Margot pushed open the door at the back of the lounge and stepped out into the alley.

Another show, another unappreciative audience, another few minutes of indifferent applause.

She sighed and walked through the darkness toward the street. Her worn purse hung loosely at her side, clashing wildly with the black sequined dress and high heels she was still wearing from the show. She kept a slow pace, in no hurry to get home.

There’s no business like show business, she thought, shaking her head.

She reached the street and stepped out onto the sidewalk, ready to face the pimps, the prostitutes, the beggars, and the drug dealers on the route home.

The street was amazingly quiet tonight; barely anyone was about, with only the occasional figure passing by on the other side of the street. The large grey buildings loomed above her, some of the windows boarded over, all of the buildings appearing to be completely ignored.

A man in a trench coat stood across the street; he stopped and stared at her. She kept walking.

“Hey!” she heard him shout. She ignored him and continued to walk.

“Behind you! There’s a guy!”

She glanced quickly over her shoulder, and saw another man approaching.

His hand was coming out of his pocket, the glint of cold steel following it. She turned around, raised one leg up into the air, and kicked him in the forehead with the heel of her shoe. He fell to the ground, a small mark dotting his forehead like the member of an Asian religion.

“You don’t mess with twelve years of ballet,” she said to the crumpled figure. Looking down at her shoe, she noticed the heel was cracked, and would likely fall off at any moment. “Damnit all to hell!” she swore, and took it off.

She heard footsteps and turned to see the man in the trench coat approaching her.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soothing with sincerity.

Margot glanced down at the figure laying on the ground. “Yeah, I’m fine, but there goes my favorite pair of shoes.” She looked away from the unconscious figure and smiled politely. “Thanks for warning me.”

He chuckled. “Well, my dear, you certainly know how to take care of yourself.”

He tucked his hands in his pockets, looking almost as out of place in this neighborhood as she did. His grey trench coat showed hardly any wear, with a hint of a three-piece suit revealed at the collar. His dark hair, slicked back, reminded her of the forties and Clark Gable.

“Do you think you’ll be okay?” he asked, smiling at her.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” She held up her damaged shoe. “It’ll just be an uncomfortable walk home, that’s all.” She stuffed the shoe into her purse, shrugged, and took off the other one. “Uh…thanks again,” she said.

“Hey, I’d hate to see harm fall upon a lady as lovely as yourself.”

She laughed. “You’re a real charmer, aren’t you?” Shaking her head, she added, “I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee or something, but I’m beat. I had one hell of a night.”

“That’s okay,” he said. As he smiled, the light from the streetlamp above cast a shadow across his face. “You just be careful on your way home.”

“Will do, Boss,” she said, and watched as he crossed the street and continued on his way without once looking back.

Once he had disappeared into the night, she started walking, the cracked pavement snagging little runs in her nylons. She briefly considered calling a taxi, but after she had paid the accompanist, she had less than fifteen dollars to her name. She continued to walk the seven blocks home.

It was after two when she finally closed the door to her apartment and slid the three locks into place. Opening her purse, she took out the shoes, and tossed them into the bottom of the closet. A fog of weariness guided her movements as she grabbed a glass of water, went to her cassette player, and put on Ella Fitzgerald. A long sigh of relief escaped her lips as she stretched out on the couch, careful to avoid the third cushion where a spring tended to poke through.

As the soft horns played in the background, she thought about the Cobalt, the small lounge where she was currently performing. It was no way to achieve success. She made almost nothing there, barely enough to pay her rent, let alone eat, and she’d never make enough to record an album.

She closed her eyes, imagining her dream, picturing a concert hall filled with fans; it was a dream she had had since a child, and one in which she was quickly losing faith. Still in her dress and her torn nylons, she quietly drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Maxie’s Cafe still had class, much like a beautiful woman who aged gracefully. Once the site of a notorious speakeasy, the diner had been renovated in the sixties to add vinyl seats and a formica counter. Margot sat down on one of the stools and reached across the counter, now dull and worn from too many scrubbings, to snag a bran muffin from the tray.

“‘Morning, Mary,” she said to the waitress, who was drying coffee cups at the sink.

“Hi, Margot. Good show last night?” The elderly woman dried each cup with efficient movements and stacked them with an ease that revealed years of experience.

Margaret chuckled. “The usual, Mary.” She took a bite of the muffin and swallowed. “I’m never gonna get ahead.”

Mary came over and leaned on the countertop. “Dear, all artists struggle. Hang in there. With your talent, you could blow anybody out of the water.”

She turned and grabbed a container of apple juice from the cooler. “Here.” She set it down in front of Margot. “Y’know, if people didn’t stick to their dreams, there wouldn’t be a single successful person in the world.”

“Well this dreamer almost got stuck with a knife.” Margot opened her apple juice and took a sip. “I got attacked last night on the way home.”

Mary placed a hand over her heart. “Dear Lord, what happened?”

Margot shrugged, and told her about the warning she had received from the man across the street, and the kick she had planted in her assailant’s forehead.

Mary shook her head.

“Jeez, Margot, you gotta try and get in somewhere else!”

Margot gave her a wry smile. “Who’s going to hire a hold-out from the thirties?” she asked, and then stared down at the bran muffin in front of her. “I’m considering giving it all up.”

Mary sighed. “I’m not a psychologist, Margot, you gotta know that. But let me tell you one thing. And this comes from years of experience. If you don’t stick with what you like doing, you’ll never be happy with your life.”

Margot considered the statement for a moment. “But I’m not so sure if I’m happy now.”

“Dearie,” Mary said, reaching across the counter and taking Margot’s hand, “Let me tell you one thing. If you don’t follow your heart, your dreams won’t follow you.”

Margot smiled. “Sounds mildly profound.”

“It’s a line from a song I heard about a hundred years ago,” Mary said, her grin creasing the wrinkles in her cheeks. “I don’t remember the song, but those words have stuck with me since the first time I heard them.”

Margot broke off a piece of the muffin and stuffed it in her mouth. “What was your dream, Mary?”

The old woman smiled. “Certainly not owning this place, let me tell you,” she said, walking towards the back room. “But I’ll show you.”

She emerged a few minutes later carrying a small teddy bear and set it down in front of Margot. Margot picked it up and examined it.

“I make them,” Mary said, brushing her finger over the bear’s ear. “I’ve been making them for almost thirty years now.”

“It’s beautiful,” Margot said, studying it closely. The seams were almost invisible.

“I used to sell them at flea markets and such. I haven’t been pushing them too hard lately. But I still make them. It’s what I like doing.”

“That’s wonderful, Mary,” Margot said, running her finger along a seam of careful stitching.

“Listen, if you’ll make me a promise, that you won’t give up singing, I’ll let you have that bear. It’s the first one I ever made.”

Margot looked up at her. “Mary, I couldn’t! I couldn’t take anything from you, especially your first bear!”

“I’m not taking it back, and you’re not quitting singing,” the older lady said with finality. “And remember what I said. If you don’t follow your heart, your dreams won’t follow you. Now get outta here.”

Margot smiled, held the bear to her chest, and laid a five dollar bill on the counter. “Put that on my tab, Mary.” She walked out the door before the woman could say anything else.

* * *

Margot turned the faded brass knob, pushing the door to her manager’s office open enough to poke her head in.

Stan was at his desk, the phone to his ear, his grey hair disheveled and his glasses slipping off of his nose. His gaze met hers. He nodded and she entered.

He muttered a few final words into the telephone and set it back in its cradle. “So, Doll, how are things?” He pushed up his glasses and leaned back in his chair.

She sighed and sat in the old wooden chair in front of his desk.

“As thrilling as usual. Cobalt three nights a week. Anything come in?”

He moved some papers around on his desk. “Yeah, somebody called. They want you for Carnegie Hall, but I lost the number. Besides, it’ll conflict with the Cobalt.”

Margot shifted in the chair. It creaked beneath her. “I know you’re trying, Stan,” she said, trying to ignore the sting of his sarcasm.

“Seriously, though, some Ladies’ group is looking for someone like you to do some event they’re planning. Willing to pay about five hundred.”

Margot’s eyes widened. “Five hundred?”

Stan nodded, his glasses slipping further down his nose. “I sent them a tape. I’ll know by Friday.”

Margot pursed her lips. “That would be incredible. Dare I hope?”

Stan shrugged. “You’ve got a good chance. You’re talented, young, you’ve got the figure…”

“A figure shouldn’t matter with a Ladies’ group.”

“You never know.”

She let her purse slide to the floor. “Stan, I ve been thinking of giving it up.”

He let out a large sigh and sat back in his chair. Margot didn’t speak.

“You’ve only been at this for two years,” he said finally. “That’s nothing …you’re what? Twenty-nine?”

“Twenty-seven. I won’t be twenty-nine for two more years.”

“And every year after that. Listen, you’ve got talent. Nobody does the stuff you do like you do it.”

“Nobody does the stuff I do, period,” she said.

He shook his head. “Hon, the old stuff is making a comeback. The so-called Standards are dear in the hearts of millions. We just have to wait for it to click.”

She looked down at the floor. “What if it doesn’t?”

“And what if it does?”

Margot swept her hair back. “I’m losing faith in myself, Stan.”

“It’s happened to everyone who’s ever come into my office. You just have to stick with it. You’ll pull through.”

He picked up one of the pieces of paper from the desk. “Besides – I have more news.”

She took the paper from his outstretched hand. On it was written an address and a phone number.

“A guy who owes me a favor,” Stan explained. “He just started up a recording studio. It’s small, but pretty high-tech. Anyway…”

She waited, but his voice had trailed off. One of Stan s games. She had to prompt him to deliver the big news.

“Anyway…?”

“He’s going to record your demo.”

She felt a tingle of excitement start at the back of her neck, but as it crawled down her spine it became fear.

“But Stan! I can’t afford this!”

“I told you he owed me a favor. This one’s free. He’s in on the deal if it gets signed.”

She stared at him, terrified and thrilled all at once. “And I don’t have a band…”

He motioned to a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. “You think I can’t have one in three minutes?”

“And material. What would I record?”

He shrugged. “That’s up to you. It’s your baby. Just get me something I can sell,” he said flippantly. “Use your imagination. Follow your heart.”

His words cut through her panic. “What did you say?”

“I said get me something I can sell.”

* * *

Excitement rushed through her veins as she exited the building. The slip of paper was in her purse, nestled beside the teddy bear. Traffic flowed noisily along the street, but she saw only the sunshine. Crossing the street, she walked slowly down the sidewalk, considering her conversation with Stan. Maybe she had been too quick to consider quitting. . . .

A hand grabbed her shoulder and yanked her to the side as a courier on a bicycle sped through the spot where she had stood. She turned, astonished, and looked up at the same man who had rescued her the night before.

He was as shocked to see her as she was him.

“You again,” he said with a quizzical expression.

It took Margot a few minutes to catch her breath. “I’m afraid I might quickly become indebted to you,” she said with a nervous laugh.

“Hm, he said distantly, looking down the street. Then he turned back to her. “I’m sorry. What was that, my dear?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, I was just babbling.”

He released her arm. “Well. Now that you seem to be okay,” he began, “I–”

“I am most definitely going to buy you coffee,” she insisted, taking his hand and pulling him down the sidewalk. She dropped his hand when he followed of his own will.

“I can’t imagine it will do any harm,” he said.

Margot held the door of Maxie’s open for him and waited for him to enter. They walked to the counter and sat down just as Mary came in from the back.

“Mary,” Margot said, “This is the gentleman who rescued me last night.”

He modestly looked away. “I would hardly call that a rescue.”

“And,” she continued, “saved me from certain injury in the street just now. Which at the very least deserves a cup of your coffee, Mary. And no arguments…um…” she paused, realizing that she hadn’t asked him his name.

“Call me Les,” he said with a smile. “And coffee would be fine.”

“I’m Margot.” Mary poured two cups before disappearing into the back.

Margot reached for the sugar. “I d like to thank you again for last night,” she said.

He smiled and sipped his coffee. “It really was my pleasure. Although weren’t you a tad overdressed for that neighborhood?”

Margot offered him a bran muffin, which he declined. “I had just gotten off work.”

He raised his eyebrows in a way that made her laugh.

“Not that kind of work! I’m a singer. I was performing at the Cobalt.”

“Really? I was there, once, years ago…”

She waited for him to continue, but he returned to his coffee.

“I’ve been considering quitting,” she said to break the silence. “There’s really not much demand for my style of music.”

“Which is?”

“Old standards. Big Band stuff. Torch songs. Anything before 1950.”

He smiled. “How interesting.”

“Interesting, perhaps, but in demand, no. ”

He set down his cup. “Well, when one has a dream, one must pursue it. Follow your heart, so to speak.”

Margot’s eyes narrowed. “What was that? Follow your heart?”

He smiled and shrugged. “An old expression.”

“It’s the third time today someone has used it.”

His shoulders seemed to stiffen for a moment but then relaxed.

“Really?”

She nodded. “First Mary, then Stan, my manager. Mary said it was a line from a song she heard years ago.”

He put the cup to his lips and quickly drained it. “Thank you, Margot, for the coffee,” he said. “It has been an absolute pleasure. I really must be going. Perhaps we shall meet again.”

Hearing the bell on the door, Mary emerged from the back once again.

“Your friend left?”

Margot nodded slowly. “In a real hurry, too.”

Mary smiled. “He seems nice. Your age, clean cut, well-spoken…”

Margot was still nodding. “It’s just…”

“What?”

“He left so quickly. He used your words – that ‘follow your heart’ line.”

Mary shrugged. “So?”

“It’s strange. Stan used those same words in his office.”

Mary leaned on the counter and rested her head in her chin as she waited for Margot to collect her thoughts.

“It bothers me how comfortable I felt around him,” Margot mused.

* * *

Margot had managed to push all thoughts of Les from her mind as she flipped through the albums in the used record store. Plumes of dust rose as she flipped the records in the racks; the 78 RPM section did not seem to get much browsing.

She glanced at the song titles as she flipped through them, looking for something that might trigger her imagination. She smiled as she came across an old Bing Crosby recording of Who Threw The Overalls In Mistress Murphy’s Chowder? A great song, but not one she was about to put on her demo.

There was a bundle of perhaps a dozen records bound with string. The price attached said four dollars. The top one was an old Louis Armstrong, so Margot decided to splurge. Who cared what else was in there?

She went home and began to lay out her things for that night’s show. But the records stayed on her mind, so she snipped the cord and put Louis aside.

The label on the second album was unreadable. Curious, she carried it to the record player and placed it on the turntable. Horns blared lightly as it began playing, and she recognized the beginning strains of Melancholy Baby.

The man singing it had a rich, melodious voice, but she had never heard him before. The arrangement made the song sound hopeful instead of sorrowful. It made her smile as she got dressed for work. She was still humming the melody when the next song started.

The pensive piano notes caught her attention immediately, but she didn’t recognize the tune. The same voice began singing as she started to apply her lipstick.

She froze when she heard the chorus.

When a passion holds you

In the fashion that it’s known to

All you have to do

Is follow your heart

And your dreams will follow you.

Shaken, she turned off the turntable, finished applying her makeup, and walked out the door.

* * *

Margot didn’t sleep that night. She spent hours carefully transcribing the song, until she had both the vocals and piano accompaniment on paper.

At seven o’clock she grabbed the cassette copy she had made, slipped the record into a large bag, and headed to the diner.

A few customers were eating breakfast when Margot walked in. Mary looked surprised to see her.

“You’re up awfully early,” she said.

Margot smiled and shook her head.. “No, I’m up awfully late.” She handed the cassette to Mary. “Play this.”

Mary turned to the cassette player behind the counter. Turning off the radio, she slid the cassette in and hit the play button. The music started to play.

Mary’s eyes lit as she recognized it despite the scratchy sound. “My lord, you’ve found it!”

Margot nodded excitedly and set the bag on the counter. “I found it completely by accident. I didn’t even know what it was when I bought it. And, after yesterday, I think it’s the perfect song for the demo.”

“Demo?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she said, and told Mary of Stan’s offer.

After congratulating and hugging her, Mary said, “It’s a beautiful song.”

“We’re going to have to worry about rights and credits though,” Margot said, handing the album to her. “But I can’t tell who recorded it or wrote it. Do you remember?”

Mary shook her head as she held up the album and looked at it. “We might be able to find out, though. You’d be surprised at what Bon Ami can do.”

* * *

Stan said much the same thing as he squinted at the small print on the record. “It’s a perfect song. Shouldn’t be hard to find authorship. We’ve got a manufacturer.”

Margot pointed at the label. “And a last name. Price.”

Stan set the album down on his desk. “Let’s go with it then. I’ll get somebody to look this up. You may as well go ahead and get everything ready for the cut.”

Margot couldn’t stop the smile spread across her face.

Oh, continued Stan. “About the ladies thing?” He positioned his glasses. “You got it.”

* * *

For the first time in her history of appearing in the lounge, the applause seemed genuine.

Margot lingered behind after the performance, sitting at the piano, looking at her roughly transcribed notes as the porter ran a broom across the abandoned dance floor.

The accompanist had done a brilliant job with the piece, and the room had stood still as she sang it. The energy of the thunderous applause still exhilarated her, making her reluctant to leave the glory behind.

The bartender walked over to the piano and handed her a manila envelope. “I forgot. Your manager sent this over,” he said, and went back to the bar.

She set the envelope in her lap and tapped the beginning of the song out on the piano keys. Hearing footsteps, she turned, expecting the bartender once again. Instead she was stunned to see that it was Les.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” he said, leaning against the piano.

“No,” Margot said, “The lounge is closed. But it’s okay.”

He shook his head slowly. “That’s not what I meant. This didn’t make any sense until tonight.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“The assignments I get are usually pretty basic, and never the same person twice. Now it all makes sense.”

She stared at him, still confused.

He motioned to the envelope. “You may as well look inside.”

There were two sheets in the envelope. One was a note from Stan, the other a photocopied photograph. She read the note.

“Found the guy. Lister Price.
Sad story – recorded one album.
Woulda been big but died in a car accident
the night the album was released.
We’ve secured the rights.
–Stan.”

She glanced at the photograph. Although it was grainy, she recognized the dark-haired man immediately. Standing up, she looked at Les, fighting back tears. He gave her a sad smile.

She went to embrace him, closing her eyes as she moved to kiss him, but her lips met only air.

###

Copyright © 2000-2008 David L. Hebert
All Rights Reserved

David L. Hebert is a Canadian practicing lawyer. In addition, his work as an author and editor has included contributing to Macmillan Teach Yourself Grammar and Style in 24 Hours and The Unofficial Guide to Online Genealogy. He is the author of The Everything Learning French Book. You can learn more about him by visiting his personal Web site.

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“Young lady!” The voice was soft but penetrating. Automatically I put my hand on my jeans pocket, which contained my money and my keys. A year earlier in this very store, my purse had been stolen, and it had been hell to replace I.D. and credit cards. Now I was wary of my fellow-shoppers. Here, at the front of the store, near these shelves laden with dishes, cutlery and trinkets, it was easier to move about safely than in the narrowly spaced rows of clothing.

That day I didn’t need any wearing apparel — didn’t need anything, except to get out of the house.

“Young lady!”

Weariness swept over me at the sound. Insomnia, and now this? Joan-of-Arc voices to add to my list of symptoms? Had my psyche finally fractured?

No, it was from outside myself. No one had ever addressed me as “young lady,” not even my mother, God rest her soul. My former boss, who was the reason why I was wandering a nearly-new store on a weekday afternoon, had treated me like a doddering crone on the verge of senility, though I was a mere forty-nine to her forty-two years. She’d had a peremptory voice not unlike the one I’d just heard, but wouldn’t have called me “young.”

I heard it again. “Let me out!” it demanded. Out of what? I looked around. The change rooms were far off to my right, the washrooms yards away to my left. There were no footlockers, no suitcases on display. Had I crossed a line? In Shirley Valentine, the husband said to the wife: “You’ve looped the freaking loop.” There was nothing big enough to conceal a person, not even a child. That china sugar bowl with a lid could have held the Dormouse from Alice in Wonderland.  The Avon bud vase with a stopper could have concealed a genie, I suppose, but the latter had transparent sides, and contained nothing. There were no teapots, no bread boxes. Wait. What was this? A spice cupboard, like a piece of doll’s furniture, painted blue, with pink flowers around the tiny doors, and below, a shelf of the proper height for a bottle of sage or cinnamon.

“Psst!” The whisper was compelling. I reached out and opened a tiny door. Empty. I tried the other. It wouldn’t budge. “Help! I’m imprisoned. Get me out of here.”

No “please.” My troubled soul had generated a demanding voice. Was it a classic symptom of schizophrenia? I didn’t know. I was no psychiatrist, only a lab technician who’d had ambitions for a career in science until Jerusha Burnside had shriveled them.

“Who are you?” I whispered, thinking back to my Sunday School days and the Bible heroes who had heard messages from Beyond.

“I’m Mrs. Daisy Vetch,” the voice replied, “and my daughter-in-law is a witch.”

Pretending to examine some gas-station china, I inched closer to the spice cupboard. “Did she cast a spell on you?”

“That’s right. I knew from the moment my Fred married her that he had made a big mistake.” Peevishly, Mrs. Vetch began her story. She had been visiting at her son’s home, as she did four days a week, because her daughter-in-law Joanie was overwhelmed by the twins, and had completely abandoned any pretence of housekeeping. Their sweet little bungalow was a dust-heap littered with diapers. Sometimes, when the children got whiny, their shrill voices cut through her head like a knife, but even so, she always made it a point to go and visit according to schedule, because her son Fred had grown up in a nice home and she owed it to him to give his wife a few pointers.

I was hypnotized. Other people’s domestic situations intrigued me, especially since I’d lost my job. My husband had been wonderful and consoling when I came home sobbing one day and announced that I could no longer tolerate Jerusha, the boss from hell. Jerusha was notorious in the Institute, though I hadn’t known that before coming to work for her, and hadn’t had a choice of group leaders anyway. When a project got underway, she would then change the rules. Frequently she took data from her underlings and presented it as her own. In front of other members of the group she berated me for my alleged stupidity. Was it for this that I had slaved over a lab bench to get my Ph.D. in Chemistry? My family doctor said no; that I should take time off. My husband urged me to quit outright. Disability insurance seemed a better option, however, because we were still paying support to the children of my husband’s first marriage.

It sounded as if Mrs. Daisy Vetch’s domestic situation was more fraught than mine. I listened.

On the fateful day, she had offered to show Joanie how to make a spaghetti sauce. “Would you believe,” she whispered, through the crack in the spice box,” That she had been using sauce from cans?”

I could; that was what I used.

“Instead of paying attention,” Mrs. Vetch continued, “Joanie was unloading the dishwasher. She started to ask me for measurements — how many teaspoons of this, how many tablespoons of that, and of course I couldn’t tell her, because like all good cooks I trust my instincts and go by taste.”

Joanie then accused her mother-in-law of not wanting her to be able to recreate this culinary specialty. The twins, feeling the tension, started to scream. Suddenly, Joanie raised her hands, pointed her index fingers at them and said, “Shush!” To Mrs.Vetch’s surprise, they quit rocking their playpen and sat down quietly and reached for their toys.

Mrs.Vetch’s knees turned to jelly. She blanched and faced her daughter-in-law with an accusing stare. “You are a witch,” she gasped.

Mrs. Vetch already knew that her daughter-in-law dabbled in the occult; she had crystals hanging from the ceiling, and had bought books on the mystic nature of trees, on Reiki, and on other New Age subjects.

The younger woman laughed in her face and said that if she were a witch, she would know the quantities of ingredients for the spaghetti sauce without having to ask.

“If I were a witch,” she said, “I would have rid myself of you long ago, you meddlesome old biddy.” Then, according to Mrs.Vetch, a wicked smile came over her face and she said, “Of course, I’ve never tried.”

Smiling, she held out her arm and pointed her finger at Mrs. Vetch, and the old woman felt her blood coursing through her body. Next thing she knew, she had shrunk to the size of a Fisher Price doll. Then Joanie’s large hand, with its talon-like fingernails and mysterious silver rings, reached down, picked her up, and placed her in the spice cupboard. “And here I’ve been ever since,” the voice moaned.

Apparently Joanie had gotten rid of the cupboard a few days later, when her husband complained of rattling noises around the house and began to worry about squirrels in the attic. Mrs. Vetch had been trundled away by a charitable organization which collected used clothing and household items and sold them to Bargain Village.

“I want out,” she declared. “Get a knife and pry open the door.”

Stunned, I looked around. Sure enough, there was a pile of old silverware, including a table knife. Inserting the tip under the edge, I heard her squeak: “Be careful of my hair,” but the door refused to budge. Evidently Joanie had jammed it on purpose, or had put a spell on it, too.

“What are you doing?” This second voice was at my elbow. A young woman in a red tunic over a white pullover peered at me.

“Just trying to get this little door open.” What a foolish admission, for what would I do when a tiny live woman tumbled out? “I’m giving up on it,” I added. “I don’t want to buy it.”

The clerk shook her head, and went back to her cash register.

“I’m sorry, I can’t budge it,” I told Mrs.Vetch.

“You’ll have to get a little saw and cut the spice cupboard in half,” she told me.

My husband wasn’t the handyman type. Where would I get a saw?

As if reading my mind, she said, “At a hardware store.” Her tone implied that I was stupid for wondering. She was Jerusha Burnside all over again.

“But what will I do with you once I set you free?” I asked. Certainly I couldn’t take her home with me and rely on her to keep silent in a drawer, and she couldn’t stay here either, where she might well fall prey to prankish children, big spiders, and mice.

Brusquely she informed me that when I’d set her free I would have to take her to her son and daughter-in-law’s home, where she would confront Joanie. Fred would finally see his wife’s true nature, and after the younger woman had restored Mrs.Vetch to full size, he would kick his witch-wife out of the house.

“There’s a hardware store across the street,” I told her. “I’ll be back.”

“Wait! “Don’t leave me here. Buy the spice cupboard. Take me with you.”

I looked at the price tag. Fifteen dollars was not unreasonable, but I had only ten in my pocket, to prevent myself from over-spending. I explained in a whisper, while keeping an eye on two shoppers moving within earshot. “See you later,” I murmured, and left.

The hardware store had an astonishing variety of little saws for every conceivable hobby purpose. I identified one that I thought I could use without severing a finger, and had the clerk put it away for me. When I arrived home it was 4:30 and my husband was back from his school day, with a pile of student essays on the coffee table alongside his Coors can. He seized the remote, snapped off the rerun of Drew Carey, told me that I looked peaked, and that we should order in.

Gratefully I accepted.

That night I couldn’t sleep. Finally, at 6:00 a.m., when the birds were twittering, I came to a decision. Before buying any little saw, I would pay a visit to Mrs.Vetch’s daughter-in-law — if she existed outside my fevered brain. Joanie didn’t sound like the name of a witch; Endorra, Esmerelda, or something along those lines were what I would have expected. This foray into suburbia and the scene of the alleged crime was to be my test — of Mrs.Vetch’s veracity and of my sanity.

My little plastic daffodil from the Cancer Society was on the dressing table; I could easily pretend to be canvassing. If Joanie seemed reasonable, I would liberate Mrs. Vetch and present her to the younger woman. Presumably Joanie had spread the story that her mother-in-law had gone on a long vacation. Perhaps the two could make a deal; a restoration to normal size for Thumbelina Vetch, in return for a solemn vow of future non-interference.

Then again, Joanie might hand her miniature mother-in-law over to the children or the cat for mauling, or squash her under her heel, or put her in the garbage grinder. Before I freed Daisy, I had to see what the younger woman was like as a human being — if she was a human being.

After seeing my husband off to school, I dressed as if for work, and found Fred Vetch’s address in the telephone directory. At 9:15 I was halfway out the door when the telephone rang. I could guess who it was. Representatives of the insurance company that paid my disability pension liked to make spot checks, to root out malingerers. Naturally the firm did not want to pay three quarters of my salary on into the
future, but hoped to find grounds to cut me off.

Could I be in the office at 11:00 to meet with my new counselor?

On the bus, heading downtown, I fretted about my attire. Would my neat, working-world clothes make me seem rehabilitated. Should I have worn stained jeans and a sweater? The counselors kept changing from visit to visit; either there was a high attrition rate, or the shuffling was intentional to keep the clients on edge?

When the receptionist told me the name of my new counselor, my hands began to sweat and my knees to tremble. Certainly I seemed too agitated to hold down a job. Why? Because I was to meet with a Joan Vetch.

The tall woman’s face was framed with dark curly hair, like Cher in The Witches of Eastwick. Her smiled was friendly, and not at all mysterious. Her navy suit and white blouse were unexceptional, but she wore an amethyst necklace — said to have magical powers. Her dangling pewter earrings fascinated me — one was of a smiling sun, the other, a crescent moon.

From a silver frame on her desk beamed a man with two children, one on either side of him. They were blond, identical, and somewhere between one and two years of age.

So this was the evil Joanie? I was too overwhelmed to do more than nod when she said my name, and shook my hand. Her clasp was warm and dry, and as I sank into the chair that she indicated, I relaxed. She too sat down, not behind the desk, but in the chair opposite mine, where she leafed through my file and looked at me with a kindly expression.

“I see that you worked for Jerusha Burnside.” She nibbled her lip and nodded thoughtfully. “Quite a few people on disability pension once worked for her at the Institute.” Joan leaned toward me in a woman-to-woman manner. “This is off the record, but Jerusha is well known as a toxic personality. Someday you’ll recover from the experience of working for her, and get your career together again, but you must take your time to recover your equilibrium.” Her large hand with long red nails and gleaming rings reached out and patted mine. “If we manage to escape the negative forces in our lives, we eventually heal, but it takes a while, as I know from personal experience.”

She confided that a year ago she was bogged down in domesticity, in a climate of negativity and was beginning to lose hope. Summoning up all her energy, she had taken action on her own behalf and had gotten away from the forces that pulled her down. “Relax. You’ll get there,” she said. “Your pension is assured for the next fifteen months, and you needn’t come for any more interviews until that time is up.”

I floated out of her office. In fifteen months, the last of my husband’s kids would have graduated and would be self-supporting. A balloon of hope began to inflate inside me. I almost regretted not having frequent interviews with Joan. In our brief time together, some of her strength seemed to have brushed off on me.

At the mall at the center of the downtown core, I bought myself an amethyst paperweight. At the book store I purchased several New Age works. At home, engrossed in them, I surfaced in time to cook a nutritious, tasty meal for my husband. That evening I looked through the night school offerings from the board of education calendar. On the weekend, my husband decided to go to Bargain Village to scout out some used flowerpots. On entering, I spied the blue spice cupboard, and when he was browsing, I approached it, trembling.

Both little doors hung open. So did my mouth.

Someone must have pried open the stuck door, and if anyone had been captive, she was gone.

###

Copyright © 2001-2008 J. Kristin Dreyer
All Rights Reserved

Author bio:

Ruth Latta is the author of more than 200 published short stories, which have appeared in publications such as North American literary magazines (Fiddlehead, The Storyteller, and White Wall Review) and the British Quality Fiction for Women. She is the author of two books: Life Writing: Autobiographers and Their Craft and her collection of short stories, A Wild Streak. Her book review column appears in the Ottawa monthly, Forever Young.

The Spice Cupboard is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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The ride was agonizingly silent. She leafed through a magazine that she had already read three times. It would soon be her turn to drive, and she would not even have the comfort of reading. She liked to listen to the radio, but inevitably, she would start singing of which he did not approve. He wouldn’t complain, of course. That would take too much effort. He would just sit there and sigh and make those awful moans of disapproval.

He, in this case, referred to Sharon’s husband, David.

She would not have to call him that for much longer. She had her second appointment with her attorney Monday morning. She had to survive this weekend with him, and then she could go free.

Her mother had set up this fishing trip. She had talked to each of them separately, because talking with David and Sharon simultaneously was futile. After much prodding and even a little threatening, they had both reluctantly agreed to go to a cabin, alone, together. Her parents kept the kids, paid for the cabin, and made all of the arrangements. The only stipulation was that David and Sharon had to go, and that they at least had to fish together. So, she was in the car with her husband headed to a cabin on Sage Lake.

David soon pulled the car into a gas station. He quietly filled the tank while Sharon visited the facilities. Once those tasks were completed, they met inside. She placed a beverage on the counter for each of them. He paid for the purchases. Then they were again on their way – with Sharon now in the driver’s seat.

She turned on the radio, but was careful not to make a noise. “We used to sing love songs to each other,” she recalled longingly. Sharon had grown weary of trying to figure out what had happened to their marriage. She could not remember when she had given up on it completely. There was not a certain date that she could recall anyway. It was just a slow process that led them to the silent, torturous bond that now legally held them together. “After ten years and two children, we must not have anything left to say,” she would tell herself during those times when she longed to talk to him. But, in the back of her heart, she knew that two people could find conversation after years of marriage. She saw people do it all the time: her parents, his parents, people at work. She couldn’t help but feel like a failure for her inability to maintain communication. Then her emotional pendulum would swing to the other extreme and she would be overcome with anger at David’s lack of caring. She was caught in a viscous cycle that she desperately wanted out of by the swiftest method of exit.

It was late Thursday night when they arrived at their destination. David unloaded the car while Sharon placed perishables from the cooler into the empty refrigerator and their small supply of groceries into the cupboards. They each carried their own baggage to a separate bedroom, just like at home.

They ate toast with strawberry jam and sipped coffee sitting across the wide table from each other on Friday morning. Sharon read a chapter from a book on math skills for middle-graders. David seemed to be buried in his own literature.

“Do you know how to fish?”

His voice startled her. She still loved that low, raspy sound. She looked up from her book.

“We promised your mother we would fish. Do you know how to fish?” he asked, looking directly at her this time.

“Yes. We used to go when I was a kid.”

“I saw the stuff in the car that she sent along. I was hoping you would know how to use it.” He returned to his reading.

“You have never been fishing?”

“No. Why?” he asked looking up again.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t know that.”

. . .

The boat motor started on the second pull for which Sharon was thankful. She acted like she knew what she was doing as she maneuvered them into a small cove at the corner of the lake. The poles were set, and there was even a container of fresh night crawlers in the small tackle box.
“Mother is certainly thorough,” Sharon thought, not sure whether she should feel grateful or resentful. She baited both hooks and estimated the depth for the bobbers. She handed a pole to him and gave brief instructions. “If a fish bites, yank up on the pole and then reel it in.”

He silently accepted the pole and directions. Sharon had to admit, the lake was beautiful. The silence seemed more tolerable when the subtle sounds of nature accompanied. There were times that Sharon longed for an argument. They had ceased fighting roughly six months ago. If she had to choose a time, that was probably the point when she had given up. When they had stopped even trying to work out their differences, deciding instead to coexist, independently in the same dwelling with not even a bit of symbiosis.

“Pull up,” she yelled to him. “Now!”

David yanked the pole and fumbled with the reel. The end of the pole wobbled with the weight of the fish. “What do I do now?” he asked.

“Just keep turning that crank,” she said pointing to the reel in his hand.

“Yahoo!” he said with a genuine smile on his face as he lifted the six-inch perch into the boat.

Sharon couldn’t help but smile back.

“Is that what you call a fish?” he asked with a tone of self-pride.

“Actually, we could probably call that a minnow,” Sharon remarked sarcastically followed by a snicker.

“Give me a break. It’s my first fish,” David jokingly protested. “At least let me think I’m a great fisherman for a minute or two.”

“Be my guest.”

“Now what?” he asked, staring at the flopping fish.

“I never was very good at this part. We have to get him off of the hook and into this bucket,” she said as she reached over the side to fill it with water. “One of us has to grab hold of it.”

They both took a deep breath and stared at the now still creature.

“Here goes,” Sharon finally muttered. She smoothed the dorsal fins down with her index finger and wrapped her thumb around the belly. The fish began to flop with newfound strength. She quickly retracted her hand.

“I’ve got an idea.” David pulled his flannel shirttail out of his blue jeans. He laid the fish on the shirt and then wrapped his hand around it.

“We did it,” he said as the fish darted around the bucket.

“We did it,” she thought as she cast her line back out into the still water.

She and David actually laughed together when, in the bottom of the tackle box, they found written directions on how to clean and fry fish. They fumbled with the scaler and the filet knife, and they estimated that they probably picked more bones out of their teeth than they buried with the guts. But, their supper had been wonderful. Sharon couldn’t help but wonder if it was the food that tasted so good, or the fact that they had prepared it together.

The math book was dry, as instructional guides for teachers generally were. At a particularly dull point in her study, she looked over at David lying on the sofa.

“How do you like that book?”

“It’s alright,” he said without averting his eyes.

“I read it about a month ago.” She too returned her gaze to her book.

“You mean, we have this book at home?” David asked, now looking toward his wife.

“Yes.”

“I just bought it on the way here.”

“Where? At the gas station?” she asked as a question, but answering it herself.

“We don’t pay attention to each other, do we?” David asked flatly. It was not a revelation to him, just the stating of an obvious fact.

“No we don’t,” she said as she once again returned to her reading.

The second day’s catch was not significant, and Sharon’s growling stomach beckoned her to make alternate dinner plans. She suggested a restaurant she’d seen as they’d driven to the cabin.

Sharon couldn’t help but feel as though she was getting ready for a date as she ran a brush through her hair. She was actually having a good time this weekend. She could sense that David was, too. The beautiful water was like a glistening beacon amidst the grunge of their dismal alliance, and they both seemed to appreciate the sense of tranquility that it provided.

“I really don’t think it was far,” David said as he closed the cabin door behind them. “Let’s walk.”

“This reminds me of that place we found on our trip to Chicago.”

“That breakfast deli?”

“Yes. We just started walking….”

“…and we stopped when we smelled food.” David finished the sentence for her. He then did something that he hadn’t done in years; he held her hand.

Time and years of yard work had added calluses that she did not recall from their younger days, but it was pleasant just the same. The gentle sway of their walking allowed her to feel his palm. They talked about the Chicago trip. They talked about old times. They talked about the kids. The restaurant was at least two miles away, but the conversation made it seem right next door. After months of agonizing silence, they had relearned how to speak with one another.

When they returned to the cottage that night, she invited him into her room. He accepted. They rediscovered old passions and playfully uncovered new ones. They held each other close as they drifted off to sleep listening to the gentle tap of raindrops from a summer shower strumming on the roof.

They again fished in silence the next day on Sage Lake.

It was even more awkward than before.

Questions circled about her mind.

Did we become intimate again too quickly?

Is he glad that the weekend is over so he can be rid of me?

All taunted her with negativity. Sharon longed to talk, like they had last night. “Why shouldn’t I?” she thought. “He is my husband.”

Finally, she spoke. “I have an appointment with my attorney tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think I want to go.”

He looked at her with reddened eyes. He reached into his shirt pocket and produced a business card. “Butch, the other social studies teacher at the high school, gave me this.” He handed it to her. “He and Mary went to this counselor a few years ago. He said it really helped them.” Sharon leaned forward and produced a similar card from her rear pocket. “You remember Connie, the secretary, don’t you?” She smiled through her own tears as she handed him her card. “Maybe there is some hope left for us,” she said out loud.

They held each other as they sobbed with such intensity the lake rippled outward from the small boat. They felt the pain that had been bottled up inside them for so long begin to release and disperse calmly out over the water.

They sat in the small watercraft for hours discussing details of life that they had ignored for years. They held each other close. They talked of books they had read and emotions they had felt. They did not place blame but accepted the reality of what they had allowed their marriage to become, and they outlined a game plan for improvement. They even occasionally kissed, simply to feel the warmth of one another’s lips.

. . .

“Stay as long as you want, honey. The cabin is rented for the whole week, and your father and I have your children enrolled in Bible school at church,” her mother said when Sharon called her from the pay phone at the local grocery store.

“How did you know it would work?”

“A mother just knows,” she said in her best omnipotent voice. “Now you have a good time.”

###

Copyright © 2001-2008 Larisa Dawn Sutton
All Rights Reserved

Author bio:

“Larisa Dawn is an Ohio writer and is the married mother of three children. She has her BSN from Bowling Green State University and works as a nurse at St. Rita’s Medical Center in Lima, Ohio. Lara writes fiction and humor. Her work has also appeared in previous editions of The Blue Rose Bouquet, The Journal of Nursing Jocularity, and in local newspapers. She was also the tech editor for a diabetes cookbook. You can reach her at lara [at] blueroses [dot] com. “

Fishing for a Solution is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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Note: When this short story first appeared in The Blue Rose Bouquet, it was an excerpt of Chapter 1 of the author’s (as yet) unpublished novel, A Three-Turtle Summer; see the author bio after this excerpt for exciting book details!

It’s A Three-Turtle Summer—hot—and Grace has to dump a man who’s meaner than a rattlesnake and dumber than adobe.

1. A Sister in Trouble

Fort Sill, Oklahoma, July, 1949

It was too hot to play cards, especially if someone were keeping score, and Vera was.

“Ay, carumba! You can’t stand to go two hours without beating someone at something can you?” Grace Tyler playfully pouted.

Vera ignored her little sister, and began shuffling cards as she gleefully announced, “Senoras, the game is canasta, and we’re going to play according to Hoyle.” She began to deal the cards like a Las Vegas gambler while Pauline laughed and pointed at her mother, a notorious and frequent card-cheater.

Everyone was hot, but in her long-sleeved shirt and long skirt, Grace was sweltering. Sweat beaded up on her forehead and neck and she kept stretching her legs out because the backs of her knees stuck to her skirt.

“Gracie, for God’s sake, go put some shorts on,” Vera said.

Grace ignored her sister, pulled her shirt away from her perspiring chest and asked, “Anyone want more iced tea before Vera whips the pants off of us?”

Momma and Pauline both nodded and Grace poured tea over fresh ice cubes while Vera got a tablet and pencil out of her purse.

The room was almost silent as each woman arranged her hand. Only Momma barely tapped her foot and softly sang a song from her childhood under her breath:

“The fair senorita with the rose in her hair …

worked in the cantina but she didn’t care …

played cards with the men and took all their loot … awh-ha!

went to the store and bought brand new boots … ”

“Awh-Haaa!” Grace’s five-year-old daughter Glory joined in.

Unconsciously, the other two women started to hum along while they looked at their hand. About the second “Awh-Haaa!” Vera abruptly stopped humming and looked at her sisters with a raised eyebrow. Something was fishy; Momma was much too happy. Barely containing their amusement, they watched as she cheerfully arranged her cards.

Finally, unable to suppress her laughter any longer, Vera jumped up, snatched the cards out of her mother’s hands, and fanned them face-up across the table.

“Ay, ay, ay!” She cried out, “Momma, tell me how can you have a meld and eleven cards in your hand when we’ve just gotten started?”

The fun escalated as Vera rushed around the table and ran her hands all around her mother and the chair she sat on to feel for extra cards.

“Stand up!” Grace and her sisters said as they pulled their mother to her feet. They shook her blue calico dress and screamed with laughter as extra cards fell from every fold.

“Glory,” Vera told her young niece, “crawl under the table and get those cards for your Auntie Vera, okay?” Grace moved her feet to the side so that Glory could scramble under the table. Her childish giggles danced around the women’s feet as she scrambled for the extra cards that dropped from her grandmother’s dress.

“Momma,” Vera laughed, “you’re a born cheater. How did you know we were going to play cards today?” she asked.

“I’m not the only one in this family who’s been caught with a few too many cards,” Momma said in her defense.

“Yes, but you’re the family matriarch. We expect better of you than we do our good-for-nothing brothers,” Pauline said.

“Huh! Matriarch, my foot. You girls never listen to a word I say,” Momma grumbled.

“Maybe that’s because we can’t trust you,” Vera said.

As another card dropped from Gregoria’s dress and slid across the floor, Vera added, “We’ll strip you down to your rosary before we ever play cards with you again, Momma.”

“Yeah,” Pauline, chimed in, “the next time you’ll play in nothing but your lace step-ins and a bra made from two tortillas.”

“Well, at least I’ll be the coolest one at the table,” Momma chirped.

Vera reached across the table to gather all the cards and reshuffle them. “We’re going to start all over, and we’ll watch you every minute.”

Grace felt a sharp pain in her stomach when she looked up and saw her husband’s scowling face through the screen door. Why was he home so early? She didn’t have to look at him again to know his normally handsome blond features smoldered with disgust.

###

Copyright © 2001-2008 Janelle Meraz Hooper
All Rights Reserved

Author’s bio:

Janelle Meraz Hooper is a writer from Oklahoma with a Hispanic background. Her novel, A Three-Turtle Summer, was published in September 2002. The sequel, As Brown As I want, The Indianhead Diaries, was published in 2003. Her other books include Free Pecan Pie And Other Chick Stories and Custer and His Naked Ladies.

In June 2003, four of her short stories and a poem were published in a Northwest anthology, Dream Makers (compiled by Val Dumond, published by Muddy Puddle Press). She has been a contributing writer for The Northwest Guardian Newspaper, Ft. Lewis, Washington, and other newspapers. In 2002, she was awarded The Bold Media Book Award for A Three-Turtle Summer.

A Sister in Trouble is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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Miss Sampson studied the sign and shook her head in disgust. In all her eighty-four years, she had never seen such disregard for the English Language.

The sign was posted in the window of a restaurant on Main Street. On it was printed a menu which looked as if it were done by the hand of some teenager whose best subject was art, or perhaps physical education. Anything but English. It advertised “Pizza Pop’s” and “French Fry’s” for what Miss Sampson assumed to be a low price, although she would never eat there. Nothing disgusted her more than blatant grammatical mistakes.

In situations such as this, she wanted to approach the creator of the sign, grab him or her by the ear, and ask, “Whose French, and whose fries?” She might one day try it, but she realized that it was pointless. She knew from her forty-five years of teaching that people would not learn. She turned from the sign and continued down the street. She was upset, again.

When she was a teacher, she had always tried to show the essential rules of grammar to her students; it hadn’t always been easy, but she saw to it that every student graduated from her class with a proper grammatical education. She wished that she could say the same for the teachers of today.

She had noticed a definite decline in proper grammar after Latin had been removed from the curriculum. When it was a mandatory subject, students knew what a direct object was. They knew how to use prepositions. They knew when to use “whom.”

Miss Sampson quickened her pace as she walked toward the parking lot where she had parked her car. She wanted only to go home. She was upset. She felt betrayed.

Perhaps it was due to apathy among teachers, she thought, or to the ignorance of the general public. But, whatever the cause, its effects were completely intolerable. Something had to be done.

She began to drive home, veering blocks out of her way to avoid a sign that particularly annoyed her. It was located in front of a Real Estate office, and on it were advertised such statements as “Prises Cut”, “Beet The Tacks”, and “Bye a lot Now”. The sign was designed, she supposed, to attract attention, but it did nothing more than make the people in the office seem foolish.

She was almost home when an idea struck. She turned her car around, drove to the mall, and went into the Office Supply store.

“Hello, Miss Sampson,” the owner said, greeting her in much the same way he had when he was eight. “What do you need today?”

“Oh,” she said, peering down one of the aisles, “I came in to look at your markers.”

The man smiled and nodded his head. “Right over here,” he said, and guided her down the aisle. “I have to go and check some things in the back, so I’ll get one of the employees to help you.”

“Thank you.” Miss Sampson smiled at him and began to look at the selection of markers on the shelf.

She had picked up a few when a young man approached her. He was well-groomed, well-dressed, and seemed very pleasant. But he should have kept his mouth shut, she decided. It completely destroyed the image.

“What can I do you for?” the young man asked.

Well, you could start by not ending your sentences with prepositions, she thought, but ignored his mistake. She had far too many pressing things on her mind than to bicker with a stock boy.

She explained that she was looking for markers, and he helped her to pick out a wide variety. Once she was satisfied, she went to the counter to pay. She had amassed quite a collection.

“You sure seem to need a lot of blue,” the checkout clerk noted as she pushed the buttons on the cash register. Miss Sampson had chosen just about every type of blue marker they had, with a few extra colors just in case.

“My granddaughters are coming in for the weekend,” she lied. “They like to play with dolls, and they have decided to paint a sky.”

“Sounds like a huge undertaking,” the clerk said, not even looking at the elderly lady. “I hope you have fun.”

Miss Sampson smiled. I think I shall, she thought.

She left the store and thought about the lie she had told the clerk. There was no way the clerk could know that Miss Sampson had never married. She simply didn’t want suspicion thrust upon her, and that story was the best that she could manufacture at the time.

When she arrived at home, Miss Sampson laid her markers out on the table and studied them intently. She was happy with her purchases; she now owned a marker for every occasion. The largest one had a tip that was almost an inch wide, and was precisely what she needed for what she wished to do.

She gathered it and the others together and carried them to her sewing room. She had plenty of work to do before dark.

***

Miss Sampson crept quietly along the bushes, ducking low to avoid the lights of passing cars. She was dressed completely in black, from her collar to her shoes, and she had a black balaclava pulled over her head. It was hot but necessary. She needed something to cover her white hair.

She crouched outside the Real Estate office, studying the detested sign. She reached inside her jacket and removed the large poster marker from the pocket she had sewn into it that afternoon. She uncapped the marker and began to write.

The blue appeared black in the darkness, but the shiny ink was clearly discernible as she wrote. She corrected the spelling of “bye,” “prises,” and both “beet” and “tacks.” It took only moments, and she crept quickly away once she had finished. There was no time to admire her work tonight. The enjoyment would come tomorrow.

She had many similar corrections to make that evening, and only had so much time. She had to work quickly if she hoped to finish on schedule.

***

She stifled a yawn as she drank her orange juice the next morning. She had watched the sun rise from beyond the horizon and then sat down to watch the morning news.

There was no report of her deeds on the local news. It would take until noon to tape a story. Miss Sampson knew that the reporters couldn’t possibly miss the item, since she had corrected a sign outside their building, too. She leaned back in her chair and smiled with satisfaction.

She was tired. She would have liked to have gone to bed, but there were more corrections to make yet that day. One she especially wanted to correct was the sign in the window of the restaurant on Main Street. It would be a challenge, but she looked forward to it.

***

It had been difficult to get down the sign unseen, but Miss Sampson had managed. She snuck it into the bathroom and made her corrections there. She scolded herself when she found another – “Perogy’s” were six for a dollar ninety-five.

She made her changes and replaced the sign, hoping that no one had noticed. She had changed from her black “evening-outfit” into a flowery print dress. Its large pockets required no alterations and now held a select few of the markers she had bought the day before.

She returned home satisfied. Perhaps now, she thought, people will take grammar more seriously and realize their mistakes. She turned on the television and waited for the news.

The story of her corrections was the second to be shown. They aired clips of much of her handiwork, including a sign that had advertised a “multy-family” garage sale. As she had corrected it, she wondered idly if those people wrote “multyple”, too.

The Police, according to the report, were treating it as an act of vandalism, and not the service to society that it was. Ah, well, she thought. The had laughed at Einstein.

The report went on to say that an intense investigation was underway to find the perpetrator of this “heinous crime.” Too bad there wasn’t a murder last night, Miss Sampson thought dryly. It might have lightened the reporter’s spirits.

Miss Sampson shut off the television and went upstairs to bed. She had gone almost thirty hours without sleep, and it was not an experience to which she was accustomed at all.

***

She was awakened the following morning by the insistent ringing of the doorbell. She rose on its third ring and answered the door on its sixth.

“Miss Sampson?” the officer outside asked.

“Yes, may I help you?” she asked, gathering her robe tightly around her.

“I am here to investigate a case of vandalism, Ma’am. I would like to ask you a couple of questions.”

Damn. “Well, of course, officer. Come in.”

She led the officer into the house and offered him a chair at the kitchen table. He opened his notebook and looked down at the page.

“Now, we got a phone call from the people at the office supply store,” he told her, “And they seem to remember you buying a lot of blue markers. Did you?”

“Well, yes, officer,” Miss Sampson nodded, supposing that the granddaughter story wasn’t as brilliant as she had thought. “But that hardly makes me a criminal.”

“I know,” the officer said, nodding. “But there were a couple of people who saw you changing the sign in the restaurant. Do you deny that?”

Miss Sampson almost did, but admitted to the officer that she was the perpetrator. He sighed and told her that he would have to take her to the station.

She nodded her head slowly. “Just let me get my teeth.”

***

Miss Sampson looked at the man sitting outside the door. he was one of the men, the officer had told her, who had seen her replacing the sign. She had waited outside while the man gave his statement, and was now being ushered into the office where she would give hers.

This was the first time Miss Sampson had ever been arrested. It was an entirely invigorating experience. She had never felt the like before.

She gave her statement, and then was asked by the officer to sign the page. She read over the page and winced.

“Honestly, officer! This is precisely the thing I was trying to stop!” she said, grabbing the pen and correcting the mistakes. The officer obviously didn’t know when to use a possessive apostrophe any better than the general populace did.

She thrust the page into the officer’s hands and grabbed the other man’s statement. Before the officer could conjugate the verb “to be” in both the indicative and the subjunctive, she had corrected that one too.

***

On the day of her court appearance, Miss Sampson was led into the courtroom and shown to the defendant’s stand. She didn’t contest the charges, on her lawyer’s advisement, but explained her actions to the judge.

“So you see, your Honor, grammar is in such a deplorable state, I simply had to act.” The Judge nodded his head thoughtfully for a moment, and then sat up in his chair.

“Since this is a first offence,” he began, “and given the nature of the crime involved, I think that one hundred hours of community service would be in order.” He smiled down at her. “Hopefully this service will be performed in elementary schools, aiding in the instruction of students on the usage of proper grammar.” He tapped his gavel on the bench. “Case dismissed.”

The judge called to Miss Sampson, asking her to approach the bench. “I would just like to say one more thing. Please try to keep your nocturnal activities to a minimum.”

The elderly lady’s smile grew even larger. “Of course, your Honor.” She began to giggle as she asked, “You are not going to demand the seizure of my weapons?”

The Judge smiled. “I think not, Miss Sampson. Perhaps you will be able to use them in your new capacity.”

“Perhaps so,” she nodded.

“And, next time,” he continued, “you might wish to approach the owners of a sign when you see an imperfection. It would be much kinder to your record.”

“I shall,” Miss Sampson replied. It might be unnecessary, she realized. Already the signs in the windows of the town were being replaced with ones that were more carefully constructed.

“Good,” the Judge said. “I’m glad this is finished with.”

Miss Sampson let it pass.

###

Copyright © 2000-2008 David L. Hebert
All Rights Reserved

Author’s bio:

David L. Hebert is a Canadian practicing lawyer. In addition, his work as an author and editor has included contributing to Macmillan Teach Yourself Grammar and Style in 24 Hours and The Unofficial Guide to Online Genealogy. He is the author of The Everything Learning French Book. You can learn more about him by visiting his personal Web site.

Perfect Sentence is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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One of my most frequent fantasies involves being the only female in a roomful of dignified men, each dressed in a dark custom-tailored suit and a power tie.

While growing up in a small Ohio farm community, I could only imagine the stylish world I read about or saw on TV: a world where men wore something other than bowling shirts, coveralls with mid-thigh black (or
fatigue green) rubber boots left unbuckled to the ankles, or white socks with their Sunday suits.

I left the five hundred people in my hometown behind and set out for the big city hoping to find fame, fortune, and men with fantastic wardrobes. I longed for some class. Perhaps I could find it in a place that actually had a couple of stop lights. I knew somewhere there was man without a toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

The right clothing can project the power of a man in a way that a coordinated purse and shoes could never do for a woman. It’s unfair actually. But with the exception of a pastel-colored leisure suit ensemble (what mystery writer Les Roberts refers to as a “full Cleveland”), a dark shirt with a white tie, a shirt that doesn’t completely cover a beer gut, or jeans slung so low you-know-what shows when he bends over, a man can
wear about anything and really command a presence.

All this may seem rather petty, but at the time I really didn’t have anything much more serious than this about which to be concerned. The Vietnam War was already a memory. The free love movement never did quite make it to our area; girls still had reputations. And AIDS was a diet candy. Even if it was spelled differently, it reflected my biggest concern at the time: thick thighs.

With this in mind, picture a group of ladies in the various stages of being single and looking for some male companionship.

Brenda, Julie, Connie, Martha, Rhonda, and I spent more weekend nights together than we would have preferred. We’d go out of town, since once someplace has become your hometown, there’s that unwritten rule: the
hunks live somewhere else.

Our typical nights usually ran about the same. Brenda would say, “And to think, I could be home nice ‘n’ comfy on the couch with my pillow and blankie.”

Julie would add, “For this I’m paying a babysitter?”

Connie was always worried about missing a call from Peter. She’d mention that for our benefit, wanting to give the impression of her faithfulness and devotion to the jerk she’d been seeing for the last couple of years. We
each knew that if Connie was alone that weekend, it probably meant that she and Pete had had a fight. That meant that he would be spending the weekend with his ex-wife, so Connie would be thinking about spending the weekend with whomever she could find.

Batting her skimpy eyelashes, Martha would demurely whisper something like, “If I could only overcome my shyness.” Actually, Martha was a crotch grabber. Very subtle.

Rhonda always said, “Maybe if I’d worn a different shirt.” Rhonda had the lousiest fashion sense of our little group. She’d buy jeans on sale that were always too short and then sew a contrasting colored band of material around the hem to make them long enough. The shirt she wore always clashed with the hunk of fabric stuck on the legs of her jeans.

I usually wrote poetry on the napkins since I had, unfortunately, never mastered that special eye contact followed by a sweet smile-type of courage that going out looking requires. Connie was a master at it. She was seldom lonely when Peter wasn’t around.

I was also the one who had been complimented recently with: “You have nice muscle tone for someone your size.” Yes, thick thighs are a hereditary curse. I usually had a sliding scale of confidence, so that night
it was about as low as it could go.

We managed to have a few good times together. As the reader of the group, I was always trying out new advice. Once I experimented with my possible psychic powers by trying a technique that promised that, with the
proper concentration, I could will myself to surround someone with an attracting white light of good vibrations. It worked, too. Actually, I tried it
several times that evening. Unfortunately, each time the zapped stranger came over to our table, he’d ask the person sitting next to me to dance.

This night we were at a bar just off Route 53 near Lake Erie because Julie had gone to high school with one of the guys in the band. (She’d graduated with more people in her class than were in my home town.) We were about as excited as six people can get who know they have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than to travel thirty miles to hear somebody named Alvin sing.

Julie had been carded on the way in. “I didn’t remember that I had my daughter’s teddy bear clips in my hair until I got in the door,” she said, flipping a strand of her hair back over her shoulder, “but it wasn’t until I reached inside my Snoopy change purse to get out my license that I really got embarrassed.”

Our table conversation later that night was up to “not too bad for a local group,” so things were pretty well proceeding according to their normal schedule.

Then he walked in.

I couldn’t help but notice him. His clothes were neat! Granted, they were casual. Not the suits I prefer. But, they fitted him so well.

“Now there’s one Trish should zap,” Julie offered.

“Are you kidding,” I argued. “And watch him ask you to dance?”

Our table was about five tables back from the dance floor. Julie and Rhonda were seated to my right on the vinyl-covered bench attached to the wall with Martha, Connie, and Brenda seated across the table from us on chairs.

“He smiled at me,” Connie announced, turning her back to us. This was her standard response.

“I think he smiled at me,” I whispered to Julie, embarrassed that he might have noticed my staring at him.

“I think he did, too,” she whispered back. “Go for it.”

Instead, in an attempt to not appear too desperate, I pulled some business cards out of my purse and started shuffling them. Then I decided to try smiling back. After all, I had practiced in front of a mirror all day.

He stood at the bar awhile talking to Jack, a guy Connie had gone out with a couple of times.

“Funny we never noticed him here before,” Connie commented.

“He seems to know Jack,” I added.

Our table conversation was abruptly stopped because Alvin and his friends had just ended their break. It’s hard to exchange subtle comments when you have to shout over the noise of a rock band.

So, we stared instead. At least I did. Prince Charming himself could have ridden in on his white horse – I was always looking for him to – and I wouldn’t have noticed. Unless, of course, he was wearing a suit.

About that time, he took off his jacket. He unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled them at the cuffs. About that time, I started to drool. His forearms were incredible. Some women like well-developed biceps. Not me. I look at the area between the wrist and the elbow. If that part of his arm is skinny, forget it. His wasn’t.

Then he smiled again, so I mouthed (with a smile, of course), “Come here.”

He sort of tilted his head like he didn’t understand what I meant, so knowing my mother was nowhere around to see how bold I was being, I patted the bench beside me.

He started walking toward me.

I started to think about crawling under the table.

He smiled again, looking right into my eyes.

I panicked.

He sat down. Next to me. Our thighs touched, for God’s sake.

Oh boy, now what do I do? I thought, so I leaned over, touched his arm and whispered in his ear, “Why don’t you ask me to dance and if the answer’s ‘no,’ will you please keep smiling so my friends won’t know I’ve just been rejected?”

“I don’t dance,” he told me.

“Huh?”

“Actually, I can’t dance.”

“Uh, I can’t quite place your accent,” I stammered, trying to change the subject before he deserted me. “Where are you from?”

“Africa.”

“Oh.” I knew I was definitely impressing him with my vocabulary.

“Actually,” he said. I remember that part distinctly. He said ‘actually’ a lot. “I’m from the Canary Islands.”

“Oh,” I said again, not knowing what difference that made. I didn’t know that the Canary Islands were near Africa, but I wasn’t going to let him know that. He probably already figured I didn’t know how to talk. I couldn’t risk having him think I was stupid, too. Instead, I asked, “So, what are you doing here?” Not much better than “You come here often,” I know. But, it was the best I could do on short notice.

He leaned back against the wall. He started to put his arm around me, but instead began playing with my hair, twisting it around his finger.

“You have very beautiful hair,” he said. At that time it was still a very light natural blonde. It was also long, almost to my waist.

Then he answered, “I’m here to pick up a cheap.”

Some women might have been offended by that. I was probably just too naive to think he could have been talking about me, which is just as well. I’m sure if I would have slapped his face or something that could have messed up the rest of our conversation.

“What can you pick up cheaper in Ohio than you can get in the Canary Islands?” I asked.

“Actually, I picked it up in California. I just left the turnpike and drove until I found someplace to stop for a drink.”

I must have looked puzzled, because he added, “I picked up my cheap in California. Cheap. J-e-e-p.”

“Oh, jeep,” I said with a laugh. I repeated it a couple of times until he could almost pronounce it, then gave up. I bombarded him with questions: Don’t they build jeeps in Germany or anywhere closer? Why California? I ask lots of questions when I’m nervous.

“I had a four-wheel drive custom-built in California because we have so much rough open country,” he told me. “After I closed my art gallery out there, I started driving my cheap to New York. It’ll be shipped home from there. I’m flying home Monday.” (Just my luck.)

“What’s your name?” I asked him. I had less time than I’d hoped for.

“Tony,” he said. He told me his last name, too, only I can’t remember it. I guess that’s why I’ve never been tempted to call him.

“Mine’s Trish. Or Trisha. That’s short for Patricia, after my mother.”

We talked for at least an hour about my growing up in a small town, his going to private schools, my being the oldest of six kids, his being an only child, his colleges and art studies, my mother’s worries while I was going to college that if I got too smart I’d have trouble finding a husband, his age of 32, mine of 25, his never being married, my divorce, and his wondering why I’d let my body go when I had such a pretty face. (I didn’t ask him why he was losing his hair.)

We held hands.

He looked in my eyes.

I thought I’d die.

“I think one of your friends is trying to get your attention,” he finally said.

“I can talk to them anytime,” I told him, ignoring the others.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Martha asked. Actually, to coin a oft-repeated phrase, she blurted her way into our conversation. The band was on break again. I guess she needed something to do. (If she would have reached over and grabbed his crotch, I would have killed her. Literally.)

So, I sighed and said, “Tony this is….” I introduced him to everyone around the table and got that out of our way. I turned my back on them as soon as I was done and hoped they wouldn’t bother us anymore. They didn’t.

Then he held my hand some more. I still get those shivers in the pit of my stomach just thinking about it.

“Did you drive?” he asked after an uncomfortable pause.

“Yes, but….”

“Would your friends mind if we’d leave?”

“They probably would,” I answered, “since they rode with me.”

“Should I follow you home then?” he asked.

Someday I’m going to learn how to not show my initial reaction. I don’t know if I had silently responded to that question by looking scared or what, but before I could answer, he asked, “You’ve never done this, have you?”

“Huh?” I really can sound intelligent sometimes. I guess this wasn’t the time.

“You’ve never gone to bed with someone you’ve just met, have you?”

I shook my head.

“I thought not. Why don’t you walk me to the door?”

I told the girls I’d be right back and slipped my hand into Tony’s as he stood up.

***

For a moment I thought about leaving with him. Connie could have picked up somebody who’d have taken them home.

We walked out of the bar and around the corner.

We stopped at the door. Tony leaned against the brick wall. I laid my head against his chest. I’d been waiting all evening to feel his shirt. I knew it had to be silk. It was.

“It’s probably just as well. I don’t think you could have handled it,” Tony said. “Innocence is commendable, I guess.”

I just looked into his eyes and said nothing.

He touched my face with his left hand and brushed my hair away from my mouth. I always shudder when a guy touches my face. I loved it then. Still do.

He smiled for a moment. My bottom lip quivered. Then he kissed me. A soft, tender kiss. And yes, I saw fireworks. I hope he did too. At times I remember thinking he was somewhat a rich snob. But for a moment at least, I felt him leave his conceit behind.

“I couldn’t do that to you, Trish,” he said as he placed both his hands on my shoulders. Pulling my head back down to his chest, he added, “I really don’t think you could handle tonight knowing that you’d never see me again.”

He kissed my forehead before ending our embrace. Then he walked out the door. He didn’t look back.

I leaned against the wall for a moment, took a deep breath, then turned and walked back into the bar.

***

You know, I would have let him come home with me. I could have worried about everything else – later.

Sometimes, when I feel like escaping for awhile, I read a romance novel. Other times I imagine that had he spent the night with me, he would have become so obsessed that I would have seen him again. And again. That’s what always happens in the novels. And I love happy endings. Of course, I call them happy beginnings. I met mine in church. He wears dark socks with his suit now.

###

Copyright © 2001-2008 Pamela Rice Hahn
All Rights Reserved

Author bio:

Pamela Rice Hahn is the author of The Everything Improve Your Writing Book, Lazy About Grilling, Journey to the Center of the Internet, Macmillan Teach Yourself Grammar and Style in 24 Hours, The Unofficial Guide to Online Genealogy, and 13 other books. In addition to her editing and design work on The Blue Rose Bouquet; Pam has also created a number of other Web sites, including Chronic-Illness.org, GenealogyTips, Fawnn.com, and CookingWithPam. You can learn more about her by visiting her personal Web site.

My First Silk Shirt is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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Eric turned off the single-side band radio. The White Freightliner didn’t like the downgrade; Eric didn’t like the “squirrelly” feel of her steering. 40,000 pounds of vegetables obeyed the insistent pull of gravity and refused to be jerked around the bends without a struggle.

Eric put his seat fully upright. He bumped the wipers one notch; peering intently, he could make out the white lines and double-yellow center stripes. Grabbing the gear shift, double-clutching, he shoved her “down in the hole.” A sign jumped up through the misty drizzle:

Escape Ramp Ahead 6/10ths Mile

“Anna Banana, we gots us a sit-chee-ashun,” Eric spoke to the truck. I’m down to my last granny gear, clocking thirty-eight miles per hour, and I ain’t seen the bottom of this gorge yet.”

Escape Ramp Ahead On Right

Eric noticed the sign at the same moment he heard the air line blow.

“Cripes, Anna–you had to do that now?”

He felt the brakes drop out as the air gushed from the pneumatic-hydraulic system. His attention focused on the feel of the steering wheel and the lines on the road. Then the mist deprived him of the lines. He fingered the “jake brake” knowing he had to make up his mind quickly. He was sitting in a runaway truck, gaining speed, and without air brakes.

If he “blew” the jake brake, all the wheels of the truck tractor and forty-foot trailer would lock up, sending the truck into an uncontrolled skid. If he didn’t, he stood a good chance of missing a turn.

Ice and fire ripped through his consciousness; icy, glacial calm guided his hands and feet as he smoothly turned the steering wheel from side to side. He ranged across the pavement, seeking clues. Lightning-quick, his brain fired burning fears; tongues terror licked at the edges of thought….

Eric fired the jake-brake at the instant he saw the silver ribbon of the traffic barrier. He marveled as the tractor brushed it aside; he saw the right front tire fly through it’s chrome and yellow fender. “I always wondered what flying was like,” he pondered. Eric decided there was nothing left to do, but sail over the evergreens.

* * * * *

“What’s your pleasure?”

“Huh?”

“‘Express,’ or ‘Just Browsing?’ C’mon. You’re holding up the line.”

Eric didn’t see a line. He saw an impatient bureaucrat. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Your choice of Deity, of course.” Programmed exasperation flooded the features of the tubby, squinted and pinched face. Eric was reminded of the Internal Revenue Service, for some reason. The petty official continued, “If you already have a religion you go into the Express Line. If you haven’t picked your form of afterlife, you’re Just Browsing.”

Eric pondered. “Well shoot. I dunno. I’ve always left that stuff to the Holy Joes.”

“Well, you must be a ‘Browser’ then. Go stand on the pearly line. When you know what you want to be, come back to this queue. Next!”

The whole episode was enough to make a man into an atheist, Eric thought. He was about to say he wasn’t going to budge until he understood the system, when he heard the rattle of a diesel engine in the distance. He turned toward the sound and was rewarded with the faintest smell of diesel smoke. A distant sign was visible:

Freighter’s Gravy Bowl
Free Coffee
Special Today: Chicken Fried Steak and Gravy
Free Parking For Long Haulers

“Say, I’ll go over there and think about this.” Eric began walking toward the sign. He continued, “I’ll be back after while….”

With an expression of smug satisfaction, the bureaucrat pronounced, “No you won’t…. Next! Express or Just Browsing?”

Copyright © 2000-2008 Robert Marcom
All Rights Reserved

Author’s 2000 Bio:

Robert Marcom is the moderator for Net Author Online Writers’ Community. He is the publisher of E2K – a Journal for the New Literary Paradigm. Robert has written for publication since 1989 and he is widely published on the Internet.

Freighter’s Gravy is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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They were all around. She couldn’t escape them.

Faces … voices speaking in garbled tones, the words impossible to understand.

The faces … the voices … inescapable. She drew her knees up to her chest, tears filling her eyes. The voices kept talking, the faces kept staring with blank, emotionless stares.

She swallowed. Heaven help me, she thought. Heaven save me.

It was dark, the room close and smothering. The voices kept droning on forever.

Oh, God, please, protect me.

The door opened. Light streamed in.

As strong hands took hold of her, she screamed, and the voices broke into laughter as the faces just stared.

Copyright © 2000-2008 Erin Klitzke
All Rights Reserved

Author’s 2000 Bio:

Erin “Indy” Klitzke is a freshman at Grand Valley State University who loves to read and write. Most of her work is speculative fiction pieces; you can learn more about her by visiting her  Web site.

Faces is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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If there’s one thing that sets apart those who grow up in the country from those who come of age in the urban jungles, it’s the strong family bonds that form as we struggle together to tame the harsh, unforgiving prairie.

And if you believe that one, I’ve got some prime farm land in the Yukon that you can have at a good price.

Despite what you may have seen on the Waltons, we rural folk dealt with the same stresses and strains that any other families did, it’s just that all the writers and TV people live in the city and, like members of parliament, rarely venture out to find out what’s really going on.

Up until my sixteenth birthday, all these stresses and strains were just rumours about what was going on with other families. Things like how only couples seemed to be going to the parties at Mr. and Mrs. Winters’ house. And how everybody ran into the bushes and hid that time when Constable La` France dropped by to return Mr. Winters’ wallet which some good neighbour had found. And I’m not even gonna mention why all the sheep were scared of old Mr. Flannery.

Those things aside, life was pretty serene on our little farm outside Mosquito Flats. That is, until my grandparents got divorced. After thirty-nine years of marriage, Grandma decided to fulfill her dream of living a quiet life on the coast. Grandpa just couldn’t bring himself to leave his beloved fields of dust, grasshoppers, and occasional grain.

Gramps mostly kept to himself after that. When he wasn’t working the fields, he was spending hours fishing out of his little wooden boat on the waters of nearby Lake Sukumunder. He rarely came home with anything other than a nasty sunburn, but it kept him busy.

One night it all changed. I was sitting on the porch digesting my supper, and waiting for my buddy Waldo, who already had his driver’s license, to pick me up for a night of cruising the lively street that was our town. My parents had suggested I spend some time with Gramps, but he seemed to be keeping to his room that night. I figured it would be easy to sneak out, as he would likely sleep until dawn.

“Eddie!”

I looked behind me to see Gramps standing there with his car keys in hand. The scent of Old Spice strong enough that the geese flying overhead began to veer west to avoid it. By the look on his face, I could tell that he was up to something; that he had a definite plan for the evening. In proper historical perspective, I guess you could say that his was the night that Grandpa snapped, but that’s of little importance now. All I could think of, was running.

Just then, Waldo pulled into the yard in his Mom’s old pickup truck. Waldo, who had a particular talent for sizing up a situation at a glance, took a look at the sixty year old “swinging single” standing on the porch with his frightened grandson He slammed his truck into reverse.

While Waldo’s mind may have been adept to making quick judgment calls, it was not much for recall. He neglected to remember how we had thrown out the reverse gear the previous weekend, trying to pull our buddy Larry out of a mud-filled ditch. Not that Larry showed any gratitude or anything.

“Shut that truck off boy!” Gramps bellowed at Waldo. “We’re goin’ out!”

Knowing there was no escape, Waldo reluctantly hopped out of the truck and followed us to Grandpa’s slick new Dodge Newport. On the way, Waldo leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“First chance I get, I’m ditching this scene!” he said supportively. I was relieved that Waldo was there to back me up in my time of need.

“When you do, just try to imaging Jenny Bodacia getting a hold of that picture of you in your elf costume from Halloween a few years ago,” I said, as a way of letting him know I appreciated his support.

“You boys ride up front with me.” Gramps said as he climbed in, “There’s lots of room.”

“Actually sir,” Waldo interjected, “I read somewheres that the safest place for a passenger to be, in a accident, is layin’ down on the floor of the back seat, outta th’ view of…”

‘Crissakes boy, we ain’t gonna be gettin’ in no accidents! Now get in!”

As we pulled out of the lane, Gramps rolled down the electric windows and mashed down the throttle. We barreled off into the prairie twilight; three rebels without a hope. Waldo reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a cigarette and began to light it up.

“What in the blazes is that?” Gramps asked Waldo, with a stern look in his eyes.

“Uh…” Waldo replied.

“I haven’t seen one of those old army surplus lighters in ages!” He grinned, pulling out his own pack and accepted a light from Waldo. “Eddie here doesn’t smoke, but I’m sure he doesn’t mind us lighting up in the car.”

“Of course not Gramps.” I replied, becoming uncomfortably aware of the pack in my jacket pocket that I had been waiting for hours to get at. “The smell doesn’t bother me a bit!” I said, playfully grinding my heel into Waldo’s foot.

As we approached the outskirts of town, Gramps popped in a tape and turned the volume up full. The speaker in the dash was crackling with obvious pain.

“Listen to that sound boys!” Gramps boasted, “They don’t make speakers like that anymore!”

“They haven’t made eight-tracks in years either!” Waldo commented, a split second before I elbowed him in the ribs.

“Had to have it specially installed,” Gramps went on, “at a shop in the city last year.”

“Not to be a bother Gramps, but do you really think Hagwood Hardy was meant to be played so loud?”

“Maybe you’re right, boy,” he mused; then shouted, “Get me that Floyd Kramer tape outta the glove box!” As I complied to Grandpa’s request, I had a flash of brilliance. I knew how to get out of this one!

“Hey Gramps,” I piped up, “do you wanna have a real wild time tonight?”

“Oh, believe you me boy, that’s exactly what I’m counting on. And with three wild, single fellas like us on the prowl, what else could we want?”

“Well,” I said hopefully, “Horsepuck Ridge has three streets, a bingo hall, and it’s only seventy miles away!”

I thought that the very least I could try and do was to use the lure of the big city to steer Gramps away from where we would be seen. Even if none of our friends saw us, old Mrs. Argus (the town gossip) would find out and have the story humming down the party lines to the far corners of the township. Then on Monday morning, it would be all over school that Waldo and I had spent the night out partying it up with my grandfather. Not that I have anything against my grandfather, but let’s face it — when you’re in your teens, it’s just not acceptable to be seen enjoying your family’s company.

“Nonsense!” Gramps retorted. “I been living in this town for over fifty years, and I’m tellin’ ya’, there’s more fun things to do here than you can shake a stick at!” Barring the fact that I had no idea what that saying meant, I knew I was finished. Monday morning I was a goner.

We rumbled into town with the crowd, hanging out in front of Foon Yuk’s Chop Suey House, staring at us in amusement. Unfortunately, Foon Yuk’s was the only restaurant in town and everybody who was too young to get into The Stubblejumper Saloon hung out there. That included everyone we went to school with. It might not have been so bad if Gramps hadn’t dropped the car into neutral, and revved the snot out of his big V8, and yelled “Yahoo!”

“This place looks like it’s got some action!” Gramps smiled as he cranked the wheel and gunned the throttle, sending gravel flying as he turned back up the street and pulled up beside Foon’s. I remember wishing at the time that Gramps had still kept his old .44 in the glove compartment. I was unsure as to whether I would’ve used it to force him to drive away at gunpoint or do the honourable thing and end my suffering right then and there. Waldo, on the other hand, seemed rather amused with the old fellow’s antics.

“I sure like the way you drive, Mr. Putnum!” He grinned, “Think you could teach me a few tricks someday?”

“You’re too young to learn how to drive like I do.” Grandpa cautioned him as he slapped it in park, “Ya ain’t been around enough to have seen the Judge passed out!”

“Judge Draco drinks?” I asked with a note of incredulity in my voice. Gramps was quick to shoot me one of his stern looks.

“Shush up boy! Do you want the whole town to know?”

“Well, what’s the big deal?” I asked, “If the county Judge is a drunk, why should it be kept hidden?” Gramps just rolled his eyes and looked at me over the roof of the car.

“Think, Eddie. If the Judge is a drunk, and nobody knows about it but you, don’t you think that that information could come in just a little bit handy someday?”

“Ya oughta listen to yer grampa Eddie.” Waldo commented as we approached the crowd outside Foon’s door. Gramps was obviously flattered.

“Your friend here’s a bright boy, son.” Gramps said, slapping Waldo on the back. “You could learn a few things from him.” Sure I could, I thought. We took a table at the back of the dining room. In the past ten years I had learned many things from Waldo. Like how to hunt rabbits using only gasoline and a match, how to hotwire a tractor and get into the slowest high speed chase in county history, and how much antacid you can feed to a cow before it explodes. That’s was the role model my grandfather just had advised me to follow.

Foon peered out from the kitchen and yelled to our table. “Awight you two!” He said, to me and Waldo, “If you gonna stay here, you gotta eat! And no more cat jokes in fronta other customer you hear?” Funny thing, about Foon. When you were alone with him, he would laugh himself silly at jokes that referred to the absence of stray cats in the vicinity of his restaurant, but if you brought it up in front of other people, he would start yelling at you in Chinese and disappear into the kitchen. For the next few minutes, he would stare at you through the little round window in the door, pointing at you and making chopping motions with a cleaver. What Foon may have lacked in English skills, he made up for with a wonderful gift for pantomime.

After Foon got over his suspicions of us, Gramps ordered a platter of egg rolls and some cokes. When the cokes arrived, Grandpa used his to wash down some of his medicine. What Gramps needed the medicine for, he never said. I assume it must’ve been a rather rare condition, since the medicine was a special kind that had to be imported from Scotland.

Waldo was getting restless. He had hoped for a more fun-filled evening, and despite how well he was getting on with my grandfather, he was anxious to get going. “So, what are we gonna do after we leave this dump?” He asked.

“I heard that you liddle shit!” Foon yelled from the kitchen. Foon had especially good hearing, which comes in handy when you’re stalking stray cats.

His question was answered when Chuck Wytrash strutted through the front door. Chuck was our town’s self-proclaimed “stud”, and local expert on hooliganism. “Hey look everybody,” he pointed in our direction, “Putnum and Hinkley have an old geezer baby sitting them tonight!”

Seconds before his brain engaged, Waldo opened his mouth. “Hey Chuckie! Will you tell your mom to stop callin’ me every night? I told her I already have a date for next weekend!”

In the commotion that followed, it was difficult to see exactly what was going on, but I think it was safe to say that Chuck was getting the upper hand on Waldo, before being dropped to the floor by an errant egg roll that came from roughly Grandpa’s direction.

“From the way that boy went down, I’d have to say the old Chinaman’s cookin’ them things a little too long.” Gramps commented as he poured a little more medicine into a glass. He handed it to Waldo, who was trying to mold his windpipe back to it’s original shape. “Here, boy. This’ll help you forget th’ pain.”

Gramps strolled up to the window and looked over the dimly lit street. “Who’s Duster is that?” He asked.

“What’s it to ya old man?” Replied Chuck, noting that gramps had finished all the egg rolls, and was now unarmed.

Grandpa ignored the comment and asked, “What ya got in it, boy?”

“Three forty, four barrel with a full race cam, four speed, and a posi rear end.” Chuck beamed. He had carefully invested every cent his father had to spare in the car, and according to him, it was the fastest thing on wheels anywhere in the county.

“That’s a good idea son,” Gramps nodded, still looking out at the car. “keeping with a small engine ’till ya learn how to handle a real car.”

Chuck was fuming. Nobody had ever dared to talk that way about his car. “You saying you got something better, old man?”

Gramps just smiled, then walked over to the counter to pay the bill. “Well son, I’ll be down on Horsecart Road if ya wanna find out. Come on boys. We got places to go!”

Waldo and I followed him outside, with Chuck close behind. I was quietly wondering what had caused my grandfather to lose his mind and challenge the fastest car in the county to a race, especially when all he had to back it up was his four door rolling battleship.

“Gramps,” I pleaded as we got into the car, “you don’t have to do this. We can just go home and forget about it!”

“And wimp out?” He asked, with a trace of disdain in his voice. “That boy needs to be taken down a peg, and it don’t look like anyone else is willin’ to do it!”

Horsecart Road was the only road nearby that was wide enough for two cars to race side by side. As we turned onto it a little over a mile south of town, Chuck, with his gang of fellow malcontents riding shotgun, was right behind us. Gramps eased the car to a stop, letting Chuck pull up alongside him.

“So old man, wadda ya’ willing to go for huh? Pink slips?”

“Sorry boy, I don’t gamble. I just do it for fun!” Gramps stated.

“Whatever.” Chuck replied, “Count of three?”

“I’m ready. Belt up boys!” Gramps seemed unusually calm for a old guy in a big car who was about to be humiliated, along with his grandson. We sat waiting as one of Chuck’s minions counted down.

“Three…two…one…GO.”

As I expected, Chuck quickly jumped ahead of us, spraying gravel and dust all over to the point that we could hardly see the road. Much to my surprise however, Gramps was only four lengths behind as we neared the quarter mile mark at the bottom of the hill. It was then that Gramps demonstrated that the eight track player wasn’t the only special option that he had ordered for the car, and I found out just why that big car was so adept at pulling heavy farm equipment around.

“I think it’s time I put the pedal right to the floor and showed this little punk just what a four forty six pack was made for,” Gramps yelled. When I questioned him later, he explained how my Uncle Ed (who was a Sergeant in the RCMP) had been able to obtain a police pursuit engine for it, back when Gramps had ordered the car.

The engine made a sharp howling sound as Gramps smashed the pedal all the way to the floor, and even though we were already nearing the hundred mile per hour mark, the back tires kicked up a cloud of gravel behind us as we flew past Chuck’s, now pitiful looking, Duster.

“See ya later, punk!” Gramps yelled out the window. We reached the crest of the hill. On the other side, something was waiting which would make the evening even more eventful than it already was.

When Constable Serge La`France was first assigned to the Moose Tail RCMP detachment which patrolled the Mosquito Flats area, he had hoped it would be a quiet place which would make his first assignment after graduating from the academy an uneventful one. In most respects it had — until he looked up and saw four headlights bearing down from the top of the hill at a high rate of speed.

Many people would have panicked in that situation, but you have to remember that Serge was a highly trained professional police officer. He held his cool as Gramps and Chuck each veered halfway into the ditch, letting him slip between the two cars. In further testament to the constable’s great skill, I must note here that he accomplished this while (from what I could see briefly as the headlights illuminated him) he kept his eyes closed and made crossing motions over his chest.

Grampa crossed back onto the road, but Chuck had had enough. He chose to turn off and head down another road towards the east. “I think we better slow down Gramps!” I said, while helping Waldo pry his fingers off the dashboard.

Grandpa looked up at his rear view mirror. “Don’t think that’s a good idea son!” he said. I looked over my shoulder and saw what he meant. The flashing red and blue lights indicated that Constable La`France had regained his composure, and was now looking to extract some justice for our momentary disregard of the Highway Traffic Act. “Don’t sweat it boys!” Grandpa grinned, “I got an idea.”

Great. That was how we got into this mess in the first place.

With the constable still far behind us, Gramps roared around a curve. The road led into the woods near the west shore of Lake Sukumunder. When La`France’s lights were no longer visible, Grampa shut off his lights, then started to pump the emergency brake.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“God’s sake boy, don’t you know anything?” He replied, “This way, there’s no brake lights to give your position away!” When we had slowed down enough, Gramps pulled off into a driveway, and steered in behind an old shed in the back yard. Seconds later, we heard the siren blaring as La`France roared by heading east, oblivious to our hiding place. Grandpa pulled out a cigarette, offered one to Waldo, then got out of the car. “Think we’ll rest here a bit, till things cool down some.”

I’d just got out of the car when the yard light flicked on, then a shadowy figure appeared onto the back porch, holding what appeared to be a shotgun. “Who the hell’s back there?” The voice bellowed.

“Put that blasted old thing away before you hurt someone, ya’ old coot!” Gramps yelled back.

“That you Putnum?” The voice replied. As he flipped on the porch light, it became apparent who’s yard we had driven into. My blood froze as I pictured us all in solitary confinement.

“Come on Draco,” Gramps retorted, calmly taking another drag on his cigarette. “who else would come visit a miserable old son-of-a-bitch like you?”

“I thought it looked like your car tearing in here.” The judge chucked, “You still tormenting the Mounties at your age?” I was stunned by the judge’s good natured attitude towards our little high-speed chase. This is the same judge that had sentenced Waldo’s older brother Bart to two weeks at hard labour, after he interrupted the judge to protest a parking ticket — who was busy in his chambers trying to watch the Stanley Cup finals.

“Just teaching the boys a thing or two.” Gramps said as he walked up to the porch, shaking the judge’s hand. Even at this point, I had no Idea that it was Gramps who had pulled a wounded Sgt. Draco off the beach at Dieppe in 1942, and carried him out to a landing craft to be rescued.

That was one of the many stories we heard that night while sitting on that back porch listening to Judge Draco, and Gramps droning on about old times. Grandpa’s affliction seemed to be less rare than I had first thought, as it seems that the judge also kept a rather large supply of Scottish medicine around.

As the sky began to brighten in the east, Waldo was at the wheel, Gramps was asleep in the back seat, and we were heading home. “Ya’ know what?” Waldo yawned then said, “Your grandpa’s pretty cool!”

“Told ya so.” I answered, trying hard to stay asleep. After we got home, I wanted to sleep till noon the next day, but Gramps had me up at six to help him feed the cows. And just as I had thought, the word got out about our little adventure with Grandpa.

Sure enough, I had to hear all about it at school. I took it like a man at first, but after a while it started to get to me. My patience was beginning to wear thin. I mean really, when your schoolmates have a party and invite your grandfather, isn’t it only fair they invite you too?

I would think so.

Copyright © 1999-2008 Troy More
All rights reserved.

Author’s 1999 bio:

Troy More a.k.a. wyzaz is a Canadian author who  writes humour, science fiction, and alternate histories. He is the author of several plays, a hundred or so newspaper columns, as well as humour and science fiction series in magazines from Toronto to Kuala Lumpur. Along with illustrator Maritza Campos, he also publishes the single panel cartoon “True Romance” — soon to go into syndication. Troy is an op on several IRC channels, including #Authors and #Brisbane (where he’s pictured on their gallery pages); he is channel manager for #science_fiction and Managing Editor for Planet 3 ‘zine. Troy is also the new editor of “Undercurrents” — the Undernet’s newsmagazine.

Grandpa’s Night Out is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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This issue’s Critique Corner: See the author’s bio at the end of the story regarding how to contact him to comment on his story.

It is hard to say how long it has been since Muriel has heard the voice of another human being. The last time she thought about it she suspected it had been a few weeks, at least. As Muriel sat on her blue satin pillow next to the window watching the rainfall she wished for another voice aside from her own. Perhaps Harold would telephone and ask how she was, but that was just wishful thinking and nothing more. Her son Harold had not called in more than five years, yet every time the phone would ring she held onto a glimmer of hope it might be him. Three years ago during a rare telephone call with her brother she had found out where he was. Harold had found himself a job managing a fancy new restaurant on a long pier in Florida. She suspected he was doing just fine. Harold had always loved people and he always loved the sun and sea. He would be happy there as there was little for him to smile about in Vancouver.

Muriel tried her best to look through the rain but her eyes are not once they once were years ago. There had been a time when she could have shot a marble of a post from a distance.

As far back as her memory would recall her father had loved guns. He polished and cleaned his favorites daily, stroking them like a lover and purring to them like they were his babies. Muriel sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor in her yellow dress would stare up at him awestruck. Her father never said a word during his gun cleaning rituals, which usually lasted a few hours. Many long hours had been spent with her teaching exactly how to handle and shoot a gun safely. Muriel learned every inch of her gun and was able to strip it down, clean it, and reassemble it before she ever fired her first live round. Now, at age sixty-five, she was lucky to see more than a few feet out into the rain.

All life on her block had seemed to have come to a complete standstill. There were not even any cars on the street as far as she could hear, which was rather well. God had, so far, been kind enough that if he was to start taking her sight from her he would leave her hearing alone. The lack of sound made her feel more alone than ever. At least with the sounds of life carrying on outside of her world was some comfort to her old bones.

Why do you look so sad China Doll?

“You know why I am sad, please don’t make me explain. You know how I hate that,” Muriel said to the voice and rested her forehead against the cool glass.

Why do you do this to yourself? You sit in front of that window day in and day out yet you cannot see anything. Why not listen to one of your records or play a book on tape. You know you like those. Just please dear do not sit there like that all day. It breaks my heart.

Muriel was not listening to him, forgetting all about her earlier wishes for the sound of another voice. Instead, she focused more intently on the rain. Finally the sound of a car, likely one of those boxy mini-vans (her son had told her about them in one of his last visits) that everyone was buying lately. The only car she had ever owned was a Cadillac, the same make and model her father had driven. Her father had loved Cadillacs almost as much as he had guns, so Muriel loved them as well. It was always that way, her father’s likes when she was a little girl quickly became her own and his enemies were always hers too. They were inseparable from the age of four until she turned eighteen and he passed away suddenly. The doctors could not give them a clear reason why he had died. All they could say with any certainty is that he did not suffer when he went. Muriel thought that her father had missed her mother too much to continue on anymore, constantly wishing she were still there. She had read the statistics when couples reach a certain age and one passes away, that the other generally follows soon after. Living alone and thinking of her husband every hour of every day, that scenario never left her mind.

I can see that tear you know, you cannot hide these things from me. The voice from behind her spoke again.

“It is my house I am allowed to cry as much as I want to,” Muriel said, sounding rather indignant. After all she had worked very hard to have a home while others she knew moldered in old folk homes.

This is far from a party, if you happen to be crying about that, but if it is your party. I guess you can cry if you want to.

She thought she could hear soft laughter following his comment.

“Very funny. Now please dear, no more jokes today.”

Muriel sighed and looked away from the window to the voice, at the body of her husband who not have been there but was. “You look well I guess, all things considered.”

All things considered, yes I do” He smiled and she looked into his soft gray eyes with a clarity that was impossible. The rest of the room was its typical blur but her late husband was clear as day and crisp as a photograph. He was a ruggedly handsome man, very stocky with extraordinarily broad shoulders. She had noticed him back in college from a seat thirty rows up at a football game. Her college had been very much a football college as it was all that mattered to most of the students. The stadium on game nights was always filled right to the rafters with screaming, hollering intoxicated fans.

How she had been so blind not to see him until then she never understood and they would joke about this throughout their marriage. Vincent would laugh so hard sometimes that he would double over in his chair saying he had decided to turn on his blinker that day. Whatever it was, blinker or not, she had seen him the moment he stepped out onto the field that day. He was much larger than the other players, who she later found out all affectionately called him ‘the bear’.

She had asked a girl sitting beside her who the large man was near the bench. There was just something about him that even from a distance had deeply intrigued her. At the time it was only budding curiosity. It took another year for it to evolve into something as potent as love. The girl beside her had looked at Muriel like she was from another planet and told her it was the bear! That and where the hell had she been for the past three months of the season?  It was a valid question as after all she had been to every game so far that season.

She had found out that Vincent had been just that, a bear, when she met him a week later behind the school near the faculty parking lot. Only he had no aggression in him off the field and she saw that his eyes were much too small for his large cranium. It truly gave him the look a stuffed, chubby bear. However Muriel had seen the streak in him, the kernel inside that allowed him to explode on the field and tear a hole through anyone in his way.

The man had been stubborn as well — so very damn stubborn as most men are by their very nature, she supposed. It had been a struggle to win his eyes and a long battle to get his heart. If her father had taught her anything, and she felt that even after a lifetime of her own experiences that he had taught her a lot, it was to never give up.  Muriel did not give up and another year rolled by when she finally got her prize.

“Are you putting on weight again?” Muriel asked the portly wavering image of her husband. After graduating from college, he had weighed in at just over three hundred pounds. This was taking into account that for a man of his size and stature, two hundred and twenty-five is average.

Me? Vincent asked and ran a hand through his ash-colored hair, what was left of it anyway. I will eat as much as I please! You know that as much as anyone that no doctor ever did manage to tell me what to do.

“Yes dear. You were thickskulled all the way and it got you far it did,” Muriel said, now standing a few feet from her husband.

Yes, Vincent said, letting his head hang down like a bulldog accepting scorn from its master.

“Oh come over here love, I am sorry,” Muriel said and walked toward her husband until she came into contact with the wall beside the fireplace. She looked back to see that he was still standing there and saw a tear in his eye. They each stood together in silence and looked at each other hands at their sides like department store mannequins. The room around them might have looked like a painting if you were to have stood back against the window and looked at them.

There came a knock at Muriel’s door a few minutes later, which received no immediate answer.

Harold stood outside in the rain wondering how long it would take his mother to answer the door this time. It had been some time since he had visited, much too long, but even back then it took her a year to respond. He continued to knock awhile longer, then tried the door, which was not locked.

Harold stood in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights. He was afraid to move. Never in his entire life had he ever known his mother not to lock the door behind her. It had just become a habit to lock the door when he came home and to triple check that it was locked whenever he left. The fact that at this time of night, at least eight-thirty or so, and in this weather that her door was unlocked meant only one thing.

In his mind he could clearly see her lying in the middle of the living room floor. Her eyes opened wide staring up at her carnival glass sculptures that littered its landscape. Many years had pointlessly gone by without contacting her, even so much as a few minute telephone call never happened. He would have very much liked to have a solid explanation, but he did not. The rain was soaking through his clothes as he stood on the threshold staring into the dimly lit front hall. Soft light streamed from the living room as well as the sound of what was likely a radio.

As Harold took his first cautious step into the house, he immediately felt like turning around and going back home. Whatever it was he was going to find, he felt would be easier to handle if he received it as a phone call rather than in person. His eyes looked to the living room to the door and back again. Harold was about to turn around when he heard voices coming from the living room.

“My dear bear, now look who is crying.”

It was the voice of his mother.

Then came another voice he had not heard in a long time. His father’s. And, while it had its old familiar edges, it sounded very old.

I do not know where to start love. Too many things to say.

“We have all the time in the world,” he heard his mother reply.

My China Doll.

Harold walked into the living room feeling more frightened than he ever had before in his life. Everything up until that point in his later years would seem nothing more than a blur. He saw his mother sitting beside the window with her eyes closed and a smile across her burgundy-colored lips, a small brown teddy bear with tiny blue eyes clutched tightly in her arms. He could see no one else in the room or signs that anyone had ever been there.

“Mother?”

He asked quietly at first, not really hearing himself. “Who were you talking to?”

She gave no reply or even turned her head and opened her eyes. In fact, she seemed to be perfectly still, like an old doll or a mannequin from a department store.

Copyright © 1999-2008 Bryan Dobson
All rights reserved.

Author bio:

Bryan Dobson aka PeeJay is an author from North Vancouver, British Columbia Canada, who says that “once I manage to finish editing my first novel, I may make it somewhere. Any day I can go through less than seven cans of coke to make it through another two pages of text is a good day.” Peejay spends much of his time online in the #Authors on the Undernet chat channel, where he is an op. You can learn more about Bryan at his Web site. Bryan welcomes your comments about his story; send them to him via email.

Muriel is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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