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 The back window, broken out last month, had been replaced by a piece of plywood.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.

If I Were You

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

Everyone suddenly burst out singing, and I was filled with such delight, as was everyone lining Main Street the night Vivian came home. Viv, as her friends call her, is our hometown celebrity. The day she turned sixteen, New York City and Broadway swept her away. She occasionally made it home for a holiday, usually Christmas. The last time she came home was for her mother’s funeral seven years ago. Now she is making movies.

Viv is my best friend. We have known each other since first grade. Since our last names both end in G and our teachers usually seated their classes alphabetically, we spent most of our youth together. Truth be told, I was a little jealous of Viv’s singing voice. I always wanted to sing, but I couldn’t carry a tune in a rusty bucket, so I decided I would be a dancer. The only problem with that idea was, I had, and still have, two left feet. Yes, I’m a no talent klutz. Still, Viv and I remained best friends. Our letters and phone calls have deteriorated to birthdays and holidays, but at least we still keep in touch.

Viv is a celebrity, and I’m a stay-at-home mom. I often wonder what her glitzy life in New York City is like. She has invited me, but I'm always too busy with my husband and our three boys to make the trip. Therein lies my talent, if housekeeping can be referred to as a talent. My home could be featured in one of those decorating magazines. Each room is color coordinated and neat as a pin, even with two teenagers doing their best to muck it up with mud from soccer shoes, football cleats, and in-line skates. Of course there is baby James, now four, our final try for a girl, who is more than capable of muddying up the place without any help from his older brothers. I am a gourmet cook, when I have the time, and I even go so far as to iron sheets, even though the fabrics are mostly wrinkle free. I’m a little bit of a neat freak. Okay, so I’m a whole lot of neat freak, but that’s who I am. Viv is a talented singer/actress, I’m a neat freak. Alright, I’ll embrace the truth. I’m a whole lot of jealous when it comes to Viv.

The moment Viv’s car turned the corner onto Main Street, the crowd starting singing Viv’s most recent hit, If I Were You. That little green monster disappeared the moment I saw Viv’s smiling face. When she saw me, she stopped her car and jumped out. We gave each other the biggest hug we could manage on the crowded street, and started chattering away like the old friends we were. Once the initial exuberance waned, Viv asked, “Want to come with me to my hotel for a drink?”

I looked toward my husband. After greeting Viv he said, “You go on. Have fun. I’ll pick up Trey and Greg from soccer practice. James, come with me.” He took his youngest son by the hand, and the two of them disappeared down the alley.

Thrilled to be on my own for a few hours, I hooked my arm through Viv’s, “Let’s go!”

Inside the Remington’s penthouse suite, I nearly salivated over the décor. I mentally took notes on how I could use some of the decorator’s ideas when I revamped the master bedroom at home. After room service brought a bottle of champagne and tray of appetizers, we sat down on the sofa, which offered a magnificent view of Lake Louise.

I looked at Viv, “Wow. This room is amazing. You are so lucky, traveling around the world, rubbing shoulders with celebrities. What am I saying, you are a celebrity. You have a truly wonderful life. You know, I’ve always been jealous of you.”

Viv nearly choked on her champagne, “You’ve been jealous of me? I can’t go out in public without having my makeup and hair done, and must always wear the perfect designer outfit. I rarely sleep in the same bed a whole week. Tabloids say mean things about me. I cry myself to sleep more nights than I can count. My dream is to find a husband who wants me for me, and not my name. I want to be a wife and mother. I’ve always been jealous of you.”

The two women looked at each other, and burst out singing, If I were you and you were me, oh how happy we would be…

The Watcher

Somehow, somewhere, somebody knows. Unaware he was being watched, the man glared down at the dead woman. With a smirk on his face, he lifted the axe high overhead and aimed for her neck. When the axe blade hit its mark, a loud thunk echoed through the dark woods. Blood splatters colored the white bark of a nearby birch tree. The decapitated head rolled downhill, scaring a rabbit who shot out of a clump of weeds. Twigs snapped and dry leaves crackled under the weight. As if a bowling ball rolling toward a strike, the head quickly made its way to the river below. After a loud splash, quiet settled over Gunther’s woods.

Meanwhile…

“Mary!”

Mary’s eyes flipped open. Sweat covered her body. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, and then slowly, carefully, turned her head enough to see the alarm clock next to the bed. The numbers were blurred. She blinked, and tried again, but she couldn’t read the time. Instead, Mary thought she saw the outline of a face, yet it wasn’t exactly a face. It was more like what she would consider an energy field. Mary rubbed her eyes. She chastised herself for watching too many Sci Fi movies before bedtime, and then looked again. The face was still there, hovering over the edge of the bed.

“Mary!” It called again.

The voice was that of her sister, “Lizzy? Is that you?”

As Mary stared, the mouth opened and screamed the words, “Get up! Run!”

Mary didn’t wait to be told twice, she was out of bed in a flash. She snatched her silk robe off the chaise at the foot of the bed, stuffing her arms in the sleeves as she ran down the winding stairway from the third floor to the second, finally reaching the front hall. Normally proud of her family’s opulent home, she wished it were a shorter trip to the exit. The robe billowed out behind her as she ran across the marble floor. Finally reaching her destination, Mary turned on a lamp, fumbled in the drawer for keys to the Mercedes parked under the portico, found them, and flung open the door. The door opened with such force, the knob embedded itself inside the wall. Mary raced outside, only to be stopped by a warm wall of human flesh. Mary screamed.

It was too dark to see the man’s face, yet she knew it was a man by his muscular build. His arms grabbed hers and pushed her back, “Mary! It’s me. Willard. What’s wrong?”

Even though she didn’t particularly like Willard, she was relieved to see him. She knew Willard from school. He was two years older, but their school was small, only fifty-two in her graduating class. Everyone knew everyone. Mary didn’t vote for Willard when he ran for sheriff. He gave her the creeps. She often saw him staring at Lizzy, and not in a good way. Still, Mary threw her arms around him as if he were a long lost friend. After all, he was the Bradshaw County Sheriff.

Once Mary stopped shaking, Willard tried again, “What’s wrong, Mary?”

Mary swiped a sleeve across her eyes, “I saw Lizzy.”

“What do you mean, you saw Lizzy?”

“I saw her. She called my name.”

“You couldn’t have seen Lizzy. You do know that don’t you? She’s gone. Seeing her buried today probably gave you nightmares, that’s all.”

“I saw her!” Calmer now, Mary thought about what she was saying, “Well, I thought I saw her. I know I heard her call my name. She was trying to warn me.”

“Warn you?”

“Yes. Warn me. She told me to run.”

“Run where?”

Emotion caused a quiver in Mary’s voice, “That’s all she said. I was leaving when I bumped into you.”

Willard pulled Mary back into his arms. She closed her eyes and relaxed against his broad chest. The fear she felt earlier, eased. That is, until she opened her eyes. This time there was no mistaking the face in front of her. It was Lizzy. The head was not supported by a body, yet a finger across the lips told Mary to be quiet. The mouth silently told her to run. Mary nodded. The head became misshapen, and then transparent, before disappearing into the blackness of a moonless night.

Mary took a step back. Willard let go. “I’m alright now,” she said as she took another step backward, and another. “I think you’re right, I must have been having a nightmare.”

Willard saw the fear in her eyes, as she backed toward the safety of the house, “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

Mary’s attempt at laughter came out as a screech when she spoke, “Don’t be silly, of course not. I’m just tired. I need sleep.”

As Mary said goodnight, Willard took a step forward, stopped, and retrieved something from behind a shrub. The lamp light from the hall table became a spotlight, illuminating a coil of nylon rope. A hangman’s noose dangled from one end.

Willard’s strong hand whipped out and grabbed Mary’s arm, “Not so fast, honey. We’ve got some unfinished business.”

She tried to pull away, but his grip was strong, “Wh-what are you doing?”

“I’m taking what belongs to me.”

“I-I d-don’t understand.”

Willard made a sweeping motion with his free arm, “All this. This rightfully belongs to me. I’m Jeffrey Winfield’s first born, not Lizzy. I’m his real heir, not you. My mother wasn’t good enough for the Winfield family. So you and your stuck-up family left us to rot in that shack down by Mueller’s Creek. I’m merely setting things right.”

Struggling to free herself, Mary tried to distract him, “What are you talking about? You’re crazy!”

Keeping his vice-like grip on Mary’s arm, Willard turned slightly and pulled down the collar of his shirt, giving her a view of the back of his neck, “Recognize this birthmark?”

The birthmark was about the size of a nickel, only it wasn’t round. It was shaped like the cursive letter R. Mary’s eyes moved to her arm, just below the elbow, observing an identical mark. Her indrawn breath told Willard she understood.

“Too bad you were so distraught over your sister’s murder that you hung yourself, isn’t it? Now get back inside.”

Willard twisted Mary’s arm behind her back, and shoved her forward. Once inside the house, he handcuffed her and forced her to lie on the cold marble floor. He cocked his pistol, “Stay there or I’ll put a bullet in your head.” He placed the noose around Mary’s neck, and then half dragged; half carried her up the stairs. When they reached the second floor landing, Willard tied one end of the rope to the railing, and shoved Mary forward.

“Please, don’t do this,” Mary said.

Willard merely looked over to the life sized painting of his grandfather, and spat out, “This is the last of your beloved grandchildren.”

As Willard was about to toss Mary over the edge, the front door flew open, and the deputy sheriff rushed in, “Hold it right there!”

“Eric!” Mary screamed.

Intent on his mission, Willard continued toward the railing, “Get out of here Eric. This isn’t your business.”

“It is my business. I swore to uphold the law. Crazy Lou said he saw you kill Lizzie, but I didn’t believe him. I thought he was just telling another of his stories.”

“Look little brother, I know you think you’re in love with this little tart, but she’s not worth your time. She’ll dangle herself in front of you until she’s tired of playing games, and then toss you out like a bag of trash. She’s a Winfield. That’s what they do.”

While continuing to point the gun at Willard, Eric walked slowly toward the stairs, “She’s also your sister. Blood. Doesn’t than mean anything to you?”

“Yeah. It means something. It means this place should be mine. I should have grown up inside this house, had the best education, and been respected instead of shunned.”

As Willard reached toward Mary, his intentions clear, Eric aimed his gun. “Don’t do it.”

Willard didn’t listen. Eric fired. Mary stared into Willard’s dead eyes, watched him fall, and then saw Lizzie’s face once more. Lizzie smiled and winked, before disappearing through the closed door of her old room.

Mary held onto Eric for support, before her wobbly knees collapsed, “How did you know to come?”

“We got your 9-1-1 call.”

“I didn’t call.”

“You didn’t? The call came from this number. If you didn’t call, then who did?”

Mary looked toward Lizzie’s closed door and said, “The Watcher.”

The Note

Worry lines formed across the woman’s brow as she read the note left on her son’s bed. She wadded the paper in a tight ball before angrily bouncing it off the far wall. She unconsciously reached out to catch it, holding it in a vice-like grip. A quiet keening began in the back of her throat, expanding to a scream loud enough to wake the neighbors, had there actually been any neighbors nearby. The woman sat down heavily on the bed her son had slept in since he was ten. It was hard to believe he was now twenty seven. She wrapped her arms around herself, while rocking back and forth. The scream lessened to a whimper combined with tears of regret.

Heavy, running feet climbed the stairs, coming to a halt in the doorway. The man sat down next to his wife, holding her in his arms, “What is it? What’s wrong?” When his wife didn’t answer he demanded, “Tell me!” She handed him the crumpled ball of paper.

The man slowly, carefully, opened the note, read it, and stood up. He paced to the doorway and back to the bed, stopped, looked at his wife and retraced his steps. Upon returning to his wife’s side, he held her in his arms. The man smiled, and then a hearty laugh echoed throughout the room. He shook the note in front of his wife, “I thought someone had died.”

“W-why are you laughing?”

He pulled his wife to her feet and hugged her tightly, “I thought something awful had happened. Honey, I know you’re disappointed our son has eloped, but it isn’t the end of the world!”

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Reading Leaves

Loud, throbbing music blared from surround sound speakers. A woman, leather-faced from too many unprotected days on the beach, tapped her foot to the King of the Hill theme song. The telephone rang, but she didn’t hear it, at first. When she did, she scowled at the interruption, pushed the mute button on the remote control, and put down her embroidery hoop.

The woman took a moment to admire the pink roses on the pillow case she was finishing for her sister, who was confined to a nursing home back in their home town of Transylvania, Louisiana. Lucette and her older sister Sabelline grew up in Transylvania, but they spent most summers in southern Louisiana with Taunte Nazaire near Broussard in St. Martin Parish. Mamere and Papere Thibodeaux lived on the bayou, so the girls had a diverse upbringing. They learned to set an elegant table and the art of embroidery from their well-bred mother, and how to trap and cook crawfish from their father’s Cajun clan. How Rémi Thibodeaux managed to get Charles Robichaud to give up his daughter remains a mystery. Everyone agreed Rémi had something on Charles, but no one knew what. All of which took place long before Lucette moved to California and became Lucy.

The answering machine clicked on, Lucy grabbed the receiver, turned off the machine, and then stubbed her toe on the door jam. Her spit-fire temper hurled a few expletives into the phone before she was able to get out a pleasant, “Hello?” Of course, it was her best friend, Myra, who went to morning mass seven days a week, and who was not only offended, but embarrassed by fowl language.

“Oops,” Lucy said. “Sorry Myra.”

Surprisingly, no lecture ensued, only Myra’s excited voice, “Guess what?”

“What?”

“Grady called.”

“What? Who? Grady?”

An exasperated breath was closely followed by, “You know! Grady. From the internet?”

“Oh, yeah, Grady from that Find Your Mate website you’ve been frequenting. You actually talked to him? Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

“Lucy! No. He’s a wonderful man.”

“And you know that, how?”

“Just because you were taunted by all those horny men while performing acrobatics high up on that red velvet swing. In that skimpy outfit, I might add. You think all men are out for no good. Besides, at his age, all he’s likely to want is companionship.”

“Myra Post, I’m shocked! You actually said the word, horny.”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry.”

“Anyway, you make The San Francisco House sound like a sleazy bar. You would think I was turning tricks over at the Orange Blossom Motel. San Francisco House was an expensive restaurant in its day. The best of the best ate there. And I would have killed myself if I wore loose clothing while performing highly skilled acrobatics.”

Myra interrupted Lucy’s lecture, “Sorry! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start an argument. I have good news.”

“I’m sorry, too. Sometimes our differences rear their ugly heads. What’s your news?”

“I’m meeting Grady for coffee at Muddy Java. I want you to come with me.”

“No way!”

“Oh, Lucy. Please. I can’t do this by myself. I haven’t had a date since Walter died twenty years ago. And this is important to me. I need your opinion.”

Lucy looked in the mirror, fluffed her recently dyed red hair, removed her John Lennon style glasses, and heard herself say, “If you’re going to get your panties all in a wad, I’ll go. He’s probably a perve, but I can see you’ll have to find that out for yourself. What time?”

“I’m supposed to be there at four.”

“Four! You can be ready in an hour?”

“I’ll be ready. Since you already know where Muddy Java is, will you drive?”

“Be here by 3:45, and don’t be late. You know how I hate to be kept waiting.”

With a voice full of happy, Myra teased, “If I didn’t know you had a heart of gold beneath that gruff exterior, I’d find someone else to be friends with.”

Laughing, Lucy responded, “No you wouldn’t, you live next door. I’m too convenient.

Lucy hung up the phone, reached down and picked up Hairy, her hairless Sphinx cat, and opened the front door. Hairy snuggled up under her chin and started purring. Lucy bent down to pick a red rose, inhaled its sweet fragrance, and watched as a limo driver tried to maneuver the sharp turns of Lombard Street. Lombard wasn’t only the crookedest street in San Francisco, it was also steep. She wished the city had kept it blocked off to tourist traffic, but too many tourists complained, and San Francisco catered to the tourists. Lucy went back inside.

Upstairs, she dropped Hairy on the bed and opened the closet door. Inside she picked out a vintage tie-dyed, granny dress, and pulled a pair of sandals from the shoe rack. She donned the granny dress, and slipped her polished red toes into barely there sandals. She hated shoes, but they were always necessary when entering establishments serving food or drink. Besides, it was an unusually warm day for San Francisco, so the sidewalks were sure to be hot.

Peering into the mirror, Lucy applied make-up, pink blush, and eye-shadow to match her startling blue eyes. She opened a plastic case, took out a pair of velvet black eyelashes, glued them on, and finished by running a brush through her garish red hair.

Back in the closet, she took down the jewelry box Papere Thibodeaux made for her when she graduated college, and pulled out a turquoise necklace, silver hoop earrings, and a small cloth bag. She reached behind her neck to close the clasp on the necklace, put on the earrings, and slipped the bag inside the pocket of her dress.

Lucy checked the clock on the wall, 3:40. Turning this way and that before a full length mirror, she lifted her arms as if belting out an aria from La Boheme, and said to herself, “Girl, you’re beginning to look like an old hag. But, for an old hag, you look kind of groovy.”

While waiting for Myra outside, a yellow Mercedes went flying around the curve nearest Lucy’s house, honking as it passed. Lucy laughed, and then frowned while shaking her finger at young William, who lived in the last house at the bottom of the hill.

Myra came out her front door, “One of these days, that boy is going to miss one of those curves and smash his pretty new car.”

“That would be one hell of a crash.”

“Lucy! Whether you believe or not, God’s listening.”

“Sorry. Get in. No wait! I forgot to clear out the passenger seat.” Lucy popped the trunk/hood of her blue, 1964 Volkswagen Bug and threw several shopping bags inside, before tossing an errant French fry into the grass, “Okay, it’s safe now. Let’s go.”

After a hair-raising ride through the streets of San Francisco, they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, making their way to Sausolito in record time. Lucy parked beside Muddy Java and turned off the key. She reached into her pocket and handed Myra the cloth bag.

“What’s this?” Myra asked.

“That’s a Gris-Gris bag. Taunte Nazaire gave it to me when I first moved to California. It’s for good luck.”

Myra tried to hand it back, “Thank you Lucy, but you know I don’t believe in those voodoo things.”

“Put it in your pocket. It couldn’t hurt.”

Reluctantly Myra tucked the bag inside her purse, “Okay, but understand, I’m giving it back the minute we get home.” Myra frowned as she watched Lucy put on a thick layer of bright red lipstick. The gesture caused Myra’s insecurities to rear their ugly heads, “You’re not going to flirt with him are you?”

Lucy laughed, “Well, I hadn’t thought about it.” When she realized her friend was serious, she added, “Of course not, silly. Besides, I had Indian food for lunch and have a really bad case of curry breath.” Chuckling, Lucy added, “I’m not even going to sit with you. I’ll be inside if you need me. Hmm. We need a signal.” Lucy thought for a moment, “I know, tug at your ear like Carol Burnett used to do, and I’ll come to your rescue. Oh, and don’t order coffee, order the Spring Pouchong tea. I want to read the tea leaves.”

Myra frowned at her friend, but agreed.

Inside the two women went their separate ways. Lucy took a seat in the far corner, making sure she was near enough to keep an eye on the now blushing Myra, and ordered her usual latte.

Grady wasn’t someone Lucy would have been attracted to. He was a bit too colorful for her taste. He had a scarf tied tightly over his head, which wasn’t so bad in itself, but it wasn’t a quiet scarf, it screamed color, as did the cabana hat resting on top of the scarf, and the jacket he wore over tattered jeans, none of which matched. His beard was a mixture of salt and pepper, and could use a trim. In the plus column, he wasn’t dirty. At least he must not smell bad, since Myra accepted a quick hug before sitting down in the chair he pulled out for her. Okay, another perk, he did have manners.

Lucy sipped her coffee and watched as Myra finished her tea, and then Lucy walked up to the table as if she worked there. She took the cup and returned to her table. Lucy drained off the excess tea and shook the cup. Starting along the rim at the handle, she read the leaves in a downward spiral, present to future. Lucy saw a house, which symbolizes change or success, followed by a mountain, the symbol for a journey of hindrance, which probably meant there would be a few bumps in the relationship. Lastly, Lucy saw the distinct shape of a heart, which symbolizes true love.

Lucy smiled as she placed the cup on the table. She watched the couple laughing together, satisfied Myra had found true love, she whispered. “Laissez les bon temps rouler.”

What Lucy didn’t notice was the activity inside the cup. The heart slowly, carefully, changed its shape into that of a snake, ready to strike. The snake’s tail pointed directly toward Grady. The Gris-Gris bag slipped out of Myra’s pocket, spilling its contents across the floor. Lucy rechecked the cup, glanced at the scattered contents of the Gris-Gris bag, and panicked, she had to warn Myra.

Lucy stood up, overturning her chair, and looked at Myra. Myra caught her eye, and then tugged her ear. Without bothering to make excuses, Lucy grabbed Myra’s arm and practically dragged her outside. Inside the car, the two women grinned at each other. Their grins quickly changed to near hysterical laughter.

Once she caught her breath, Lucy asked, “So, what was he like?”

Myra shrugged. “As always, you were right. He’s a perve!”

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