Category Archives: Fiction – Stories in my head

Vylette – Who Am I?

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Setting: The time, Spring 1931; Place – Fargo, North Dakota.

Vylette closed the door to Billy’s and Steven’s room quietly and turned to go downstairs. She had tucked the boys in bed after prayers and a short story. They were her older sister, Wilma’s, two sons aged nine and seven. There were two little girls in the family too. Olive, age three and baby, Eve, age one. Wilma had put them to bed earlier.

Vylette lived with Wilma, her sister’s husband, Harry, and their four children in Fargo, North Dakota about seventy-five miles from the family farm near Wolf Lake, Minnesota. At the farm she was the third youngest of ten children, many of whom were grown and left to start lives of their own. Her parents wanted her to go to high school in the city instead of the small country school. She was super smart, a straight A student, and showed promise as a distance runner. They believed she would have more advantages at the larger school.

Vylette was fourteen, a freshman in high school. She helped Wilma around the house and babysat the kids when she wasn’t at school or attending school events.

At dinner that night, Vylette asked Harry if she could have 50₵ to enter a cross-country race sponsored by the county. There was a prize of $5.00 for the winner, $3.00 for second place, and $1.00 for third. She loved running and would challenge the wind. She knew she could win.

Harry’s face went hard and sour at her request. He said they would talk later. She thought maybe she could talk him into it by offering to do extra work around the house and by splitting the winnings with him. He had not been very welcoming when she moved in with them last August, but she did her best to please him and make him see how helpful she was.

Vylette heard voices from the kitchen as she soundlessly descended the stairs. Harsh words from Harry were indistinct but definitely angry. She tiptoed to the doorway of the kitchen and stood out of view to listen.

“I want your bastard daughter out of the house by the end of school term. Three weeks. I’m not raising another man’s kid. She can go back to the farm or go live with one of your sisters.”

“But Harry,” Wilma pleaded. “She is a help to me. I haven’t been able to be a mother to her since she was a baby. We were married when she only four and I left the farm. Can’t she please stay with us through high school?”

“Fifty cents now for a race, school clothes, schoolbooks, and on and on. You need to take care of our kids. I’m not spending my hard-earned money on a bastard.”

Blood drained from Vylette’s face. Her knees were jelly. Tears streamed unbidden from her eyes. Bastard? She knew what that ugly word meant. Was she her sister’s illegitimate daughter? Her sister – her mother? Who was she? Why was this damning secret kept from her? She ran back upstairs to her small room, her breath coming in uneven gulps. She shut the door loudly; loudly enough, she hoped it would make her sister come upstairs. She couldn’t face Harry.

A few minutes later, Wilma opened the door. Vylette’s red, tear-stained face told the story.

“You heard,” Wilma said flatly. “I’m sorry this was the way you found out. I was going to tell you when you were older.”

Vylette wanted an embrace, to be held as she stood trembling in the middle of the room. Wilma offered no such comfort.

“You have to go back to the farm after this year at school. Harry is adamant.”

“I won’t go back to the farm.”

“You’re too young to be on your own. Would you go out west to live with Tyne in Montana?”

“Anything to get far away from here.”

Tyne was one of Wilma’s sisters. Vylette thought of her as a sister, too, but realized she was her aunt. Tyne owned a boardinghouse in Butte that housed men who worked at the copper mines.

“I’ll write her and ask if that would be okay. In the meantime, don’t cross Harry or he’ll send you back to the farm right away.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll eat by myself in my room and leave any room that he comes into. I hate him,” Vylette hissed. “I hate you too and what you did to me.”

“Vylette, you don’t know the whole story. I’ll tell you more when you have calmed down.”

“I don’t want to hear. Just leave me alone. Only three weeks and I’ll be out of here no matter what I have to do. Does Tyne know what you did? Do Mom and Dad know? Oh no, I guess they are my grandparents. Does the whole world know?”

“Of course, the family knows because I was your age, fourteen, when it happened. They accepted you and love you. You are part of the family, no different than any of us. Very few others knew and most of them moved out of town. It is a closely held secret.”

“But I am different. I’m a bastard. A nobody. I shouldn’t be born.” The words felt like rocks being vomited from her gut.

In June, Vylette went by train to Butte to live with her aunt, Tyne, until she graduated from high school. She worked in the boarding house and met the man she married while still in her teens, a copper miner who loved her and provided a good life for their family. The secret of her birth was never discussed again in or outside the family. It only became known to her children after they were adults, and Tyne divulged the part of the story that she knew to one of them. Unfortunately, the issue of mistrust was a big part of Vylette’s personality. She had a hard time being close to anyone, even her own children.

Ripples of pain across generations

Afterword:

In today’s world, children born out of wedlock are common and children do not carry the burden of public scorn. Two out of five United States’ births in 2022 were to unwed mothers. That was not the case in the early decades of the 20th century. At that time, pregnancies out of wedlock were scandalous and covered up. Now there are government programs designed to help the women who choose to birth children outside the sanctions of marriage. Although not ideal in the realm of childrearing, single parenting has been normalized. The mark of illegitimacy is not carved into a child’s personality in the way it was one hundred years ago.

This story is fiction but is based on rumors in our family. Vylette was born in 1917 in a small town in western Minnesota. She was part of a large farm family. What was not known to Vylette was that sister was actually her mother. Wilma had been “interfered with” when she was fourteen and become pregnant. Ashamed, she kept the secret of the man’s identity to her grave. The family surmised it was a neighboring farmer, a middle-aged man with a wife and children. That man was confronted by Wilma’s brothers, and he quickly left the area with his family. Vylette’s family became the owners of that neighbor’s property.

Vylette grew up believing her aunts and uncles were her sisters and brothers. It wasn’t until later she discovered in a vulgar way that she was illegitimate. Traumatized by the disclosure, Vylette’s life was forever colored by feelings of shame and degradation. Trust was destroyed. How could she trust anything if she couldn’t trust those closest to her? Those feelings permeated her personality and affected all her relationships for the remainder of her life. She kept a cold shield between herself and others, never having friends, and keeping her children at a distance. Childhood trauma leaves hidden but indelible marks on a person’s psyche and personality.

The problem with secrets is that facts buried in the story, like a body hidden in a shallow grave, can putrefy and work their way to the surface. There is space for corruption. All the people involved in this story have died. No one knew the whole truth except the two people involved. Was it rape or incest? Was the neighbor really involved; or was it a coincidence that they left town, and the family acquired the property at that time? Was that farm sold or was it payment for not reporting a crime to the authorities? Was it a boardinghouse or a brothel in Butte? Both were prevalent in the 1930s as a means for single women to earn a living. When no one speaks the truth, truth becomes conjecture and conjecture has no boundaries. The pain of a secret, like a rock thrown into a pond, sends ripples throughout many generations.

Farmer Fables

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Traveling through the Midwest in 1985 on our odyssey* around the country, my family would stop in small towns for breakfast. It became apparent that Sunday mornings were a good time to be in one of those farm-town cafés. It was when the farm wives were in church and their menfolk were at the café waiting for them. From Iowa to Wyoming, we observed the same trend. Big strapping farmers would sit at tables of four, five, or more, talking about farm issues. In those small rooms, anyone could listen if you were so inclined.

One August Sunday morning, around 8 am, my family stopped in at Jimmy’s Café, in Marysville, Kansas. The sun was up, promising a scorching day. Fans were already whooshing at a steady pace, shuttling flies that rode the circulating air. The five of us sat at a table near the entrance and watched as farmers came in one or two at a time. The waitress, Kara, met them by name, and they greeted one another, taking their hats off as they took seats around a big table in the center of the room. She poured a generous mug of coffee for each one. Seven of them seemed to be waiting for another to complete the circle.  The eighth joined them a little late. He was an antique bowlegged codger, probably in his 80s, slighter in stature than the rest, with the gnarled, leathery look of someone who spent his life on the open prairie.  He had more the air of a cowboy than that of the farmers. He appeared to be the acknowledged patriarch of the group, the key that unlocked the beginning of discussions. They all ordered. Most said, “just the regular”. Besides talking about the weather and the importance of sustainable crops, they swapped stories of daring deeds associated with their arduous lives.

This is the story we overheard the old guy tell. The room was silent, spellbound.

“A few years back, I was old enough to know better, but I wanted to ride that bronco in the worst way. Every time I saw him, he eyed me with a certain meanness I knew I had to beat. I finally got my chance. I mounted him and he seemed to take it passable well. Then he collected hisself and became a dervish, whippin’ this way and that. His back buckled like a Halloween cat, and I lost the leathers. The fall would’ve been okay, but my foot caught in one stirrup, and I hung upside down, my head near touchin’ the ground. He didn’t stop, just kept a-goin’ and a-goin’, bouncin’ me up and down. I knew I was a goner. Any minute my head would crack open, and my brains would be splayed out for all to see. I was sayin’ my prayers, hopin’ God would forgive my sins, even the ones I hain’t done yet. I tried climbin’ up my leg but just as I would get near enough to catch the saddle with my hand, that darn horse would jerk to the left and I’d be thrown back down. I did it ‘bout four times and was wearin’ out. I near couldn’t breathe. Then an angel appeared. She stepped outta the K-mart, murmured something about stupid old man, and pulled the plug on the kiddie bronc.”

Silence, then loud laughter and knee slapping.

That was a hard one to top. It is the only café story of the many we heard that stayed with me through all these years.

*On August 12, 2024, I posted a wonkagranny story about a portion of the journey our family took through the 48 contiguous US states in 1984 & 1985. I will share more of our fourteen-month adventure in future posts.

Where Were You When St. Helens Blew?

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We are all at the mercy of Mother Nature. Indigenous cultures celebrate that fact, and historically set aside times and ceremonies to honor the power of natural forces in our human existence. No matter how much we think we are in control of our choices and our lives, Mother Nature may exert a force beyond our meager limitations. As a baseball fanatic, I’ve always enjoyed the phrase, “Mother Nature bats last.”  It is a reminder that we are guests here and need to respect our hostess. She has a resilience that we can never match. This short story is akin to an actual situation I knew of in 1980. The names are changed and events slightly altered, so I can call it fiction.

Sunday, May 18, 1980, a lovely, blue sky day in southwest Washington State. Three days prior, Prescott and Mira rendezvoused in Olympia from their homes near Seattle, then drove together in Pres’s 1979 Firebird; their destination was Long Beach on the Washington coast. Prescott was supposed to be on a fishing trip with old college friends in Eastern Washington. Mira told her husband she was attending a writers’ retreat in Vancouver, Canada. Their affair started a year earlier, and this was the meeting where they would decide what and how to tell their spouses.

They talked over the impact of the affair on their lives and that of their families. Pres had a three-year-old daughter whom he loved dearly. He loved his wife, but that love changed when he met Mira.

Mira loved her husband, but her commitment to him was forever altered when she and Pres met by chance at an organizational meeting for a new food bank, Second Harvest. Her passion for him overwhelmed her love for Mark.

For a year, they met clandestinely, a few hours at a time. They never spent a night together, or even an entire day. They were drawn to each other, an intangible force that neither could resist. It was a recognition that they were connected in a different way than their marriages. They talked and finished each other’s thoughts. Lovemaking was more fulfilling than any they had in marriage. An overpowering passion consumed them. They both acknowledged love for their spouses and were reluctant to confront them with the affair.

During the three days together, they realized that they couldn’t end their marriages; so, had to end the affair, a heart-wrenching decision.

A heavy gloom settled over them as they drove toward Seattle. They couldn’t look at each other; their throats were too dry to speak. They had just reached the intersection with I-5 that would take them to Seattle.

“Let’s stop for coffee,” Pres suggested.

“Nothing will change. We can’t delay the inevitable,” Mira said softly.

BOOM! The sound, a supersonic blast, rocked the car and sent it careening toward the center lane of northbound I-5. The air shimmied. Compressed air stifled sound on the highway like a blanket suddenly thrown over the scene. Ash and smoke enveloped the car. Pres pulled to the right side of the highway. Rocks pelted the Firebird from above, as in judgment.

“What’s going on? What’s that sound, Pres? Are we being attacked?”

The radio blared an alert that I-5, north and south, was closed. Mount Saint Helens finally erupted after months of threatening earthquakes. The Toutle River, carrying tons of debris, whole forests of tree trunks, and a tidal wave of water, raged down the mountainside, obliterating the highway.

Prescott pulled the car off on the right shoulder. Fire could be seen in the distance on the mountainside, and a plume of thick smoke rose miles into the morning sky. The sun was obscured, turning the blue heavens to black night. Other cars pulled off the road or turned to head south, moving slowly in dense darkness. Headlights were barely discernible. Cars, choked by the thick air, stalled out on both sides of the road.

Pres looked at Mira. “It blew. We’re screwed,” he said. “We have to go farther south to get out of this mess.” Stunned, he slowly pulled back on what he thought was the highway, avoiding other vehicles. Nothing was clear. This was not in the plan.

Caught by Mt. Saint Helens. Sunday, May 18, 1980 @ 8:30am, almost to Castle Rock from Long Beach, Washington.

A few minutes later, the Firebird’s engine sputtered and died. Mira and Pres huddled inside the car, not wanting to get out in the thick, toxic atmosphere.

“What next?” Prescott ran his fingers through his hair.

“Maybe they’ll find our bodies buried in ash, like Vesuvius.” Desolation crept into Mira’s voice.  “We won’t have to say a thing. It will be obvious. If we get out of here, we’ll have to fess up.”

Pres pulled Mira close. “Maybe that’s the message from the mountain. We can’t escape the truth anymore.”

An hour later, a rescue van from the National Guard drove up. The Guard picked up stranded motorists to take them to the Mark Morris High School gymnasium in Longview. The air smelled vaguely of sulfur. Was it hell? The ash-covered Firebird looked like a relic from a dark past; barely recognizable, a remnant of their guilt. Leaving everything behind, they got into the van.

Families and campers from near and far were packed into the gym.  Warnings issued by scientists and local broadcasts as early as March that an eruption was imminent hadn’t kept the curious away. Everyone wanted to see what an active volcano looked like before it blew. The mountain dictated on its own terms, in its own time, when it would unleash its fury. 

Warnings had not been a thought when Pres and Mira decided to meet for a long weekend. They weren’t going near the mountain. They went to the beach. They hadn’t taken into consideration that they would pass by Mt. Saint Helens on their way. All threats of an active volcano had been mere background noise to them. Their personal volcano was all they could think about. Would they blow up their families or stay the course, putting aside the love they had for each other?

They were deeply immersed in plans for a future together, but finally resolved to recommit to their marriages. They were on the way home, determined to reconnect with their spouses, but the mountain had other plans for them. A reckoning. Unexpected consequences. The mountain blew away their secrets, turning their marriages to ash. The future was undeniably altered.

There was a line of people using the phone to call loved ones. Mira and Pres waited for their turns. What to say? How to say it? Now the reality of their love would become evident.

I leave it to you, dear reader: Were they able to save their marriages, now that their affair was revealed? Did this event seal their future together?

Seven

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I remember the old woman in black, a raggedy gray shawl with long purple fringe pulled close around her straight shoulders the only color on her. A dusty gray cloche hat pulled down so low that only dark circles suggested her eyes. Her long dress was patched. I remember her smell, sweet and strong like incense. I remember her smile, sad. I remember the spell.

I was on my way to meet a friend, Shelby, at Starbucks. The strange woman stood, a black crow in a hummingbird aviary, on the sidewalk near the store. She didn’t fit into my safe suburban world. As I neared the crone, I looked into her weathered face, eyes set deeply. One eye was sharp, black, and shining; the other was silvered. The silver one fixed my attention.

“You are not loved at home.” Her voice was soft but clearly directed at me. The back of my neck bore a thousand tiny charges. Was it a kind of recognition of her or of her words? Her thin hand reached to pull at my arm. I paused, recoiling slightly.

“Excuse me?” I queried.

She took my hand in hers and smoothed the palm, holding my fingers straight, but kept her eye on my face.  I remained mesmerized.

“Yes,” she said. “But love is there. Remember seven.” Then she dropped my hand, still looking at me unsmiling.

I glanced down the sidewalk to see if anyone was watching us. Was this a prank? Three teen girls approached; their overlapping staccato phrases punctuated the air. They flowed around us like water around a rock and walked into Starbucks. I looked into the Starbucks window where Shelby waved and motioned me to come in.

The enigmatic woman peered past me as if I were invisible and shook her head.

“Remember seven,” she repeated. “A dark eye and long stride.”

I went into the coffee shop and joined Shelby.

“That was creepy,” I said after Shelby and I exchanged hugs.

“What?”

“That old woman stopped me, and I think she said Luke didn’t love me.” I had a strong urge to have someone affirm his affection for me. Hal and Shelby were our oldest, dearest friends and knew how solid our marriage was.

“Do you know her?”

“I’ve never seen her before. She certainly doesn’t look very ‘our town’.”

“That’s for sure. What are you going to order? I’ve only got thirty minutes before I have to pick up Karri after cheer practice.”

“Mmmm. Double shot mocha, venti, with cream.”

Two years later, I was in Great Falls, Montana with my friend, Kate, at the Great Western Art Show. I accompanied Kate to five of her last six shows. This year her husband, Sam, was coming along. I missed last year when Luke and I separated. Hal and Shelby dissolved their marriage, too. A coincidence?  Luke and Shelby married within two months of our final decree. I was in divorce and best-friend-betrayal recovery, grateful to have this trip as a distraction.

We were setting up Kate’s exhibit in a gallery room of the hotel when I looked across the room and my neck tingled with those tiny charges again.

“Kate, do you see that old woman?” I nodded my head in a direction across the room.

“The one in black? What about her? She stands out in this crowd, ominous looking.”

“I swear I’ve seen her before, back home, a couple of years ago.”

“Lots of people follow artists shows around the country.”

“She wasn’t at a gallery. She was on the street.”

“How do you remember someone you saw on the street two years ago?”

“Because she stopped me and predicted my divorce.”

“What? That’s crazy.”

“I know. And I didn’t remember it until I saw her just now.”

“I didn’t know you frequented fortune tellers.”

“I don’t. She was just standing on the street outside Starbucks on Main and stopped me to tell me I was not loved at home.”  I couldn’t shake the perplexing feeling.

“That’s eerie. Come on, let’s get this finished. I want to get ready for the dance tonight.”

The show opened the next day and, as a tradition, the sponsors threw a party for the artists and spouses the night before with food, drinks and a country band.

Dance music drifted across the open field. The bandstand threw light out over the dancers as they gyrated in the grass near it. More dancers further away were lit by the full moon. Kate and Sam invited me to accompany them to the dance. They saved me from spending a dull evening on my own in the hotel. Sam, Kate, and I swirled around each other in our own dance form. We laughed, giddy and happy. A hand tapped my shoulder.

“Would you like to dance?” he said.

“I am dancing.” Keeping the rhythm, I turned to face him.

“Maybe a different dance?” He cocked his head and smiled. Dark brown eyes glinted in the lunar light.

I stopped. Kate and Sam became a couple and whirled away from me.

“A dark eye,” she had said, “and a long stride.” Those words from the crone came to my mind.

I sized him up. Long legs in Levis – maybe six foot two, definitely a long stride. Interesting.

“I’m with friends,” I said, looking over my shoulder to find them.

“They don’t seem to need your part in the dance. We’ll keep an eye out for them.” He took my hand and put his arm around my waist. When his hand met mine, an electrical shock consecrated the connection. I was immediately at attention. I looked around not for Kate, but for the crone.

A chance encounter on a hot September evening, or was it?

I was steered by a strong lead into the middle of the dance floor.  He put his face against my hair and the strong scent of musk and pine infused my senses.  The dance was effortless, like being guided by remote control.  I didn’t particularly like partner dancing but hey, this was great. We danced until the band began to pack up. We barely talked. I was swept into his realm unconsciously. The time flew by. I looked around for Kate or Sam. I didn’t see them. Sam told me they might leave early, but I could call if I needed a ride.  My dance partner asked if he could drive me back to my hotel.

“I don’t really know you.”

“You’ve spent two hours in my arms. What more do you need to know?”

“I mean…”

“Ok, call your friends and I’ll stay here with you until they come get you.”

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and called Kate’s number. No answer. I called Sam’s. Same – no answer. That was strange. They knew they had to give me a ride back. I wondered where they were.

“Let’s go to the parking lot, maybe they are there waiting for me.”

“I am here with the Art Show, too. I’ll be happy to take you back to the hotel.”

“You’re an artist?”

“I’m a painter.”

“Where is your exhibit room?”

“Second floor, near the end of the atrium, where the sculpture exhibits are.”

“Kate’s a sculptor. Her room is on the first floor just below you.”

“I thought I recognized her. I’ve seen her work. She’s good. This is the first year I’ve been invited to participate in the Show.”

I was feeling a little more comfortable, but still wondering about Kate and Sam.

They were not in the parking lot. Their car was gone.

“Well, okay,” I said. “I guess I’ll go back with you.”

“Want to go to the bar for a drink before we go to our rooms?” He asked as we walked into the hotel lobby.

“No, I’m concerned about my friends. I’m going up to see if they are back. I need to turn in anyway. Tomorrow will be a busy day. Kate usually gets a lot of customers the first day of the show, sales and commissions.”

“Okay. I’m sure we’ll see each other again sometime this weekend. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Laura. What’s yours?”

“Septimo.”

“That’s unusual,” I said.

“I come from a large Italian family. I was the last child of many, and they ran out of names, so they gave me a number.”

“Number?”

“Yeah. Septimo means seventh.”

Dogs and Cats

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“Please, please let’s go for a walk”. Her eyes fixed on mine, never wavered.

“But Sable, it’s nearly 90 degrees outside and the humidity is hovering around 70 percent. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Please,” she repeated with those expressive eyes.

“Ok, a short walk. Go get your leash.” I gave in. It was early enough on a July Saturday that the pavement hadn’t become too hot for her paws. I pulled out of the drawer her soft, protective paw boots, which she doesn’t like but will accept if that is the price for a summer walk.

Sable pirouetted and ran to the laundry room, where her harness and leash are kept on a blue wooden peg, two feet from the floor, just the right height for her to reach.

Sable is a dog of indeterminate ancestry. She is neither wolf nor shepherd, hound nor terrier. She is approximately 20 inches tall and weighs 25 pounds, with short fur of a rich, deep brown hue, hence her name. She has a narrow white collar that dips onto her chest like a small white pendant, and a short black velvet muzzle.  Her small black ears stand at attention as if waiting for a signal. The mold was definitely broken when she was born. I don’t think there can be a duplicate. I wish I could have her cloned because she is the most perfect companion ever, and I know she has an expiration date.

Her golden eyes are alive with the vocabulary of a college professor. They communicate very effectively, and what she can’t convey with her eyes she passes to her tail. If her tail can’t make you understand, then her whole body gets into the act, quivering, pointing, circling, or hopping foot to foot. Sable is an active listener and patiently absorbs any manner of conversation from religion to geology, movies to politics. She puts her paw on your leg in affirmation or her chin on your lap if you are sitting. She rarely disagrees, but can let you know if she is unhappy with a low guttural sound or quiet mewling.

Sable is a rescue. A real rescue. Three years ago, on my way home from a meeting across town, I drove past her little form sitting in a puddle in a vacant lot on the side of Tanque Verde Road during a monsoon. Abandoned. She couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old, too young to have run away from home on stubby little legs and too plump to have been a feral dog. She had been living in someone’s home, fed regularly, and then disposed of for an unknown reason.  How does a person abandon a helpless puppy near a busy street in a storm? She looked confused. I pulled over in the nearest safe spot, got out of the car, and walked back to her through the downpour. She was shivering, not from cold but from fright. Back in my car, I sat with her in my lap, giving her sips of water poured into my palm from a water bottle. She lapped it up little by little until nearly half the bottle was empty. She stopped shivering.  I put her in the passenger seat on an old towel that I had thrown into the car in case I was caught in the predicted downpour. She immediately curled up and went to sleep. She didn’t move for the thirty-minute trip home to a suburban community outside Tucson. Once in the house, she explored each nook and cranny and pronounced that she was indeed home by jumping into my lap, reaching up to lick my face, then jumping down and peeing on the floor in front of me. The deal was sealed.

As all pet parents know, the creatures have a way of creeping into our hearts and taking residence in our minds. They become a priority, especially for a single person. I know Sable will be there to greet me with enthusiasm each day when I return from work. She doesn’t care if it was a good day or not because, for her, my presence makes her day great. She doesn’t withdraw with silent moodiness like my ex-husband if I don’t read her mind. She accepts the attention I give her with total love. Sometimes, I become absorbed in the day-to-day demands of my job or social relationships. She is always there when I resurface to the moment, waiting patiently with full devotion.

Sable is small enough that I can take her with me when I run errands. She loves car rides. She hops into her booster seat and waits to be snapped into the harness. I am able to take her into most of the stores where I shop. She sits obediently in a cart or walks quietly by my side. She ignores entreaties to leave my side, but accepts friendly pats as her due. I can’t take her grocery shopping in the store, but I can do pick-up. She knows the delivery girls at Fry’s, eagerly anticipating their friendly greeting. She loves a stop at the bank, knowing as we approach the drive-up window that she will get a treat. She delights in her puppucino at Starbucks. She appreciates my Sirius XM music, especially the Elvis channel. Sometimes we go for a longer ride to the mountains or to visit friends in Carefree. She passively watches the scenery, but when she hears a big rig eighteen-wheeler approach, she gets all excited, stands up in her seat, and watches for it to pass, ears pricked forward and tail waving ninety knots to nothing. I think in a former life she was a long-haul trucker.

Recently, she has learned to tolerate my friend, Colin. He has become a regular visitor, and she was very stand-offish at first. Now she grudgingly makes a space for him next to me on the sofa if he stays after dinner. He knows she has first dibs on wherever she wants to lie. He learned very quickly that he needed to accommodate her preferences.

Luckily, he has Marcus, a big yellow tabby cat, at home, so he understands the pecking order for guests in an animal’s domain. I’ve met Marcus. He is very sweet in his catty way. His green eyes pierced me, searching the depths of my reliability. He sat out of arm’s length, assessing me and, I’m sure, questioning my motives for being in his house. He allowed me to stroke him on his terms. He walked away with a tail held high as if to say, “You’re ok, but don’t let this go to your head. It is a temporary situation.” He is the product of a broken home and a custody battle. He was shuffled from home to home for about six months until Colin’s ex decided she didn’t want the responsibility. According to Colin, Marcus is shy of any other commitment.

We anticipate the day when we might introduce Sable to Marcus. Sable loves everyone unless they demonstrate by action or harsh words that they are untrustworthy. I insist Sable is open to any relationship, and he claims Marcus would be okay when he gets to know me a little better. There is a hesitation about the right moment to make the introduction. If it doesn’t go well, what will it mean to OUR relationship? We are taking our friendship slowly toward a deeper connection out of deference to our four-legged roommates. It is probably a very good thing to move slowly since both of us were burned in the past. Basing a romantic life on the acceptance of our pets, maybe, not so much.

Butterfly Continued

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Swallowtail: “In the East, adults fly primarily in late spring and summer, but this butterfly is more common in late summer and fall in the South and Southwest. Where lack of freezing temperatures permit, the female adult may fly continuously. In lowland tropical Mexico, they may be found in any month.” – Encarta

Emerging abruptly from a deep sleep to respond to the insistent tone of his phone, Michael heard, “I miss you, Michael.  I’m lonely for you.  I’m lonely for Moses.”  Her voice, a low purr, curled into his ear and sent blue electric currents crackling through his body. 

“No, Janie, not again,” Michael struggled to keep the groan out of his voice. He got up in the dark from the rumpled king-sized bed and walked into the living room, his phone to his ear.  He couldn’t bear to have her in his bedroom again, even on the phone.  He turned on the lamp and slumped onto the couch.  The cat followed him, stretching and yawning.

“What?  Not again, what?” she asked.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“I don’t know what your clock says, but I know it’s time for me to hear your voice, smell your sweet sweat, touch your warm skin, and roll up next to you in bed.”

“It’s 5 AM.” 

“I want you here with me.  I need to be close to you.  Everything is good, but with you it would be great.”

“Funny, Moses and I had a long talk just last Sunday, and we decided to move on.  We took every trace of you to the dump.”  He reached across the coffee table and turned her smiling photograph onto its face. 

“We can start over.  I’m ready now.  I found the right place.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in San Diego this week, but the place is Santa Lucia.  It’s a few kilometers south of Puerto Vallarta.

“You must be some kind of witch.  You call just when I’ve reclaimed my life; when I finally decided I can live without you.”

“Oh baby, that’s….”

“No, Janie, I mean it.  I’m not following you anywhere again.  You left Memphis for Canyon, Texas, and I followed. When you suddenly up and left Texas, I followed you to McCall.  When the tall pines of the Idaho woods smothered you, you took off again.  I followed you here to Tucson, and this is where I’m staying.  Trying to keep hold of you is like trying to catch mercury between your fingers.  It’s impossible not to mention dangerous.  I’m done.”

“Do you still have my paintings?”

Michael looked to both sides of the new tin mirror at the intensely colored acrylics. One was of a woman looking through an archway toward distant purple and rose-colored hills, stroking a green cat.  The other showed a naked woman with long black hair astride a vivid scarlet horse galloping across a field of bright orange and blue poppies.

“No,” Michael said.  “I replaced them with seascapes, the calm of crashing blue and gray waves.”

“My pictures might be worth something someday.  I wouldn’t throw them out just yet.  I’m in California for a one-woman show at the Smithson gallery in La Jolla.  I have an agent.  I’m selling prints to tourists in Mexico.  I mean, really selling.  I finally found the place I imagined and have been painting since I was twelve.”

“You found the place with purple mountains, red horses, and green cats?”

“Don’t be obtuse.  Mexico is bursting with colors. And smells and laughter and…I’m home now.  This is what I’ve searched for.  Now all I need is you.  You and Moses.”

Michael looked down at the big gray-striped tomcat that had been weaving in and out of his legs.   Moses sensed he was the topic and flopped down on the top of Michael’s bare feet, his white mittened paws around his ankle, looking up at Michael.

“Moses isn’t interested in more travel.  He told me he likes Tucson. I like Tucson. I’ve got a good job here.”

“You’re a poet, Michael.  You are a poet who writes stupid technical manuals for a company that produces war machines for an oversized, out-of-control fascist government.”

“How do you know I still work at Raytheon?”

“Did you quit?”

“No.”

“There.  Come to Santa Lucia with me.  Poetry will fair drip from your pen.  It’s magical.  It’s cheap to live.  And I’m making money now.  Bring the trailer down.  We’ll park it on the beach.  We’ll eat mangos and shrimp.  We’ll make love on the beach in the afternoon.  We’ll play in the surf.  We will…”

A momentary image of Jane, naked on a beach, nearly scuttled his resolve.  He pulled back with a snap.  “I don’t live in the trailer anymore.  I sold it.  I live in a real house.”

“You bought a house?”

“Well…lease-purchase.”  He squinted out the window to the backyard, where dawn was beginning to streak the sky with pink and gray.  “I have a yard, a saguaro, a lemon tree, and a brick wall.”

“Brick walls enclose tiny brick minds.”

Michael cringed a little.  “If just once you had told me you wanted to move, we could have discussed it.”

“I didn’t need a discussion.  I needed to leave.  You would have planned and plotted. You are so anal.  No sense of adventure.  That’s what’s wrong with your poetry, too.  You need Santa Lucia.  It will break down all that shit in you and set you free.  I was suffocating.  By the time you made an analysis of our situation, I would have been dead.  I didn’t know where I wanted to go…just away.  It took me a while to find Santa Lucia.”

“Two years.  Why did you call now?”

“It’s not two years.”

“Yes, Janie, it is.  You left three Augusts ago, and it’s now September.”

“Clocks and calendars, calendars and clocks, tick tock, tick tock,” she chanted.

“Real world stuff,” he replied.

“Please, please come see me in San Diego, just for a day or two.  I’ll be here this whole week and next weekend.  It’s only a few hours’ drive, or I could pick you up at the airport.”

“Are you still living in the goddess-mobile?”

“Umm-hmm, mostly.  But I have a studio on the second floor of a building in Santa Lucia.  Its balcony overlooks the street, and I can see the ocean.  Some days I paint outside, sometimes inside, depending on the light.  I walk everywhere, so my rig stays parked by the beach.  I’m sorry you sold the trailer.  It worked so well in my daydream.  We won’t both fit in the goddess-mobile long-term.  We need more room than that.  There’s a house not far up the beach from where I park that’s for sale.  I’ll look into it.”

“Don’t bother.  I’m not coming to Mexico.”

“I think you’re being too hasty.  You should at least come for a visit.  A teeny short visit.  Then if you loathe it, you…”

“Hear me out.  I’m not going to Mexico for a week, a day, or a minute.  You can sell any dream to me if I give you enough time.  Your time is up.  I’m staying here.  I’m happy, even proud, that you are selling your paintings.  But you broke that last little piece of my heart when you left this time.  I don’t have one to give you anymore.” 

“There’s a marina too.  We could buy another sailboat like we had on Payette Lake.  Only we’d be warm all the time and could sail every day.”

“You’re not listening.  I don’t care how beautiful it is.  I don’t care how much you want to be with me.  I don’t want to be with you anymore.  I’ve broken the habit.”

“What happened to soulmates and undying love?” Jane asked.  “You promised me you would forever be my family.  Remember all those nights when I had the nightmares without end about when my parents died.  You held me and told me you would never turn away.” 

“You left me, remember?  More than once.”  Michael started to pace the kitchen, dining room, and living room with the phone to his ear.

“I didn’t leave you. I went looking for me, and unfortunately, I was always out of town,” Jane said.  “But now I’m found.  I promise I can stay put now.”

“Your promises aren’t worth much anymore.  You promised that the desert would be your eternal home when you came to Tucson.  Now you’re by the ocean for Christ’s sake,” Michael paused.  “And I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You’ll pick it up.  I did.  It’s so musical, it’s easy.”

“The answer is still no,” Michael said.  “I’m going to hang up now.  Please don’t call me again.  Have a nice life and congratulations on your success.”

Michael ended the call.  He didn’t want it to ring again and, in his heart, prayed it would.

He couldn’t go back to sleep.  It was Saturday, and he planned to play golf with Keith at 10:00.  He fed Moses and let him out for his morning prowl.  He shaved, got into the shower, and washed his hair.  As hot water ran full force over his scalp down his back and legs, he let himself imagine lying beside Jane in the warm white sand with salty waves lapping over them, making love to her in the sunshine.  He thought he heard the phone ring but when he turned off the water, he heard silence.

“Get yourself together, man,” he said aloud.  She’s a figment of your imagination, a phantom.  Just when you think she’s there, she’s gone again.  It’s never going to work out. 

Butterfly

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Swallowtail Butterfly: “In the East, adults fly primarily in late spring and summer, but this butterfly is more common in late summer and fall in the South and Southwest. Where lack of freezing temperatures permit, the female adult may fly continuously. In lowland tropical Mexico, they may be found in any month.” – Encarta

Michael remembered when he met Janie at a diner on a Memphis spring morning ten years ago.  She was 18 and he had just celebrated his 21st birthday the night before.  His head felt a little thick, and his eyesight and hearing were not too dependable. She offered him coffee, but he didn’t hear her the first time.

“Hi, I’m Janie. I say, you look like you could use a whole pot instead of a cup,” she said, bending down a little into his line of sight, her scoop-necked tee-shirt allowed a peek of her breasts.

“What?”  Oh, yeah.  Give me some coffee, please.”  There was a caring look in her gray-green eyes.

“I hope it was a good time you had, not a bad one,” she said over her shoulder as she went back to the kitchen.

He watched her sashay away, swinging her tightly jeaned bottom in a deliberate invitation.  His head hurt, but not too much to read the proposition.  It was 4 AM, and he hadn’t been to sleep all night.  His friend, Tim, brought him to Jim Bob’s All-Night Diner for a birthday breakfast, then left him in a booth while he sought out the facilities to relieve a churning stomach.  Tim, the sober one, the designated driver, had eaten something during their all-nighter that sent him into the bathroom every twenty minutes.  The other partygoers had been dropped at their homes to sleep off the celebration.  All five planned to meet again at the racetrack later that day.

“Here you go,” she said when she came back with a pot of coffee, two cups, and a bottle of aspirin.

“How do you want your eggs?  With eyes or without?”

“No eggs, just toast.”

“You need protein to sop up some of that barley pop.  How about scrambled and a side of country ham?” 

“No, I really don’t want eggs.  Thanks for the aspirin, though.”  He took two pills and swallowed them with some coffee.

“Is your friend coming back?”

“He’s feeling a little rough, but he’ll be back.”

“Shall I bring him eggs, too?”

“Just the toast, toast only.”  Michael looked around the restaurant.  He was the only customer.  He could see the cook through the pass-thru window at the kitchen.  A few minutes later, she was back with a plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns, ham, and two plates of toast.  She put them down in front of Michael and stood with her hands on her hips. 

“Now, you eat as much as you can.  The sooner you get something in your tummy, the faster you’ll feel human again.”

“What is your problem?  I said I just wanted toast.  Take the rest of this back.  I’m not paying for what I didn’t order.”  His head throbbed at the exertion of making this statement.

The girl slid into the booth across from him.  “It’s okay.  I paid for it.  Just eat what you can, I’ll eat the rest.  What’s your name?  I’m Janie. I don’t think you heard me when I told you the first time.”

She sat and watched him eat, taking bites off the hash browns herself.  The cook yelled at her once to get back to work, and she ignored him.  He said he’d call the manager, and she said that was fine. 

“You don’t want to lose your job, do you?” Michael asked.

“Not much of a job. I was just doing this until something better came along, and it has.”  She looked directly into his eyes and smiled.

Tim came out of the restroom, looking pale green, glistening with sick sweat. 

“I can’t drive, old buddy.  I’m too fucked up.  Can you get us both home?”

“Don’t worry.  I’ll take you home,” Janie said, taking the car keys Tim held out to Michael.  “Hey, Howie.  I quit.  See ya in the movies.”  She undid the apron and laid it on the counter. 

The cook came out sputtering oaths. “Damn it! You can’t just quit like that.  The breakfast crowd will be starting in a few minutes.”

“Call Shirley. She likes the overtime. Bye.”

She dropped Tim off at his apartment, then took Michael home to sleep off the beer.  She sent him out with his friends for the afternoon while she stayed at his apartment.  He figured she’d be gone when he got home and was surprised to find a birthday cake, ice cream, and a tiny gray and white kitten when he returned at 9:00 that night. 

“What’s with the cat?” asked Michael.

“He was hanging out in the parking lot at the grocery store when I walked over to get the cake mix and ice cream.  He said his name was Moses and he was wandering in the wilderness.  I decided to bring him home for your birthday.  He might not want to stay, but he’ll let us know later.”

They made first time love for hours that night, discovering the pleasures of each other’s bodies.

“Are you homeless?” he asked the next morning.

“Not entirely.  I could go back to my Uncle Bill’s, but I’d rather not.  His job is done now that I’ve graduated from high school.  He is the school drama teacher and a sweet old queen, who loves everything Elvis. But I’m tired of hanging out in fairy land.  You will find I’m very useful around the house, I can cook, and I don’t eat much.  I do think Moses is homeless, though, so why don’t we offer him a permanent gig?”

She and Moses stayed with him for the next year.  She exaggerated the ‘I can cook’ part of her resume.  She was good at boxed cakes and boiled hot dogs, but Michael decided to do most of the real cooking.  Nevertheless, she didn’t eat much, and she was handy around the house.  She could fix any appliance that got sideways, and she was fun between the sheets. 

Janie had no end of interesting stories to tell of her adventures as an orphan in the custody of various relatives and near-relatives. She was born in Texas but lived all over the U.S. Her parents were murdered in a home invasion when she was six. She witnessed it from a hiding place in a closet through the louvers on the door. The effects of that trauma were still showing up in her life, even though she had been cared for by a loving family.

“They all tell family stories from a different point of view, and the heroes and villains change depending on the narrator.  I’ve been shuffled around several states.  I have a very complex view of my family.”

Janie got a job at a craft store while he continued working at the local newspaper and finished his degree in creative writing.  She bought materials for painting and showed him on canvas the colorful world that was in her head. She said she had painted since she was a little girl, and it was as important to her as breathing.  He read her his poetry and introduced her to his parents. 

Then one day, he came home from work to find a note.

Gone Greyhound back to Texas, maybe, it read.  I’ll call when I find out where I am.  Moses will keep you company until then.  Love, Janie

That was the first of her escapes.

“I wasn’t abused or a sex slave or anything exotic,” she once told him.  “My relatives were good to me, but because of one circumstance or another, no one could give me a permanent home, so I was passed around.  I lived with five families until I stayed with Uncle Bill, who got me through high school. I’ve been on my own for a while now. Aunt Betty in Louisiana was my favorite.  She bought my first art supplies when I was ten and encouraged me to draw and paint.  She gave me my passion.”

Michael thought Janie would eventually settle, and they might even get married, but like a nomadic butterfly, she would only light for a short time, then fly off again.  They rarely fought, and she never left mad.  She seemed to have little capacity for anger.  He never knew why she left.  She just left. 

It was to Texas that he first followed her, a little town called Canyon. And it was in Texas that they acquired the goddess-mobile.  It started life as a used 1982 Toyota truck with a camper shell.  Inside the camper, Jane hung beaded curtains, made devotional alters for her Buddha, golden plastic Ganesh, serene Vishnu, and an eclectic collection of saints.  She was ready for any possibility, if the hereafter came calling.

Michael installed a foldout bed, camper-sized refrigerator, and a sink with a 50-gallon water tank.  He put in outlets for a microwave and hotplate.  In the cab, Janie glued statues of saints, Joseph and Francis, a St. Christopher medal, a plush Garfield with rosary beads around his neck, assorted rocks, leaves, and seeds she collected in her travels, on a piece of green faux fur that covered the dash.  She painted designs and quotes around the outside of the truck and camper:

“In Goddess We Trust”

“In the morning, I bathe my intellect in the stupendous and cosmogonal philosophy of the Bhagvat Geeta…Henry David Thoreau

“I’ve always wanted to be somebody, but now I see I should have been more specific.” — Lily Tomlin

“Mediocrity thrives on standardization.”
“The only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth.”
“A great many people think they are thinking when they are merely rearranging their prejudices.” — William James
“Reality is just one of my many options.”

They used the goddess-mobile for camping trips and inspirational journeys to cleanse their minds from everyday humdrum.  Michael drove the Camry his father bought him after college, and Janie had custody of the truck.  It amused him when curious strangers approached Janie when she parked her unique vehicle near a grocery store or in a shopping mall.  He knew she loved the attention.  

Michael got a job again with a small local newspaper, and Janie taught crafts at an elderly care center.  Moses kept his people supplied with affection and dead rodents. 

“Mrs. Whipple, our ninety-year-old Scrabble champion, has a sharp tongue on her,” said Janie one day after she came home from the center.  “She scolded me today in front of the entire ‘Natural Materials for Greeting Cards’ class for living in sin.  She said a woman’s only security is a good marriage, and why wouldn’t my young man commit to me?”

“And what did you tell her?” asked Michael.

“I said commitment is for institutions, and I wouldn’t put anyone I love in an institution.”

It felt like a normal life to Michael, and after nearly three years, he had begun thinking in terms of marriage. 

“Janie, why don’t we get married?”

“Is that a proposal or a real question?”

“Well.”

“Well.”

“Okay.  Janie, will you marry me?”

“Nope.  But I’ll love you to the end of my days on this planet and beyond.”

“I think we should get married.”

“I don’t.”

“What’s your reason?”

“No reason in particular, but ‘no’ wins the discussion – no marriage.  I don’t see the point.  People get married to please other people.  We’re happy just the way we are.  Aren’t we?”  She gave him a meaningful stare.

“I think people get married because they want to tell the world they promise to share the rest of their lives and love together.”

“Let’s hire a sky-writer.”

“Don’t be flip.  I’m serious.  I think we should consider the idea.  What about having children?  We’ve never talked about it before.  Do you want to have kids?”

“Maybe.  I don’t hear your parents clambering for an official ceremony and grandchildren from your loins.  I think they secretly hope that you will eventually find some nice girl and have a real family.”

“What makes you think they don’t like you?”

“Oh, I think they like me, okay.  But I don’t think I’m a prime prospect for official daughter-in-law.  I’m not like Judy or Helen, your brothers’ wives.  I’m a little too out there for them.”

“They treat you with the same respect as they treat Brad and Mark’s wives.  They love you.  They always talk about how clever you are, and talented.  They hung that huge picture you painted them for Christmas last year in the living room for all to see.  I think showing off a picture of persimmon, teal, and gold coyotes prowling a shopping mall is telling the world they approve of the painter.”

“It matched the throw pillows on their white leather couch.”

The next day, he came home to find the note. 

Need to see evergreen trees and mountains.  I’ll call you when I find them.  Love, Janie.

She took the goddess-mobile and left Moses.

This is part of a short story about Michael and his wandering love, Janie. The story continues in the next post.

A Writing Prompt for Point of View

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In a recent Oro Valley Writers’ Forum meeting, we were given a prompt to write for five minutes from the point of view of an object. Prompts are always fun challenges for me, so I put pencil to paper and began. This is my short short story from the POV of an object.

I’m always the last to know what was for dinner. I get the detritus of the meal. I can only surmise how good it tasted or sometimes I am really happy I missed it all altogether. Those goopey gravy-laden things are not my favorites. Hard to choke down. On the other hand, I really don’t appreciate the crusty stuff that I have to scrub, or else I hear Madame complain that she will have to replace me. I do my best. I welcome the well-rinsed pot and plate.

Then there are the glasses – don’t get me started. Young master drinks milk, then lets the glass sit without rinsing, and a hard ring forms at the bottom. How am I supposed to get that out?? I don’t have fingers, you know – nothing that can reach in and rub the ring away. Again, I get grief for my performance because the glass doesn’t sparkle in the sunshine. Oh my, it is a hard life.

I overheard one of Madame’s friends talk about how she has never used her appliance for washing dishes. Her husband has somewhat of a drinking problem, but she enjoys a tipple now and again. Her appliance holds all the liquor in her house, so her husband won’t find it. He would NEVER think of opening the dishwasher.

As it happened, the last thing I did before leaving the house that morning was to turn on our dishwasher. It was the first thing I thought of when given this prompt. Try it yourself. Write a short essay or poem from the point of view of an inanimate object and see what happens.

A Dilly of a Dilemma

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I love to write to prompts. Quick stories, handwritten in a limited amount of time, jump-start the right side of my brain. The windows to my imagination are flung open and words fly freely onto the page. They are untethered to logic, only conforming to the guidelines of the prompt. Often, I am taken by surprise at the words that leave my pencil and show up on the page. Most of the time, they are zany musings, sometimes the beginning of a story to develop later, and sometimes a dark force compels a tragedy. Occasionally, nonsense dribbles out, and I find it hard to follow the labyrinth of thoughts. I am always in awe of the process and its revelations. The following story popped up when given ten minutes to write a scene from three different points of view.

The Scene: A female hitchhiker is dropped off at an emergency room with a problem. Tell the scene from the POV of the nurse, the patient, and a hospital administrator.

Nurse POV:

A young miss came into the ER early this morning with a problem. One I haven’t seen in my twenty-four years of nursing. She had been hitchhiking along Highway I-10 from Mobile on her way to Jacksonville, Florida. Her thumb was the size and color of a pickle, not dill, more like a large sweet. She didn’t appear to be in pain, and the rest of her hand looked quite normal and pink, but she complained that since the weather had turned cold, it had been impossible to put on her gloves. I took her vitals, then sent for Dr. Shambala, who was on call. He came in and examined the majestic, inflated digit with no discernible dismay.

His only question to her was, “Is it easy to get rides with that thing?”

To which she replied, “Actually, it comes in handy.”

“Well then, no surgery,” he said. “I think the answer is to buy larger stretchy gloves. I wouldn’t want to inhibit your travels or your gardening.”

I discreetly took a photo of her thumb. I wanted to show it to Hiram, our hospital admin. We had a meeting just last week about the anomalies of the human body and how to address those issues.

Patient POV:

My thumb had been bothering me for several days. Snow and sleet had become an everyday occurrence, even though I had consciously chosen a southern route for my winter journeys. My gloves just didn’t fit anymore. My thumb was getting larger and was really, really cold. I hitched a ride on a pig wagon to the nearest ER. It was a twenty-mile ride, but the farmer was swell. He asked me about my thumb, and I told him it was the reason I needed to see a doctor.

“Going to have it cut off?” he asked.

“Heavens no,” I replied, “just wonder if it could be made a little smaller for my gloves.”

In the emergency room, the doctor asked the obvious question. “How did it happen?”

It’s not the first time that question has come up. I get tired of the same old answer, “I was born this way”, so I told him I was picking crops in Mexico and got a cut, and the juice from the pickles I was picking dripped in, and lo and behold, I woke up with a pickle-sized green thumb.

The nurse at the ER looked a little disconcerted, but kept her cool, and the doctor suggested I get larger gloves for my travels.

“We wouldn’t want to impede your traveling abilities. It clearly is a significant benefit to your lifestyle.

As I was leaving, a sour-looking gentleman, round as a wine keg, came up and asked that I go with him to his office. I did, thinking he might have a suggestion for my thumb. I found out he was a pervert with a title and a fancy office. He wanted to suck my pickle. I left without “goodbye.”

Hospital Administrator POV:

Nurse Nancy came to my office this morning with a photo she took of one of our ER patients. That’s strictly forbidden, but when I saw the photo, I understood her motivation. The girl had a thumb the size of a juicy green pickle. I had given a mini-seminar to the staff about physical anomalies and injuries they could encounter in a rural hospital; everything from nails in the head or hand, to animal parts embedded in human parts – enough said. The thumb picture triggered something in me, and I had to go down to see it in person. The young lady was just leaving the ER.  I asked her to come up to my office for a chat. She obliged, but when the door closed, a powerful urge overcame me. I just had to taste that thumb. I had been a thumb sucker up to the age of fifteen when the shame heaped upon me by my peers finally inhibited the craving, and I quit cold turkey. The girl was offended by my request to suck her thumb and left in a huff. I wished her well on her journey and hope she has a dilly of a life.

AI generated picture

Who Done It? – A very short mystery

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Bequia at anchor in Doe Bay

Winston kicked loose rocks into the slow-breaking waves, his sandaled foot making soft plops in the water. Sand crabs skittered away at his approach across the rocky beach. Cold, briny air blowing steadily against his face ruffled his dark hair and brought the scent of faraway adventure back to him. His forty-three-foot sloop, Bequia, bobbed at anchor sixty feet offshore where the shelf dropped to deep, near ebony waters. Uneasiness haunted this return to his boat, hiding behind his sense of liberation. It had been a tense week on the island.

He untied his dark gold, black streaked, rubber dinghy from a large driftwood log and pulled it out into the surf. Slick clumps of seaweed made walking on the rocks like skating in slug slime. He grounded the dinghy with one foot and shoved off with the other until it floated on its own. The halo line of the rising sun on the east horizon above the hill cast faint magenta fingers into the morning-tinted sky. When he lifted anchor, he would say goodbye to Orcas Island forever. The only witnesses to his departure were three seagulls hanging sideways to the wind.

            It was one of those rare early fall days in the San Juans, portending sunshine at the crack of dawn, no cloudy onshore flow, and a bit breezy. Holly, the waitress at the Swing Inn Café, wiped the crusty pink and gray marbled countertop. Marla never seemed to get it clean before she left at night. She inserted the “daily specials” card into each menu on the stack. The little bell at the door announced morning customers when they arrived. That jangling bell at the door was her starting gun for the day. She watched for regulars – Ted, when he was in town, and Paulus, the Greek.

Then there was the dark-haired stranger who showed up at five am every day for the past week. She still didn’t know his name. That was unusual because, if anyone could charm customers, it was blue-eyed Holly. She hadn’t been successful in finding out where he was staying or why he was in their small town. He came in, ordered the breakfast special without even looking to see what Marty had on the menu, drank two and a half cups of coffee, left a $3 tip, and nodded goodbye. Other than his order and curt answers to polite questions, he didn’t utter a syllable. He was civil, but barely, a real challenge for the gregarious waitress.

Holly tucked her summer-streaked brown hair behind her ears and watched out the window as dawn slowly lit the street in front. The smell of biscuits and coffee filled the small café with a tantalizing good morning aroma. Soon, slices of ham, sausage patties, and strips of bacon would sizzle on the grill.

            Ting-a-ling.

            “Hey, Holly.  How’s tricks?” Old Paulus was always jaunty in the morning. He was a retired fisherman whose wife died four years ago. It became his habit to spend an hour each morning at the Swing Inn. He slid into his customary seat, third from the left end at the counter, and opened his paper, keeping an eye on Holly as she poured him a cup of coffee and put the brown cow pitcher of cream beside it. It made him feel almost married again to have his breakfast with a pretty woman. 

            “You want the special or just eggs and biscuits this morning?”

            “Mmmm.  Today’s Friday. Crab omelet, right?”

            “You got it.”

            “Okay, the special. Did you hear the fireworks last night?”

            “What fireworks?” Holly called over her shoulder, “Marty, one special for the Greek.”

            “Evidently, someone started a fight at the Razmataz, complete with gunfire, squealing tires, police lights, and sirens. No one got hurt or arrested. The guy who started it got away. Some stranger in town. A couple of fellas went to the station for questioning. I heard ‘bout it on the radio before I walked over here.” 

            “It must have happened after I went home,” said Holly. “I was out at Gull’s Wing until the band quit about 1:30 and didn’t notice anything on my way home. I drove right past Razmataz.”

            “How d’you do it? Out dancin’ at night and perky in the morning.”

            “I’m not telling my secrets, Paulus. I might want to sell them one day on QVC.”

            “Youth, it’s all about youth.”

            “I’ve been around awhile. I know what winds my stem. I figured out how to fit the rest of my day around dancing.”

            “Maybe I should try it. These old bones might like to jig.”

            “Come out with me tonight. I’m probably going back to Gull’s Wing. Colin Wilson’s band is playing. Good dance tunes, some country two-step, some swing, some salsa. There’s always a lively crowd when he plays. Plenty of singles. You’ll have your pick of partners, and I’ll certainly dance with you.”

            The door chimes rang again.

            “Mornin’ Sunshine, mornin’ Greek.” Ted took off his cowboy hat and swung his lanky frame onto the stool two down from Paulus. Ted did long-distance trucking. When he was in town, he was always at Swing Inn first thing each day. His wife, Tina, was the kindergarten teacher at the local elementary. She was a vegetarian and liked slow, quiet mornings with yoga and soft classical music, so rain or shine, he walked to the café for conversation and meat.

            Holly poured his coffee in a big mug – black, no anything. 

            “Order up.” Marty hollered.

            Holly pulled the warm plate from the serving shelf and put it in front of Paulus, and warmed up his coffee.

            “What’ll it be, Ted?”

Holly turned at the sound of the bell at the door to welcome the dark-haired new guy, but found her smile greeting an elderly couple who sat themselves in the middle booth of three next to the window.

            “Be right with you folks. Special is crab omelet.”

            The elderly lady, slightly stooped with her green coat pulled close, her gray bob snug in a scarf, nodded back to Holly. “No hurry, dear, but bring tea when you come.”

            “I’ll have double ham, side of bacon, sausage, and two eggs easy over, and a handful of those biscuits,” Ted said as he gulped most of his first mug of coffee. “Do you have grape jelly this morning?”

            “I’ll check. I’m pretty sure a delivery came yesterday afternoon,” she answered and poured more coffee into Ted’s mug.

“Double ham, jacked, and two easy, Marty,” she called to the cook.

            Holly filled two aluminum pots with steaming hot water, grabbed tea bags, put teacups, two napkin-wrapped bundles of silverware on her tray, and two menus under her arm, and went to the couple in the booth.

            “You folks are sure up and out early this morning? Welcome to our little town. Staying at the hotel?” Holly handed them the menus and set out the tea, silverware, and napkins.

            “Did you hear the commotion last night?” Paulus addressed Ted.

            “Lights out for me at 10:00. What happened?” 

            “Don’t know exactly, but there was a ruckus at Razmataz sometime after closing.  Reports say no one was hurt, but the fella who started it got away.”

            “We’re here visiting our daughter and her husband, the Jamisons. Do you know them?” the elderly man answered Holly.

            “Sure do. Millie Jamison clerks at First American Bank on the corner, and Conner works at the auto shop, right? Nice people. Going to stay long?”

            “Body was found out behind Razmataz, in the woods,” Marty called through the serving window. “I’ve been listening to KRG, local news. They just found it. Don’t know who yet.”

            The halyard clanged against the mast on the swaying boat as Winston stepped from the dinghy onto the swim deck of Bequia. He pulled the dinghy aboard and closed the swim deck.  After securing the small boat on the foredeck, he started the electric windlass to raise the anchor and prepared to unfurl the jib. Wind quickly filled the sail, propelling Bequia on its north heading. Revenge left a gnawing hole in his gut, not at all the relief he expected. He set the tiller and slipped below to grab a bite to eat before setting the mainsail. It had been a long night. After he abandoned the rental car, he had walked the rough terrain in dim moonlight nearly 10 miles through part of Moran Park from Doe Bay on the southeast side of the island. He wanted to be in Canadian waters as soon as possible.