DownstateStory

Stefani Christova: Anna's Hair

 

Anna is growing her hair out.

It is not very long yet, it barely touches her shoulders, but she wants to put it up for tonight’s going out, and she has asked her granddaughter to lend her a spare comb or a barrette. John is taking her to see a performance at the Odeon Theatre, the same play they saw on their first anniversary some forty years ago.

On the bedroom dresser, there is a photograph of them in front of the same theater, taken when the theater was new and they were young. Anna wears a black dress patterned with small leaves. Her hair is up. John, straight as an arrow, seems very much aware of what a handsome couple they make. The photograph is black-and-white when no one looks closely at it. It is full of color and noise, however, if one stares at it for a few moments.

John’s eyes are bright blue, the little leaves on Anna’s dress are green, and her hair shines, dark brown with some red brought out by daily rinsing with hibiscus brew. Ancient looking motorcars rattle the cobbles of the pavement, the roasted chestnuts merchant cries over his wares, and Anna’s laughter can be heard clearly over the din.    

John is already dressed and is waiting in the living room, reading today’s paper, which he had saved for that purpose. He is not allowed into the bedroom until Anna calls him; she has a surprise for him. She is going to wear the very same dress she wore back then.

They both have kept most of the good clothes they have ever owned—the quality of the materials is just not the same anymore—so she has on the black dress patterned with pale green leaves. The dress had needed only a slight alternation around the waist, and the silk hugs Anna’s figure quite nicely.

Anna turns to one side and studies her profile in the mirror. She doesn’t like her elbows and tries to cover them with the sleeves, but they are too short for that. The combs and barrettes her granddaughter brought are spread out on the dresser. Among the cheap plastic ones, there are two that may work. One is made of silver wire. It has a large twirl in the middle and two smaller ones on both sides. The other is enamel-covered copper, dark green and glossy. It is shaped like a dragonfly. Anna reaches for it. It will go well with her dress and with her half-gray, half-brown hair.

“Growing out my hair has nothing to do with the incident,” she assures her granddaughter all of a sudden. She is not reading the girl’s thoughts— her granddaughter isn’t thinking about that. Anna is not even addressing her. She is saying it aloud so she can believe in its truthfulness herself, even though she knows that her hair has everything to do with the incident, no matter how hard she has tried to persuade the neighbors that it is nothing but a caprice. The incident still burns brightly like a candle on a shelf in her mind where she keeps her troublesome memories.   

Anna and John have an exemplary marriage that was tarnished only once, and by no fault of theirs. It hadn’t been exactly personal, either, since all the men from the neighborhood were guilty of the same transgression. Half of the neighborhood still blames it on the Russian; the other half, on Mara the Deaf.

No one knows how the other women reacted to the common threat, but Anna stopped talking to John for three days, and only after he developed big, red blisters all over his skin from anxiety and fret did she break her silence: “So, you’ve been thinking about Mara the Deaf.” 

He knew instantly what she meant. She was accusing him that in her intimate presence he was thinking about another woman. 

Mara the Deaf was a tall, willowy woman who smiled all the time, even when alone. Since she was deaf, she was left outside the daily gossip, and that afforded her an aura of sainthood that was impossible to achieve otherwise.

Her innocence gave her a youthful look, and she was the only woman in her age group who still wore her hair long. She usually braided it tightly, but when seen loose, it was beautiful hair indeed, falling around her shoulders in honey-colored waves, the gray frothing on them as they went down. The rest of the women had terrible haircuts and chemical perms, coiling and uncoiling semiannually as they visited Leelah, the local hairdresser.

John didn’t fail to grasp the gravity of the accusation. There was a long, tortured silence. Anna even felt a little sorry for him and wondered what was on his mind. Possibly, he wished he had skipped his visit to the Senior Citizens’ Club that night. But he hadn’t. He had been there, along with the rest of them, having a peaceful game of tabla with his best friend, the Russian, when Mara’s husband had drawn the winning ticket for the raffle. He had won a bottle of twelve-year-old cab and a five-pound bag of last year’s crop of almonds. 

“Lucky bastard,” the Russian said in a casual manner. “And this on top of having a deaf wife.”

“What’s so good about having a deaf wife?” someone asked.

“Well,” the Russian said, taking a long draw from his cigarette, a Chesterfield, no filter, “He could talk dirty to her, and she would never know it.”

The old gents laughed, as this was a good joke, but the thought of whispering dirty words in Mara’s ear had already started making its way into their minds like whirls of honey-colored smoke, frosted just a little with gray, and soon they found themselves thinking of nothing else.

For the next two weeks one could see John and the rest of them strolling around the neighborhood, buying the daily newspaper, or waiting for time to pass over a cup of coffee, with the dreamy expression of teenagers in love. If one met their eyes, one could see Mara’s face there, smiling her innocent smile.

How could they possibly think they would get away with that?

John had paid his reparations, one small token after the other, throughout the whole winter. He fixed everything that needed fixing in the house, and more than once he drove to the neighboring town to buy the best persimmons there were, for Anna was very fond of persimmons.

In the spring, he prepared her vegetable garden with utmost care. He attacked the soil with such vigor that the night crawlers ran from under his spade and sought shelter in the roots of the cassis bushes. He turned the soil over twice and fluffed it with a hoe until it started foaming like rich cream. It rained the next day, and the soil seemed to boil with impatience, effervescent with desire for the seeds and the small plants started indoors three months earlier and now wilting in the kitchen window.

Anna took pity on the seedlings. She planted them in the late afternoon so they could sleep in their new beds before meeting the sun for the first time. The soil was so ready to receive them that all Anna needed to do was to take the seedlings out of the plastic cups and place them in rows. With a distinct fizzing sound, the soil sucked them in, tightened around them, and settled still. Anna gathered the plastic cups and went in to start dinner, giving John, who had observed the scene from the back porch, only a small nod. 

The memory of his expression back then—half hopeful, half forlorn—makes Anna smile. Her granddaughter wants to know why, but the evening sound of church bells comes through the open window, colliding with her words and changing their meaning, until it seems to Anna that the girl is answering a question, not asking one.  

John walks into the room. “The taxi is waiting,” he says. He wears a double-breasted brown suit, a cream shirt and a silk tie, clipped with a silver, hand-made clasp.

Anna looks at him, hands the green comb to her granddaughter and takes the silver one instead. She pulls her hair back, twisting it in a knot, and pins it with the comb. With a little shake of her head, she makes sure the knot is stable, then she pulls John next to her and makes him look in the mirror. In the twilight, they look almost like they do in the old photograph. He, tall and straight as an arrow. She, slight and shapely.

The blue has faded from John’s eyes, and Anna’s skin has lost its translucent olive color, but in a way that doesn’t make them look old, just interminable.

They study their reflection for a long time, having forgotten the waiting taxi and their granddaughter’s presence in the room. The girl gets up to leave. On her way out, she reaches to turn the lights on, but Anna stops her. “Please, don’t,” she says. “We are going any moment now.”

A horn sounds outside. DSS

 

 

Stefani Christova, 54, of Longmont Colo., was born and educated in Bulgaria.  Her work has appeared in literary magazines including Big Bridge, Brutarian, Connecticut Review, DFI, Grasslimb, Raven Chronicles and others in the USA and Europe. She also has done a podcast, “The House with Twelve Rooms” by Jack Straw Studio in Seattle.

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B.F. McCune: A Solo in Two-Part Harmony

 

I chose a restaurant that was impersonal in its large size yet intimate in its noisiness, creating small walls between its customers through a background of clattered dishes, screamed orders,and tired and gossipy Saturday shoppers bent over cups and unneeded pieces of pie.

Then at least I would not have to grasp at words if we could not find anything to say to each other.

Kyle was minutes later than I, even though I had been determined that he would wait for me this time. So I had to stand by the cash register, gnawing my lower lip, turning to face the wall so I would not appear to be looking for him when he came in.

A waitress led the way to a table the farthest away from the rest of the customers. I followed, my chin lifted high, my short straight brown hair swinging around my jaw, my eyes ignoring those around me as if I were too focused to give them even a glance. My heels clicked a fast, impatient staccato on the tiled floor.

Kyle held the chair for me, and I studied him. Although he was an adult, he could pass for either a boy or a man. His expression alternated, once assured like a successful executive, then apprehensive like a child in trouble, then back again. His body was firm but tending toward stockiness, the type that would turn to fat in a few years.

As the waitress wrote down our orders (two cups of coffee, one with cream, one without), we both seized menus to avoid conversation.

Finally I set the menu aside and started the conversation. "Well, Kyle?" My voice echoed through the restaurant, and I glanced at the other customers to see if they were listening. I spoke again in a near-whisper. "Well, Kyle? It's up to you now. You know that. I can't talk anymore."

He was staring at me. He cleared his throat, but no words came out.

"Say something, anything."

"Danielle," he began. His gray-green eyes opened wide. "I've missed you. I really mean it. I know you don't believe me." I nodded my head to agree with him, thinking of the weeks during which I hadn’t seen him. An occasional text was his only contact. “I don't know what to do to convince you," he continued. "I've always thought that going with one woman wasn’t for me. I never wanted to be tied down. But, now. . ." He shrugged his shoulders.

"But, now, what?" I gripped the edge of the table with my fingertips. Waited. He did not go on. "I'm not going to fill in the blanks this time. I'm not going to finish the sentence for you. I've got my life to plan. All I want to know is whether or not to include you."

I stopped as the waitress brought our coffee, all the while chewing on a fingernail. I began again, "I've never been able to really talk to you, get through to you. You start to tell me what you want, then you jump behind your damn mental wall again."

"I've tried not to hurt you, Danielle. I thought if we kept it casual, if I didn't see you too much, we wouldn't get hot and heavy." He rubbed his palms on his thighs.

"Don't you see, Kyle, that we are involved." Determined to say my piece for once, I tensed my shoulders and neck.

"Think of the times you get drunk or depressed. Whom do you call? Me. You say I'm the only one who really cares what happens to you. Yes, I care, but I can't give and give and never get anything back. You know you can turn to me. But whom do I turn to when I need someone? You're never there."

"Danielle, if I had the money, I'd marry you right now.”

What would it take to get through to this guy? "I never mentioned marriage,” I said. “You're doing what you always do -- telling me what you think I want to hear instead of what you feel. I'm not even sure if I'd want to marry you."

He looked at my, puzzled. "If you don't want to get married, what do you want?"

I winced. "Can't you understand that women don’t see marriage as the only goal in life? I want honesty from you. Don't talk around me; talk to me. Tell me how you feel."

He threw his hands in the air, then turned on his chair sideways. He stared at the far wall. "You want me to admit it? All right. I love you."

He stopped, and in the lengthening pause that followed, looked at me from under half-closed eyelids. When he didn't speak further, I said, "You act as if it's something to be ashamed of. Either that or you don't really love me." He still didn't say anything.

"You say you love me. Yet I never see you. Are you lying to me by not telling me the truth, or are you deceiving yourself by trying to hide from your love?"

He threw his head back and gave a short laugh. "I understand. You always talk about how every love is different, how we can't catch the meaning of love with one narrow definition. Now you want to limit my love to your definition. A person can't be in love unless he sees the one he loves so many times a week. How many times?" He lifted a clenched fist. "Once? (one finger shot up to punctuate), three times (three fingers now, in the same manner)? Don't try to control me the same way you hate to be controlled." Once again the little boy, but now an angry one.

I covered his hand with mine, forcing it on the table. I blinked rapidly, hoping the dampness in my eyes escaped his notice. "You're deliberately misunderstanding me, Kyle," I said softly. "You can't love a person unless you know him, and you can't know him unless you see and talk to him." I drew back my hand, picked up my now-cold coffee and swallowed some.

The noise in the restaurant swelled around us. I spoke again. "At this point it is immaterial if I love you or you love me. I can't go on this way, seeing you when you get the urge to fuck, never really talking to you. Surface words come easily. It's the action and feelings behind them that count. By your actions, you don't love me the same way I love you. You're not ready for my kind of love."

He tried to study my face, but I’d hidden behind a brown waterfall of hair. My finger traced around and around the rim of my coffee cup. The nail had been bitten short, a habit he found irritating. I caught him checking the time on the grease-spotted clock on the wall. He shifted his weight on the chair, exhaled a short breath from his mouth. He probably had plans, was late for someone else. He straightened his back; tapped a heel on the floor.

I finally broke the silence surrounding the table. "Maybe we should stop pretending."

His expression altered from impatience to disbelief. "What are you driving at?"

"Maybe we should admit our mistake and not see each other anymore."

"No!" His voice was so loud several people turned to stare at us, but he didn't notice. For the first time he leaned across the table toward me, looked me full in the face unblinkingly.

"Danielle, I need you. You can't leave me."

"I'm sorry, Kyle. You're too bound up in yourself to consider me. It's not working out."

"You aren't serious."

I sighed and turned away from him. "I don't know. I know what I should do, but I don't know if I have the strength to do it."

He resumed his look of confidence and smiled slightly. He took my hand in his, but I drew it out. Around us, shoppers gathered together packages, children fussed, and more successful lovers lined up at the cash register. As the buzz of conversations finally registered on my consciousness, I stood, pulled my bag over my shoulder.

"Let's go," I said. I raised my chin, tossed back my hair. He led the way, still smiling to himself.  I followed, hoping my face was unreadable. DSS

 

B.J. McCune, 67, has won many awards and prizes for her short stories.  Check out her website, www.BonnieMcCune.com.

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Gary R. Hoffman: Greed Takes Over the Human Soul

 

Ethan spotted them the moment he stepped off the train.   They were the same two women he chatted with in his compartment the night before.  Now his wallet was missing.  He froze for a moment to see if they saw him.  They were talking with a man who was writing something in a small notebook. 

The tall blonde woman turned her head slightly and locked eyes with Ethan.  She took her companion's arm by the elbow and started walking at a brisk pace toward the station house.  Ethan started to follow them, but the man they had engaged in conversation stopped him.

"Excuse me, sir.  I'd like to talk to you."

"I've no time at the moment.  Now if you'll excuse me …" He saw the brunette stop at the station house door and glance at him.  "I must go now.  They're getting away."

The man who stopped him shoved a brass star in his face.  "I'm Detective Nolan of the Clayton Police Department.  And who might you be, sir?"

Ethan took a step back to take in the whole scope of this man.  He was a few inches taller than Ethan's five foot ten inches, wider in the shoulders, and sported a full, graying, walrus-type mustache.  "My name is Ethan Shaw.  I have reason to believe those two women you were just speaking with might have stolen my wallet last night on the train."

The detective wrinkled his forehead and pursed his lips, his mustache covering his nostrils.  "That's interesting.  They are accusing you of almost the same thing."

"What?"

"Yes, one of them claims you took a valuable necklace from her as she dozed in your compartment."

"That's preposterous."

"Mind if I look in your suitcase, Mr. Shaw."

"Well, yes, I mind, but I have nothing to hide, so go ahead."

The two men walked to an empty luggage wagon by the side of the station.  Ethan tossed his suitcase on it and stood back while Nolan opened the clasps.  In less than thirty seconds, Nolan held up his hand with a woman's necklace dangling from one finger.

"Care to explain this?"

"I … I have no explanation.  I've never seen that before."

"I'm afraid you're going to have to come down to the station with me, Mr. Shaw."

 

Ethan paced the small cell.  Try as he might, he couldn't even remember either of the women wearing such a necklace as the detective found in his suitcase.  Something strange was afoot, but he couldn't imagine what.  Why would these women take his wallet and then leave an apparently valuable necklace in his suitcase?

Several hours later, Detective Nolan came into the small cellblock, made lots of clanging noises as he opened Ethan's cell door, and told Ethan to follow him to his office.

"Have a seat, Mr. Shaw."  He offered Ethan a cigar, which was declined.  He lit one for himself.  "Just why are you in town, sir?"

"Why the St. Louis World's Fair, of course.  Why are most people traveling into St. Louis these days?  I have an aunt who lives here in Clayton, and she offered me the use of a spare bedroom if I wanted to see the fair.  It's a short buggy ride from her house to Forest Park where the fair is being held.  Finding a hotel room anywhere close to the fair grounds is impossible."

"So I've been told.  That your only business at the fair, to see it?"

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Events like this attract lots of con artists and hustlers."

"I can assure you, sir, I'm not one of them."

"Can you prove any of your story?" the detective said.

"Hum, …well I have the letter my aunt wrote to me offering a room. I kept it for the return address on it.  I've never been to her house."

"And where's the letter?"

"In my suitcase."

"Mind if I look again?"

"Please do."

Nolan found the letter, scanned through it, and returned it to the suitcase.

"Satisfied?" Ethan said.

"Yes, I probably owe you an apology, but I'm trying to reconstruct each step of what happened."

"Oh?"

"Yes, you see, one thing we have already determined is that the necklace is paste, no real diamonds as those two women claimed.  Dime-store quality."

"So what does that mean?"

"They may have taken your wallet and then stashed the necklace in your suitcase to throw suspicion away from them while they made a clean get-a-way."

"And did they get away?"

"Unfortunately, yes.  They are probably a couple of the con artists I mentioned before who are attracted to the fair."  Nolan dumped the ashes from his cigar.  "How much money was in your wallet, Mr. Shaw?"

"Around fifteen dollars."

"From what I'm told, that's not much money to use to see the fair."

Ethan's cheek's reddened.  "I also have a money belt.  There's no way they could have gotten that."

"Oh, you might be surprised.  You're lucky they didn't find it or it would be gone, too.  All I can do right now is take your aunt's address, and we'll contact you if we find out anything, but I must tell you in all honesty, the chances are not good.  I'll have one of our men drive you to you aunt's house.  At least that'll save you the expense of a drayman."

 

Ethan arrived at his aunt and uncle's house in time for a great dinner.  As they sat on the front porch after eating, he told them about his disconcerting day.

The next morning, they instructed him on which streetcar to take to the fairgrounds.  Ethan thought streetcars were great inventions, along with several of the machines people were calling horseless carriages.  He had never seen either one before, let alone ride in or on one.

As he was strolling around the fair grounds trying to decide what to do next, he heard a familiar feminine voice.  He was sure it was one of the women from the train, but they looked very different.  He stood back some distance and watched them for several minutes.  They were both wearing wigs of red hair and their faces were painted with cheek rouge and lipstick. 

"My, my what a small world, isn't it?" he said as he approached them.

The tallest of the two put her hands to her face.  "Don't have any idea what you're talking about, sir."

"Oh, I think you do.  We're both here for the same reasons.  Easy money.  Those passes you're selling to ride the Ferris wheel all day tomorrow.  Are they any good?"

"Sure.  For only a nickel you can spend all day aboard Big Bertha."

"Will the owner of the wheel honor them?"

The girls looked at each other.

"I thought as much," Ethan said.  "How much have you made today?"

"Almost five dollars."

"A paltry sum.  If we work together, we can score a lot more."

"Why together?"

"Women are easy targets, but if there are other women involved, they tend to be more trusting."

"So what's your idea?"

"I'll meet you both back here tomorrow.  I'm going to bring two hundred and forty dollars with me."  The girls shot each other a glance.  Ethan knew that number was high enough to pique their interest. 

"We will pretend to find a hundred and twenty dollars on the ground close to a lady we pick out to use.  Our pigeon.  When she denies it's hers, we'll offer to split it with her, but in order to be fair, we will each put up an equal amount of money to show good faith.  We will then deposit all the money in the bank in an account under all our names, and say we will wait a couple of days to see if anyone claims the money.  This is called a pigeon drop—find a pigeon, drop the money.  Of course, as soon as possible, we will withdraw the money and split her hundred and twenty amongst ourselves."

"I don't think we could each come up with a hundred and twenty," the short girl said.

Ethan rubbed his chin.  "Okay then, how about sixty each?"

"We could probably do that."

"This plan works every time," he assured them.  "Greed takes over the human soul."

He got a smile from both of them. 

"Then meet me back here tomorrow at noon, and we will start our process."

That evening, Ethan enjoyed another of his aunt's home cooked meals.  The three of them sat on the front porch afterwards discussing what Ethan did that day and what was planned for tomorrow.

 

Ethan and the girls met right at noon.  He picked out a lady walking by herself.  He stopped her and pretended to pick up an envelope she might have dropped.  The woman said it probably wasn't hers, but since he had found it by her, she should get some of it.

The plan was devised to put the money in the bank.  The girls, who Ethan introduced as his sisters, put up a hundred and twenty dollars, and Ethan matched it.  They all rode a street car to find a bank.

"There's one," the tall girl said.

"There's another just down the street," Ethan said.  "I understand they're easier to work with."

She shrugged. 

The account was opened with smiles from everyone.  Ethan put the deposit slip in his jacket pocket.  As they were leaving the bank, Ethan pulled the two women aside.  "I think this woman somewhat fancies me.  I'm going to escort her home.  Give us about a half hour to be far away, go get the money, and meet me tomorrow morning in front of Big Bertha, and we'll do the split.  That okay with you?"

"Yes, fine."

Ethan and the woman left. 

"I've heard of people who are crazy as loons, but if he thinks we're going to get that money and then meet him to split it tomorrow, he's crazier than I thought he was," the tall girl said.  "That money will get us any where we might decide to go."  They both laughed.

 

As soon as Ethan's uncle got home from work, the three of them gathered under a shade tree in the back yard.

"So what happened when they came back in?" Ethan asked.

"Well," his uncle started, "I made myself scarce, but hid where I could see what was going on.  I put my young teller back at the desk I occupied when you came in.  Of course, there were no records of such an account—I had them in my pocket—and the two women proceeded to carry on like a couple of banshees.  They insisted they get their money back, which the teller refused to do because they didn't have an account there.  The teller finally called our security people to escort them from the bank.  They were shouting they were going to call the police, but I knew that was a bluff they couldn't back up.  What were they going to do?  Call the police and say they stole some money and now the bank is refusing to give it back to them."

"And Aunt Lucy, you did a superb job of acting as our pigeon."

"Well, thank you, but I really shouldn't accept many compliments on it.  Playing that part was the most fun I've had in years."

"Actually, I kind of enjoyed it myself," his uncle said.  "Going from the bank president to a teller again was rejuvenating."  He took an envelope from his pocket and tossed it to Ethan. 

"How about if I give you both ten dollars for your trouble?" Ethan said.

"Taking money for having so much fun might be another crime," Aunt Lucy said.

"Well, after I get my original fifteen dollars back, we have a hundred and five left over.  What do you propose we do with that?"

"Our church's orphanage fund could always use help," his aunt said.

"Done." DSS

 

Gary R. Hoffman, 73, of Okeechobee, Fla., says over 325 of his short stories have been published, including his latest collection, "I Haven't Lost My Marbles..." by Mockingbird Lane Press. Here are ways to contact him: email: [email protected]  and http://www.authorgaryrhoffman.com.

 

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Terry Cobb: A Story Never Heard

A man in overalls with his shirtsleeves rolled up above his biceps stomped across the attic floor of his farmhouse and snatched up an open cardboard box. 

As he whisked around to leave, a black and white 3 x 5 photograph jumped from the box and drifted onto the wooden floor. For the next forty-two years it lay hidden amid the dark and the dust and endured season after season of frigid winter drafts and stifling summer heat.

The monotony of buzzing flies and scurrying spiders was broken once a year when a woman, who grayed and slowed with each appearance, would step inside the attic and weep as she fingered the pink and yellow satin ribbons that draped over a nail on the wall.

But this year, the old woman did not return.

Instead when the attic door creaked opened, a middle-aged man in freshly pressed khaki pants tugged a ceiling chain to turn on the naked light bulb. 

A woman followed him inside and wrinkled her nose.  “Ugh, it’s so musty in here.”

“I’ll make it quick, Cindy,” he said. “All I want is that box over there that has Grandpa’s Army medals and stuff. The rest can go to the thrift store and the dumpster.”

Cindy picked up a black felt hat with a peacock feather stuck in its band and laughed. “I can’t imagine why you’re not interested in saving your grandma’s old clothes.” She tossed it aside when she spied pink and yellow satin ribbons hanging from the wall. “Oh, wouldn’t these make pretty bows for a little girl’s hair?”

Bill weaved his way through stacks of books, plastic bags, wooden crates, and suitcases to an olive green metal box that sat upon a rusted TV tray. When he bent to lift it, he noticed a black and white photograph lying on the floor next to his shoe. He picked it up, wiped the dust with his finger, and stared at the girl looking back at him.

The girl in the picture felt an immediate and electric connection.  She recognized his spirit as part of her own and knew she was staring back at her son, an adult older than she.

“What did you find, Bill?” Cindy asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, gazing at the photograph.  “It’s just an old picture of some teenage girl in the sixties or seventies.”

“What?  Let me see.” She plucked the snapshot from his hand. “I love the style back then, the headband, the striped mini-skirt…”  She squinted and brought the picture closer. “Oh my gosh, I think she’s pregnant.”

The girl in the picture shouted, “Of course I’m pregnant! C’mon , lady, hand me back to my son!”

Cindy shook her head. “Look at the expression on that girl’s face. What righteous indignation. It’s as if she’s daring you to tell her to wear her skirt longer or to get home before her midnight curfew. God, wouldn’t you have hated to have been her parent?”

“Nobody loves the family truth-teller.”

“Is there anything written on the back of that picture?” Bill asked.

Cindy turned it over.  “Alice, July 1968.”

 Bill grabbed the photograph.

“Do you know her?”

“Oh God, surely not.” He frowned and bit his lip as he studied the picture.

Cindy pressed against him and peered over his shoulder. “What?”

“My mom’s name was Alice. But this girl looks so young—like sixteen or seventeen and not twenty which she would have been in 1968.” 

“So you’ve never seen any pictures of your mother?”

“Grandma said they were destroyed by a fire in Grandpa’s shop.”

The eyes of the girl in the picture flickered with anger.“Yeah, it happened right after I called home with the news that I was pregnant and my boyfriend had left me to go backpacking in Europe. A mysterious little fire somehow destroyed all of my clothes and pictures, but left the rest of dear old Dad’s shop intact. I told Mom that story was a crock. You don’t believe it, do you?”

“Why did your mother run away and leave you with your grandparents?”

Bill sighed. “She didn’t want us, I guess. 

“You don’t know, there may be another side to that story.”

The girl in the picture screamed, “I wanted my parents, but they were too ashamed for me to come home. And my boyfriend thought having a family would be a drag. I love my baby and I’d never—”

“Maybe I don’t want to know.”  Bill tossed the photo on top of the TV tray. “Besides, that girl is probably no relation. She may be some neighbor-down-the-road’s long lost cousin.” 

“What if I took the picture and did a little research?”

Bill shook his head and nudged Cindy toward the door. “Let’s go. I’ll tell Andy to toss the rest of this stuff.”

The light clicked off and the door closed. 

The girl in the picture cried, “Hey, you need to hear my—no, our story!”

Thunder shook the house that night as coin-sized drops of rain thumped the roof. Footsteps echoed up the stairwell. The door rattled open. A click of the light bulb revealed Bill standing in a black slicker with water pooling at his feet. He scanned the room until he saw the photograph sitting atop the TV tray. His hands trembled as he picked it up by the edges and stared at the girl in the picture. 

“I wish you could tell me why, Mom.”

A tear fell from his eyes to the girl’s face. Her expression softened, her chin lowered, her shoulders stooped.  He slipped the photograph inside his coat and clicked off the light. DSS

 

Terry Cobb, 53, of Harris, Missouri, is a retired radiology supervisor, and has written for magazines and newspapers.  She and her husband live on a farm where she gardens and takes photographs. See her blog, with some great photos, here.

 

This is a bittersweet story, and if you liked it, donate here to keep Downstate Story publishing other fine fiction.

 

Susan Duke: No Comparison

 

"Until I stumbled across an article about him in the newspaper, I never realized how much Walter Dodge and I are alike."

A snort drew my attention across the table to a pair of hazel eyes squinting over the top of the comics and puzzles page of the Kirksville Daily Journal.

"You can't be serious,"  my skeptical wife said.

I frowned in response but inwardly rejoiced.  I'd missed our verbal sparring, one of many spices flavoring our forty years of marriage.  I decided to carefully test the waters.

"Really, I am, Lauren.  A lot of similarities,  Really."

She meticulously flattened her paper and set it aside.  "Name one."

I rose to the challenge.  "Well, we both graduated from Washington High in '65."

"As did I.  Go on."

I chuckled as I observed thin arms crossing her fragile chest.  "Walter and I are college grads and have retired from full-filling careers.  Some raspberry jam for your English muffin, dear?"  I shoved the jar through breakfast clutter.

"Thank you.  I believe I will."  Lauren sighed as she precisely spread preserves to the edges of her muffin, set down the knife, and licked her index finger.  "Hey, you on the floor,"  she said to a furry lump.  "Pay attention while Mama sets the record straight."

Our basset stretched and yawned.  He moaned and dropped his massive head onto the tiles so he could observe both masters.  He remained motionless except for an occasional twitch of his white-tipped tail.  He followed our conversation with soulful eyes.

"First of all, you and I graduated MAGNA CUM LAUDE because we worked hard and deserved the honor.  Walter's father practically bought his sheepskin with donations to the science wing.  Walter Dodge is dumber than this dog and you know it."

"Tsk!  Tsk!  Now you've insulted Petey."

Lauren laughed and stretched pale fingers to scratch behind the loiterer's lengthy velvet ears. The hound groaned with delight and sighed.

I smiled.  Through it all--chemo, radiation, months of fear and mind-numbing panic--Petey earned his badge of valor and numerous Milk Bones. 

As I had spun in helpless, confusing circles, seeking occupations of comfort to Lauren, her four-footed, brown and white friend had simply been THERE.  He had sensed her pain and terror and lay by her side, never crowding but close enough for calm consolation. 

Lauren loved Petey and I had no doubt he would forfeit his life for her.  I envied the dog's intuition for her needs but accepted my position as second banana.

"Why are you smiling, my Heathcliff?"

I blinked moist eyes.  "Oh, I'm just glad you've had your last treatment, honey.  Why do you call me Heathcliff?"

She blushed, a trifle embarrassed and shared her muffin with Petey.  She'd watched countless classic movies as she'd recuperated on the couch in the den.

"You're big and strong and my hero, Dave.  You never gave up on me.  So you're my Heathcliff and I'm your Cathy."

I cleared my throat as I rose to clear the table.  At the sink, I turned to face her.   "Excuse me, but didn't Cathy die in WUTHERING HEIGHTS?  You're a survivor, Lauren."

She pursed her lips.  "But, see.  Heathcliff and Cathy were eventually joined for eternity.  Nothing could destroy their love.  Just like us."

I crossed quickly to kiss bristles on the top of her head.  "You've got that right, kiddo.  Hand me the milk, will you?"

Lauren avoided my eyes as we worked together.  "What were we talking about?"

"Walter Dodge."

She gulped and finished her liquid supplement.

"Yuck."

"Yuck Walter or yuck your vitamins?"

"Both leave a bad taste on my tongue."  She grabbed a napkin to gently blot her lips.  The sores in her mouth were almost healed.

"Hmmm.  Something about 'full-filling careers'."

I turned again to set the plates, glasses and silverware in the sink to soak.  "Walter successfully operated a thriving business and I. . .well, I guess I never did make Chief."

"David Miller!"  Lauren spoke so sharply Petey raised his head and whined.  "You retired as Lieutenant of Detectives with enough commendations to fill three scrap albums.  Walter showed up at his father's lumber yard whenever he couldn't find something else to occupy his time."

I stooped to stroke Petey's muzzle.

"We both fell in love with you,"  I quietly said.

"Oh honey, that's so ridiculous.  I never encouraged. . ."  A coughing spasm caused my heart to race.

"Lauren!"

She covered her mouth and shook her head.  "No, no Dave.  My breathing is getting so much better.  Here.  You can feel my forehead.  No fever."

I practically lifted my my slender angel and held her to my chest.  Her arms slid around my waist and we stood, warming in the sunlight that brightened our kitchen.

Time had been our enemy, ticking away precious minutes we couldn't grasp and save.  But her last check-up had been the best.  No trace. . .see you in six months. . .regain strength. . .

Lauren had been determined to stick to the  planned drug schedule regardless of the suppressed production of white blood cells.  While I agonized over her nausea, bone pain and dizziness, she had worried about me.

"Oh, baby."

She shushed me and spoke directly into my heart.  "I know, Heathcliff.  We've been through a lot, but I'm on the mend now.  We're going to enjoy our retirement and spoil our grandsons."

"Your hair is growing back."  I rubbed her head.

"Yeah."  She looked up at my face.  "It'll be gray, though.  You're used to brown hair on me."

I shook my head.  "I don't care, honey.  Leave it gray and we'll match."

She stepped back and looked into my eyes.  "I don't know.  When it's longer, I think I'll ask Petey for his opinion."

At the sound of his name, his tail thumped on the tiled floor.

"I think Petey wants to go out."

I led Lauren back to her chair and scooted mine closer to her.  "That's what I was thinking as I read this article about Dodge."

"Huh?"

"Our brilliant city fathers are staging this eco-rally in Willow Park this morning.  I thought if you felt up to it, we could catch a little fresh air and check it out."

Lauren sniffed.  "A bunch of speeches about going green and saving the planet.  What do you think, Petey?"

The basset woofed and his entire body wiggled, three feet of glorious anticipation.

Lauren laughed.  Music to my ears.

"Well, lace up, Heathcliff.  We're burning daylight."

Our happy trio proceeded slowly down our block.  Spring's warm breezes signaled the end to the bitter winter with promises of new life.  I inhaled deeply while obliquely keeping a close watch on my wife.  We were going to be okay.

"Lighten up, Dave.  No dizziness or nausea.  I'm fine, hon.  Really.  It's great to be out and acting normal."

I frowned.  Was I that obvious?

Petey languished in olfactory paradise.  Being a scent hound, he shuffled along with his head down and tail up.  His keen nose and brain received, sorted, and stored all aromatic data like a computer.  His wide nostrils flared as his long, velvety ears acted as fans, blowing odors up from the ground to his nose.

"Hey!  It's the Millers out and about."

I smiled a greeting to our neighbors.  "Joe.  Good to see you and your better half."

Pati Fife fell in step beside Lauren.  "Hi, sweetie.  How are you doing?  Ooh, Petey.  Your nose is cold."

Lauren said,  "Dave.  Make your dog behave.  Sorry about that, Pati.  You must smell too good to resist."

I tugged the leash so Joe, Petey and I fell a few steps behind our ladies.  I couldn't help studying Lauren for any signs of distress.  Petey sniffed a mailbox post frequented by neighborhood dogs.  Reading his P-mail, I guess.

Lauren sighed contentedly.  "I'm good, Pati.  Getting better everyday.  This morning is especially nice.  Going to the rally over at the bandstand?"

Pati nodded.  "We old folks have to keep up on current events, don't we?"  She gently squeezed Lauren's hand.  "You look wonderful."  The Fife's had proven their friendship time and again.  After Lauren's diagnosis, they never butted in but were always available when we had needed them.

Lauren adjusted her ball cap.  "My head itches, but I guess that's a good sign."

As our wives chatted and fell into a comfortable pedestrian rhythm, Joe and I discussed Walter Dodge.

"So the lumber baron is running for mayor on the green ticket,"  Joe said.  "I don't think he has developed any political platform of his own, so he's jumped on popular issues no one can dispute.  He'll ride that train all the way."

I shook my head.  "Does no one else see the irony here?"

"What?"

"His family fortune accumulated from chopping down trees, and now he's pledging to save the environment."

Joe laughed.  "Bring that up during the question and answer session, will ya?  Did you hear he traded his big SUV for a Prius?  He's even been seen pedaling around town on a hybrid Runabout."

The crowds thickened as we turned to cross the ball diamonds to cut through to the rally.  Petey's tail wagged vigorously as adults and children paused to pet him.  Greetings were voiced to all of us.  I appreciated the friendly atmosphere but noticed Lauren and Pati were getting farther ahead.

"Watch your step, Lauren,"  I called.  "There are ruts and who knows what along here."

Lauren turned to flash a reassuring smile my way.  My pulse quickened as her eyes widened and she shouted,  "Dave!  Look out!"

A figure with his head down hunched over curved handlebars.  A fast bicycle whizzed past Joe and me.  I felt the breeze it created.  As I futilely reached out to protect my delicate wife, Petey wrenched his leash from my hands and lunged to position himself between his beloved mistress and the wayward biker.

"No,"  I breathed as Lauren fell sideways into Pati's arms.  The two women somehow managed to remain upright, but Walter dodge crashed to the dirt in a blur of blue and white striped spandex and orange carbon fiber and titanium.

"We're okay.  We're okay,"  Pati said as we rushed to them.

Language far beneath the dignity of an aspiring mayor issued from a sputtering Dodge as he picked himself up and surveyed his bike.

"That's a nine hundred dollar bicycle, Miller!"  he shouted.  "It better not be damaged."

"Or what, you moron,"  Joe said.

Pati put her hand on her husband's arm.  "Calm down, honey."

Walter Dodge kept his eyes on me, ignoring the Fifes and the curious growing assembly.

"Are you okay, Lauren?"  I asked.  I could feel my heart swishing in my ears.  If she or Pati were injured in any way. . .

She nodded.  "He swerved to avoid Petey.  He could have hit Pati or me."

Dodge straightened up to his full five foot eight.  "There's a leash law in this town, Miller.  You'd better keep that mutt restrained."

As Lauren and Pati knelt to pet their hero, I couldn't believe what I heard.  A low rumble issued forth from the gentlest giant in Missouri.

"Knock it off, Dodge.  In eight years, I've never heard this dog growl, not even at a skunk that invaded our back yard."

I continued before he could respond.  "You are well off the bike path and speeding through a crowd of pedestrians.  You'd better just head on over to your rally and give your little speech."

Maybe it was my hands clenched on my hips, the look on Joe's face, the muttering crowd, or the aggressive stance of an angry basset hound.  Walter's wide posterior presented itself as he pedaled toward his cronies and beloved microphone.

"You guys go ahead if you care to,"  Lauren said to the Fifes.  "I'm out of the mood."

Pati smiled.  "Bet you didn't know Barnes and Noble opened up over on Crest.  We could have a cup of coffee and discuss global warming or something."

Lauren raised questioning eyes to me.

"If you feel like it, honey.  It's only a block from here.  Joe and I will keep Petey company in the park."

"Look at those two,"  Joe said as the women sauntered off, sharing a laugh about some little item of gossip.  "Acting as if nothing happened.  I could have punched him or something."

I chuckled.  "I know.  He's not getting my vote."

We parked ourselves on a bench across from the book store to wait on our wives, a practice man has perfected since the beginning of time.  Something I'd missed in the last year.

"You're a good dog, Petey old boy,"  I said as the hound observed a squirrel digging up a treasure left over from last fall.  He dropped to the ground and bunched his eyebrows at me as if to say,  "Of course." DSS

 

Susan E. Duke, 65, of East Peoria, is a retired special needs teacher whose short stories have been published in many magazines. She is married with three adult children and two grandsons.

 

This story has it all: a dog, a loving couple, a hypocritical politician. Keep these stories coming by donating to Downstate Story.

---

Don Axt: "That's the Way Wit Mens"

 

Us big boys know how to handle ourselves in a food-line buffet.  We jolly up to the servers so they smile and laugh and dish up a little bigger portion on our plates.

I was off on a Bird Watching Elder Hostel in Trinidad/Tobago several years ago.  The bird group worked out of a motel serving buffet meals.  Of course I pulled my, usual, jolly-the-servers-act.

Natasha was one of those girls.  (Odd name for a Latino gal.)  But, she caught my act big time. She was a laughie lady who put as much in the game as I did, giggling and smart talking over the beef stew and tapioca pudding.

She was an average lookin’, comfortably upholstered, lady of warm, rich coffee and cream color.  Interesting to be with in the off hours between meals when the bird group went off sight seeing old buildings around town.  I stayed behind to watch the birds, bugs and flowers that mobbed the hotel/motel garden, a shaggy thing no bigger than a mobile home lot,

Natasha sat there too.  The servers from the dinning room had time off between meals.  They mostly dozed or talked quietly at a dinning room corner table.  Natasha found her pleasure in that garden outside watching the birds and bees. 

I sat with her a couple of times.  No heavy breathing, just laughing and silly talk.  She had an engaging way of calling out things in the garden; giving them personalities.  Big bomber bumblebees got treated like big mouth, self-important yahoos.

And, the tiny, sugar-birds, (Banaquits): she had a love/hate relationship with them.  “Busy-busy little things; catching bugs, raising chicks and all-ah-time redoing the nest.  It wears you down just watching ‘em.”

Big blue-black grackles chased the sugar-birds now and then.  Natasha cheered ‘em on: “Go, get them busy-birdies, you black whoduz!”

As for the dueling hummingbirds. They got called “sword-birds”, on account of their long skinny beaks.  She laughed when they chased one or another from stopping at some sweet blossom, or perching on a commanding perch.  She called to different ones, “Don’t sit there, child.  You’s sitting on somebody’s doorstep.” 

If that someone came zooming up, chattering the way hummers do,  she and me would laugh and cheer them on.  We laughed lots that way and talked some.  Not all that much.  There wasn’t so much time between meals.

Jolly times, but sometimes not all that jolly.

After a couple of male hummers got into it with each other one time she said, I remember, “Mens, they’s devils sometimes.”

“I’m a man.”

“Well, not you ... (pause) ... “But, no tellin’ ... even ‘bout you.”

Another time I showed her a trumpet-like, orange flower; wired for action!.  A bug would light on the flower and start crawling up the tube. And, whop!, the spring-loaded pistil would slam down and nail the bug on the rump so’s to get the pollen the bug got dusted with somewhere else.

Natasha screamed with delight when I showed her that.  “Good on him.  Go messin’ with them sweet flower things you get a boot in the butt.”

Then, a nice, yellow spotted beetle got tangled in a spider web by us. Quick now the spider ran out to jump the unlucky beetle. We watched as the spider killed the beetle.  Me horrorstruck.  She sayin’, “It be murder out here.  Kill and get kilt.” 

I shivered.  She said other upsetting things, too.

I asked her; did she come from the town there? 

“Yeah.”

“Were you a big family, with nice brothers and sisters?”   

“Yes.  lots of them.  eight, nine counting me.  Sisters, lots of  half-brothers and chilluns with different mamas or papas, two or three, depending on what different mens brought ‘em along. It was a house-full. always someone goin’ around, into mischief.  There be no room to rest in that house.”

Then there was silence, long silence except for bird noises and the buzzy bugs.

“They wasn’t all happy, lovie brothers and sisters.  The sisters would sometimes fight steal, if you let ‘em.

“And the boys, the men, they try to steal things from you too.  Different things,  even from the little ones, no more than babies: feeling, touching.

“Here let me kiss you.”  (Deeper man voice) “There touch that. … Kiss it.”

And another voice change to a childish voice: “Mama, mama, he always want to sit with me.  And touch and do things.  Mama, make him stop.”

Deeper mama voice: “Hush chile.  That’s the way wit mens.  They gots to come on to you.  Someday you be happy they wants to.”

I tried to change the subject:  “Oh, look. The hummers fighting  over the feeder.”

And from her, “I never did be happy at what the mens wants to do.  Always makin’ me feel to be trashy.  Mens.  I hates ‘em.  Why do they do like that?”

More quiet.

From the kitchen they called in a sing song way, “Na-TASHA-ah!” And she went off.

Our group left that night to go up country to another place for several days.  Four days later we returned, stayed overnight, had breakfast and raced off to the airport.

Natasha wasn’t there.  “Natasha be gone,” one of the other server girls said.

Shoot!  I wanted to smile, and say good-bye, good luck.

At  the airport I picked up an English newspaper to read while waiting for our flight.

The front-page headline jumped out: “Police grab Natasha.” 

My God!  Hairs prickled up on the back of my neck. 

Could that Natasha be “my” Natasha?

The subhead read, “Natasha Something-or-other apprehended by police late yesterday afternoon for questioning in regard to a ten-year spree of serial-style, ice-pick stabbings of barrio men.” 

A blurry picture showed POLICIA, pushing a largish woman along; her face hidden from view.  She could have been my Natasha.  Or, any large girl. 

I searched the article for some clue to Natasha’s identity.  How many Natasha’s can there be in that Latin country?  I don’t know if  the paper’s page one Natasha was “mine”.

I'll never know.  I don’t want to know.  It was such fun talking and laughing with her in the motel garden.

It would tear me up if it was my Natasha.  But then, I guess, I’d know how come. DSS

 

Don Axt, 84, of Peoria, IL. is a retired Caterpillar, Inc. advertising executive.  His stories have been published in Midwest Living and Cricket.

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Kent McDaniel: Or Someplace Shining

 

In the early evening McDermott stood before the Christmas tree in the sanctuary, where everything was quiet, the tree’s lights the only luminescence. It rose eight feet, and the lights were old fashioned, shaped like tiny bulbous cones, green and blue and red and gold, their glow warmer than an LED’s.

Ornaments of many sizes, some frosted with white or glitter, sparkled and glinted. Strands of tinsel spiraled up around the pine needles, and a haloed angel gleamed at the top. Gazing at it, just for a moment he felt that this season was somehow a celebration of the transcendent.

Behind him, the heavy oak door creaked open, and he turned as it clunked shut behind Rita Bradley, whose delicate face was somber, green eyes anxious. Wearing a backpack, she lugged a guitar almost as big as she was and tried to smile. “Reverend McDermott? I was hoping you’d be here…”

She was only eleven and usually cheerful, but the look on her face belonged on someone much older. He liked her, and thought her one precocious girl. Shortly after he’d come to Harrison, in southern Indiana, the church had a potluck dinner, and before everyone sat down, some girls near him were discussing Amy Winehouse.

One said that Winehouse may have been rich and famous, but she died all alone. Without rancor Rita had said, “But we all die alone, don’t we?” McDermott had looked at her and she’d raised her eyebrows as if to ask, isn’t that right?  He’d wondered if she heard that somewhere, but his high regard for her began then.

But now, all his Christmas glow evaporated and the stress of the holidays crashed down on him. He smiled anyway. “You wanted to talk to me?”

They walked over to the pew in front of the altar and sat down. He glanced at the gold cross in the middle of the table, then at Rita, whose guitar and backpack lay at her feet.

She grimaced. “I told Mom and Dad I wanted to run over ‘What Child Is This?’ before League.” League was the youth group for pre-teens, which met on Thursdays and he led. In next week’s Christmas program, Rita was playing guitar and the members of League were singing “What Child Is This?”. Her guitar playing was rudimentary but good enough, and her voice was clear and strong.

“That why you’re here?”

“I’ll show you why.” She leaned over her backpack and got something. When she rose and turned, a huge baggie full of greenish gold buds the size of small pickles was on her lap.

McDermott was twenty-eight, grew up in the college town of Champaign, Illinois, and went to seminary in Chicago. He recognized weed. He’d smoked it, bought it occasionally, as an undergrad. What he was looking at must be a quarter pound. Unless deflation had struck weed prices, this must be two thousand dollars worth.

“Where did you get it?”

“From Steve’s duffle bag. This afternoon.” Her face looked guilty. “I was just looking for a guitar pick. He keeps his effects pedals, strings, swiper and everything in his duffle bag.”

“Swiper?”

“You know.  That thing that lets you buy his CD with a credit card.”

 He did know. Steve was her brother, nineteen, a freshman at Harrison Community College, and playing in Paranormal, a local garage band. He’d always seemed pleasant and easy going but somehow aloof to McDermott, who liked him well enough.

Steve’s parents had paid for pressing a CD of his songs recorded on his laptop. Last summer McDermott had gone to see him at a local coffee house and bought a copy of the CD, Over and Over and Again. The title track was a love song, but McDermott thought its first verse hinted at something more: “Sometimes--I don’t know why--it’s like I could fly/ Off to space or someplace shining and high.” The song had a nice reggae beat, but to McDermott that first verse was what sold it.

Shortly after the night McDermott bought the CD, Steve had informed his parents that he would no longer attend church. They hadn’t tried to force the issue, though Craig Bradley, Steve’s and Rita’s father, had asked McDermott to talk to Steve. McDermott agreed to, though it made him uncomfortable.

Ministers were supposed to reach out to their congregations, after all, respond to their needs. Of course, Craig Bradley, who owned an insurance agency, was a member of the church Session, Kiwanis, and The Gideons and served on the Harrison School Board, but McDermott would’ve done the same for any congregant. He hoped.

His talk with Steve went about as McDermott had expected. Steve was uncomfortable but polite over the phone, and McDermott bent over backward trying to avoid pressuring him. At twenty-eight he actually felt closer to Steve’s need to assert his independence than Craig Bradley’s opposition to it.

 McDermott gazed back at the bag of weed, before he slapped his leg. “How about if you put that back in your backpack, and let’s go over to my office.”

League wouldn’t begin for another forty minutes, but he didn’t relish the thought of running into anyone, with Rita carrying her jumbo baggie of dope.

 As they walked to his office in the attached annex building, he tried to think. He didn’t feel it was a huge deal if Steve was smoking weed--him and a couple million other American adolescents. As long as he was still functioning, going to school, playing in his band, doing what he needed to do.

On the other hand, a big bag of weed like this was probably for more than personal use, and if he was dealing he was asking for trouble. Besides which, McDermott might think Steve’s smoking weed was no big deal, but if his parents found out Steve was and the preacher knew it, there’d be hell to pay. Anyway, what was he supposed to tell Rita? Just slip it back in the duffle bag?

Her backpack on her lap, Rita sat across from his desk, and he sat down gazing for a moment at the bookcase behind her, thinking this was exactly why he was considering getting a master’s degree in psychology--praying about it.

He was a social, political, and religious liberal, like most students at his seminary. His congregants were, if not fundamentalists, at least very conservative in their faith, and their politics were from Fox News.

Rita’s father, for one, was always urging McDermott to preach against abortion, gay marriage, and the ban on prayer in school. At moments like that, starting grad school full time, maybe back in Chicago, had a real allure; but McDermott suspected he was in Harrison for a reason.

He asked Rita. “Did you know Steve was using marijuana?”

She glanced down in a sort of nod. “His eyes are glassy sometimes, and he won’t look you in the eye. He’s just…different. He smells smoky sometimes, too. And everybody knows Twitch smokes weed.”

“Twitch?”

Rita looked like she had a bad taste in her mouth. “The singer--in Paranormal.” She shook her head. “The guy Steve does all his songwriting with now. They collaborate. And everything they write is ugly and nasty—like Twitch.” She frowned at her lap. “Their shows are like going to a scary movie.”

“So do your parents know Steve’s smoking marijuana?” 

Her mouth curled. “They act like they don’t. I think they just don’t want to believe it. Not their boy. Not their family.” She slumped in her chair.

He laid his thumb under his jaw line, his fingers alongside his face. The quarter pound of weed in Rita’s backpack might as well be a ton: She didn’t want to rat Steve out but knew he was screwing up.

“I can see why you’re worried.”

McDermott wanted to say that smoking pot wouldn’t necessarily ruin Steve’s life, but he’d seen weed turn friends into zombies for years. Rita didn’t need to hear her preacher condone it. Finally, he said, “Marijuana can mess people up, but it won’t necessarily ruin Steve’s life. I believe he has a lot of character.” 

His finger tips tapped his desk. “How about if you leave it with me? I’ll think about what to do. And pray. I won’t tell your parents without talking to you.” 

She gave him the weed, which he locked in his desk. “So,” he said, “what do you say you run over ‘What Child Is This?’”

She smiled wanly.

In the sanctuary, he turned on the lights and set them between dim and bright. He sat in the pew before the dais, and Rita took her guitar up there. Light reflected off the golden cross, off the polished blonde wood of Rita’s guitar, off her green eyes. She strummed a minor chord, glanced at him, and began, chords and melody haunting as she sang: “What child is this laid to rest on Mary’s lap is sleeping?”

By the time the song rose to the soaring answer: “This, this is Christ the King,” he was entranced, marveling at the persistence of beauty and hope, marveling at the hymn. When she finished, he applauded. “You guys are gonna steal the show.”

A few League members had come into the sanctuary and clapped too. Rita blushed and put up her guitar and they all went over to the annex. They had their business meeting, which concerned mainly a New Years Eve movie marathon and sleepover for League members, at the Church.

Then the kids donned their costumes and went to rehearse their performance. Joseph and Mary crouched on stage on both sides of where baby Jesus--temporarily removed from the manger scene out front--would be. The scripture reader stood at the pulpit and began the story of Jesus’ birth. On cue, the shepherds and the wise men came on. After that, Rita entered and they all formed a semi-circle. She began the song, and with the first chorus everyone joined in; again wonder came over McDermott.

Tempered, however, by his concern over the situation with the weed, which had never been far from his thoughts. Rita would be going home; Steve might have already noticed his weed was gone, and things could get bad. 

Twenty minutes later, as everyone was at the door leaving, McDermott said, “Rita, do you have a second? There’s something I think Steve might help us with. I wondered if you could give him a call?”

Her eyebrows rose but she shrugged. “Oh, sure. No problem.”

As the door closed behind the departing members, she asked, “You really want to call Stevie?”

McDermott spread his hands. “I think it’d be best.”

 As she punched in the number, he said, “Let me speak to him, OK?”

She handed him the phone, and Steve came on the line. “Lovely Rita, how may I serve you?”

“Actually this is Reverend McDermott, Steve.”

 Steve sounded puzzled. “Rita’s number shows…Is everything all right?"

McDermott cleared his throat. “Yes--I hope so. Uh, Rita was looking for a guitar pick and found something in your duffle bag.” Steve’s sharp inhalation came over the phone. “She brought it to me,” McDermott said. “Do you think you could stop by the church and talk about it?”

“She had no right! It‘s not all mine even…”

“I don’t want to cause you problems.” McDermott shook his head, unsure what to do. “But this is serious. I wish you’d come over and talk about it.”

Steve’s voice rose. “What’s there to talk about? I want my stuff back! It’s mine.”

“It’s not that simple. Now that it’s been--”

“Yeah, I’ll be there. For sure.” Steve disconnected.

McDermott handed Rita her phone across his desk. “He’s coming.”

She gave the smallest of nods. “He’s mad, right?”

McDermott took a breath. “He sounds upset. I think maybe it’d be better if you weren’t here when he comes.”

She shook her head. “No way. I’ll face Steve right now. He’s the one who should be ashamed.”

McDermott was having problems thinking clearly; he had to decide what to do. The safest thing would be to call Craig Bradley, and let him sort out this mess, wouldn’t it? But that’d be betraying Rita: if she’d wanted her dad to handle this, she’d have shown the weed to him. Still, she was a little girl; what did she know? Probably she knew that her dad was a prize horse’s ass, just as McDermott knew.

Craig Bradley was pompous and domineering at church session meetings. At the last two, he’d kept demanding that Trinity Presbyterian take a stand against “The War on Christmas,” until The Session finally voted—over McDermott’s objections—to insert a declaration on it in the Church bulletin.

And privately Craig was always telling how helpful a wife would be for his career, and mentioning eligible women. McDermott wasn’t exactly in the market, though. He still wasn’t over Callie, his girlfriend before he came to Harrison. A grad student at the University of Chicago, she’d wanted him to stay in Chicago, but he felt—or hoped—that the job offer at Trinity was providential, that he was supposed to go. They were still in touch—after fifteen months--and Craig’s matchmaking set McDermott’s teeth on edge.

Be all that as it might, Steve was Craig Bradley’s responsibility; didn’t he deserve to know? Steve was nineteen, though, which made him an adult in the eyes of the law, technically.

The door to his office sprang open and Steve strode in. He stopped just inside the doorway, wearing jeans, work shoes, and a leather jacket. His long hair was gone, and he sported a crew cut. He had a silver stud in one ear and hadn’t shaved in a couple days, it seemed, though his beard was too sparse for the full scruffy effect he probably wanted. He glared.

“I want it back. Now.”

 “Look who’s here,” Rita said. “Stevie—the drug dealer.” She muttered something about apes, but McDermott couldn’t make out all the words.

“What the hell’s that got to do with anything?” Steve seemed ready to scream.

 “Even apes do go bald eventually.” Rita enunciated clearly. “You taught me that.”

“So you could memorize the names of the guitar strings.” Steve grimaced. “So what?”

“Why do you think I started playing?” Rita eyed him. “Cause I wanted to be like you.” She looked like she might spit at him.

Stressed, really stressed, McDermott thought.          

“Know what, Rita?” Steve pushed his hands down like he was shoving a swing. “I don’t give a damn. I want my dope!” He stepped up to McDermott’s desk. “You got no right to it.”

McDermott was trying to figure out Rita’s words. Go bald? Apes? Eventually? He turned his head to one side and back. “Maybe not. Neither do you, I guess. Possession of marijuana is illegal.”

Steve kicked the desk. “That’s the law. I’m talking about right and wrong!”

 McDermott shrugged. “Right and wrong’s a little trickier. Is it right to break the law? Right to hurt your family? Endanger yourself? Right to sell people dope? Would it be right for me to know about this and not let your parents know?”

“You’re just scared of my father!  You don’t wanna make him mad. That’s all.”

“That concerns me.” He glanced down. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, but it was the truth. “The thing is, I think he’d have a right to be mad.”  

“I NEED THAT DOPE!” Steve’s eyes seemed to protrude for a moment, and he shoved his fingers across both sides of his scalp. “Everybody in the band kicked in two fifty. Twitch went ballistic.”

“You told Twitch about this?” Rita drew back.

“I had to,” Steve said. “He found out later, he’d have freaked out worse.”

“But Twitch is evil, Stevie.”

He shook his head. “He’s just angry--about everything.”

“So your band is selling drugs?” McDermott asked.

“Just till we do an album.” Steve hiked his shoulders for a second. “That dope’s mine. I want it back.”

That isn’t going to happen,” McDermott said. “I just can‘t do it.”

“Man!” Looking on the verge of tears Steve stepped closer, at the side of the desk, his voice pleading. “We paid a thousand dollars for the weed. A thousand dollars.”

“Yeah,” another voice growled. “No way you’re ripping us off.”

A muscular guy with bleached blonde hair stood in the door, blue eyes flaring. He looked a few years older than Steve and a couple inches shorter, with faint blemishes on his face that looked like pimples waiting to happen.

He marched over between Steve and Rita and glared at her. “Bitch!”

Rita winced, but drew herself up and stared at him.

“She brought the pot to me,” McDermott said, rising to his feet, “because she was scared. For her brother.”

“Yeah, fuck you, asshole!” Twitch turned his head to scowl at him, eyes glassy,  pupils filling the irises. “Fuck you, all right?” He turned back to Rita, “She stole our shit!” He whipped back his arm. Steve grabbed his wrist. Twitch struggled against his grip. They fell across the desk wrestling.

McDermott punched in 911 on his cell phone. He held it out and shouted, “Stop it. Now! I’ve got 911 punched in. I’ll hit send.”

The two writhed in a grunting embrace. Books and bookends flew off the desk. Rita jumped out of the way. McDermott’s paperweight with the snow and reindeer tumbled off. He drew back and slapped the desk, the clap like a door slamming. “STOP!”

The two ceased struggling but still grappled. They seemed to relax. Gingerly, they released each other and climbed off the desk. Both faced McDermott, panting, Twitch’s face sullen, Steve’s pallid and taut.

“Give us our shit,” Twitch said.

McDermott stared at him. “You need to leave now.” He jiggled the phone in his hand.

Twitch started to come around the desk. Steve grabbed him around the shoulders. Tugging against him, Twitch jabbed a finger at McDermott. “I’ll burn your god damned church down, motherfucker! I’ll knock your fucking teeth out.”

“If you don’t leave now,” McDermott said, “I’m hitting send.”

Twitch jerked and twisted in Steve’s grasp, unable to wrench free. He subsided, and Steve murmured something to him. He turned Twitch around, still murmuring to him, and began to ease him toward the doorway. There he turned Twitch loose and gave his shoulder a little shove.

Twitch glared at McDermott. “That dope is starting us on our album, asshole.” He made “album” sound like “eternal salvation.” He raised his chin.  “No way you keep it.”

Steve whispered something and pushed his shoulder again. Twitch scowled at him. Steve gave his shoulder another little push, and Twitch stalked out. The three of them in the office stared at each other, McDermott’s heart racing. Faintly the door to the church creaked open and crunched shut. McDermott squeezed the cell phone. Should he call the cops? Craig Bradley?

Steve stepped back into the room’s center. “I told him I wouldn’t leave without it.” He looked McDermott in the eyes.

“Why don’t you record your band on your computer?” He knew it sounded lame as it came out. “That album of yours sounded fine.”

“Aw, hell--” Steve scowled. “That was acoustic stuff, no drums. We’ve recorded Paranormal on my rig. It sounds like--” He shook his head. “To get a good drum sound you need like twelve mikes, twelve tracks. Anyway it’s not the same.” His voice rose. “I gotta have the weed back! Or things are gonna get really bad.”

Things are already bad, McDermott thought. His shoulders slumped. “Steve. This is how you want your life to be?” He could ask you that, too.

Something flickered in Steve’s eyes. He sighed through his nose. “Yeah, yeah. Ok…Still I gotta have it back.”

“You paid a thousand dollars for the pot,” McDermott said. “What if I buy it from you?” He felt a pang: it was a lot of money.

“We were gonna get over nineteen hundred for it!”

McDermott held up a hand. “I’m not giving you a profit. I’ll give your money back.”

“What’re you gonna do with the weed?” Steve was frowning.

“Flush it down the toilet. And I want you and your sister to watch me when I do it.”

Steve drew back. “And you’ve got like a thousand dollars just lying around?”

“That swiper of yours. I’ll use my credit card.”

Steve stared at him a moment. “I’ll go get it.”

While he was gone neither Rita nor McDermott said much, but he did think a little about apes going bald. In no time, Steve strode back into the office breathing hard. He set the swiper, a thing small enough to hold in one palm, on the desk. McDermott held out his MasterCard.

As Steve plucked it from his hand, McDermott said, “Merry Christmas.”

He glanced up, startled. “Yeah, you too. Merry Christmas.” He sat on the desk and reached for the swiper.

And happy New Year to us all, thought McDermott.

Once the credit card transaction was done, McDermott got the marijuana.

“OK, I want you to watch me.” He walked to the tiny lavatory out in the hall, and with Rita and Steve in the doorway, tossed in a couple of the buds and flushed the toilet. Flushing the whole quarter pound took a few minutes, and McDermott spent the time worrying.

Maybe this was a copout, buying his way out, but Christ, what good solution was there for the whole fiasco? The situation could come back to haunt him, he knew that, too. He would speak to a lawyer about it.

But, what about Twitch? McDermott imagined him coming into church some Sunday morning wearing a black trench coat with an AK-47 inside. He probably needed to report Twitch’s threat to the police, except how could he, without explaining everything?

He threw the last bud into the toilet and shook the baggie over it until not a speck of weed clung to it. He flushed the toilet and tossed the big baggie in the trash receptacle.

Out in the hall, they stood in a triangle, and he gazed at Steve. “I’m concerned about Twitch. He seems pretty unstable.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Steve said, “I never saw him like that before. He was freaked out. And really stoned.”

McDermott said. “Are you sure?”

“I write songs with him. I know him.”

McDermott wished he felt reassured.

Rita said, “You better not buy more, Stevie! I mean it.”

“Steve,” McDermott said, “please. Think long and hard about getting out of that band.”

“I will. Think about it. Twitch was always cool.” His face was blank. “Tonight, he was, like, pitiful.”

“Yeah.” McDermott said, “Goes to show…”

“What?” Steve frowned.

“Even apes...”

 “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Go bald eventually. What the hell’s that supposed to mean anyway?”   DSS    

 

 

Kent McDaniel, 64, of Chicago, IL. is a musician who has worked as a hay hauler, janitor and public school teacher.  His novel, "Jimmy Stu Lives," was published last spring by Penumbra Publishing. His blog is here.  

 

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Jim Courter: Variance

 

I knew from Gloria’s breathing that she was still awake. That meant the likelihood that she had something on her mind and that she wouldn’t get to sleep until she talked it out and transplanted it to mine, at which point I’d be the one unable to sleep. But that would be my problem and she’d be snoring away, which she denies doing.

I had been lying awake myself, mentally working on a short story in progress. I didn’t say anything, hoping she might let whatever it was go until morning. Silly me. I felt an elbow in my side and heard, “Honey?”

I’m usually in for it when she calls me Honey.

“Right here.”

“Did you have a good time at the party tonight?”

“Terrific time,” I said.

That was a lie. Dinner parties with enlightened, evolved people of the kind who  name their pets to show off their erudition or their ironic sensibility are my idea of tedium. Gloria knew that, but she was leading up to something. I could have responded by reciting the alphabet and it wouldn’t have made a difference.

“Me too,” she said.

For about two seconds I thought that might be the end of it. I took a breath and held it; before I could exhale, here it came.

“Honey?”

“Still here,” I said.

“What made the evening special for you?”

“Everything. The food, the wine, good conversation, friends.”

By this time I had an idea where this was headed, but I knew better than to press; she’d get there in her own oblique way. My role was to play straight man until she did.

“Does it ever bother you,” she said, “that we’re the only ones among our friends who can’t host a proper dinner party?”

She had dropped the Honey, which meant she was down to business.

“Not a bit,” I said.

“Be honest.”   

“I’m being honest.”

 I might as well have been talking to myself.

“We need a house with a dining room, David.”

“No we don’t.”

I was hoping that a clear, direct, unambiguous approach might put the matter to rest, if not once and for all, at least long enough for me to get back to my story and then to sleep. No such luck.

“What would it take to add a dining room to this house?”

 “More expense and bother than I care to deal with,” I said. “We’ve been over this before. The only place we could put a dining room is south of the kitchen, and to do that we’d have to violate the city code on setbacks. And to get around that we’d have to request a variance. If it’s granted, we’d then have to search for a reputable and affordable contractor. And if we’re lucky enough to find one that we can work with, we’d end up living for months without a usable kitchen.”

“How does one get a variance?” she said.

One? Who did she think she was kidding? I’d be the one doing whatever it took to line all this up.

“One gets a petition from city hall,” I said, “then goes hat in hand to the neighbors for their approval and signature, in our case neighbors to whom we never say boo and who probably think we’re snobs because we teach at the university.”

“Is there some reason we can’t do that?”

“Theoretically no,” I said, “but why should Roger next door agree to an encroachment so that we can host dinner parties to which he’ll never be invited?”

“Does he have to know the reason?”

“Maybe not. But what if he asks? Should I be honest and tell him you’re worried over falling out of favor with a group of precious, self-appointed intellectuals?”

“There’s more to it,” she said. “Mostly I’m tired of eating in the kitchen. Aren’t you?”

“Nope. It’s that much quicker from the stove to the table. I noticed tonight that by the time that orange stuff got served it was lukewarm.”

“It was Moroccan pumpkin soup.”

 “Whatever. By the way, when you request a variance, the city plants a sign in front of your house with a big V on it. It’s got smaller print below explaining that the V stands for variance and that you’re requesting one. But people don’t read the small print. All they see is that V, and not everybody knows what it means. For years, I didn’t. And these days V is loaded with connotations. We might have people showing up for the Vagina Monologues.”

“You’re being silly,” she said.

“You’re right. And now I’m being serious. You’ll never convince me that this isn’t about keeping up with the Joneses, the Joneses in this case being Sarah Lefler and her ilk.”

“Sarah Lefler happens to be a very bright and accomplished woman,” she said. “I hope you don’t have a problem with that.”

“Not at all,” I said. “What I have a problem with, for one thing, is that she’s not content to be evolved, but must be more evolved than the next person. I guarantee you, after we spent all that money and went to all that trouble to prove that we can entertain in acceptable fashion, she’d find a way to outdo us. She’d throw a party and invite Branjelina and the French ambassador. And they’d come.”  

“‘For one thing.’”

“That’s right,” I said. “She’s also an ideological twin to Tara Snider, who drove Tom Ewing from the department for the crime of refusing to goose step with her to war against God, country and the traditional family.”

“I was never clear about that business with Tom Ewing,” she said. “Are you sure about Tara Snider’s role in it?”

“Very sure. Tom’s version is that she and her comrades targeted him with sneering disdain and character assassination in the name of social engineering. When he couldn’t take it any more, he played into her hands and went off on her. He was like a basketball player who gets caught retaliating for a cheap shot that the refs missed.”

“Does he have any proof?”

“Of course not,” I said. “The sneer is the perfect means of stealth harassment. And if you’re its target and cry foul, you open yourself to the charge of being paranoid, which we all know is the mark of a disordered personality. But I believe Tom because he’s an honorable guy and because she’s been trying the same thing with me. Too bad for her I’m thicker-skinned than him.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because she’s decided that I'm counter-revolutionary. Because she enjoys it.  Because . . ." 

“Okay, okay. I admit Tara Snider’s not exactly a favorite of mine, either, but . . .”

“But nobody takes on Her Bolshevik Majesty the Queen of Darkness.”

 “Except you,” she said. “In every story you’ve written lately there’s a sneering radical feminist. I sometimes wonder if you’ve lost sight of your artistic purposes.”

“Art holds up a mirror,” I said. “In this case one that shows the dirty little secret in the hollow halls of academe—the withering intolerance of the tolerance crowd in the cause of ideological cleansing. But since you brought it up, you might as well know that the piece I’m working on is about a guy in Tom’s position, only this guy packs a .357 magnum. I’m still trying to decide if he uses it.”

 “I wish you’d tone it down,” she said. “I have a stake in this, too, in fact more than you realize. More than I realized until I learned what I learned tonight.”

“Let me guess. You’re going to be the new Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences.”

 “No, but you’re warm. I’m in line for the assistant deanship that’s opened up. Liz told me at the party, sotto voce, which I take to mean that it’s still unofficial.”

“I was feeling a little sotto myself after the third glass of wine,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me when we got home?”

“I guess I forgot.”

I doubted that but I let it pass.

“Is that what this is about, that this house and this working class neighborhood are unworthy of an assistant dean?”

“Maybe a little,” she said. Sleepiness had crept into her voice.

“If you want to upgrade,” I said, “let’s get some Martha Stewart napkins and placemats from K-Mart. People will think we’re to the manor born.”

She was silent for a moment. When she answered she seemed to have to rally herself.

“What people?” she said through a yawn. “One couple is the most we can have over at a time. And we almost never do that.”

She turned onto her side, with her back to me. After a minute I heard what sounded like a little laugh and then, in a sleepy voice, “Queen of Darkness.”

 “May she live forever,” I said, then returned in my mind to my story.

Gloria was right—artistic purposes ought to trump everything else, and having my protagonist murder a fictional version of Tara Snider, although satisfying on one level, was the wrong artistic touch. But if he was writing a story . . .

I considered testing this out on Gloria, but by then she was snoring. Which of course she denies ever doing. DSS

Jim Courter, 65, of Macomb, IL., is a retired writing instructor at Western Illinois University. He's a Pushcart Prize nominee and a winner of an Illinois Arts Council award for short fiction. He has written three so-far unpublished mystery novellas.

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Pepper Lambie Bauer: Compulsion

The iridescent copper wings of the dime sized green beetle flashed in the afternoon sun as he flew through the hot, heavy air, his tiny brain focused on one goal. 

The scent of female pheromones, mixed with a fragrant floral odor overwhelmed his senses, and as he zeroed in on the location of the heady aroma. His only purpose was to find the female sending out the seductive siren call and mate.

A year ago he hatched, and as a young grub began to feed on the roots of the grass until it started to get cold, then he burrowed down into the ground for a while.  Time passed, and when the warmth of the earth seeped down to his resting place, he returned to the turf and began feeding on the roots again. 

After a while a transformation took place and he became something different, just for a short interval, then he changed into the beautiful male beetle he was now.  He crawled out of the ground and tried his shiny copper wings.

No longer attracted to turf roots, he hunted out fragrant plants to satisfy his hunger.  The air was full of amazing scents, all new to the first time flyer.  As he landed on a delightful smelling tree, a new aroma captured his attention, and something stirred inside his body.  He had to go to the source of the smell, the compulsion was overwhelming.

The woman stood by the Japanese Beetle trap in her back yard, sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades and soaking her waistband.  The trap was overflowing; buzzing, shimmering insects spilling out and flying off into the trees. 

A disgusting smell of rotting bug flesh filled her nostrils and made her gag a little as she grasped the bottom of the canister to empty it into a garbage bag.  She hated this job.

As the nightmarish mixture of dead and live beetles flowed into the bag, the woman noticed that the bugs, trapped in hellish conditions with no escape possible and dead bodies all around, were still mating.  In fact, some of the males escaped as she poured, but came right back to the trap and sure death just to copulate. 

As she held the trap in her hand, the promise of sex lured more of the little guys and they hit the yellow plastic and dropped into the bag.  Fascinated, she held the trap higher and watched.

A bitter smile crossed her face.  “So the male beetle will give up everything, even his life for a little roll in the hay”, she said out load.  The smile widened into a harsh laugh and melted into tears as she dropped the trap and sat down on a nearby bench.

Head in her hands, the woman squeezed her eyes shut and fought to regain her composure.  “People think that humans are so superior to the other creatures on this planet”, she thought, “but men aren’t any smarter, or better, than a stupid beetle.  They will give up their life for a brief tingle under the belt, and a thirty second orgasm”.

Of course she meant life as in a way of living, not existence.  Some men gave up their wives, children, career, reputation, friends, and their lifestyle as they knew it, for what; a brief thrill, a fleeting sense of release?  

What made that urge more important to them than love, caring, or respect? 

Why did it trump the idea of right and wrong and throw ethics out the window? 

No matter how hard she tried to understand, and over the last year she had desperately tried to comprehend the destruction of her life as she knew it, it never made any sense to her.

After a few minutes the woman stood back up and wiped her eyes with her shirt sleeve.  She needed to pull herself together.  She was painfully aware of the exact day and minute her life ended, and since that time she thought about nothing else, unless distracted by everyday minutia.   It was the first thing she thought about every morning and the last thing every night before she went to sleep, assuming of course she could go to sleep.

As she walked over and hung her trap back up on the shepherd’s hook, beetles buzzed around her and a thought teased its way into her consciousness.  Maybe she was overthinking everything.  It might be that nothing she did or didn’t do had anything to do with the betrayal.   It could be that he was simply lured by the bait, just like a dumb bug.

As she walked away, the thought made her smile.

The urges within the Japanese Beetle grew stronger as he neared the source of that overpowering scent.  Instinct warned him something was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself.  He flew headfirst into the yellow plastic funnel, and slid into the canister below. DSS

 

Pepper Lambie Bauer, 59, of Mapleton, directs a food pantry and is a feature writer at the Limestone Independent News. Her blog is entitled, "My Heart is on the Left." She's won many awards for her charity and church work, and her backyard is a certified Backyard Wildlife Habitat by the National Wildlife Federation.  She also sings and plays the banjo. There's more on her Facebook page.

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Elaine Fowler Palencia: Field Station 134

They had come out of nowhere.

Trella cut the engine and stared through the bug-spattered windshield, waiting for her heart rate to slow. What had just happened?

After sitting for forty minutes in a construction zone backup, she had exited onto the old federal highway, which more or less paralleled the interstate. Minding her own business in America’s heartland. Nothing to see but corn and soybean fields and, in the far distance, two smokestacks belching white smoke into the blue.

She was thinking she should stop for coffee, when they came at her. Or at least that was the way it had seemed: with intention. Attacking her car, throwing themselves at it, thousands of them. And the twittering roar. Like dry leaves whirling in a million box fans. She knew DDT was outlawed, but weren’t there other megadeath insecticides that were just as effective? She’d come within a hair of a crash; of becoming, herself, a bug on the windshield of life.  

As soon as she had pulled onto the concrete apron of the sub shop and stopped moving, the cloud disappeared. Across the blacktop stood a boarded-up Shell station. This was not even a wide place in the road.

Hannibal was still hours away and she needed to get there by five p.m., to begin a week of babysitting her two grandchildren while her daughter and son-in-law went on vacation.

When she entered, the room fell silent. Trella got the feeling she had interrupted something. Although hers was the only car, inside the shop there was a line of customers: a tall teenaged boy with curly hair and black-framed glasses; two couples, the women Caucasian and the men African American; a much-pierced blond girl in gray sweats and red high tops; and a woman of about her own age with a leathery smoker’s face, wearing a maroon velour exercise suit stretched out at the knees. The farm report droned from wall speakers.

Two tables were occupied, one by a wild-haired man of around sixty wearing wrinkled khaki shorts, a dingy white polo shirt, and a baby blue cotton bucket hat embroidered with the words, Ritz Carlton Spa. He was circling statistics in the sports section of a newspaper. At the other occupied table sat a tall man wearing a black suit and a clerical collar. He was steadily leafing through a leather-bound Bible, as if looking for cash between the pages.

A middle-aged man with a raggedy mustache stood at the cash register, while a thirtyish man made sandwiches. Both employees wore hairnets, which made their heads look slick and small.

“Hey,” said the man in front of Trella. Shaven skull and heavy shoulders, brutal features. “See that? They got black ham. Got to get me some of that.”

The redheaded woman in the quartet clucked her tongue. “Black forest ham. It says black forest.”

“Gimme some of that black ham, my brothah,” he said to the counter man, who was building a meatball sandwich for the teenager.

Two women came in and lined up behind Trella. Each wore a turquoise nurse’s uniform and white clogs.

“They evacuated Japan,” said one.    

“The tsunami? That was months ago,” snapped her friend.

Out of the corner of her eye, Trella saw a flittering blur. Must have followed her inside. She swatted at it.

“NO!” shouted one of the nurses.

On the second swing Trella knocked the little white moth to the floor, where it weakly fanned its wings. She ground it under the ball of her foot.

She looked up to find everyone staring at her and experienced an electric sense of menace held in check. The preacher had risen half out of his seat.

Trella turned to the nurses. “I almost had a wreck just now. This cloud of bugs surrounded me. They looked like that one I just smacked. Is that normal around here? Is there”—she smiled—“some kind of plague?”

The nearer woman goggled at Trella through thick-lensed glasses that magnified her eyes, making Trella think of the compound eyes of a fly.

“Normal? What’s normal?” she said.

“Good question,” said her companion. She was younger, with purple-painted nails and frizzy brown hair. 

Something’s wrong, Trella thought, but what? For one thing, the customers’ voices sounded eerily alike, sharing the same timbre. Well, maybe that was the acoustics or just the contrast with the silence she’d been experiencing in the car. But there also was a strangely static feel to the scene. The place reminded her of a stage set.

“Gimme some of that cheesy provolone,” said the muscle guy. He laughed, a harsh, barking sound.

The hatted man looked up from his newspaper. “Provolone. That’s not a cheese. That’s a financial transaction in Utah. Get it? Provo loan.”

Everyone but Trella nodded.

The sandwich man put a sandwich into the toaster oven, leaned his hips against the bread case, and closed his eyes. With alarm, Trella watched as various parts of his body began to twitch: eyelids, nose, the fingers of both hands. Some form of Tourette’s? No one else appeared to notice and the cash register guy stayed where he was. With visible effort, jaw muscles flexing, the man appeared to will his twitching into abeyance.

A fire truck roared past, horn blaring, followed by a wailing ambulance. The sound of the fire truck horn faded with distance, but not the two–note ambulance siren. After a momentary dip in volume, it rose again: doo-dee-doo-dee-doo-dee-doo-dee.

The renewal of the siren noise was coming from the man in the bucket hat.

Bucket Hat quit sirening and put down his pencil. “We know Notre Dame teams are the Fighting Irish. But are the women’s teams called the Lady Fighting Irish or the Fighting Irish Ladies?” When no one answered, he repeated his question.

The man at the cash register disappeared into a back room, sneakers chirping on the linoleum as if he had some problem with foot placement. The other customers stood still as if, Trella mused, they were figures in an art installation depicting a sandwich shop in the early twenty-first century.

She activated the timer feature on her wristwatch. Her daughter had to leave the house by five fifteen to make an evening flight in Kansas City. But she didn’t want to abandon her position in line, and the promise of a Coke. Her throat felt scratchy, as if she had swallowed some dust from the insect cloud.

After three minutes and forty-seven seconds, the cash register man came out of the back room and resumed his position. The teenager paid for his meatball sub and took a seat near the windows.

The man in front of Trella said loudly, “I said, gimme some of that black ham. And I’m going to need some of that, do you have some kind of peppers? And I’m going to need some of those olives, maybe some mustard, no, wait, you can scrape that off . . .” As the man added and subtracted ingredients although it still was not his turn, Trella focused on letting go of present distractions, as she did in yoga class. Another five minutes passed.

When at last her turn came, she ordered a tuna fish on whole wheat with lettuce, tomato, green pepper, and onion; then watched the sub guy dress white Italian bread with tuna, jalapeños, black olives, extra mayonnaise, and pickles. Whatever. Get it and get out, she told herself.

As she paid, the counterman said, “Can I buy some quarters from you?”

Trella checked the change in her billfold. “Sure, but I only have four.”

“You should have more in your car.”

“How would you know that?”

He fingered his mustache. “People have quarters.”

In fact, she did have a cache of coins in the ashtray.

But as soon as she got in the car, she beat it back to the highway. Strange place. It would make a good story to tell Kathy and Josh. She passed the ambulance coming the other way, silent now.

They watched her go, chittering among themselves, their collective consciousness firing up. All clear. All clear. Critique exercise. The counterman’s twitching increased and was taken up by the others like a contagion. With a loud pop, the lights dimmed, came up again. Why their change back into giant insect form affected the electricity, no one knew. There was so much they didn’t understand.

The great European Corn Borer rested his soft mid-segments against the counter and detached his mind from the collective will. They had come so far, riding on centuries of human agricultural development that slowly produced larger and smarter arthropods, as the humans called them. A better and better food supply, coupled with the slowly accreting resistance to ever more powerful insecticides and felicitous mutations, often brought about by radioactive waste and other secret underground activities.

What a good thing that human governments kept their populations so ignorant! Perhaps it was the vagaries of radioactivity that had given him such bulk and longevity but had marooned him in the larva stage. He had been born near a toxic waste dump in western Illinois.

“And yet we can’t master the va-et-vien of their conversation!” he burst out, va-et-vien being a favorite phrase he’d learned from a Canadian cousin. “The woman was suspicious from the beginning. Black ham, indeed! Fighting Irish Ladies!”

The Japanese Beetle waved its antennae irritably. “Why must we ape them? We are older and more numerous. The earth has always belonged to us and will long after they have destroyed themselves.”

“Not if they destroy the earth,” cautioned the European Corn Borer.

From his position by the window, the Western Corn Rootworm emitted a hiss. “Why must we have the same arguments again and again and always the soybean feeders against the corn feeders?  Here we must stick to the study of language.  This field station and others like it exist to perfect our language use. Besides, only here in the American breadbasket, in a small part of Canada, and in China, do we have the size and brain development to succeed. Legions of us are still small and weak and short-lived. One day we will have to negotiate and we must be prepared.”

“Never negotiate. Annihilate!” cried the Japanese Beetle, gnashing its mandibles.

The ambulance pulled into the lot and drove around to the back. A technician, still in human form but with excessively knobby joints, entered the dining area.

“What news, Gregor?” said the Praying Mantis, stroking his Bible. He had promised not to eat any of the others, but his resolve was weakening.

The newcomer replied, “The swarm has succeeded. One human male, coerced into a telephone pole, dead on impact.”

“Put it in the cooler for the research lab,” said the European Corn Borer. They were learning so much from autopsies. But would their investigations bear fruit in time? The toxins in the new genetically altered crops were taking a toll. “We should have kept the woman,” he mused. “It’s always good to have both male and female specimens for comparison.”

“I’ll tell the swarm,” said the technician.

 

On the straight-arrow road, having eaten her sandwich as she drove, Trella phoned her daughter and got voicemail.

After the beep she said, “Hi, sweetie. Ran into some delays, but I’m still hoping to get there by five. I’m speeding. Hope no cops catch me. The road is deserted, so I’m making good time. Love you.”

Behind her, very near, a chittering began, and quickly increased in volume. DSS

 

 
Elaine Fowler Palencia, 66, of Champaign, IL. directs the Red Herring Fiction Workshop of Champaign-Urbana, and is the author of four pulp novels, two literary short story collections, "Small Caucasian Woman" and "Brier Country," and two poetry chapbooks. Her email address is [email protected]. Here is a link to her Author's Guild page. 

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