. Your firm was negligent and you can expect a call from my attorney tomorrow.’

Bequest: THE WILL AND THE WON'T

He looks middle aged, somewhat loose jowled, his skin beginning to crepe. Overly large sun-glasses cover his eyes so I can’t see their color, judge his integrity. I believe the old saying,’ the eyes are the center of the soul and mostly find it to be a truism. No bulging belly, no over-exercised ABS , make his narrow pin-striped gray suit just right for the Boss’ center window. A large, but not overly stuffed, black brief case rests on his lap. His name is the only mark I have against him, Peter P. Parker. He turns into a mental pumpkin eater. I blink away that absurdity and get down to business.

 

Mr. Parker is the bank trustee for the estate of Alicia Brooke, a great aunt of mine who I barely knew. Only yesterday I learned I am to be the recipient of half a million dollars if I do as she asks. Momentarily, I think ‘Sure, name it old lady,’ and eagerly wait for Mr. Parker to tell me what I must do. He unlocks his brief case, removes a stack of stapled papers and puts them on my desk facing himself. He clears his throat and warns me to be carful. We talk briefly about my relative while I stew in a pot of boiling anxiety.

 

‘Mr. Brooke, You are an attorney yourself in a prestigious law firm and will know instantly that your aunt’s request is illegal, may possibly put you in the penitentiary for the balance of your life.  An attorney, surely a shyster, made out the trust papers in Barbados. They may not be legal here at all. Look at this page first.’

 

‘William Brooke, my grandnephew, I regret I have not seen you in many years, but as my sister Grace’s only child, you are my only heir.’ Paragraphs of legal jargon that I know, I slide over. My eyes bulge when I read in bold black print, ‘You are to kill Frank Armastice, in any manner you wish by November 10, 2010. Enclosed are the details of his description, circumstances, location, family but you will not find my reason. That you may never know. From this day of reading, you have two weeks to carry out my wish. If you do not, you will be disinherited.

Good luck and easy living.      Aunt Grace.

 

The folder is left with me to ponder and bear on my drooping shoulders. Mr. Parker has done what he came to do and will be bound by his oath not to reveal this strange bequest to anyone. My secretary is given instructions to say I am away from the office today, take messages only and leave them on her desk when she leaves at 5:30. The entire afternoon I spend making notes about Mr. Armastace. He does not have a web page. There is no mention of a wife, a child.

 

Sweat has ruined my shirt.  I recall years ago going duck hunting. A covey of them flew over and I aimed, actually killed a beautiful teal. My eyes ran out of tears. Just recalling that moment has upset me. I put it to bed in my cobwebbed memory box.

 

Half a million dollars! Adding it to what I have accumulated in 30 years of practicing law, I could retire, totally retire. The idea has promise. Maybe Mr. Armastace is a killer himself and deserves to die. Maybe he murdered his wife or even my Aunt Grace.

 

As soon as my secretary leaves, I gather my papers, put them in the trunk of my car, all except Mr. Armastace’s address. It’s too late to drive there now. I am beat. It will work out better if I waste Friday and drive there Saturday morning.

 

At night I dream of murders. It is a gruesome dream of blood and dangling feet. An exploding head makes me fall out of bed. There is no more rest and I wait for dawn hours away.

 

Questions grow questions. Where would I get a gun and learn how to use it in less than two weeks? How could I stab someone in his heart when I am not a doctor and don’t know how to miss ribs. Poison? Maybe an untraceable one is on line. ‘OK, Idiot, if you find the perfect untraceable poison, how would you get it into Mr. Armastace? I could, maybe could, invite him to the White Cliffs of Dover and push him over into the sea. Wake up. Call the office that I’ll be in about one. That should give me time to find his house in Langford just a ½ hour from my place. The drive does not use the turnpike. Langford is a small town I didn’t know existed until now. Asking where the Armastace house in can lead to my being identified if I kill him. The few farm houses have mail boxes on posts close to the street. Some are quite artistic, hand carved. I drive slowly looking for my victim. When I see #104, my heart begins to pound and I want to keep going, but instead drive as close to the front door as I can get without knocking over a grape trellis.

 

On the side of the house is a large wooden dog house needing paint. I pray nobody sees me and pull under an old elm tree, walk towards the dog house.The name carefully painted above it says, ‘Mr. Armastace. Sleep well, Buddy.’ No dog barks. Inside I can see the sad, terribly sad, rotting remains of a chained dog. It’s brown fur telling me it had been a large collie, a devoted pet of the house owner who may have been my Aunt Grace. She must have hoped I’d come there before her friend died.  I wish I had. It is better for me this way. Killing the dog would have been no easier than killing a man.

 

I drive home, knowing I won’t be any richer, but happy I did not have to make a choice. Who knows what it might have been?

Knock on my wooden head: LUCK BE A LADY

Max was ready to insert his cameo cuff links into his French cuffs. A dazzling bolt of lightning lit up the room. Thunder rumbled, shook his 3500 square foot rancher. He sat down on his bed and waited for the oncoming rain to wash out his gala evening. With the storm breaking he couldn’t call Tess to tell her he’d be late. His mother’s ghost would never let him go. ‘Sonny, don’t use the phone when it is lightning. Stay away from windows. Don’t use the tap or bathe.’ Tess knew his fetishes and wouldn’t expect his call.

 

The wooden slats on his windows were closed tightly yet each bolt let danger leak in. He sat erect, hands on his knees, his eyes squeezed shut. No question, the almost fearless Max, shook.  Calm came to the skies and to him.

 

Tree limbs cluttered the brick road, made him extra careful dodging the big ones. The delayed setting sun tossed a beautiful arcing rainbow across his path. It was too wondrous for him to let it slip through his fingers. The bike lane invited him to pull over, stop and make a wish. A teen, on a shiny just washed bike, came close enough to scratch Max’s Jag. Lucky, lucky this time. The sure damage didn’t happen. As the young boy pedaled past the car window, he tapped on it, gave Max the finger and scrammed.

 

Tess saw the Jag’s headlights coming up her driveway. She was already pissed off but didn’t dare open the door for until Max gave his usual lucky three knocks.  No kiss, no hug, just a glare and a question did she have for him. ‘Why the devil didn’t you call me? You knew I would be waiting.’ ‘Aw, common, Tess,’ he stuttered. ‘You, you, you know very well I don’t go out when lightning is within seeable distance. Remember that mail man two weeks ago who stepped in a puddle of water on his rounds? You know, the one who became toast? Well, I’m not going to be next. You want an apology? I’ll give you one. I’m sorry. Carl will hold our table for us.

 

Ready?’ He got another cold glare from Tess. ‘Good evening, Sir. Glad you made it. Your table is ready. As you can see that storm has kept many of our customers away.  Enjoy your dinner.’ Service was impeccable. Dinner, as usual, delicious except for Tess’s poached salmon. She said it needed a little salt, reached for it and knocked the shaker on the floor. A passing waiter picked it up and returned it to our table. Tess was about to sprinkle it on her fish when Max startled her. ‘I stopped you just in time. Wait. Shake the salt over your shoulder three times before you use it or bad luck will get you.’ Tess hit the ceiling. ‘Cut out this crap, Max or I’m cutting you out of my life!’ They left without dessert. He didn’t get any when he reached her  house either.

 

Two fire engines were in front of his house. Hoses were over his manicured lawn. The Fire Chief stopped him to explain what was going on. ‘Everything is under control, Mr. Hendrix. A young boy riding his bike called 911 when he saw smoke coming out your broken front window. It looks like you got a jolt of lightning down your chimney. Want us to board up the window before we pull out? You were really lucky. It could have been far worse.’ The trucks left without blaring their sirens.

 

Max thought over his semi-good fortune. Max also thought there would have been no fire if Tess had shaken the salt over her shoulder. He never told her that. 

Felicia

I saw an ad this a.m. for CAR MAX--It had to be Felicia getting out of a car, standing near a tall handsome guy who reminded me of Nick, her husband.

 

I contacted her and it IS Felicia. Watch for the ad. She’s wearing a red dress, I think.  My god, she looks gorgeous !

 

Everybody. Felicia is my granddaughter. Her Dad is my son, Steve.

Bibbity bobbity BOBO: SIGNIFICANT 'Y'

I was sitting in my car, my key in the ignition ready to move as soon as I saw her coming out of ‘Close Partners’. Blond after blond had set their answering machines on record, looked over their desks, locked the company’s door, went down the elevators and walked right past me. They weren’t interested in me nor I in them. I was waiting for the blond I knew had killed my brother Bobo.

 

He and I were more than brothers. We were friends, companions, two of a kind, until Bobo got fouled up in long blond hair, perfect looks, a cute swinging ass. I could see his eyes light up at the mere mention of her name, Dynah with a ‘Y’. I heard about their meeting over and over. They met waiting for a cab on 40th street. It was a rainy evening, misty. A Diamond cab he had hailed stopped right in front of him. He jumped in. The blond was no more than five feet away. She was umbrella less. Her hair was scraggly. Her brown leather jacket was dripping down her legs. Bobo, the essence of thoughtfulness, asked the cabby to wait a sec, leaned out the door and invited the wet lady in to share his cab. She jumped in so fast she almost sat in his lap. And that was that! Dynah got Bobo and I got bupkis. .

 

Lots of times we went out as a threesome. Sometimes, but rarely, I brought a lady with me. Without explaining, I knew that none of my ladies like Dynah. I just figured they were jealous. Either one liked her or really disliked her. She always got the brown end of the stick. My own feelings see-sawed. Bobo and I still had our closeness, our brotherly love but something was missing. No it wasn’t that. It was something was added that put a knotty kink in our relationship.

 

Our apartment held just me most of the time. Bobo slept at Dynah’s. He never told me where she lived. I didn’t ask. All that mattered was Bobo loved her and she loved him. What her background was, where she went to school, where she worked just didn’t come up. Had it been, I would not be in my car watching for Dynah.

 

Bobo came to our place Monday three a.m. , May 10. His face was scratched badly. His shirt was torn. All he told me was he and Dynah had a big argument about nothing. ‘Bobo, I had no idea she was so hot-headed. She would have pushed me off the terrace railing if she were a little stronger.’ I tried hard to get details but Bobo gave me none. He undressed, took a shower and closed his bedroom door. His loud voice came thru it but not distinctly. There definitely was anger in his tone. Even with my ear pressed against his door, I couldn’t make out his words but did know he was groveling, begging for forgiveness.  Then there was silence.

 

I scrambled eggs and onions for Bobo’s breakfast that I had to eat. He gave me the silent treatment until he got to the front door. ‘Jim, this can’t go on. Dynah hates me and I have no idea why. I believed in her, her love for me and now, out of nowhere, she is not my Dynah anymore.’

Bobo closed the door quietly, got in his car and the next time I saw him he was on a slab at the coroners. He had been shot, once in his head and once in his chest. His car was still parked on the street in front of Dynah’s building, 37 Edison Parkway. That Lt. Callahan told me.

 

Callahan also told me some details. Bobo’s blood was on the stairs going down from Dynah’s apartment. There was no blood in her place or powder marks on her hands. After a thorough search, no gun was found. She was held over night, agreed to take a polygraph. Dynah was let go but is the only suspect at this time. I learned that she works for Close Partners that is a high class dating service. She is not much more than a glorified whore.

 

My misery was overpowering. I had to follow Bobo’s wish to be cremated. Sitting thru the short service, I felt him going up in smoke. My hatred, anger against Dynha was so great I could have easily shot her, slit her throat, thrown her in the furnace with Bobo. Rationality took over and I knew I had to start someplace and my someplace turned out to be across street from Close Partners. I sit there every afternoon, rent cars so I shouldn’t be noticed, follow her everywhere. I WILL catch her.

 

I miss Bobo.

A Gripe

a strong opinion -- and would like your thoughts in return

 

Americans, aliens both legal and illegal, are pleading with our law makers to lower class sizes in all schools to 20 students. Of course, taxes will have to cover it but that is not my issue.

 

When I was young, classes had 6 desks in 7rows, and every single seat was used --42 to a class. We sat still, listened, learned. For those who were class fools, caused trouble, they sat on a stool with a dunce cap, or went to the cloak room or principal's office. Teachers had control of 42 kids. We had spelling bees, brought food and money for the less needy Xmas time. We had picnics, dances in the higher grades, shows and the teachers were able to handle us, mark our homework, our report cards, speak to parents. Learning was exciting. Sure, teachers were not as knowledgeable as those today, but handling 42 kids did not scare them.

 

Scientists, doctors, lawyers, senators grew up and made their way, by going

to libraries to use the Encyclopedia , to parents for help with arithmetic.

 

Yes, there were criminals. surely drunks and drug addicts but we children never heard of their problems.

 

Today there are computers for almost every child, calculators, cell phones, discs on everything. We don't need smaller classrooms. We need teachers who know how to teach and keep decorum in their class rooms.

 

If they can do that, they can handle 40 kids. I know I could, and so could you. Current teachers want too much and don't give enough.

 

Waiting in rainy Boca, for your opinion--not that yours or mine means doodleysquat.

 

 

Good choice: T'AINT EASY

 

Ralphie and I are having dinner at our favorite Italian bistro. The Orvieto has already made me warm inside and a little fuzzy in the head. The antipasto I don’t touch as it would surely ruin my appetite for my crisp spinach salad already in front of me and the linguini Alfredo that I could almost die for.

 

Tony, the maitre ‘d, comes from Barcelona, Spain but adopted Tony when he reached his current high station. Al, the accordion player, is nearing our table. Ralphie doesn’t have to tell him what song to play for us as it is always The Isle of Capri. To be honest, he is not very good but knows just about any song that came from Italy or even mentions Rome. The first notes of the Capri song make me go berserk.  I put my elbows on the table, get oil on my silk sleeve and burst out crying. ‘What the heck are you blubbering about, Barbra? You don’t like Al anymore? I’ll give him a buck and ask him to go someplace else.’ He keeps cutting small pieces of his veal scallopini (to make it last longer) and finishes it and the Orvieto at the same time.

 

I get angry when I am scolded for crying and cry harder. ‘What’s wrong, Barbra?’ I hold back my answer because I know Ralphie will get angry at me. He quizzically asks me again and I blurt out, ‘Mrs. Davis died this afternoon. ‘ ’Mrs. Davis? Who the devil is she, a lost aunt you never mentioned, a college pal?’‘ Don’t make fun of my feelings. She was my patient in 401. I remember telling you about her and knowing you were paying a dime’s worth attention to me. Don’t I listen to you when you bitch your secretary stays out on sick leave and isn’t sick, when a big client balks at your bill?’

 

My fettuccine is only half eaten. It’s cold and pasty. I push it aside.
Barbra, want a cappuccino , a piece of cheese cake?’ I open my purse , take out a few fresh tissues and my lipstick, just to freshen my lips again.  ‘Let’s just go home, Ralphie. I can’t help be depressed. Mrs. Davis was only 29 and left beautiful 3 year old twins. Her husband was killed in Iraq. A cousin told me the girls may be tossed back and forth for a while between two aunts. If you’d see those aunts, you’d cry too. No, I guess you wouldn’t. Sometimes you are stone cold-hearted.’

 

Ralphie wipes his lips on his red checked napkin, takes my hand across the table and smooths it until a calm comes over me. He lets go long enough to pay the check and slides my chair out for me. As we waited in the vestibule for valet service to bring our car around I notice one tiny wet spot on Ralphie’s cheek. Was it wine or a tear? I decide it was a single, draw myself closer to him and whisper in his ear, ‘I’m sorry, Darling, really sorry. That’s all I can say. I’m sorry.’

 

The valet pulls up just as my man is hugging me, kissing my ears. We are not embarrassed. He stands there silently, waiting for his tip.
As soon as he gets it, closer the driver’s door, Ralphie takes my hand again, pecks at it and slowly admits he was callous . ‘I apologize Barbra.
What do you say to let’s go home and make our own twins.’ ‘Good idea,
Ralphie.’

 

Our evening wasn’t lousy after all.

Don't be afraid: BY ACCIDENT

At the corner of Pulaski and Southern, just as the green light is turning red, a big man, black, his head shaved, crosses over to my side of the street. He is going in the same direction I am going. Every step of his is two of mine. He reaches the bakery before I do, stops, looks over the sweets in the window and goes in. I decide to skip it and use the opportunity to get ahead of him, reach my bus stop at Hampton before he does. My bus is due in eight minutes but is usually off schedule.

 

The sun has not yet set. Rain clouds darken the sky. Hurry, I tell myself, the bus shelter will be filled. It is. The ladies have furled umbrellas. I don’t have one and don’t even have the donuts I had wanted to buy. With little choice, I move to the curb, right next to the bus Stop sign. A lady with a large, heavy shopping bag, a plastic rain hat tied under her chin, accidentally bumps into me. My knees buckle. The street comes up and smacks me in the face. Everything dims for a minute. I blink and am aware of my position, cars are approaching. Trying to stand pulls a scream from my throat. Somehow using my elbows and the little strength I still have, I manage to sit up. A red car brakes just a few feet away from me. My voice is weak. The people still in the shelter are oblivious, blind to my danger.

 

There is no time to pray. Rain falls in sheets. It splatters the streets and me. Big hands lift me as if I were a downy feather. A deep voice orders those standing around me gawking, to move, move now. The black man takes his cell phone from his jacket. I hear him give explicit directions to where we are, what he thinks has happened to me.
‘Don’t worry, Miss. Help is coming.’ From a leather briefcase that I hadn’t noticed before, he removes a yellow legal pad and pen. The bus is filling. The big man gets on. The door does not close.

 

I am left alone waiting for an ambulance. The traffic light turns green for the bus but it does not move. It sits there thru another green light. Riders talk to the driver and sit down again. At last my Savior gets off the bus.  He brings me the card of the woman who accidentally knocked me into the gutter. With it is a list of pertinent witnesses with all details written clearly. His black  broad hand reaches my small white one. We shake and introduce ourselves.

 

The ambulance takes me to the hospital. I’ve never been in one before and was entertained with jokes by the medic who sat beside me. All that had to be done, forms filled out,  x-rays taken and read, a cast bigger than I expected covered my toes to the middle of my tibia.
Jerry, my special other, comes racing into my temporary room, almost cries when he sees me. A nurse pushes my wheelchair to his car.

 

As soon as we get to my street, I see the big bald man sitting on my front steps. In one hand he holds a bouquet of dahlias. In the other, his brief case. Helpful again he only needs Jerry to steady the chair while he takes the brunt of it with me  yelling, ‘Be careful. Be careful. I don’t want another cast.’

 

Jerry makes coffee, offers a hard drink to the man I now call, Mr. Morrison. He says coffee will be nice and asks to be excused for a moment. I think he wants to use the bathroom but no, he goes out to his car and returns with a large white greasy bag that I smell a
 as soon as he comes in the door. Jerry gets a large platter from the cabinet and puts out only part of Mr. Morrison’s dozen and a half assorted donuts.

 

We eat. We enjoy, We laugh. We talk and we sign a paper making Mr. Morrison our attorney to handle my suit against the lady who accidentally knocked me over into the gutter.