DownstateStory

Downstate Story Vol. XXVIII, December 2019

                                      

 

DOWNSTATE STORY

     From the publisher:  This eighth issue of Downstate Story to appear on the web shows our continued commitment to digital publishing, where readers from anywhere in the world can enjoy these terrific stories. 

     People from far and wide have read the previous web issues of 2012 to 2018, and even donated to help us pay the authors.  Thanks to everyone who did that. We hope many will donate after they read the amazing and brilliant stories in this 2019 issue.

    There's a way to donate using Democracy Engine, a progressive site set up for donations to not-for-profits. Just click and give. Suggested donation is $10. We have posted reminders after each story.

    The fiction presented here is so good that any of these stories could be in The New Yorker or other mainstream or literary magazines that publish serious fiction. 

    Many of the authors have won awards and published books and stories in prestige literary journals. Downstate Story is able to attract these talented authors because it pays them.

    As always, the 2019 issue of Downstate Story has a fascinating collection of stories.  Many are from a woman's point of view -- abuse, loss, revenge, reunion. One of the most provocative is Loren Logsdon's story on the nature of love, with a great twist at the end. This is a story with double meanings -- serious and satirical. All the stories involve a variety of topics to continue our commitment to publish diverse works so everyone will find something interesting. 

    Downstate Story has been publishing quality fiction featuring mostly writers from Illinois and Midwest, since 1991.  The printed copies, which also contain original art, can be purchased through the magazine's pioneer website, or by paying through Democracy Engine. 

    A link to Democracy Engine follows each story.

    Now click on a story or scroll down -- authors in the 2019 edition are listed in the column on the right under '2019' -- and enjoy.

    You also can comment, below.  And visit our Facebook page, where you can comment and keep in touch.

  --Elaine Hopkins

The Details

Publisher, fiction editor:  Elaine Hopkins

 2019 Readers: Lucy McCrea, Jessica Frasca, Theo Jean Kenyon, Ginger Wheeler.

The comments and situations of the characters depicted in  Downstate Story represent only themselves, and are not meant to reflect or characterize other people or groups of people.  The characters are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual people is coincidental. 

Published by DOWNSTATE STORY, INC., An Illinois not-for-profit corporation

1825 Maple Ridge, Peoria, IL. 61614-7915

email: ehopkins7@prodigy.net

original website: http://www.wiu.edu/users/mfgeh/dss

Copyright 2019  DOWNSTATE STORY, Inc.

Permission to reprint must be obtained from respective authors.

 ISSN 1066-1662

Loren Logsdon Till Time and Times Are Done

 Professor Lancaster Markem sat at his desk at Heliotrope University after an exciting class session with students discussing Carson McCullers' novel The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.

Markem had asked the students to consider the complexities of love.  The class responded with their best thinking, and Markem was disappointed to see the hour pass so quickly.

Paul Buss, a student Markem could always count on for an idea or question to start a discussion, observed that one of the vexing problems with love is that humans do not always see clearly, as if we look at the world out of the corner of our eye, often causing us serious mistakes.

Bim Winston, a most perceptive student, added that another problem is the nature of time and how it can play tricks on people. As Bim explained, time is an arrow that flies in one direction. In almost all situations, we get to make one decision or choice and have to go forward with the consequences of that decision.

But on rare occasions, that one-way direction of time gets bent backward, and we do get a second chance, albeit a slightly different chance because we are older and, perhaps, wiser. If by some miracle time gives us a second chance or tantalizes with the possibility of correcting a wrong choice, then life can be what we wanted it to be.

Sylvia Penn, who planned to teach high school English, opined that the power  of McCullers’ fiction lies in the author’s fascinating exploration of the mysteries of love and the dominant role it plays in the lives of people.

Other students responded with comments and questions, and Markem left the room feeling good about the quality of the discussion. 

After each class, Markem took a few minutes to write down the questions and ideas that had been raised during the class. He noted further reading that he needed to do to help him the next time he taught the work.

One of the strengths of Markem’s teaching was his preparation for class.           Markem had just finished writing his notes when his office door was flung open, and a colleague, an agitated and obviously bewildered Thornton Northern, came in and said, “Do you have time to talk? I need your advice.”

Thornton Northern was the department’s authentic superstar. He had published five books of poetry and a recent collection of short stories. Two years ago, he had been named Poet Laureate of Illinois, and he had a national reputation as well.

Professor Northern was seventy years old, but he had no thoughts of retiring; and, because of his fame, the Heliotrope University powers that be were pleased to let him teach as long as he wanted to. When the Heliotrope administrators attended professional conferences and announced the name of their school, people would invariably remark, “Oh, that’s where Thornton Northern works, isn’t it?” 

Although Markem and Northern had enjoyed many conversations over the years and shared a passion for the Chicago Cubs baseball, Markem wondered why Northern would seek his advice in such an urgent, agitated fashion.

“Yes, I have time to talk. I sense that you are troubled. Go ahead and spill the beans.”      

Getting right to the point, Thornton said, “Have you ever had a female student tell you she was in love with you?”

Markem could not conceal the look of surprise that appeared on his visage, and he replied, “No, that has not happened to me. I have always considered the relationship between teacher and female student to be a power relationship that can easily be abused unless the teacher is determined to regard it as sacred. I have deliberately tried to project the image of the benevolent father, the kind uncle, or the helpful elder brother to my female students. The closest I have even come to a problem came a few years ago when two young women stopped by my desk after class.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” one said, “but we have decided we want a man like you for a husband. We think you would be a good father to our children.”

“I thanked them for the compliment and breathed a sigh of relief because I knew they intended  no romantic hanky-panky. They were not suggesting anything unseemly or untoward. But to answer your question, No, I have never had a female student tell me that she was in love with me. In fact, my students seem to realize that I am happy in my marriage and would not be interested in them in a sexual way. Now, has one of your students told you she is in love with you?”

 Thornton Northern, accomplished poet and highly respected professor, the fair-haired boy of the administration, but presently acting like a helpless freshman, clasped his hands as if in prayer, and said, “Yes! God save us all! This afternoon a coed whom I will not name came to my office and announced that she loved me and intended to lure me into a connubial relationship. She promised that she would do everything in her power to make sure we lived a life of wedded bliss. She added that if marriage didn’t appeal to me, she would live with me without the benefit of clergy and all of the hoopla that goes with a church wedding.”       

Markem wanted to guffaw, but he stifled that impulse. Instead, he said, “Why don’t you tell me the entire story from the beginning. I have a three o’clock class, but I will have Della Alley meet the class and inform the students I might be a few minutes late because I have an emergency. And I can see that your problem is an emergency. Now, take your time and tell me the conversation you had with the young woman, leaving out no detail no matter how insignificant you think it might be.”

With a superhuman effort, Thornton Northern pulled himself together and began the following story.           

“When the young woman announced she loved me, I wanted to laugh and tell her I wasn’t in the mood for April Fool’s jokes. Fortunately, I could see that she was serious, and so I tried to appeal to her common sense. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. ’Don’t you realize that I am almost 70 years old and you are probably 20?’ I asked.

 “'I’m 21,' she answered as if she expected one year would make a significant difference.           

“When she said that as if it removed all of the problems, I realized I was in trouble. I wanted to put a stop to this strange encounter as soon as possible. ‘But the age difference is too great an obstacle. I believe that young people should love other young people and certainly marry other young people.

"Even if I did love you, we are too far apart to consider marriage or cohabiting. Can we settle for friendship?'           

"She smiled and said, 'Friendship is the most important part of love.'         

“Grasping at straws, I replied, ‘Look, there are many fine young men on this campus. Surely, you can find one to love. In fact, I will try to help you.’

“She was unmoved by my common sense suggestion and replied, ‘The age difference does not matter to me. Besides, the young men I have encountered are superficial and immature. They have no sense of the sacred in life, let alone notions of the of the heroic or the idea of the quest. All they want to do is drink beer and call attention to themselves by displaying their machismo. Their ideas of love are too shallow. I believe that the best kind of love is mental and spiritual—a matter of the mind, the imagination, and the soul. Remember the opening lines of your poem To Dionysia: ’Once true love bloomed in summer’s sun and souls were joined together.’

“When she recited that line from my most famous love poem, I knew I was in trouble, but I pursued the practical to try to overwhelm her with objections. ‘Look, I said, suppose we would get married and by some miracle have children—I will be over 70, you know—I might not live long enough to be a good father to them. You could be left with the enormous task of raising children without me.’

 “She shook her head, ‘Of course, I expect children. Socrates was 70 and had a young wife and child when he died. He wasn’t afraid of death, and you shouldn’t be either. Besides, your spirit, your knowledge, and your wisdom will live on in your poetry even long after your death. But let’s not talk about death. Let’s talk about life. I know that you are not married now. Have you ever been married? Have you ever been in love?’

 “I wanted to tell her I had been married five times and had some stubborn STD to destroy all her romantic illusions about me, but something told me I had to be honest with this young woman.

"Thus, I answered truthfully, ‘I have never been married, but I was in love once when I was your age. It was my senior year in college, and I became friends early in the year with a fine young woman. Our friendship blossomed into love, but the timing was all wrong: She was a sophomore and wanted to complete her degree at State, and I was planning to enroll in graduate school in the University of Virginia at the end of the year. I decided that a long-distance relationship would not be good for either of us, so I broke up with her.

"'After a few weeks in graduate school, I decided to dedicate my life to my poetry, and so to this day I have not thought of loving a woman in a romantic way. You might say that I’m married to my poetry.’            

“'I am perfectly willing to share you with poetry,' she answered quickly. 'I think my life would be much richer if I were married to a poet. Poets open your eyes and get you to noticing things that otherwise might escape your attention.'

 “I reminded her again that I was 70 years old. Then I asked her, ‘What made you fall in love with me?’

“She looked at me as if I were a fog-bound child and said, ‘As a poet, surely you realize that love is a divine mystery. Too much analysis and talk will kill love. But I will answer your question. I discovered your poetry, and I have read all of it. When I read your poem To Dionysia, I realized that you were describing me exactly the way I wanted my true love to look upon me Then it occurred to me that Petrarch had Laura, Dante had Beatrice, and Poe had Helen. Oh, Thornton, I am your Dionysia. I stand before you in the flesh. I am she. Please embrace me, kiss me, hold me forever, and love me. I am yours.’

“When she said that with such passion, I knew I had to be gentle in my response, and I said, ‘Don’t you realize that Laura, Beatrice, and Helen were so important because they were unattainable? They were ideals to be pursued; they inspired the poet to transcend the ugliness, cruelties, and meanness of this fallen world. The poet is like the speaker in Yeats’ poem ‘Song of the Wandering Aengus.’  Listen to these lines:

            Though I am old with wandering/Through hollow lands and hilly lands/             I will find out where she has gone/And hold her hands and kiss her lips/             And lie upon long dappled grass/And pluck till time and times are done/             The silver apples of the moon,/The golden apples of the sun.'

“She looked at me lovingly and said, ‘The speaker in that poem has not found the girl, but you are the Aengus who has found her. Let us spend the rest of our lives holding hands, kissing, lying on dappled grass, and plucking the silver apples and the golden apples.’

“I had to find some way to persuade her. ‘Don’t you see that poetry is the search for beauty, truth, and love that are embodied in an ideal woman. That woman can never be attained. If she is, then the spirit of poetry as a quest is finished. It’s the search that counts, the dedication to the search for the ideal.'

“'Well,” she said, 'you can write other kinds of poetry or short stories.'

“'Dear Girl, it’s not the same.'

“She was beginning to get a bit crispy. She said, ‘Look, you seem to think that our loving each other would be some kind of betrayal. But I am not taking you away from a wife and children. I am not coming between you and a woman you love. But even if I were violating some law of morality, I would still love you and use the words of Hester Prynne, when she said to Arthur Dimmesdale in The Scarlet Letter, ‘Our love has a consecration of its own.’

“I realized that she was determined, so I decided to buy some time. Thus, I said, ‘Your declaration of love has taken me completely by surprise. I need to think things through before I decide. I will admit that I am flattered that you should display such strong affection for an old geezer like me. I am not unmoved by your entreaties. Please allow me time to get my bearings. Let’s meet tomorrow, and we will talk further.’”

Relieved to have spilled the beans, Thornton Northern said, “And that’s how I left things. I don’t know what to do. I am asking you to tell me what I should do? I will do what you tell me to do.”

Lancaster Markem shook his head and said, “Thornton, you know that no one should tell you what you should do.”

“Please just tell me, and I’ll do it.”

Markem realized that his friend was serious, so he decided to buy some time. “Look, I had better run and meet my class. Let me think it over and I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”  he said.           

That night Lancaster Markem could not sleep. In fact, he left his bed at three in the morning and sat on his front porch and watched the full moon, listened to the night birds cry, and thought about Carson McCullers’ The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. He wondered what she would say to Thornton.

Mary Markem discovered her husband was not in bed and went looking for him. She found him on the front porch lost in thought, and she asked what troubled him, thinking that faculty politics had erupted into a brutal war. When Markem explained his problem, Mary said, “What are you going to tell him?”

Markem gently embraced his wife, kissed her, and said, “I don’t know! I just don’t know!”

The next morning Markem used every excuse he could think of to delay going to the university.He still didn’t know what he would say to Thornton Northern. But Markem was a friend, and Thornton had asked him for advice. He could not turn his back on his friend.

 When Markem arrived at his office, he found Thornton waiting by the door. Before Markem could say anything, Thornton smiled and said, “I have decided to marry the girl. If a young wife was good enough for Socrates, then a young wife is good enough for me. Besides I am feeling an excitement I have not experienced since my senior year in college. I know most people will say ‘There’s no fool like and old fool,’ but I don’t care. Sometimes life gives people a second chance at happiness. They had better take it or lose it forever. We are planning a June wedding, and then we will spend the year traveling all over the world. I want to visit Perm, Russia, and she wants to walk in the moonlight on the beach of the Sargasso Sea. After that, we will go to Madagascar, Australia, and Rangoon.”

Relieved that his advice was no longer needed, Markem asked, “By the way, what is the young woman’s name. Perhaps I know her.”

“Well, you do. Her name is Marcella Livingood, and she told me she took your science fiction course her sophomore year.”

“Why, yes, I recall Marcella; she was an excellent student and was always good at original thinking.”

It wasn’t until he was pulling in his driveway that Markem remembered that Marcella wrote a profound, searching paper on the possibility of time travel. DSS

 

Loren Logsdon of Eureka, IL is a retired emeritus English professor from Western Illinois University and Eureka College. He's written many stories and books. This brilliant story reflects his knowledge and wit.        

Ideal love and a twist. To keep these good stories coming, donate here to Downstate Story.  

 

          

    

Audrey Carli   Keep The Tree Lights Burning!

The silvery sounds of carols filled the living room as the tree sparkled, as in the past. But joy saddened and I clicked off the CD player and unplugged the tree lights. Christmas gladness had faded since my husband, Dave, died two weeks after last Christmas.

One thing I knew for sure was I had to shake off grief that tried to knife me. I had to go on alone in life--and I would. Somehow, I would pursue courage and follow a new life pathway.

Leaning back on the sofa in the dim room, I recalled the nearly three decades when Dave came from his teaching day and trimmed the tree. Now our four children were at college or had careers in distant cities. They would visit but I would live alone. The tree lights and carols stabbed with reminders of former family happiness.

Alone in my silent home, realization hit me. Our family Christmases were now a memory. The realization hit like a blow. The emotional pain eased when I unplugged the tree lights and clicked off the carols.

When my son Glenn phoned from his apartment near the college in Mount Pleasant, Michigan and learned of my dim living room devoid of a trimmed tree or recorded carols, he said, “Mom, please turn on the tree lights. Play carols like we did when we six lived on Jefferson Avenue together as a family. Okay?”

“I can’t. Sorry.” Maybe I later could turn them on. If so, I would phone Glenn and tell him so. “In time I might be able to play the carols and turn on the lights. I need…time to…adapt, Son.”

“You have flexible article writing hours. Drive here to visit. You can read while I’m at my classes and job on campus. Your visit will be a curtain dividing the past and present. You can then go forward in life, Mom.”

“I’ll ponder it. It’s a seven-hour drive. I have only been a passenger in a drive that far. I’ll…try.”

Glenn phoned the next morning. I told him with courage I might be able to drive to visit. If the weather became slippery, I could return home.

“You’ll get here okay, Mom. Phone when you leave home. I’ll be waiting.”

I agreed as joy mingled with the fear fragments. Courage won as I drove southward.

Seven hours and 25 minutes later, I arrived at the McDonald’s meeting place near the Expressway. Glenn was waiting as planned and greeted me with shimmering blue eyes and a hug. Gratitude warmed me and Glenn repeated his gladness that I found courage.

During my visit, my son and I reminisced. We knew his dad would be glad we were visiting.

We listened to carols, viewed a Christmas TV special and enjoyed a Christmas concert at the nearby church.

After four pleasant days, Glenn and I embraced in our farewell. Our fresh memories would launch my new life chapter alone.

Before I drove away, Glenn reminded me to turn on the tree lights and listen to carols when I was home. “Dad would want you to do that.”

I drove homeward with a brighter perspective. My visit with Glenn had renewed my Christmas gladness. He told me: “Your visit, Mom, divided the past from the present. You’re on a new life pathway. Dad wanted new tranquility for you. I hope our visit helped.”

I drove home with hope to enjoy that tranquility.     

As I entered my home at dusk, new coziness filled me. I felt “renewed.”

Picking up the phone, I called Glenn that I was safe at home.

“Mom, now turn on the tree lights and play the carols. Dad would want that.”

After the tree lights shimmered and “Silent Night” sounded, I recalled it was Dave’s and my “special carol” when we first dated.

I recalled my husband’s farewell words from his hospital bed: “Smile when you remember our love.”

My thoughts faded as the ringing phone beckoned. Glenn said, “Mom, did you plug in the tree lights and turn on the carols?”

“Yes! And I’m feeling better. Thanks for our visit. That trip and your loving encouragement helped me.”

Glenn said, “I love you, Mom. I’ll visit soon.”

Sharing our family love with my son had given me new courage to drive alone for hours. Christmas gladness had flowed into my life from my newfound determination to seek the courage for my first ever fourteen hour drive to enjoy family time. Our visit eased our sorrow and renewed Christmas joy! DSS

 

Audrey Carli of Iron River, MI., is a free lance writer with two books and many stories published in magazines in the US and Canada. She has also taught creative writing.

This moving story sounds so true. To keep these good stories coming, donate here to Downstate Story.

Connie Cook Smith  The New Girl  

    Anxiously, I approached the Canton IL downtown Square.  Usually it was the highlight of my mornings, traversing it on my way to Hulit Elementary School and Canton Junior High. But now it was the summer of my fifteenth year, and I was heading for my first real job.  A paycheck job, not just babysitting!

I had learned that the man who hired me at the Ben Franklin Store was also the owner, store policy in those days.  So this man was the Big Boss who had to be happy with my work.  He had said to me in my interview, "I can tell you're a smart girl with a nice personality, I think you will do well here."

I wasn't so sure.  I was academic smart, but Store smart?  I doubted it.  Thus, my anxiety.

The man barely recognized me when I reported for work a few days later.  But as it dawned on him that he had hired me, he gazed around at where I might be needed most. And he decided on the snack counter at one of the entrances.  Oh great, a miniature kitchen, where at home I was most klutzy.  He made a point of telling me to smile at customers entering the store, which I would automatically do anyway, if I weren't struggling with the mechanics behind the counter.

I thought for sure he would walk me through exactly how everything worked, but he did not.  I mean, "I'm a girl.  All girls know how to handle serving food and drinks, right?"  He did helpfully say, "The hot dog machine is  balky, so I myself get it started everyday."  THAT  was a relief!

He told me to look around and get familiar with the contents of everything.  Hot dog buns, check.  Ketchup, mustard, relish, check.  Onions?  I would need to chop those fresh everyday.  (Yikes.)  My terror of sharp knives and weeping over onions began rising up.  But onward.  Ice cream, three flavors, check.  Ice cream syrups, check.  Milkshake machine, check.  I'd seen enough milkshakes made at a local soda fountain that I didn't think that machine would give me any trouble.

Coffee maker -- at the moment, it was off and there was no coffee.  A co-worker approached just then wanting exactly that.  She said, "Here, I'll show you how this one works."  Ahhh.  Also, introduction to the shelves for both the to-go cups and the ones for sipping coffee at the counter.  Coca-Cola and 7-up were in bottles in the mini-fridge, and other shelves revealed their serving containers.  This job was beginning to come together for me.

My first customer was a guy I had dissed as a boyfriend a few years ago.  He ordered a chocolate milkshake.  When he tasted it, I asked, "Is it good?"  He basically growled and said no.  Then he came around the counter to where I stood and re-made the shake with a lot more chocolate syrup.  His dad owned the popular soda fountain in town.  Now I was nervous that my boss would see an unauthorized person behind the counter with me, whereupon that's what happened.  I introduced them and explained that our guest was somewhat of an expert on milkshakes, and therefore decided to tutor me in the art.  Boss said, "Well, good."  Soon enough my smirky non-boyfriend left, and I cleaned up the soda glass and tried to look pleasant, calm and collected for whatever might come next.

It was a doozey.  Mr. Boss (I really don't remember his name) said he would man the snack counter and I needed to go down to the basement and bring up a box of "seasonal greeting cards."  Fathers' Day was coming up, I figured out.  He said  the boxes are clearly marked.

Argh.  These buildings on the north side of the Square were built in the 1880's.  I knew because my dad had owned one.  I disliked even descending into the basement where I lived  -- 1890's structure.  Very nice upstairs, but old basements are old basements!

Boss man told me I would find the basement door at the back of the store, so off I went straight down the aisle to the back of the store.  There I found myself confronted with a HUGE door featuring a big steel bar to push it open.  So I pushed. 

Then I clung to it!  Suddenly I found myself dangling over about a 20-foot drop to the alley below.  I didn't want to yell for help but I had to.  One of the young guys from hardware  rushed over, sprawled on his stomach on the floor and told me to extend my foot towards him.  He grabbed it and pulled me and the door back to safe territory, with my skirt, of course, going over my head.  In the adrenaline moment beginning to pass, he said innocently enough, "You're the new girl aren't you."  "Yeah." I confessed, "I'm Connie."  I immediately regretted giving him my real name, but around there, he would know soon enough.

Finally, he asked, "What were you trying to do?"  I said "Open the door to the basement." Helpfully he said, "That is the loading door, to bring in big items from big trucks." He pointed behind me then, and there it was, a perfectly ordinary old door, leading straight downstairs.  My "new friend" turned on the light for me, probably thinking I wouldn't have the sense to find it.

I was relieved to see a neat and orderly basement filled with inventory.  Even the Fathers' Day cards were easy to find.  Pleased with myself at last, I lifted the rather light box of cards and headed back upstairs.  Mr. Boss had apparently tired of the snack counter (leaving quite a mess), and said he would stock the cards himself.  It felt good now to be on relatively familiar territory.

But just a few days later, I caused a near disaster. At departure time for me that day, I was feeling weary from kids smearing ice cream all over the counter and other "fun activities," and there came a task I liked least, washing out the ash trays to be set out for tomorrow's smokers. I took the 3 on the counter and dumped them into the counter's trash receptacle, washed up the ashtrays, and headed home.

Later I heard.  A fire in a metal trash can at Ben Franklin had practically melted from a fire inside it and was about to set a window display on fire.  Quick action from Mr. Boss and probably my rescuer from the loading door episode put out the fire, just before the screaming fire engine pulled up in front.  This was on and in the local news, and all who knew I worked at Ben Franklin said it was probably my fault.  And they were right!

It never occurred to me that a seemingly smashed out cigarette butt might still have a burning ember in it, and so off it accidentally went into the trash can loaded with used paper napkins, etc.

I realize that about a decade after I worked at and soon left Ben Franklin, the whole north side of the Square burned down.  My airtight alibi is that I was living on the East Coast by then and had nothing to do with it.  AND I will never forget the difference between a loading door and a basement door! DSS

 

Connie Cook Smith of Canton, IL a wife and mother, was a retired journalist and lecturer, who, sadly, died recently.  Her husband, Mark, wrote that she was "a gift to this world."

This story sounds so true. To keep these good stories coming, donate here to Downstate Story.

Jessica Gorogianis   Homecoming

 

Kate sped away from the drive thru, clutching the largest cup of coffee they sold.  She needed it. She had a long, uneventful drive ahead of her.  Once she got on the highway, it would be nothing but corn and soybeans as far as the eye can see.

She was heading to her home town, a fly-speck of a place in southern Illinois called Cob. Kate had left as soon as she graduated from high school.  It was a slow, quiet place that never seemed to change, which is perfect for some, but she longed for excitement, glamour, and the chance to meet people who haven’t know her since she was born.

She rolled down the windows as she cruised along the highway, dirty blond hair whipping in the wind. It was a beautiful morning, the sky still full of the pinks and oranges of the sunrise.

One hour down, five left to go.  She made an early start instead of leaving the night before because once it got dark on the highway, it would be glutted with semi-trailers, and she did not like being boxed in by four semis and their combined tonnage.

Even though she didn’t love going back to her home town, it did feel good to get out of Chicago.  There was a lot of great things about the city, but in the summer the whole place smelled like a combination of garbage, piss, and exhaust.  It could be nauseating.  Especially when the temperatures have been in the nineties, as they had been all week. It was nice to get some fresh air.  Even the occasional scent of cow manure from the farms she passed didn’t bother her.

When she had just two hours to go, it started raining.  Kate hit Scan on the radio until she came across a station announcing the weather.  She listened as the local meteorologist described a large storm that was coming through southern Illinois from the northwest.  Apparently there were reports of hail the size of golf balls, and more than one funnel cloud had been spotted.

Kate sped up, wanting to get to her parents’ house before things got nuts.  She had to fight the wheel as high speed winds buffeted the car, trying to push it into the ditch at the side of the road.  The rain was falling in sheets. Her windshield wipers could barely keep up. 

She thought about pulling over and waiting for the worst to pass, but there was so much rain that she couldn’t clearly see where the shoulder was.  So she did the only thing she could do.  She followed the truck ahead of her by its taillights, hoping that the driver could see where he was going, even if she couldn’t. 

Every time lightning flashed, she scanned the horizon, looking for an incoming tornado.  If a tornado was coming, she’d be screwed.  Yeah, she could hide in a ditch, or a storm drain if she’s lucky, but that was poor succor in weather like this.

As she drove, she beseeched the Universe, and God, and anyone else she could think of, to allow her to get to her parents’ house safely.  She was taut with tension.  She could see the tendons of her hands standing out as she gripped the steering wheel tight, as if doing so gave her control of the storm.

Lightning flashed again and as she scanned, she saw a sign.  It was the familiar food and lodging sign that she saw every time she came home.  This was her exit.  Luckily, the truck was getting off the road too, and she was able to follow it down the exit ramp. 

She had an hour of driving left. She wanted to speed there, to blink and just be there.  But, she couldn’t drive down probably-flooded back country roads during a storm like this. She needed to wait out the worst of it. She parked her car by a greasy-looking diner and ran in, arms overhead.  She wanted to order coffee, but between the monster cup she drank earlier and the storm, she already felt jittery.  Too worried to eat, she opted for hot tea instead. 

The storm seemed to take forever to pass, but she was back on the road in less than two hours.  She hightailed it from the diner, driving as fast as possible.  She wanted the car to fly there, but she knew going faster just made it more likely for her to hit a pothole and crack her axle, which would not be helpful at the moment.

While she drove, she tried calling her parents, but got a message saying the phone lines were down due to the storm.  Worst case scenarios flashed through her mind, one after the other, like channel surfing through the apocalypse. She kept looking out her windows at the fields she was passing, trying to gauge what her parents’ farm might look like.

Some farms were perfectly fine, other than some debris from the storm.  Others though…there was a barn without a roof, a tractor on its side, a huge tree smashed through a house.  There wasn’t any rhyme or reason.  That was what was so scary and maddening about tornadoes; one house will be decimated, but the next will be standing just fine, and you never knew if you were going to be lucky or unlucky.

Finally, she saw the driveway to the farm ahead.  She took the turn at a speed that most people would consider unsafe.  Her car fishtailed, throwing up gravel and dust.  Trees lined the drive and blocked her view of the house.  But as the last trees came into view, so did the front porch of the house. The porch looked ok.  The tiny bud of hope that she had in her heart began to grow.

She squealed to a halt in the carpark and jumped out.  At first the house looked fine, but as moved closer and got a better look, she could tell something was off, but she didn’t know what.  Kate called out for her parents. Nothing. She tried the door, but it was jammed shut.  She descended the steps and headed around the side of the building, but as she turned the corner, the sight before her halted her in her tracks. 

It was gone.  The back half of the house was gone. Smashed. Blown away.  White vinyl siding gave way to jagged tears, electrical wires and plumbing lying around like the house had been eviscerated. She could see into the kitchen from the outside.  The front half looked fairly normal, if more disheveled than usual, but the back was just gone.  Plaster and lathing were everywhere, the floor, the yard, sticking out of falling walls like broken ribs.  As she walked around behind the house, she realized what had felt off about the house when she pulled up.  The sun was shining out the front windows, which wouldn’t have been possible if the back of the house was still standing. 

That realization popped the bubble of disbelief that had been filling her head and she began to scream.

“MOM! DAD! WHERE ARE YOU?! ARE YOU OK?!”

All she heard in reply was the unconcerned twittering of birds.  She began clawing her way through the wreckage to get closer, to get inside the house, if you can even be inside a house that was missing most of its walls and half of its roof. 

“MOOOOOMMMM! DAAAAAAAD!”

Kate threw debris out of her way, not noticing or caring if she was cut or scratched.  They have to be in the cellar. I will find them in the cellar. Kate repeated that in her head over and over as she searched.  They had to be ok.  They had to. 

She headed towards a pile of wreckage near where the cellar should be.  There was a noise coming from the other side; it sounded like flapping.  She carefully picked her way around the mound as fast as she could, only to see a couple crows pecking at something near the bottom of the pile.  She shooed them away and got a closer look.  She came face to face with her father.  Or what was left of him. 

She screamed, stumbling back, shaking her head and crying “No!” over and over again. Though her eyes were open, all she could see was her father’s face, mottled with bruises, punctured by the crow’s beaks, one staring eye, and a bloody mass of tissue where the other eye should have been. She tried desperately to get the image out of her mind, but it stuck there.  Hanging in her field of vision like some kind of grisly watermark. 

She didn’t know what to do.  She couldn’t think.  She threw up, acidic bile burning her throat. She kept looking around like she would be able to find someone to help her.  Someone to foist this unfathomable problem onto so she wouldn’t have to deal with it.

The crows began to sneak back, but she screamed at the birds, shooing them away once more, then tried calling the police.  All she got was a busy signal.  She sat there, next to her father’s body, not looking at it, and just kept hitting redial over and over again, hoping to eventually reach someone. 

As she sat there, she realized she still hadn’t seen her mom.  The horror of finding her dad like that had pushed her mom out of her mind.  She immediately got up and continued searching.  She finally located the entrance to the cellar, but it was covered in rubble.  She alternated between shifting the debris and redialing the police.  She managed to move enough stuff to create an opening large enough for her to slip through and down the stairs.  With her phone’s flashlight on, she began her descent into the blackness below. 

As she went lower, she was forced to contort herself to make it through the hole. When she reached the floor, she was suddenly standing in ankle-deep water.  She aimed her light around the cellar and saw the usual shelves full of preserves and such, but when she looked to the left, she saw light coming from up above. 

She picked her way over there, noticing that the farther she went, the more disheveled the cellar was. At first it was just some boxes and things lying in the water on the floor. But when she got to the place where the light was coming in, whole shelves had toppled, spilling their contents everywhere. She looked up at the source of the light and saw the sky.  She looked down and saw a large rock or boulder partially embedded in the cellar floor.  She continued past, climbing over and under the collapsed shelves until she felt herself step on something squishy.  She picked up her foot and pointed her light down. She screamed. 

It was her mother’s hand, she could tell by the rings.  She stared for a second, mind blank.  She snapped out of it and began throwing debris, trying to reach her mother.  She had an inhuman strength and was moving metal shelves that should have been too heavy for her.  She kept on, pushing down the panic and horror that wanted to take control.

Kate practically threw the last shelf across the basement and knelt by her mother, not caring about the dirty water.  She turned her mother over and was confronted with the glassy, unfocused eyes of the dead.  She noticed frothy spittle was leaking out of the side of her mother’s mouth and realized she must have drowned.  She had been pinned under the shelves and debris. She had slowly drowned as the water level rose and covered her face. 

Kate starting screaming. She rocked back and forth holding her mother’s body to her chest, and just screamed.  She didn’t even notice the sound of sirens coming her way. DSS

 

Jessica Gorogianis, of Chicago, IL, writes that she dreams of moving to the rural Midwest to be a full time writer. She now works at a Chicago community college in a science lab.  This is her first published story.

A tornado! Yikes. To keep these good stories coming, donate here to Downstate Story.

 

 

 

Arlene Shovald  Men's Work

"Ouch!" Darcy said aloud.

She wiped the scratch on her leg with a tissue. Working with chicken wire was like fighting with a cat.

She wished Grandpa Bill had taught her about carpentry, but he always said that was "men's work." Ladies belonged in the kitchen.

Sometimes it was difficult being raised by grandparents. But they had provided her with a wonderful home after her parents died in a car accident. Now the home was hers, but so was the maintenance. Ugh! Another scratch and more blood.

I'll need a transfusion before I get this fence up, she thought.

After Grandpa died, Grandma lost interest in her flowers, partly because her health was declining too. Darcy was determined to get the garden back as a memorial to them. Her job as a receptionist at the medical clinic hadn't prepared her for farming nor did it pay enough to hire someone, but she figured out how to use the garden tools in the garage and got it planted.

Then came the deer. The newly emerging plants were like a salad bar for them.

With some help at the hardware store, she picked out a couple of rolls of chicken wire  and T posts and dug in.

Pails of hot water softened the dirt so she could pound the T posts into the ground. Exhausted and nearly in tears, she was ready to give up but the job had to be finished on her day off.

The chicken wire seemed to have a life of its own and kept snapping back to scratch her.

What I need is a handyman for a boyfriend, she thought. But between work and the house, there wasn't time for relationships.

She let out a yelp as the roll of wire scratched her leg again.

"Looks like you could use a little help," a deep voice s came from behind her.

"Craig - where did you come from?" she asked. "Yes, I sure could."

"It's my day off too," he said. "I was riding by on my bike. I live just around the corner. "

"I've seen you at the clinic, " she said. "You work in the lab, right?"

"I do," he said, grabbing the roll of wire. "I'll stretch this and you attach it to the posts. "

With Craig holding the wire and Darcy anchoring it, the project was done in just a few minutes.

"Looks good," she smiled. "Thanks so much. Would you like a glass of tea now?"

"Gotta run," he said.  "My wife is waiting. We need to pick up some stuff. We bought a little house and it's going to involve a major remodel. But in the meantime, we're just around the corner if you need help."

Craig greeted her warmly in the hospital cafeteria after that. It was nice to know she had a friendly neighbor to call on. Maybe he'd even bring his wife over and they could get acquainted. It would be nice to have a friend to have coffee with in the back yard. It was beginning to shape up nice but it was a lot of work.

The next project was cleaning grandpa's garage. That would be physically as well as emotionally taxing. The garage held decades of stuff he’d collected. Treasures to him but junk to her.

"Need any help this week?" Craig offered.

She hated to ask but since he offered....

 "I could use some help moving the heavy stuff out of the garage," she admitted.

 "I'll be there," he said.

 She was tugging a heavy chain to the dumpster when the guy showed up. He looked a lot like Craig.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Glenn, Craig's brother.  He got called back to the lab and said this was your only day off."

She smiled, wishing she had put her makeup on. The guy was gorgeous!

A "little help" turned into all morning.

"You certainly know how to work," Glenn laughed. "When Craig sent me over I thought I'd be doing most of the work, but I can't keep up with you."

"My grandparents taught me to work," she laughed. "I just wish grandpa had taught me more about what he considered men's work."

It seemed only logical to make sandwiches and invite Glenn for lunch.

By evening they were exhausted but the garage was looking better. A few more days off and it would be done.

"Thanks so much," she said.

"My pleasure," he said. "And since you've fed me lunch, it's only fair I treat you to dinner. How does pizza and beer sound? "

"Great," she smiled.

And for the first time, she was glad Grandpa hadn't taught her much about men's work. DSS

 

Arlene Shovald of Salida, CO., is a journalist and psychotherapist who has written three books with provocative titles: 'Let Your Dreams Be Your Doctor,' 'Presumed Dead' and 'Two Gallons of Sun Tea.'

The details in this story are amazing. Ouch! To keep these good stories coming, donate here to Downstate Story.  

Marie Anderson  Pink Palace

Pink Palace has had little traffic today. It’s Christmas Eve. I’m glad 1968 is almost over. None of my resolutions came true. I’m still 15 pounds more than I want to be. I’m still tied to my ex-husband through work, though we’re getting along better now that he’s got a girlfriend. I still haven’t gotten my GED. Or looked into nursing schools.

I sit behind the counter listening to The Beatles on the radio tell Hey Jude to take a sad song and make it better. I like Yesterday better, when all my troubles seemed so far away, when I was a dewy bride of 17. Now I’m a chewy broad of 32, working the counter of my ex-husband’s Pink Palace on Chicago’s south side, a motel dedicated to love and romance, offering deluxe rooms, short stay, color TV, and truck parking.

I’ll do better in the new year coming. This’ll definitely be my last year at Pink Palace. I’ll get my GED. I’ll stop drinking and smoke only a little dope. I’ll definitely look into nursing schools.

I think I’d be a good nurse. Blood and vomit don’t scare me. My hands are steady.

And nursing would give me lots of material for stories. I’ll definitely start writing again in the new year. I think I’d be a good writer. I got A’s in English, grammar, and composition the two-and-a-half years I managed of high school, before I met my ex and eloped, had a baby, lost a baby.

Outside, sleet attacks. The bell over the door jingles. A man shuffles in.

Shit. Right away I see he’s a vet. He’s wearing dog tags, tattooed arms, no coat, and a rank smell. He’s probably just been kicked outta the flop house down the street.

“Any room in this inn?” His smile shows crooked teeth brown as his skin. His crooked nose drips yellowish snot.

I do what my grandma advised, try to remember that this undesirable was once a sweet clean baby. I conjure a cherubic dimpled child, shiny-hued as the coffee with cream I love. But then a sneeze explodes from a bruised face. In a flash, the sweet child vanishes.

“The Mission kick you out?”

“Right after I kicked the shit outta an asshole.”

“Justified?”

“TV in the community room was recappin’ the year’s big news. When MLK”s assassination came on, the asshole whooped and applauded.

My ex did too, I thought. We’d both been behind the counter back in April watching it happen on the little TV.

“You served in Nam?”

His shoulders slump. “You hate me too?”

“I was on the streets in August,” I say, “protesting the war at the Democratic National Convention.”

He snorts. “And thusly, we elected Tricky Dick our next prez.”

I don’t appreciate his snort. He probably didn’t even vote. “Sorry,” I lie. “We’re all booked.”

Suddenly, the radio’s DJ interrupts Steppenwolf’s Born to Be Wild. “Apollo 8,” the DJ exclaims, “is orbiting our moon! The first humans to achieve this historic triumph are three American astronauts!”

“I wonder,” the vet says, “what they’ll find on the dark side of the moon.”

A staticky voice on the radio answers. “Houston, please be informed there is a Santa Claus.”

The vet and I both burst out laughing. Our laughter oils my crabby ears, tickles my tired heart, lifts my flat-lined lips.

“Okay,” I sputter. “I guess I got a room for you. You want Little Vegas, Hawaiian Waters, or Cleopatra Tubs?”

“Which is cheapest?”

“We rent by the hour. How much you got?”

From his jeans pocket he pulls crumpled bills, places them on the counter. Five dollars.

I nod. Escort him from the office to the suites out back. Unlock the door to our premiere suite: Hawaiian Waters.

“You can stay ‘til noon tomorrow. There’s a mini pool inside big enough for three strokes.”

A smile blooms his face. He sighs, steps into the room.

“Merry Xmas, miss,” he says as I close the door. “Tonight, I swim!”

Miss. Sweet. I walk back to the office. Sadness seasons my sudden bit of Christmas cheer. Tonight he swims, but tomorrow, I know, he’ll continue to sink.

Back in the office, I shut off the radio, then crouch and rummage through shelves under the counter. Under a stack of my ex’s Playboys, I find it. Still in the plastic sack from the book store where I bought it last January. I take it out, toss the plastic bag, and place it on the counter. It still smells new and fresh. Test Preparation for GED. I open to page one. DSS

 

Marie Anderson of Western Springs, IL. a law school dropout, has had her stories published in numerous magazines, and is a married mother of three young adults.

This story likely fits thousands of women, but has a hopeful ending. To keep these good stories coming, donate here to Downstate Story.

Pepper L. Bauer  Home

The gravel snapping and popping under the tires of the Jeep as it snaked its way along the narrow forest road were the only sounds disturbing the deep quiet of the Northwoods night.

Laura turned off her radio before she turned onto the lane leading to the resort, and now just had the Rice Crispy crackles, and the panting of her American Eskimo dog sitting in the doggie seat for company.

As she neared her destination, a deer crashed through the underbrush and sprang powerfully across the road directly in front of her car.  Laura slammed her foot down on the brake pedal, mentally thanking the Lord for anti-lock brake systems.  Eight more deer followed the leader, the sleek fur covering their graceful, muscled bodies shining in her Jeep lights.

She smiled to herself in the dark, and took a deep breath of the crisp fall air coming through the open sunroof.  Her dog Naddie stood as best she could, muzzle quivering, sending the departing deer on their way with a couple sharp barks.

Laura was home; this was where she belonged.

An hour later, after checking in with Kelly, the owner, at the main house, and unloading her few belongings into the cabin, she sat cross-legged on the bed absentmindedly running her hands through her dog’s soft white fur. The last six months had been hell.

This pilgrimage to Twin Waters Resort was a healing ritual that Laura felt she had to make; this warm, familiar part of the world, brimming with countless bittersweet memories, was the balm her soul needed.  Hopefully this time alone would bring her peace.

The house of dreams, hopes, and love that Laura so carefully built with her husband came crashing down last March with one phone call, and the unemotional anonymous voice informing her that the man she’d been married to for thirty years had collapsed at work and had been taken to the hospital.

In shock, she raced into town, but by the time she reached the emergency room he was gone, and her life as she knew it, was over.

At this point she was surviving on autopilot.  She went to work, attended church, socialized with friends, and for the most part Laura fulfilled all expected obligations, but was in a fog most of the time.  Nothing seemed real. Usually she felt as if she was disembodied, standing next to herself watching a scene in a movie.

Recently, family and friends started bugging her to get on with life.  Some of them even tried to set her up with other men, but she wasn't ready for that yet, and she doubted if she ever would be.

John had been her true soul mate, and as far as Laura was concerned, every person only has one.  She thanked God that she had been lucky enough to find hers, and desperately wanted closure. Hopefully, in this special place she would feel her husband's spirit, and it would help quell the constant ache and sense of loss deep inside her being.

Naddie nuzzled her hand gently, jumped off the bed, and headed for the door, fuzzy tail wagging. "O.K.," Laura laughed as she grabbed the leash.  “I know an order when I see one.”

Woman and dog strolled through the sleeping resort, enjoying nighttime serenity and solitude.  The warm yellow light pouring out from her cabin, named Tepee, glowed like the welcoming beacon of a lighthouse, guiding her to safety.

She felt protected here, in their favorite romantic hideaway.  She felt guilty, but was so glad to get away from all the well-meaning people in her life, none of which understood why she wanted to come to the Northwoods alone.

Several friends offered to come along, and as much as she hated to hurt their feelings, Laura turned them all down.  She felt very strongly that this was something she needed to do on her own.

She and her husband had been coming to Twin Waters Resort twice a year, fall and winter, for eight years and the Northwoods for thirty years.  Their special cabin, Tepee, had always been an island of calm in their hectic lives.  As eccentric as everyone thought she was, she just wasn't ready to share her "Fortress of Solitude" with anyone else yet.

Laura turned and headed towards the lakeshore.  Big St. Germain Lake boasted 1,617 acres of sparkling water, and tonight every bit of it was calm and as smooth as glass.  The light from the stars and crescent moon generated ghostly wraiths, dancing ethereally on the mirrored surface of the lake.

Several docks with benches strategically placed at the end jutted out from the shore.  She walked to the end of the nearest one and sat down.  Naddie jumped up on the seat and curled up beside her, nose tucked under her tail for warmth.

Laura closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet smoke scented autumn air.  She and John used to love to sit out here at night, reveling in the night noises, such as the laughing of mergansers, and losing themselves in the beauty of the incredible sky show.  She started to relax for the first time in months.

Resting on the bench, eyelids squeezed shut, lost in her memories, Laura jerked suddenly out of her reverie as something touched her neck.  Heart racing, she looked around but nothing was there.  Naddie whined.  She felt it again, but this time the touch was warming, almost reassuring.  She closed her eyes as the sensation moved up her jaw to her face.  Tears trickled down her cheeks as she recognized what she was feeling, a soft, caressing hand.

With a crash, the door to the nearest cabin flew open and two fishermen sauntered out laughing and talking.  Immediately the pressure disappeared and Laura knew that whatever presence had been on the dock with her was gone, leaving an excruciating feeling of loss.  She nodded to the men as they waved, then got up slowly and wistfully made her way back to the cabin.

The next morning dawned bright and clear.   As she nibbled on a muffin and drank coffee in front of the picture window overlooking the lake, Laura could see that in the light of day, last night’s experience could be just the wishful thinking of a lonely woman.  She watched two Northern Ravens vying over a tasty morsel.  “If only John were here,” she sighed.

After breakfast, she left the dog inside, took her coffee and wandered down to the dock that protruded onto Lost Creek next to her cabin.  A flock of Mallards floating noisily in the little bay formed by the curve of the creek scolded her with mumbling quacks as they slowly moved away.  The incredible fall colors reflected in the creek gave the illusion that the birds were swimming through an artist’s palette.

Laura smiled as she remembered the time she and John rented a paddleboat and paddled up the creek, trying to get close enough to the ducks to get a good picture.  For the most part the flock eluded them, but they got a couple decent shots and had fun trying.

She spotted a unique rock on the shore and stooped to pick it up.  She loved rocks and always tried to bring one home from every trip.  Last fall, she and John hiked a primitive trail not far from the resort.  On the way up the hill Laura kicked a rock.  Two hours later, she kicked the same rock as she came down the path and it flew up in the air and hit her leg.

“This rock wants to come home with us,” she announced as she picked it up and looked it over.  John laughed, but the rock found a place in back of the Jeep and traveled back to Illinois where it sat in a place of honor on the kitchen table.  At John’s memorial service, Laura slipped the rock in his hand before they closed the coffin.

Unexpectedly, she felt the warmth of the hand on her neck again.  This time she didn’t jump but shut her eyes and leaned into the hand, savoring the sensation.  She sensed what appeared to be arms encircling her waist, and felt soft breath on her cheek.  Tears flowed freely down her face, and time lost all meaning.  She stood in silent communion with John’s spirit as the sun slid higher in the cobalt sky.

A shout from the road shattered the meditation and caused Laura to lose contact again.  Friends from the little church in town that she and John always attended had come to take her to lunch.  As she climbed the hill to great her guests, she looked back over her shoulder at Lost Creek and smiled.  “That’s O.K. John,” she whispered, “I know where to find you.”

Years flew by, and again Laura found herself guiding her vehicle up to the door of the Tepee.  For thirty-one years, through two dogs and five SUVs, she made the trek north for her rendezvous with John twice a year.  She talked to him, and shared her life and frustrations with him, on dock benches and creek banks surrounded by mind numbing fall beauty, and on frozen lakes under the Milky Way and shooting stars.

Although she never saw him, he was there, his warm presence enfolding her with love. 

Many things changed around her, but Twin Waters, though updated, basically stayed the same.  It even had the same owner, Kelly, although he was no "spring chicken" either, and was preparing to retire within the next year.

At her age, she almost didn’t make it up this time. Concerned friends and relatives tried to convince her to stay home, but she sneaked away from the house early in the morning, and aimed her vehicle in the familiar direction.  They didn't understand that she had to make this trip: it was everything to her.

Laura slid from the SUV and pulled her cane out of the back seat.  Feeling a sense of urgency, she didn't go into the cabin, but headed straight for the lake.  The uneven ground caused her to stumble, and she almost fell several times, but determined, she pressed on.  Halfway to the shore she felt the now familiar hands grasp her arm and steady her.  She smiled.  Everything was going to be all right.

She made it to the end of the dock and collapsed on the bench, breathing heavily.  John's presence seemed stronger than usual.  She could feel the warmth of him beside her, his hand holding hers tightly.

Suddenly, Laura felt him press something hard and cold into her hand.  What was it?  In her peripheral vision she thought she saw something move, turned her head, and found herself staring into familiar blue eyes.  The beautiful mouth she knew so well curved into a grin.  With unspeakable joy, she stood up, threw her arms around him, and laughed because she knew.

Early the next morning Kelly woke to the sound of someone banging hysterically on the front door of his house.  One of the resort guests had gone for an early morning walk and discovered a body on the dock.

Two hours later, after the coroner zipped up the black bag, he wiped his hands on a towel and turned to the small group of people on the beach.  "It was the damnedest thing," he said.  "She had the happiest look on her face of any body I've ever seen.  I swear she died laughing.  And something else; look what I found in her hand."  He lifted a clear bag so that those around could see that it contained a pretty little rock.  The kind you might pick up while hiking and carry home. DSS

 

Pepper L. Bauer of Mapleton, IL. is a writer and journalist who has won awards for her many activities at her church and in the community. Among other activities, she is President of the Peoria Area Anti-Hunger Coalition. This is her 18th story published in Downstate Story.

A happy marriage beyond death, rare but beautiful. To keep these good stories coming, donate here to Downstate Story.

Susan Duke  Under Wraps

I started collecting secrets when I was just six years old.  For the next twenty years, people who passed through my life confided in me, drawn to my open expression and faithful, calm manner.  Some confidences I could have lived without.

This amazing accumulation of mysteries sprouted in my sweet mother’s bed.  Circumstances beyond my control helped shape the situation.  One hot summer night filled with lightning bugs sending covert messages to each other, Dad sat in his patrol car by the side of a well-paved interstate, unaware of impending doom.  Intent on his task of checking the license plates of an abandoned vehicle five feet ahead, with windows closed, air conditioner blasting, and police radio squawking, Dad never heard the eighteen-wheeler that plowed into him. 

The semi driver, amped up on speed and alcohol, walked away virtually unscathed.  Mom would later face him in court but spared me from that trauma.

Well-meaning friends and family tended to run out of hushed condolences, meat loaf dinners and tuna noodle casseroles.  A month into our new life, loneliness stalked Mom and me when we let down our guard.  When the nightmares began, I crept into her bed.

“You can sleep with me as long as you need to, honey,” she wisely said.  My presence comforted her, too.

One Saturday night as fall had just begun to turn leaves and agitate squirrels, we rented “Peter Pan” from the local video store.  Mom urged me into the bath and bed earlier than usual.

“Why are you smiling so much, Mommy?”

“I’ve been keeping a secret all day,” she said.  She pulled two plastic flashlights from under her pillow.  “Do you want the pink or the blue?”  She flipped off the lights and snuggled under the covers.

“I believe in fairies, do you?”  Mom laughed as we raced beams of light around the bedroom walls and across the ceiling.

“Tinkerbell,”  we whispered as our lights chased each other.  We gasped in  unison as the phone rang in the dark.  Nine-thirty.  It had to be bad news just like the night Dad died.  Mom cleared her throat and inhaled.

“Hello?”

“Maggie?  Are you two okay?  What in the world is going on over there?”

Mom exhaled the tension from her body.  “Oh, Cecelia.  I’m so sorry to have alarmed you.  We’re fine.  Susie and I are just playing a game with flashlights.  I’ll close the blinds a little tighter.  So sorry.”

She made a funny face at me and climbed out of bed to attend to the windows.  I heard her sniffling in the half-bath off the bedroom and knew she was crying, thinking about Dad.  I wished she would talk more about him, but I think it hurt her too much.

One blustery Saturday, Mom resolved to clean out Dad’s side of the closet.  “Someone could make good use of these things.  We’ll take them to Good Will.”

As I helped fold and stack Dad’s clothes, she paused to relate a buried memory triggered by a shirt or pair of pants.

She sat on the edge of the bed and laughed softly.  “One night he was telling me good night at my back door and his shiny red car started to roll down the driveway.  He had to run fast.”

“Did Daddy kiss you?”

“Not that night.”

I adored each private story Mom shared with me.  It helped me realize what a fine man Jack Arnold had been.  Although by April I didn’t crawl into her bed so often, this night I was troubled.

“Mommy, I have a secret.”

She laid her book on her lap and reached over to brush dark curls from my face.  “What, baby?”

“First grade is almost over, but we got a new girl today.  She’s nice.”

“That’s good.”

I ran my fingers up and down her arm.  “Some of the girls don’t like her because she has brown skin.”

“Hmmm.”

“But I like her a lot.  She’s kinda quiet and shy, but I like her.  I sat by her at lunch and played with her at recess.  Her name’s Gwynetta.”

"Even if you lose some friends, it is important that you follow your heart.  If Gwynetta is a good person, and you will be able to tell that in a little while, you will decide what is best to do.  I’m proud of you.”  She kissed the top of my head.

Confidence surged through me.  “Hey, Mommy, I saw a lot of beer bottles in Cecelia’s garbage can.”

“Susie!  Don’t tell people that.”

I grinned.  “I can keep a secret.”

By junior high, I’d learned to screen information swirling around me into two categories—useful knowledge and meaningless gossip.  I strove to be tight-lipped and developed a reputation as a smart girl who could be trusted.  Maturity and unseen power intoxicated me.  A summons to the office ripped my world apart.

“Susie,” Mrs. Durbin said.  “Please sit down.  Susie, your mother has become ill at work.”

I jumped up.  “Mom!”

The principal did not waste words.  “I’ll drive you to the hospital.   Don’t worry.  I’ll notify your teachers.  Let’s see. Today is Thursday.  We won’t expect you back until Monday.  Who should collect your homework assignments?”

I choked back a sob.  “Gwynetta Johnson.”

“Yes, your best friend.  Come on, dear.  Get your things from your locker and meet me in the parking lot.”

I had to research ‘pancreas’ to understand the cancer killing my mother.  She had hidden the pain from me and others.  Another secret.  By summer she was gone.

Auntie Louisa and Uncle Fred proved to be angels on earth.  To have a thirteen year old thrust into their childless home must have been shocking.  Their kindness, sincerity and structure nourished me through difficult days and dark nights.  They wisely set boundaries and loved me unconditionally.

In my grief, I tended to forget Auntie Lou had lost her only sister.  Once I caught her staring at me and said, “What?”

She shook her head and apologized.  “I’m sorry, honey, but as you grow older, you look so much like her.  You’re beautiful.”

My aunt and uncle earned my undying devotion by accepting my dear friend into our lives.  Gwynetta felt comfortable within our walls as I did with her family.  I could relax .  The ‘girl whose parents are dead’ stares I received from others were easier to deflect with her by my side.

During our senior year of high school, Gwynetta and I realized our future paths were diverging.  She would attend the state university to earn a degree in Early Childhood Development while I would enroll at Northwestern.  Scholarships and my parent’s life insurance helped me into the door.

Diligence and sincere application resulted in success.  College proved to be the challenge necessary to fuel my imagination and creative processes.  I thrived with little time for boys or frivolous antics.

Yet, once again, I became the repository for private news and tales without seeking such trust.  Why me?  Why did a wide assortment of my classmates unload confidences with me?  I remained closed-mouthed and respected privacy and locked away several journals filled with untold secrets.

Gwynetta eagerly leaped into the real world while I remained at the university to pursue an MFA.  Internships nurtured my endeavors and I flourished.

“You’re so lucky,” a young woman gushed during a group seminar.  “All the professors simply adore your work.”

At my blank expression, she faltered.  “What?  Did I say something wrong?”

I shrugged.  “It’s okay, Julie.  See, both my parents died by the time I was twelve, so I’ve never considered myself lucky.”

“Wow.  I didn’t know.  You never said anything.”

Perhaps that explained why I hardly exerted efforts to become popular with my peers.  Aspects of my life were intimately locked in my heart.  Gwynetta understood me and I missed her.

Chapters of my life had turned sometimes in a positive direction, sometimes in a negative manner.  Coming home to Peoria felt right.  I cherished the Midwest—the changing seasons and friendly people.  Easy access to Chicago and St. Louis helped me feel rounded and secure.  Auntie Lou and Uncle Fred allowed me to nest with them until I figured out what my future held.

Auntie Lou bustled around the kitchen as I sat and chopped lettuce for the salad.  She was as transparent as glass.

“What’s on your mind, Auntie?”

She peeked at the baking chicken and stirred simmering green beans.  Satisfied, she wiped her hands on a tattered blue and white dish towel I’d given her years ago and pulled out a chair.

"Honey, Mrs. Taylor told me you’d been over to the house.”

 I looked directly into her green eyes, so like Mom’s.  “Yes, I met her out at the mailbox.  We chatted for a bit.  She told me they were moving out.”

 “Oh?  I wonder why.  They’ve rented off us for years.”

 “Mr. Taylor has found work in Cincinnati.”

 Auntie Lou clucked her tongue.  “We’ll miss them.”  She stretched to turn down the flame under the beans.  “You know, honey, I’ve been meaning to mention this.

Uncle Fred and I were only too happy to send you half the rent from the house while you were in college.  But, see, we were able to save a lot, too.  It’s yours.”

She raised both hands as I shook my head, but my determination won out.  I walked around the table to plant a big kiss on her cheek.

“Auntie, I mean for you guys to keep that.”

She put both hands to her face.  “It’s a considerable amount, sweetheart.  Oh!  The beans.”

During dinner, I watched the interchange between my aunt and uncle.  Both unspoken messages and easy banter warmed my heart.  I hoped to find true love one day, someone to feel comfortable and grow old with.  If only my parents. . .

“Susie, what shall we do about the rental income from the house now you’re home?  It’s really yours.”

I took a deep breath.  “Uncle Fred, I want the house.  I want to move in and make it my home once again.”  Words gushed forth now the dam of my emotions had broken.  “I love that house.  Even though Dad died when I was young, the house holds so many memories for me.  And I could fix up the back bedroom as my office—shelves for all my books and internet access for my computer.”

I stopped as Aunt Louisa wiped tears from her round cheeks.  “Auntie Lou, why are you crying?”

She sniffled and said, “Oh, Susie, two blocks away!  We were terrified you’d want to move to Chicago or New York or some other big city now that you’re a famous author.  Can you write from here in the Midwest?”

As I rose to put my arms around her neck, I winked at Uncle Fred as he smiled.  “I can’t think of any other place to settle.  Of course, my agent will want to meet me in the ‘big city’ once in awhile.  The pressure is already on for a sequel.”

"Where do you get your ideas?”

 I grinned.  “Well, Aunt Lou, I happen to have journals full of gems.  I just need to change a few names and places.  I can’t wait to get started.  Besides, I’ll need your help planting a garden in the Spring.”

 Uncle Fred stood.  “Do you need any money to tide you over?  It takes time to write a book, doesn’t it?”

 I laughed.  “I’m okay.  Auntie Lou always says something will turn up.”

 As we finished our delicious meal, I detected a sort of conspiracy between them.  I didn’t enjoy being kept in the dark but chattered away about various topics.

 “How’s ‘Netta doing?”  Aunt Lou asked.

 I sighed.  “Government cuts have hit her hard.  Have you visited her day care?  It’s wonderful and fills such a need in the community.  She’s put her heart and soul into this, and if she misses just one loan payment—well, I just don’t know.  Politics makes me so angry I could scream.”

 Uncle Fred said, “You should write a story about this.”

 I nodded.  “I wish I could do something. ‘Netta is close to paying it all off, but times are tough.”  I sighed again.  “More pie, Uncle Fred?”

Dishes done, I clicked off the kitchen lights and expected a quiet night of television with my aunt and uncle.  Instead, the air crackled with anxiety and excitement.

“What?”

“Come in and sit, honey.”  Auntie Lou invited.  “We need to talk.”

Uh-oh.  This could be good or bad.  I couldn’t read their expressions.  As I took a deep breath, she patted the sofa.  “Sit beside me, sweetheart.”

Eyes as wide as open windows, I sat and looked at my uncle.  I noticed he held a large metal box on his lap.  I wanted to ask, but silence seemed the better route.

He cleared his throat and said, “Your dear mother left this. . .well, actually a key to a safety deposit box in our care until you reached the age of twenty-five.”

I blinked.  My birthday had rolled around three months ago.

“You tell her, Louisa.”

“Okay.  Here goes.  Susie, your mom and I kept a secret from you.  Your great, grandpa lived in Chicago and worked for the Mob.”

“Organized crime?”  My mind whirled like a spinning top.

“Yes, Henry Sullivan was a gofer for some pretty scary crime bosses.  He was a bag man, messenger, whatever.”

“Did he kill people?”

“Oh, no, no,  At least, I don’t think so.  See, the Windy City was pretty wild back then.  The Depression, Prohibition, all that.  Anyway, Henry skimmed a little here and there, even robbed other bag men.  He squirreled away a lot of cash over the years.  A lot.”

“What happened?”

They looked at each other as Uncle Fred picked up the tale.  “He was murdered, execution style but not before he used his connections to secure his fortune by converting the cash into silver coins and stock in Caterpillar Tractor Company.  It was called Holt and Best manufacturing back then out in California but later merged.  Coming out of the Depression, CAT equipment was the only thing our country had to move earth, later build Eisenhower’s highways.”

“Susie, you look dazed,” Auntie Lou said.  “I’ve taken my share and invested wisely.  Look, honey, I know you’re thinking this money was acquired through ill-gotten gains.  But how do we return it?  To whom?  The Federal Government?  I don’t think so.  I prefer to believe you will find something good and worthwhile to. . . .”

I carefully picked up a fancy, yellowed stock certificate and shook my head.  “Uncle Fred, what is this worth?”

He shrugged.  “It changes almost hourly, honey.  I’ll teach you how to watch the markets.  I’d say these twenty silver coins would bring between five and six hundred from a respectable coin dealer.  Of course, spot silver and spot gold changes daily, too.  Now, good old Henry bought this CAT stock for a dollar a share.  You have a thousand shares worth about a hundred apiece today.  It goes up and down, honey.”

Sleep did not come easily as midnight rolled around.  As I tossed and turned, visions of blood money, my next novel, fixing up my house, and gangsters filled my  dreams.  In the morning, I stumbled to the bathroom and stared into the mirror.  My hair stuck out in all directions like wheat blown by restless winds.

“Kept a big secret from me, did you?  Well, I just might have a good one up my sleeve,” I informed my now determined expression.

Tuesday evening Gwynetta fairly jumped from her red vinyl seat as I entered our favorite pizza parlor.

“Susie!  You’ll never guess!”

“Let me sit, at least.”

She laughed as her deep brown eyes sparkled.  “All day I watched the clock, dreading the time passing.  You remember I had that three o’clock appointment at the bank where I planned to grovel and debase myself to obtain an extension on the loan.”

I reached across the checkered table cloth to grab her hand.  “And?”

“Susie!  Mr. MacIntyre calmly informed me an anonymous donor had been in earlier and paid off the loan.  Can you believe it?”  Tears welled in her eyes.  “I own the building with money to spare for updates.”  She paused to sip her soda and catch her breath.  “Oh, Susie, it’s a miracle.  Think of the children, all we can do for them now.”

I squeezed her hand and grinned.  “That’s so wonderful, ‘Netta.  Beyond words.  Do you have any idea who. . . .”

"Not a clue and I don’t care.  Susie, I think I have a secret angel, don’t you?”

 I gazed across the table at the best friend I could ever hope to have.  Gwynetta Johnson had been there for me without pause through good times and bad.  I wanted to tell her, but smiled and said instead, “Yeah, we all need secret angels once in awhile, don’t we?  Pass me a slice.” DSS

 

Susan Duke of East Peoria, IL., is a retired special needs teacher whose stories have been published in many magazines and journals.  She's working on a novel, and with her husband and daughter she helps operates a self-storage facility.

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Grazina Smith   Devotion and Deception

The three of us were huddled in the bus shelter to protect against the spring drizzle. The angry hiss of her voice made me stop reading my iPhone messages. I overheard her whisper to her friend.  “And if he was burning in hell and I gave him a glass of water, he’d complain that it was either too warm or too cold.”

Her back was turned to me. She wore a bright green raincoat patterned with daisies and leaned into her companion.  I wanted to say, “Amen, sister. I was married to one of those.” But she assumed her complaint only reached her friend’s ears and I didn’t want to embarrass them.

They let me on the bus first and I navigated down the aisle with my shopping bag filled with three flower pots of miniature oleander. I had pampered them through the winter and was going to plant them at St. Casimir’s cemetery.

I’ll have to dig them up again in the fall. They can’t survive Chicago weather.  The cemetery is located on the southwest edge of the city and allows planting and decorating of graves.  It’s spring planting time on my husband’s grave.

Both the reason for this trip and that overheard whispered conversation brought back memories of my own unhappy marriage.  I was young – just out of high school – when Fred and I married. He was 10 years older.  It was a whirlwind romance and I was flattered by his attention and what I thought was his sophistication and knowledge of the world.

He always corrected me when I did something wrong and soon I realized I didn’t seem to get anything right.  It was little things at first. I could never have an accident. If I spilled a cup of coffee there was at least a half hour lecture on carelessness that he referred back to numerous times for the next few days. If I left the iron on there was an even longer lecture on fire danger and my irresponsibility.

If I tried to defended myself – accidents sometimes happen, the iron had an automatic shut off – Fred berated my defiance and lack of accountability. He never raised his voice, never physically harmed me but his constant criticisms was like water soaking into a sponge. His negative assessments saturated my life and became a reality in my own mind. 

I worked at the library and Fred handled all the money. Every two weeks I handed over my paycheck and he assured me I just had to ask for anything I needed.

Of course, it soon became apparent that Fred determined what I needed. If I had to buy nylon stockings, he’d give me five dollars so I could walk down to the corner drugstore to get them and then he’d ask for the change.

Once, when my sister was visiting, we went together.  When we returned, Fred asked for the change and the sale slip.  I was twenty-five cents short and he began a sermon about my carelessness with money. I dug in the bottom of my purse and found the quarter.

My sister Claire was standing behind him shaking her head and rolling her eyes. I was so embarrassed. Later, I tried to explain to her that Fred was just concerned that the sales clerk hadn’t cheated me.

“No,” she said, “he’s just crazy controlling.”  I only shrugged. There was not much to discuss. She lived in Denver and only visited once a year.  How much could I tell her? What good would it do?  My complaints seemed so petty.  He was a good provider and was the vice-president of First National Bank, a prominent man in our community. 

I sigh and look out the window.  I’m a widow and a well-off one.  Fred knew his way around money and we spent very little on any luxuries when he was alive.  I travel now, often with Claire.

At first I had a lot of discomfort when I did things I knew Fred would not have approved but slowly I’m squeezing out the poison that drenched my soul. Sometimes, my sister even makes me laugh at the callous, trivial and prolonged tyrannies in my life.   

The bus comes to my stop and I get off to enter the cemetery. I’m faithful about caring for Fred’s grave. A few other people are here digging in the soil. Many years before he died, Fred had a six foot black marble cross mounted on our plot. “Take good care of it,” he said, “it cost over $6,000.”  That was a huge amount of money then and I wondered why he commissioned such a showy monument and why he assumed he would die first. 

The three miniature oleander shrubs jostle in my shopping bag.  Their leaves are light green and very glossy and by mid-summer red flowers will grow in clusters at the end of each branch.  They’re very attractive against the black gravestone.

Of course, every part of that plant is poisonous to mammals and it often causes death in tropical and subtropical countries. In the United States oleander is popular in the Southwest since it’s tolerant of poor soil and drought.

During one of my trips to Lake Meade I saw huge shrubs in a riot of colors – pink, white, red – around the lake. I also saw warning signs against picking any of the plant or its flowers.  It even warned against using the branches for camp fires. The smoke is also toxic to breathe and it contaminates any food being cooked.  The serious warning aroused my curiosity and I learned more about oleander.

It affects the gastrointestinal functions and leads to a racing heart, nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain and often diarrhea.  Symptoms I’m not unfamiliar with from my own many years of marriage. Still, it’s a beautiful plant and it amuses me to have it on Fred’s grave. I know it’s very small minded of me but I enjoy the deception and stay true to that old florist motto, I “say it with flowers.” DSS

 

Grazina Smith of Chicago, IL is retired, and has been a social worker caterer, law office manager, and homemaker.  Her stories have been published in several literary journals, books and magazines including "Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul.

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