Twinkle Toes Malone

The clock high above the town square chimed midnight. The courthouse windows emitted a dim, yellow light, giving them the appearance of eyes peering through the darkness. Inspector Tobias Malone moved stealthily across the lawn, stopping under a sycamore tree. He leaned back against the trunk to catch his breath. I’ve got to stop eating so much peanut butter pie, and drag out that Bowflex, he thought to himself. The street lamps, dimmed by dense fog, did little to alleviate the blackness of all Hallows Eve.

In this tiny town, with little else to do on Halloween, the teenage population threw all caution to the wind and morphed into vandals. Their target, the town square in general and the courthouse in particular. Tonight, Inspector Tobias planned to catch them in the act and toss them all in the pokey. The townspeople didn’t seem to mind the children’s antics, turning a blind eye, even enjoying their artwork. Last year, there were even parents out taking pictures of the mass of toilet paper streaming from the trees and the plastic wrap blocking the entrance on a busy court morning. Inspector Tobias, who doubled as maintenance man/groundskeeper, planned to change all that. He was sick of cleaning up toilet paper, and after all, vandalism was a crime. This year, he would be the courthouse hero.

Catching a movement out of the corner of his eye, Inspector Tobias jerked his head left, and then covered his mouth to keep from crying out in pain. However, the crack of his hard head striking an even harder tree seemed to echo around the downtown square. He dragged a handkerchief out of his back pocket and mopped up the warm blood trickling down the side of his face. He expected to wake up tomorrow with yet another black eye. Note to self, try to be less clumsy, he admonished.

A black cat joined him under the tree. He couldn’t see it, so he didn’t know it was old Mrs. Gilbert’s tom. He could only tell some furry creature was busy attacking his leg, and it hurt almost as much as his head. He gave the animal a swift kick. Only as it sailed through the air on its way to the side of the building, did he recognize the cat’s angry yowl. The noise stopped mid-screech. Tobias bent down to rub the scratch marks, only to discover his trouser legs were soaking wet. “Whoever the County is paying to mow this lawn needs fired. The grass is too high and the leaves need raked,” he muttered, and then remembered he was the groundskeeper. He briefly wondered if slamming a black cat against the side of a building was bad luck, shrugged, and turned his attention back to the task at hand.

After searching the dark, nebulous grounds for signs of movement, Inspector Tobias darted from tree to tree until he reached the courthouse doors. He slipped the master key in the lock, turned, and disappeared inside.

Inspector Tobias peeked outside. His eyes darted back and forth, coming to rest on a dark figure standing on the gazebo steps. Tobias jumped backwards. Just as he slammed his back against the wall, the hall lights came on. Certain he was not alone, Tobias dropped to his knees while simultaneously pulling his gun out of its holster. Unfortunately, the safety wasn’t on. The resulting gunshot reverberated throughout the building. The slug ricocheted off Abe Lincoln’s Portrait, curved back around, and made a bee line for Tobias. Fortunately the bullet missed his skull, merely removing a small section of the left ear lobe. Tobias spouted off his entire repertoire of curse words. Realizing he was responsible for tuning on the lights when he bumped into the switch, Tobias cursed again and turned them off.

With the aid of a pin light, Inspector Tobias made his way up to the third floor communications room. From the window, he would be able to keep an eye on the grounds and thwart any attempts at Halloween trickery.

Once inside the room, he propped the door open with a folding chair, and returned the pin light to his pocket. He looked out the window, relieved to see the fog seemed less dense. It was then he saw Brandon Carter slip from the cover of the sycamore tree and crouch down next to a bench. Other shadows separated from trees, moving toward the basement door. Before Tobias could turn to leave, the door behind him slammed shut, and the lock clicked into place.

Tobias tried opening the door, but the knob wouldn’t turn. Unfortunately repairing the broken latch was on his ‘to do’ list and he hadn’t gotten around to doing anything about it.

“Let me out of here, you little bastards,” he called.

A rustling near his feet had him turning the light on. Someone had slipped a note under the door. He muttered a curse word or two under his breath, as his eyes scanned the contents of the note—Put on the costume and we’ll let you out. Tobias turned around, and nearly screamed. At first he thought a woman was standing behind him, but then he realized it was only a frilly pink tutu hanging against the wall, leggings and matching ballet shoes lay on the floor beside him.

Inspector Tobias lost his cool. He kicked the door as hard as he could, and then hopped around on one foot until the pain lessened enough to speak, “Let me out of here you little shits!” Silence greeted his outburst.

Someone slipped another note under the door. Put on the costume, or you’ll be in there the rest of the weekend. It seemed to Tobias, there was nothing to do but comply or be locked up indefinitely. Besides, as soon as he had those vandals in handcuffs, he would put his uniform back on.

With his uniform neatly folded, Tobias wiggled into the pink tights, and then pulled on the tutu. It was a perfect fit. He slid his feet into matching ballet shoes, and resisted the urge to try a pirouette or petit jeté (jump) in such a small room. Still, habit forced him to stand erect in first position. He looked down at his feet and wondered if someone knew his mother had forced him to take ballet lessons, or was the costume a coincidence.

“Okay! I’m ready!” He called.

The door groaned loudly as it swung open. Inspector Tobias decided to give his audience a show. He closed his eyes, flipped on the third floor lights, and began a pas de chat (step of the cat), as he had done while performing Swan Lake so many years ago. He leaped off his left leg, starting from a plié and raised the right leg into retiré. In midair, he raised his left leg into retiré, too, so his legs formed a diamond shape in the air. He landed on his right leg and with his left leg still in retiré, brought it down, landing in a plié. He expected applause, but when he opened his eyes, he was alone.

He heard voices from the second floor courtroom, and made his way toward the railing to see what was going on down there. It was then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced to his right in time to see a wheel of cheese, or no, it wasn’t cheese, it was a large wheel of toilet paper, rolling toward him. In order to avoid being struck by the roll of speeding toilet paper, he performed a grand jeté. Unfortunately the jeté (jump) was too grand. Inspector Tobias gracefully slid through the air, over the third floor railing, and descended into the second floor courtroom. As he dropped toward the defendant’s table, he saw Brandon Carter again, and realized he was falling toward a Halloween party in full swing. The costumed attendees called out, “Happy Halloween Inspector Tobias!” Upon impact, the room went black.

When Tobias came to, he lay still, keeping his eyes closed. It was then he heard a distant voice call out, “Yoo whooo Poopsie! You awake? Yoo whoooo Twinkle Toes Malone, wake up. Did you forget you have a special Halloween matinee of Swan Lake?”

His mom knocked loudly on the bedroom door. “I’m up,” Tobias yelled.

Still, his mother continued in an accusatory voice, “Do you have a hangover? You didn’t spike the punch at the Courthouse Halloween party again—did you?”

On Hiatus

It's time to take a break. How long? I'm not sure. I have too many unfinished projects requiring my attention. I'm taking some time away from posting stories to finish editing a second book of short stories, and at least one of my two novels.
I'll be back when I can.
I will still visit my favorites when I can, and you can always come visit me over at
Rubbish by Roan
where I will be posting occasionally.
Thank you for your support!
There's a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall
And the bells in the steeple too.
And up in the nursery an ubsurd little bird
Is popping out to say cook-coo cook-coo, cook-coo
Regretfully they tell us cook-coo
But firmly they compell us cook-coo
To say goodbye cook-coo...
To you...

So long farewell, auf weidersehen good-bye
Marta
I hate to go and leave this pretty sight

So long farewell, auf weidersehen adieu
Freidrich
Adieu, adieu, to you and you and you

So long farewell, au revior auf weidersehen
Liesl
I'd like to stay and taste my first champagne
Yes?
Captain
No

So long farewell, auf weidersehen goodnight
Kurt
I leave and heave a sigh and say good bye - goodbyyyyyyeeeee!

Brigitta
I'm glad... to go.... I cannot tell a lie
Louisa
I fleet, I float, I fleetly flee I fly...

Gretl
The sun... has gone... to bed and so must I...

So long...farewell...auf weidersehen goodbye...
Goodbye...
Goodbye....
Goodbye....
Guests
Goodbye...

From "The Sound of Music"
Words by Oscar Hammerstein 2nd
Music by Richard Rodgers

My LIttle Chickadee

The Fillin’ Station isn’t really a filling station. You can’t buy gasoline there, at least not anymore. There was a time when you could have had your car repaired and fill up your tank, but that was before competition made it impossible for a small company to compete. So, the owner converted the building into a restaurant. Today, The Fillin’ Station only fills tummies, which is all Amy was looking for when she walked in the door Sunday evening.

The room was full. After all, it was all-you-can-eat fish night. Amy looked around for an empty table, but they were all occupied. No waitress came to assist her, or put her name on a waiting list. The Fillin’ Station seated customers on a first come, first served basis, and regulars knew to wait their turn. Amy waited. She leaned against the wall, and then the counter, waiting patiently, but no one seemed to be leaving. Everyone had their heads together, whispering, while glancing toward the last table in the far corner. Amy hated gossip, yet she always listened.

Amy allowed her eyes to wander toward the topic of conversation. A woman and a man such as she had never seen before, at least in her lifetime, were perusing the menu. The woman wore an oversized hat with a cluster of feathers reaching for the ceiling, and a figure-hugging blue gown with bugle beads. The man wore a dark suit. A top hat rested on the chair beside him. As Amy stared, the woman smiled and motioned for Amy to join them.

Without thinking, Amy slowly walked toward the table. As she came closer, the woman stood up. “Have a seat Honey,” she said.

The man took a silver flask from his pocket, “Care for some lemonade?”

Amy sat down, and shook her head in answer to the lemonade question. “Hi, I’m Amy,” was all she could come up with to say.

The woman’s voice was loud and authoritative, “Well, it’s nice to meet you Amy. You can call me Mae. This old codger is Bill.”

“Welcome, my little Chickadee,” the man said.

The word Chickadee got Amy to thinking. Yes, a Chickadee is a bird, but that wasn’t what tugged at her memory. She looked at the woman, and then at the man. Pointing, she said, “You’re Flower Belle Lee.” Turning her attention to the man, she said, “And you’re Cuthbert J. Twillie. Grandma and I watched your movie the other night.”

“Ah, yes. My Little Chickadee,” Bill said. “That movie was released in 1940. The first big screen success for Universal after Gone With the Wind. Although, the critics didn’t like it much. Flower Belle and Twillie were our character names. I’m W.C. Fields and this is Mae West. But you can call me Bill. Mae here didn’t like me much at the time, but she got over it.”

“That’s what you think, you old drunk. Do you remember your last line?”

“Come up and see me sometime. And you said?”

Mae chuckled and then said, “Mmm, I will, my little chickadee. And then I sashayed up the stairs. The editor put the words ‘The End’ over my well-endowed posterior.”

The waitress interrupted, “Have you decided?”

“What’s good here, Amy?” Mae asked.

“The all-you-can-eat fish. That is, if you’re not dieting. It’s pretty greasy.”

“I never worry about diets. The only carrots that interest me are the number of carats in a diamond.” She closed the menu, handed it to the waitress, and said, “I’ll have the catfish. And toss in a piece of cherry pie with that.”

Bill pointed to the flask on the table, “I’ll just have my lemonade.”

Amy ordered her usual shrimp and the waitress left. Amy said to Mae, “Are you and Bill married?”

“Heavens no, honey!”

“Have you ever been married?”

“Not to Bill, but I gave marriage a try. It’s easy to get married, but hard to stay that way. I say, don’t ever make the same mistake twice, unless it pays.”

“Do either of you have children?” Amy asked Bill.

“I like children – fried. Children should neither be seen or heard from – again. I never met a kid I liked.”

Mae gave Amy a wink, “Don’t let the old fool fool you, he has a son. He just hasn’t seen the kid in a while. It’s a sore spot.”

“And I haven’t stopped drinking since. Excuse me, I must have a drink for breakfast.” Bill tipped up the flask and took a gulp of the contents.

Mae frowned, “It’s dinner time you old fool. Why don’t you try drinking water?”

“I never drink water. I’m afraid it will become habit-forming.”

Amy watched as the two traded insults. She couldn’t quite decide if they hated each other, or if they were in love. Before she could decide, the food came. The women ate in relative silence, while Bill took a nip or two from his flask and watched people watch him.

Bill leaned in to whisper, “If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bull.” And then he stood up. He looked around, made eye contact with the obvious busy-bodies in the room and said, “Some weasel took the cork out of my lunch.” With that, he staggered toward the exit, and disappeared through the door.

Mae pushed back her chair and stood up, “I like a man who’s good, but not too good – for the good die young, and I hate a dead one. Better go make sure he doesn’t get run over crossing the street. It was nice meeting you, honey.”

With that she too disappeared through the door.

The waitress brought Amy’s food: a plate of fried shrimp, slaw, hush puppies, and a piece of cherry pie.

Realizing she was here to work, Amy shook the daydream from her head, opened her notebook, and picked up a pen. She began writing a review for the movie, My Little Chickadee.

The Hogg House

This is a joint effort for Portraint of Words and Sunday Scribblings. Plus I have provided a happy ending for Dr. John and Bettygram.

It was hot even before the sun broke through the fog over Moss Lake. An eagle circled high above Salt Lick Creek, spied an unsuspecting rabbit, and dived down to retrieve its prey. A doe lifted her head, listened, and went back to the destruction of Edna Faye’s garden. Bobbie tucked the old frayed sheet under her chin and covered her head with the extra pillow. It was way too early to start the day, so she tried to go back to sleep—unsuccessfully. As if the birds were not loud enough, Edna Faye’s mutt started barking. Bobbie was ready to permanently silence the flea ridden creature, when she heard Grandma Hogg moving around in the kitchen and caught the first whiff of bacon frying. Bobbie sat up in bed, remembering why she had returned to the hills of Tennessee.

Although Bobbie Jean had grown up on Badger Mountain, she moved away as soon as she could after graduating from high school. She knew there was a better life out there somewhere, and she promised herself she would find it. But, without a degree, her options were limited. The only thing she really knew how to do was wrestle. She was a champion wrestler in school, so Bobbie Jean Hogg took a job as a mud wrestler in a dive down in Possum Hollow. When she had enough money put back, she moved to the city, changed her name to Bobbie Hogan, and took another job mud wrestling at a club in Knoxville. The job didn’t pay much, but the tips made up for the pitiful wage. So, even though she loathed her job, she blocked out the cat calls, fought hard every night, and saved her money. From there she began her career as a WWF wrestler named, Bobbie the Bad. She was one of the top names in the business, which allowed her to branch out into commercials and eventually television.

Moving to California made her a rich woman. Now she wanted to help her family. If only she still had a family. Her parents were killed two years ago when a tractor trailer rear-ended their car on Highway 67, and since Papaw died before she was born, Granny Hogg was her only living relative. With her sitcom on hiatus, Bobbie came home to hire a contractor. She planned to surprise Granny Hogg with a new house filled with modern conveniences.

Dressed in a pair of newly cut off jeans and t-shirt, Bobbie looked overdressed in a room with only a chair and the rickety, old bed Papaw built using rough hewn wood. She tucked the sheet neatly under the mattress and went in search of breakfast.

Granny wasn’t in the kitchen. To keep flies off the food, Granny always placed a tablecloth over the table. Bobbie lifted the age-yellowed cloth to reveal eggs, hash browns, and bacon. She folded the cloth and threw it over the back of a chair, filled her plate, and poured a cup of coffee from the pot left warming on the stove. She carried her plate outside and sat down on the steps. Granny was across the road chatting with Edna Faye. If it was possible, Edna Faye’s two-room shack was in more disrepair than Granny’s. Both were no more than cabins most people wouldn’t even use for camping.

When Edna Faye saw Bobbie Jean, she waved. Granny smiled. Bobbie waved back and took a bite of bacon. As she chewed and watched the two friends laughing and talking, she had an idea. She would build two new houses, one for Granny, and one for Edna Faye.

With her mind busy formulating plans, Bobbie didn’t notice the truck until it stopped in front of her. She read the name on the side, Moss Lake Contractors. As the door opened and a man got out, Bobbie Jean stood up.

A man about Bobbie’s age got out of the truck and slowly walked toward her. She met him halfway. He held out his hand, “Hi Bobbie Jean. It’s good to see you again.”

Bobbie took his hand and looked up into familiar green eyes. Her mouth opened to speak, closed, and then opened again. She finally managed one word, “Marshall?”

“It’s been a long time.”

Bobbie nodded, and let go of Marshall’s hand as if it were a hot coal.

In a voice laced with hurt, Marshall said, “You left.”

“I had to.”

“You left without answering my question.”

“I answered your question by leaving,” Bobbie took a step back. “We’re not here to talk about the past. I want to hire a contractor, and you’re obviously one, so let’s talk business.”

It wasn’t easy convincing the two women to accept Bobbie’s gift. Yet, after a lot of friendly banter, they both agreed. As days turned into weeks, Bobbie and Marshall worked together to make sure Granny Hogg and Edna Faye had houses they could be proud of. The Hogg's house was gone, as was Edna Faye's shack. In their place were two small, ranch-style homes. Granny’s house was gray with white trim, Edna’s yellow with green trim. Marshall even built a matching dog house for Old Pete, Edna Faye’s dog. It was almost time for Bobbie to go home. California waited.

Edna Faye’s niece, Trixie Sue, had been hanging around the job site. At first Bobbie thought she was merely visiting her aunt, until this morning when she saw Trixie’s hand on Marshall’s arm while they talked with their heads together. The sight caused Bobbie to clench her fists. It was all she could do to keep from grabbing the woman by the hair and tossing her off the mountain. Her reaction opened her eyes. She was falling in love with Marshall all over again, and he was obviously smitten with Trixie Sue. It was time to leave.

That night, Granny Hogg invited Marshall to stay for dinner. He tried to decline, but Granny convinced him to stay and enjoy a celebratory meal. After dinner, Bobbie excused herself, stating she was tired. Yet instead of going to bed, Bobbie escaped out the back door. She took a path through the woods toward Salt Lick Creek. She found her favorite spot next to a shallow pool of water, and sat down on a rock. It wasn’t just any rock, it was her special rock. As a child, this was where she came to dream.

Bobbie pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. She took a deep breath, marveling at how fresh the air smelled. She listened to the night creatures singing, realizing how much she missed this place, and how much she missed Marshall. She was so deep in thought she didn’t hear footsteps on the path until Marshall sat down beside her.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said, placing one arm around her, pulling her close.

Bobbie relaxed against him, “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered. This is where we had our first kiss. This is where I fell in love with you.” Marshall gently tipped her chin up until he could see her eyes, “Why did you leave without giving me an answer? Without even saying goodbye?”

“Because I had to go and I knew if I looked into your eyes, I would have stayed.”

“Would that have been so terrible?”

“I thought so at the time.”

Marshall held his breath, “And now?”

After a long pause, Bobbie whispered, “If I could, I would stay.”

“Then stay. With me.”

Bobbie pulled away and stood up. She leaned against the hard bark of a tree, bringing herself back to reality, “What about Trixie Sue? You two seem pretty cozy.”

Marshall laughed, “Trixie Sue is married to Curtis. You remember Curtis? My best friend since forever? We have been planning a surprise party for his thirtieth birthday next week.” Marshall laughed again, “You thought we were?”

“Well, you were always whispering together.”

Marshall’s smile faded. He took Bobbie’s hands in his, and said, “I’m going to ask you again.”

Bobbie’s hands shook. She couldn’t speak.

With one hand, Marshall reached into his pocket, pulled out a small box, before bending down on one knee. He opened the box, revealing a large marquis cut diamond, and said, “I’m not a pauper, I make good money as a contractor. I even built a house up on Eagle Peak. Victorian, like you always wanted. It’s our dream house. Remember? I know you have a job in California, but you can commute. We will find a way around the obstacles. Bobbie Jean Hogg, Hogan, or whatever you call yourself these days, how about changing your name to Bobbie Sadler? Marry me?”

Without hesitation, Bobbie Jean answered, “Yes!”

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One Little Word

Roger tucked his work gloves into the back pocket of his jeans, threw a hammer and a box of sixteen penny nails into a beat up tool box, padlocked it, and walked slowly toward his truck. The truck’s once bright red color had faded to a dull red mixed with rust. The tailgate bowed in, the result of old Mrs. Hackett rear ending him at the stop sign on Hawthorne Road. The right front fender was caved in, through no one else’s fault. Roger was driving too fast around an icy curve, when the truck veered off the road into a grove of trees. He was lucky there wasn’t more damage. The back window, broken out last month, had been replaced by a piece of plywood. Roger climbed inside and turned the key, but all he heard was a clicking sound. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, threw his cap down on the seat beside him, and leaned back against the seat.

His life had become a series of unfortunate events, beginning with Nancy’s death last year. He had watched his wife die a slow, painful death. He tried everything to make her more comfortable, but nothing he could do helped. On the day before their thirtieth wedding anniversary, Nancy left him alone. Melanie comforted her father, as he did her, yet there was no comfort in the loss of their beloved wife and mother. A few days later, Melanie went back to her husband in California, and Roger to a life alone. Nancy’s medical bills had taken their life savings, leaving Roger’s personal finances depleted and contracting business running in the red. He ran his hands threw his hair, picked up his cap, and climbed out of the truck.

It was a short walk to Sweet Sue’s. Sue operated a bake shop and coffee bar, which also served croissant sandwiches. Roger’s stomach grumbled. He looked at his watch and decided to eat before calling his friend Larry for a ride.

Roger finished his chicken salad sandwich and chewed the last bite of a dill pickle. He put a dollar bill on the table and went outside. He stuffed the proper coins in the slot of the pay phone, and punched in Larry’s number. No answer. Roger hung up the phone, listened to the coins fall, and plucked them from the coin return tray. He couldn’t think of anyone else to call. He started to try the number again. Instead, he dropped the coins in his pocket and proceeded to walk the two miles home.

The park wasn’t the quiet, pleasant place he had hoped. He skirted the gazebo, pausing long enough to listen to one song by the local pop band holding a free concert. The drummer was the son of an acquaintance from church. The music was too loud, the pounding drum threatened to cause a migraine. Roger started to walk away, when Myrtle stepped in front of him.

Myrtle’s husband died of a heart attack two years ago. Since then, Myrtle preyed upon the widowers of the community. Roger was her most recent target. He tried to step around her, she stepped the same way. They collided. Roger wasn’t in the mood. Without saying a word, he took her by the shoulders, gently moved her aside, and continued his lonely walk home. No one could take the place of his Nancy. He wanted to turn the clock back. All he wanted to do was be with his wife.

By the time Roger turned up the walk to his house, it was almost dark. He stopped in front of the door, dreading another evening alone. He sat down on the stone bench beneath a weeping willow tree. Nancy bought the bench from a garden shop down the street soon after she learned she was sick. She had the words LIVE WELL––LAUGH OFTEN––LOVE MUCH inscribed on the seat. Roger ran his finger over the words and spoke softly to the sky, “How can I live, laugh, or love without you Nancy?”

With tears streaming down his face, Roger walked down to the dock and climbed aboard The Promise. Instead of traveling around the country in an RV after retirement, Roger and Nancy planned to spend their time fishing in the gulf. But he wouldn’t be retiring anytime soon. Nancy’s medical bills were about to push him into bankruptcy. He hated giving up their dream. Roger ripped the For Sale sign off the side and watched it float away in the water. He stood there until the sign disappeared into the darkness, and then picked up a coil of rope before returning to the house.

Returning to his seat on the bench, Roger fashioned one end of the rope into a noose, something he had practiced as a youngster after watching a Gunsmoke episode. He looked at the noose, surprised how easily he remembered to tie the slip knot. Calmly, unwavering in his resolve, Roger unlocked the front door. His foot bumped into a package left on the mat. He picked it up and carried it inside.

Roger tossed the package on the sofa, looked at the blinking light on the answering machine, and turned on a lamp. He tossed one end of the rope around the open cross beams in the living room and tied it securely. After positioning a dining room chair beneath the noose, Roger stood on the chair and pulled the noose over his head, tightening the slip knot around his neck.

It was then the telephone rang. On the third ring, the answering machine picked up. He listened to his daughter’s excited voice, “Dad. Are you home yet? Did you get my package? Call me!”

Roger stared at the package on the sofa, wondering why his daughter was so excited about a package. Curiosity had him removing the rope from around his neck, and jumping down from the chair. He picked up the package and ripped off the paper. Inside he found a letter and a huge diaper pin. He read the letter.

Hi Dad,

Guess what? Brad is being transferred back home. We’ll be moving by the end of the month. I know you have the house up for sale, so we want you to sell it to us. The master bedroom suite would still be yours. We would hire you to build a couple more rooms on the back of the house. Please let me know.

In case you are wondering about the diaper pin, well, you’re going to be a grandpa. I hope you are excited as we are. I only wish mom were still here. She would have made a wonderful grandmother.

Call me when you get this.

I love you,

Melanie

Roger reread the letter. Not only was he going to be a grandfather and have his daughter back, but selling the house would certainly help with his money problems. This time when the telephone rang, Roger answered it.

“Hi Dad. Did you get my package yet?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, what do you think?”

Roger smiled, “You have made me the happiest man in the world and saved my life, all with one little word.”

“Now you’re being dramatic. But I’ll play along. What word Dad?”

“Grandpa.”

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Purple Girl

Disclaimer: I'm not nuts. Really. I swear, when I first looked at this picture that girl had purple hair. She had her hair dyed blue to trick me! ;)

There are no Mulberry trees on Mulberry Lane. It is rumored the first resident, Ashby Howard, didn’t like purple berries staining his veranda, so he had all the trees cut down. In the mid 1800’s, Howard replaced the Mulberry trees with Live Oaks along both sides of the lane leading from the house to the main road. Today, those trees provide a roof of perennial green leaves, shading the entire street and driveway leading up to Howard Hall.

Mulberry Lane is two blocks long, beginning at Maple Grove Road and ending at the locked gates of Howard Hall. Only two other homes, Heritage Place and Gilmore House, were built on Mulberry Lane, each by Ashby Howard’s two sons after they married. Ashby’s granddaughter, Bernice Howard, an eighty year old spinster, lived her entire life in Howard Hall. Heritage Place was sold after Ashby’s death and has been occupied by the Hellerman family for the past forty years. Gilmore House is currently for sale, or it was until yesterday when the Realtor placed a sold sign by the front gate.

Bernice was a hermit. It had been over twenty years since the last time she ventured outside the gates. Visitors were not encouraged. She only left the house to ride her yellow Columbia bicycle to get the mail. The mailbox was a two sided box secured in the fence next to the gates. The mailman opened it from the front, left the mail, and Bernice opened it from the rear to retrieve the mail. She would park her bike, get the mail, and promptly return to the house. However, a particularly warm mid-June day changed her routine.

As Bernice closed the mailbox, a moving van turned into Mulberry Lane. Her curiosity aroused, Bernice watched as the truck came to a stop in front of Gilmore House. A black Mercedes passed the truck and pulled into the drive a little too fast, barely missing a support column, before coming to a quick stop. A woman with long blond hair jumped out of the driver’s side and hurried to the front door. The passenger door opened more slowly, revealing the silhouette of a young girl, possible in her teenage years. When she stepped into the sunlight, Bernice took a step back. Purple hair! The girl had purple hair. Bernice had never seen anything quite like it before. She knew of such things from watching television, but never believed anyone would actually dye their hair such an offensive color. The girl saw Bernice watching, smiled, and waved. Bernice dropped her eyes, turned her bicycle toward home, and pedaled home faster than she had in several years.

After parking the bicycle next to her father’s 1946 Buick Roadster, which was regularly cleaned, but never driven, Bernice went through the rear door of the garage. She bent down to enjoy the fragrance of a tea rose the gardener, Klaus, planted a few weeks ago, and entered the house by way of the kitchen. Bernice ignored Phyllis, who was busy dicing onions to put in a pot of soup. The onions made Bernice's eyes sting. She thumbed through the mail, put the electric bill on the table, the newspaper under her arm, and tossed the rest in the trash can. After pouring a glass of iced tea, she went outside. She took a seat on the veranda, in the wicker chair she hated, but which just happened to provide a clear view of Gilmore House. Bernice told herself she wasn’t being nosy, merely curious.

The movers were busy unloading the truck. Bernice watched a tall man set a chair and side table on the lawn. The chair reminded her of the ultra contemporary chair her niece, Krista, gave her a few years ago for Christmas. Krista thought she was an interior designer. Instead of using the chair in her bedroom as Krista intended, Bernice tucked it away in a rarely occupied guest room. She preferred more comfortable chairs. The purple haired girl reappeared, this time carrying one of those newfangled musical boxes, with headphones over her ears. She plopped down on the ugly chair, her head bouncing up and down, presumably to the beat of the music.

The girl sat cross legged, pulled a book out of her pocket, and settled back to read. Bernice considered reading an odd activity for someone with purple hair. Bernice retired from teaching many years ago, still the teacher in her smiled. She thought kids should read more instead of watching television. Of course the girl was probably reading one of those vampire books the young people were so crazy about these days. Still, she was reading and that was a good thing.

Another car turned onto Mulberry Lane, this one a red convertible. A much older man pulled into the driveway of Gilmore House and parked beside the other car. Bernice assumed he was the girl’s grandfather, until the blond came running out the front door, practically jumping into his arms. The two kissed longer than was appropriate in front of the movers. The girl didn’t look up, and the man didn’t acknowledge the girl. The girl’s stepfather, Bernice surmised. Bernice analyzed the scene before her and decided the blond was a gold digger, who probably married the unsuspecting older man for his money.

The clock on the mantle chimed twelve. It was time for lunch. Bernice and Purple Girl, as she dubbed her, rose simultaneously. Their eyes met. Bernice went inside, while the girl walked toward a bench shaded by a sugar maple tree.

Monday of the following week, promptly at 10:00, Bernice climbed aboard the yellow bicycle for her daily ride to the mailbox. A few wispy clouds dotted an otherwise blue sky. She parked the bike and took a deep breath. The roses were in full bloom. Bernice broke off a pink one, and tucked it in the buttonhole of the white sweater she wore. She inspected a few leaves to make sure there were no aphids, before getting the mail.

As she looked inside the mailbox, she saw a pair of emerald green eyes, surrounded by wisps of purple hair, staring at her. Bernice took a quick step backward, grabbing her throat. Realizing this was the girl from next door, Bernice spoke through the gate, “Look here young lady, I’m an old woman. Are you trying to scare me to death?”

The girl peeked through the bars of the gate. To her credit, she looked embarrassed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize––I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

“Other than my heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings, I guess I’ll survive. What are you doing down here anyway?”

“I’ve come to see if you really do cast spells on people.”

“I see you’ve been talking to the Hellerman’s brat. If I could cast spells, I would cast one on that little monster.”

“He thinks you can. In fact, he tells me you fly on your broom when the moon is full.”

Bernice reached inside the mailbox and pulled out the newspaper and a catalog, “I do have a broom. It’s made out of straw, but it doesn’t fly. If it did, Micah’s window would be my first stop.”

“So why is he scared of you?”

“Probably because I caught him stealing my garden gnomes. I had six of them over there under that willow tree. I noticed one was missing. The next day, another one was gone. I decided to catch whoever it was, so I hid behind the tree one evening. When I saw the little thief, I reached out and grabbed him by the collar. He screamed like a banshee. I told him those gnomes were really bad little boys I turned to stone. When I let go, he took off faster than a streak of lightening. I haven’t seen him since. Good riddance, I say.”

“Don’t you like kids?”

“I don’t have much use for them.”

“Me, either. Most girls my age are just plain mean. All they want to do is gossip and make fun of anyone that doesn’t fit into their group.” the girl said.

Bernice looked past the purple hair, catching a glimpse of herself at that age. Feeling sympathetic, yet not wanting to become attached to this odd girl, Bernice climbed aboard her bicycle, and said, “Goodbye Purple Girl.”

The girl raised her arm to wave, but Bernice was already halfway up the driveway and didn’t see.

For the next few weeks, each time Bernice opened her mailbox, she saw Purple Girl peering back. Bernice would complain and tell the girl she was a pest. Yet she secretly enjoyed their conversations. Bernice taught Purple Girl about the care of roses, and told her stories about Mulberry Lane and the Howard family. Purple Girl taught Bernice how to operate an ipod, and talked about how much she disliked her new stepfather, and missed her father. Bernice learned Purple Girl’s favorite foods were egg rolls and peanut butter cookies. The two found they had a love of books in common. Even though the girl’s name was Meagan, Bernice vowed to call her Purple Girl as long as she had purple hair. Bernice would never admit it, but she was becoming quite fond of the girl.

It was a Monday morning in early August, August 5^th to be exact, and even though Bernice disliked baking, that morning she baked an entire batch of peanut butter cookies. She wrapped them in red cellophane and placed them in a bag along with a bottle of milk, a bag of egg rolls ordered from China King, and a well read copy of Jane Eyre. It was Purple Girl’s birthday. To mark the occasion, Bernice planned to open the front gate and invite the girl inside for a picnic.

Bernice arrived at the mailbox early, spread a blanket on the ground under a shade tree, and waited for Purple Girl to arrive. As Bernice paced back and forth across the driveway, she thought about how much she looked forward to seeing the girl everyday. On Sundays, she found herself looking forward to Mondays. The bells at St. Barnabus chimed ten, eleven, and then twelve. Bernice waited. Purple Girl didn’t come.

At one o’clock, Bernice paused by the gate. Her eyes searched the grounds of Gilmore House for some sign of movement. She didn't see anyone, not even a groundskeeper. Worried, Bernice placed a quivering hand on the latch. Her heart beat gained momentum. Breathing became difficult over the lump in her throat, while beads of sweat gathered across her brow. She gave the gate a quick tug. It opened.

Bernice stood there, looking at the invisible barrier between her comfort zone and the unknown terror beyond. She lifted her right foot to take a step forward, set it down, and lifted it again. She wanted to know her friend was okay, but her psyche wouldn’t allow her to cross the line. Exasperated, she slammed the gate, packed up the uneaten food, and rode slowly back to the house.

Out on the veranda, Bernice sat down in the chair nearest Gilmore House. Her eyes continued to search for signs of life. There were no cars, and no mother or stepfather. Bernice decided Purple Girl was spending the day with her mother. What better way for a teenager to celebrate her birthday than lunch and shopping. She was just starting to relax when she saw movement in an upstairs window. Surely the girl wasn’t alone on her birthday. Yet there she was, staring down from her window.

Bernice went inside, where she paced from the dining room, through the living room and back to the veranda where she had a good view of the neighboring house. She wondered when she had become so dependent on human contact. There were people in her daily life. Klaus and William were the groundskeepers, Phyllis cooked all her meals, and Peg and Midge cleaned. She talked to these people. Bernice wondered why, after twenty years of self imposed exile, she missed Purple Girl so much, and then she knew. She didn’t just miss taling to the girl, she missed her friend.

The yellow bicycle sped down the driveway. Bernice’s favorite blue scarf flapped in the wind, loosened, and flew through the air like a kite with a broken string, but Bernice didn’t stop to retrieve it. Bernice pedaled faster. When she reached the front gate, she stopped long enough to open the gate. Without considering what she was doing, Bernice got back on her bike and turned toward Gilmore House.

Bernice grabbed the bag of cookies out of the bicycle’s basket, and with the help of a sturdy handrail, made her way up the winding steps to the front door. She rang the bell and waited. She was about to ring the bell again when a young girl with long dark hair opened the door. Bernice couldn’t help but notice her red nose and puffy eyes. The girl reached out and took Bernice’s arm. At first Bernice resisted. At least until she recognized the girl’s smile.

“Meagan? Is that you?”

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Get Your Party On

Keith has come up with a great writing meme called Carry on Tuesday. This is my offering:

When Edith Hammond, was ten years old, she ordered an acoustic guitar out of the Sears Robuck catalog. She paid for it with money earned from selling eggs. After paying for the guitar, there wasn’t enough money for lessons, so Edith taught herself to play.

When her granddaughter, Sadie, was old enough to learn, Edith taught her to play on that same guitar. At age six, Sadie wrote her first song while her grandma picked out the melody.

After Grandma Edith passed away, Sadie continued writing songs alone. Instead of going to sorority parties during college, Sadie’s light burned late into the night, softly strumming that same old guitar, while melodies magically mixed with words. The summer after she graduated from Vanderbilt University, Sadie sold her first song. Now, a mere ten years later, she would play hostess to record executives and music company moguls. The guest of honor was the man who had been her inspiration, Paul McCartney. Sadie had worked hard to become the successful songwriter she was, and this Christmas party was designed to reflect that success.

Striving for perfection, Sadie picked up the last red and green napkin, folded it into the shape of a fan, shook it out, and then folded it again. Satisfied, she pulled the cloth through a silver ring. The napkin was then placed next to the plate at the head of the table. The Christmas china and silverware were from Neiman Marcus in Houston, bought specifically for this occasion. The table sparkled in the light cast by the Venetian chandelier, designed for her by Linea Mazzuccato of Italy. Sadie ran her hand over the elegant fleur-de-lis pattern gracing the Bellagio table linens, and then took a step back to admire her handiwork. She had succeeded in her quest for perfection.

Satisfied with the dining room, Sadie moved on to the kitchen where she confirmed the caterer had everything under control. She paused to criticize her reflection in a mirrored panel. An errant hair was captured and tamed, faded lipstick refreshed. Sadie looked like one of those cover girls on Vogue magazine: tall, thin, and regal. Her gown was an original Victor Costa design, found in a quaint little shop in Dallas. When she twirled in front of the mirror, silver sequins sent sparks chasing each other around the room.

A glance at the clock had Sadie hurrying upstairs to put on her shoes. She went inside the walk-in closet she had designed herself, picked out the shoes she planned to wear, and sat down on the bench with her back to the door. She was leaning down to put on the first shoe, when the closet door slammed shut.

Startled, Sadie called out, “Hello,” but no one answered.

She wiggled her foot into the other shoe and tried the door, but it wouldn’t open. Sadie twisted the knob hard and pushed, still nothing. She was locked in the closet and her guests were arriving downstairs. Sadie banged on the door, jiggled the knob, screamed for help, yet no one came.

Frantically, she searched through the closet for something to break the lock. Clothes and shoes now lay strewn over the plush, white carpet. Sadie surveyed the room. If only she had kept one of the baseball bats from her softball days. Just then her eyes found a fireplace poker propped in the corner. She had left it there for protection the night a news story warned of an escaped prisoner in the area. Relief gave her strength, and one quick strike opened the door.

Sadie hurried down the stairs. She stopped outside the living room, composed herself, and made a controlled entrance. The room was empty. Laughter drew her toward the dining room. She pushed open the door, expecting to see her guests. Instead of Sir Paul, a large black pig sat at the head of the table. He was chatting with a duck sitting in the chair to his left. Another duck used its beak to shovel a stuffed mushroom off the expensive china. The rest of the chairs were filled with dogs, cats, goats, even sheep, and at the far end of the table sat a large black and white cow. All of the animals were chattering in their own dialect, adding to the chaos that reigned supreme. What were these creatures doing in her house?

“Get out! Shoo! Get out!” Sadie screamed at the top of her lungs. Not one of the animals moved or even looked in her direction. Were they deaf? She screamed at them again, still nothing. The doorbell chimed. Sadie panicked. The real guests were arriving and her beautiful table was ruined. She ran around the room trying to get rid of the intruders. Each time she removed a creature from the table, another one appeared. Now there were squirrels, raccoons, ground hogs, and the cow had been replaced by an over sized skunk. That smelled!

Exhausted, Sadie leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor. Resting her head in her hands, pandemonium faded into the background, the light dimmed, darkness prevailed.

Sadie! Sadie! Wake up.”

Sadie wiped the sleep from her eyes, “Mom? What is it?”

Sadie’s mom sat down on the edge of the bed. “You’re going to be late. I tried to wake you, but you kept yelling at me to get out.”

Abruptly, Sadie sat up, “What time is it?”

“Time for you to get out of bed sleepy head, your appointment is in forty-five minutes. It’s a good thing we live so close to Music Row. We’ll celebrate when you get back. You know they’re going to love your song. Now get up, Little Miss Songwriter.”

There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams. What seems is not always as it is. Yet, in Sadie’s case, the two dreams coincide, sort of. Sadie took a deep breath, willing her heartbeat to return to normal. She looked around the room, recognizing Grandma Edith’s Sears Robuck guitar standing in the corner. Sadie threw back the covers and hopped out of bed. It was time to make her dreams come true. Well, the Paul McCartney part anyway.